Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita -
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beneath had stopped shaking. Ryukhin lifted his head and saw that he was in
the middle of Moscow, that day had dawned, that his lorry had stopped in a
traffic-jam at a boulevard intersection and that right near him stood a
metal man on a plinth, his head inclined slightly forward, staring blankly
down the street.
Strange thoughts assailed the poet, who was beginning to feel ill. '
Now there's an example of pure luck .'--Ryukhin stood up on the lorry's
platform and raised his fist in an inexplicable urge to attack the harmless
cast-iron man--'. . . everything he did in life, whatever happened to him,
it all went his way, everything conspired to make him famous! But what did
he achieve? I've never been able to discover . . . What about that famous
phrase of his that begins " A storm of mist. . ."? What a load of rot! He
was lucky, that's all, just lucky! '--Ryukhin concluded venomously, feeling
the lorry start to move under him--' and just because that White officer
shot at him and smashed his hip, he's famous for ever . . .'
The jam was moving. Less than two minutes later the poet, now not only
ill but ageing, walked on to the Griboyedov verandah. It was nearly empty.
Ryukhin, laden with dish-cloths, was greeted warmly by Archibald
Archibaldovich and immediately relieved of the horrible rags. If Ryukhin had
not been so exhausted by the lorry-ride and by his experiences at the
clinic, he would probably have enjoyed describing everything that had
happened in the hospital and would have embellished the story with some
invented details. But for the moment he was incapable. Although Ryukhin was
not an observant man, now, after his agony on the lorry, for the first time
be looked really hard at the pirate and realised that although the man was
asking questions about Bezdomny and even exclaiming ' Oh, poor fellow! ' he