The Master and Margarita

by Mikhail Bulgakov

“Well! So this is the writers’ house! You know, Behemoth, I’ve heard many good and flattering things about this house. Take a look at it, my friend! How nice to think that a veritable multitude of talent is sheltered and ripening under this roof.” “Like pineapples in a hothouse,” said Behemoth, and in order to get a better view of the cream-colored house and its columns, he crawled up onto the cement base of the iron railing. “Quite true,” chimed in Korovyov, agreeing with his inseparable companion, “And a sweet terror clutches your heart when you think that at this very minute the author of a future Don Quixote, or Faust, or, the devil take me, Dead Souls may be ripening inside that house! Huh?” “A terrifying thought,” confirmed Behemoth. “Yes,” continued Korovyov, “one can expect astonishing things from the seedbeds of this house, under whose roof have gathered thousands of devotees selflessly resolved to dedicate their lives to serving Melpomene, Polyhymnia, and Thalia. Just imagine what a sensation it will be when, for starters, one of them presents the reading public with an Inspector General, or, at the very least, a Eugene Onegin!” “I can easily imagine that,” again confirmed Behemoth. “Yes,” continued Korovyov, and raised a cautionary finger, “but! But—I say and I repeat it—but! Only if some microorganism doesn’t attack these tender hothouse plants and eat away at their roots, only if they don’t rot! And that can happen with pineapples! Oh, yes, indeed it can!”