Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita -
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You're not well, stay with us.'
'Come on, let me through,' said Ivan to the orderlies who had lined up
to block the doorway. ' Are you going to let me go or not? ' shouted the
poet in a terrible voice.
Ryukhin shuddered. The woman pressed a button on the desk ; a
glittering metal box and a sealed ampoule popped out on to its glass
surface.
'Ah, so that's your game, is it? ' said Ivan with a wild, hunted
glance around. ' All right then . . . Goodbye!! ' And he threw himself head
first at the shuttered window.
There was a loud crash, but the glass did not even crack, and a moment
later Ivan Nikolayich was struggling in the arms of the orderlies. He
screamed, tried to bite, then shouted :
'Fine sort of glass you put in your windows! Let me go! Let me go! '
A hypodermic syringe glittered in the doctor's hand, with one sweep the
woman pushed back the tattered sleeve of Ivan's blouse and clamped his arm
in a most un-feminine grip. There was a smell of ether, Ivan weakened
slightly in the grasp of the four men and the doctor skilfully seized the
moment to jab the needle into Ivan's arm. Ivan kept up the struggle for a
few more seconds, then collapsed on to the divan.
'Bandits! ' cried Ivan and leaped up, only to be pushed back. As soon
as they let him go he jumped up again, but sat down of his own accord. He
said nothing, staring wildly about him, then gave a sudden unexpected yawn
and smiled malevolently :
'So you're going to lock me up after all,' he said, yawned again, lay
down with his head on the cushion, his fist under his cheek like a child and
muttered in a sleepy voice but without malice : ' All right, then . . . but
you'll pay for it ... I warned you, but if you want to ... What interests me
most now is Pontius Pilate . . . Pilate . . .' And with that he closed his
eyes.