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The poet was no longer concerned with Berlioz’s fate.
certain visions passed before him. Thus, he saw a city, strange, incomprehensible,
gloomy and merciless Anto...
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‘it will never pass. The poems I used to write were bad poems, and now I understand it.’
Yes, apartment no. 50 was acting up, and it was impossible to do anything about it.
the unforgettable director of the Variety, Stepan Bogdanovich Likhodeev,
Varenukha,
‘Pah, the devil!
one red-haired and with a fang, the other fat ... ‘Ah, resembling a cat?’
a tip-off vampire,
Rimsky,
Annushka
ten-dolla...
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ten-rouble bills,
Nikolai Ivanovich
the clownish certificate of his having spent the time at Satan’s ball.
Margarita Nikolaevna as well as her housekeeper Natasha had vanished without a trace.
a tiny portion of truth was embellished with the most luxuriant lies.
Koroviev
Azazello
Woland,
the cat
‘It’s all over,’ the cat said in a weak voice, sprawled languidly in a pool of blood,
neither the fraudulently recovered cat nor the primus fell down.
benzene spouted from the bullet-pierced primus.
shooting proved to be entirely inefficacious.
‘Well, it’s Behemoth, of course, devil take him!’
The cat crouched, miaowed, shot from the mirror to the window-sill, and disappeared
the corpse of the former Baron Meigel with upthrust chin and glassy eyes.