Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita -
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Meanwhile I'm going to search Griboyedov--I can sense that he's here! '
Ivan was by now in a state of some excitement. Pushing the bystanders
aside he began waving his candle about, pouring wax on himself, and started
to look under the tables. Then somebody said ' Doctor! ' and a fat, kindly
face, clean-shaven, smelling of drink and with horn-rimmed spectacles,
appeared in front of Ivan.
'Comrade Bezdomny,' said the face solemnly, ' calm down! You're upset
by the death of our beloved Mikhail Alexandrovich . . . no, I mean plain
Misha Berlioz. We all realise how you feel. You need rest. You'll be taken
home to bed in a moment and then you can relax and forget all about it. . .'
'Don't you realise,' Ivan interrupted, scowling, ' that we've got to
catch the professor? And all you can do is come creeping up to me talking
all this rubbish! Cretin! '
'Excuse me. Comrade Bezdomny! ' replied the face, blushing, retreating
and already wishing it had never let itself get involved in this affair.
'No, I don't care who you are--I won't excuse you,' said Ivan
Nikolayich with quiet hatred.
A spasm distorted his face, he rapidly switched the candle from his
right to his left hand, swung his arm and punched the sympathetic face on
the ear.
Several people reached the same conclusion at once and hurled
themselves at Ivan. The candle went out, the horn-rims fell off the face and
were instantly smashed underfoot. Ivan let out a dreadful war-whoop audible,
to everybody's embarrassment, as far as the boulevard, and began to defend
himself. There came a tinkle of breaking crockery, women screamed.
While the waiters tied up the poet with dish-cloths, a conversation was
in progress in the cloakroom between the porter and the captain of the brig.
'Didn't you see that he was wearing underpants? ' asked the pirate