Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita -
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Ha, ha, ha! ... Yes, that's how it used to be! ... Some of us old
inhabitants of Moscow still remember the famous Griboyedov. But boiled
fillets of perch was nothing, my dear Ambrose! What about the sturgeon,
sturgeon in a silver-plated pan, sturgeon filleted and served between
lobsters' tails and fresh caviar? And oeufs en cocotte with mushroom puree
in little bowls? And didn't you like the thrushes' breasts? With truffles?
The quails alia Genovese? Nine roubles fifty! And oh, the band, the polite
waiters! And in July when the whole family's in the country and pressing
literary business is keeping you in town--out on the verandah, in the shade
of a climbing vine, a plate of potage printaniere looking like a golden
stain on the snow-white table-cloth? Do you remember, Ambrose? But of course
you do--I can see from your lips you remember. Not just your salmon or your
perch either--what about the snipe, the woodcock in season, the quail, the
grouse? And the sparkling wines! But I digress, reader.
At half past ten on the evening that Berlioz died at Patriarch's Ponds,
only one upstairs room at Griboyedov was lit. In it sat twelve weary
authors, gathered for a meeting and still waiting for Mikhail Alexandrovich.
Sitting on chairs, on tables and even on the two window ledges, the
management committee of MASSOLIT was suffering badly from the heat and
stuffiness. Not a single fresh breeze penetrated the open window. Moscow was
The Master and Margarita
exuding the heat of the day accumulated in its asphalt and it was
obvious that the night was not going to bring; any relief. There was a smell
of onion coming from the restaurant kitchen in the cellar, everybody wanted
a drink, everybody was nervous and irritable.
Beskudnikov, a quiet, well-dressed essayist with eyes that were at once
attentive yet shifty, took out his watch. The hands were just creeping up to