Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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People's Commissariat of Finances and large crates marked "Tretyakov
Gallery. Handle with care!" Cars were roaring and racing all over Moscow.
Far away in the sky was the reflected glow of a fire, and the constant
boom of cannons rocked the dense blackness of August.
Towards morning, a huge snake of cavalry, thousands strong, hooves
clattering on the cobble-stones, wended its way up Tverskaya through
sleepless Moscow, which had still not extinguished a single light. Everyone
in its path huddled against entrances and shop-windows, knocking in panes of
glass. The ends of crimson helmets dangled down grey backs, and pike tips
pierced the sky. At the sight of these advancing columns cutting their way
through the sea of madness, the frantic, wailing crowds of people seemed to
come to their senses. There were hopeful shouts from the thronged pavements.
"Hooray! Long live the cavalry!" shouted some frenzied women's voices.
"Hooray!" echoed some men.
"We'll be crushed to death!" someone wailed.
"Help!" came shouts from the pavement.
Packets of cigarettes, silver coins and watches flew into the columns
from the pavements. Some women jumped out into the roadway, at great risk,
and ran alongside the cavalry, clutching the stirrups and kissing them.
Above the constant clatter of hooves rose occasional shouts from the platoon
commanders:
"Rein in."
There was some rowdy, lewd singing and the faces in cocked crimson
helmets stared from their horses in the flickering neon lights of
advertisements. Now and then, behind the columns of open-faced cavalry, came
weird figures, also on horseback, wearing strange masks with pipes that ran
over their shoulders and cylinders strapped to their backs. Behind them
crawled huge tank-trucks with long hoses like those on fire-engines. Heavy
tanks on caterpillar tracks, shut tight, with narrow shinning loopholes,