The Master and Margarita Read Online Free PDF Page A

first time and that it interested him. He rested his glance on the upper floors, where the glass dazzlinglv reflected the broken-up sun which was for ever departing from Mikhail Alexandrovich, then shifted it lower down to where the windows were beginning to darken before evening, smiled condescendingly at something, narrowed his eves, put his hands on the knob and his chin on his hands.
    “For instance, Ivan,” Berlioz was saying, “you portrayed the birth of Jesus, the son of God, very well and satirically, but the gist of it is that a whole series of sons of God were born before Jesus, like, say, the Phoenician Adonis,[16] the Phrygian Atris,[17] the Persian Mithras.[18] And, to put it briefly, not one of them was born or ever existed, Jesus included, and what’s necessary is that, instead of portraying his birth or, suppose, the coming of the Magi,”[19] you portray the absurd rumours of their coming. Otherwise it follows from your story that he really was born! ...”
    Here Homeless made an attempt to stop his painful hiccuping by holding his breath, which caused him to hiccup more painfully and loudly, and at that same moment Berlioz interrupted his speech, because the foreigner suddenly got up and walked towards the writers. They looked at him in surprise.
    “Excuse me, please,” the approaching man began speaking, with a foreign accent but without distorting the words, “if, not being your acquaintance, I allow myself... but the subject of your learned conversation is so interesting that...”
    Here he politely took off his beret, and the friends had nothing left but to stand up and make their bows.
    “No, rather a Frenchman ...” thought Berlioz .
    “A Pole? ...” thought Homeless.
    It must be added that from his first words the foreigner made a repellent impression on the poet, but Berlioz rather liked him – that is, not liked but ... how to put it ... was interested, or whatever.
    “May I sit down?” the foreigner asked politely, and the friends somehow involuntarily moved apart; the foreigner adroidy sat down between them and at once entered into the conversation: “Unless I heard wrong, you were pleased to say that Jesus never existed?” the foreigner asked, turning his green left eye to Berlioz.
    “No, you did not hear wrong,” Berlioz replied courteously, “that is precisely what I was saying.”
    “Ah, how interesting!” exclaimed the foreigner.
    “What the devil does he want?” thought Homeless, frowning.
    “And you were agreeing with your interlocutor?” inquired the stranger, turning to Homeless on his right.
    “A hundred per cent!” confirmed the man, who was fond of whimsical and figurative expressions.
    “Amazing!” exclaimed the uninvited interlocutor and, casting a thievish glance around and muffling his low voice for some reason, he said: “Forgive my importunity, but, as I understand, along with everything else, you also do not believe in God?” tie made frightened eyes and added: “I swear I won’t tell anyone!”
    “No, we don’t believe in God,” Berlioz replied, smiling slightly at the foreign tourist’s fright, but we can speak of it quite freely.”
    The foreigner sat back on the bench and asked, even with a slight shriek of curiosity: “You are – atheists?!”
    Yes, we’re atheists,” Berlioz smilingly replied, and Homeless thought, getting angry: “Latched on to us, the foreign goose!”
    “Oh, how lovely!” the astonishing foreigner cried out and began swivelling his head, looking from one writer to the other.
    “In our country atheism does not surprise anyone,” Berlioz said with diplomatic politeness. “The majority of our population consciously and long ago ceased believing in the fairytales about God.”
    Here the foreigner pulled the following stunt: he got up and shook the amazed editor’s hand, accompanying it with these words: “Allow me to thank you with all my heart!” “What are you thanking him for?” Homeless inquired,