The Master and Margarita

CHAPTER I 5. Nikanor Ivanovich's Dream       It  is  not  difficult to  guess  that  the  fat man  with  the  purplephysiognomy who  was put  in  room 119 of the  clinic was  Nikanor IvanovichBosoy.     He  got to Professor Stravinsky  not at once,  however, but after firstvisiting  another  place.'  Of this other  place  little remained in NikanorIvanovich's memory. He recalled only a desk, a bookcase and a sofa.     There a conversation was held with Nikanor Ivanovich, who had some sortof haze before his eyes from the rush of blood and mental agitation, but theconversation came out somehow strange, muddled, or,  better to  say, did notcome out at all.     The very first question put to Nikanor Ivanovich was the following:     'Are you  Nikanor  Ivanovich Bosoy, chairman of the house  committee atno.502-bis on Sadovaya Street?'     To  this Nikanor  Ivanovich, bursting into  terrible  laughter, repliedliterally thus:     'I'm Nikanor, of  course I'm  Nikanor!  But  what  the  deuce  kind  ofchairman am I?'     'Meaning what?' the question was asked with a narrowing of eyes.     'Meaning,'  he  replied,  'that  if  I  was  chairman,  I  should  havedetermined at once that  he was an unclean power! Otherwise -- what is it? Acracked  pince-nez, all  in  rags ... what  kind of foreigner's  interpretercould he be?'     'Who are you talking about?' Nikanor Ivanovich was asked.     'Koroviev!'  Nikanor Ivanovich cried out. 'Got  himself lodged  in  ourapartment number fifty. Write it down - Koroviev! He must be caught at once.Write it down - the sixth entrance. He's there.'     'Where  did  you  get  the currency?' Nikanor Ivanovich was  asked soulfully.     'As God is true, as God is almighty,' Nikanor Ivanovich began, Tie seeseverything, and it serves me  right. I never laid a finger on it, never evensuspected what it was,  this currency! God is punishing me for my iniquity,'Nikanor Ivanovich  went on with feeling, now buttoning, now  unbuttoning hisshirt, now crossing himself. 'I took! I took, but I took ours. Soviet money!I'd  register  people for money, I  don't  argue, it happened. Our secretaryBedsornev is a good  one, too, another good one!  Frankly speaking,  there'snothing but  thieves  in  the house  management  .  .  .  But I  never  tookcurrency!'     To the request that he stop  playing the fool and tell  how the dollarsgot into the ventilation, Nikanor Ivanovich went on  his  knees and  swayed,opening his mouth as if he meant to swallow a section of the parquet.     'If you  want,' he mumbled, 'I'll eat dirt that  I  didn't  do it!  AndKoroviev -- he's the devil!'     All patience has its limits, and the voice at the  desk was now raised,hinting  to Nikanor Ivanovich that it was time  he  began speaking in  humanlanguage.     Here  the room with that same sofa resounded  with Nikanor  Ivanovich'swild roaring, as he jumped up from his knees:     'There he  is!  There,  behind the  bookcase! He's  grinning!  And  hispince-nez . . . Hold him! Spray the room with holy water!'     The  blood left Nikanor Ivanovich's face. Trembling, he made crosses inthe  air, rushing to the  door  and back,  intoned some  prayer, and finallybegan spouting sheer gibberish.     It  became  perfectly clear that  Nikanor Ivanovich was unfit  for  anyconversation. He  was taken out and put in  a separate room, where he calmeddown somewhat and only prayed and sobbed.     They did, of course, go to Sadovaya and visit apartment no.50. But theydid not find any  Koroviev there, and no one in the house either knew or hadseen any Koroviev. The apartment occupied by the late Berlioz, as well as bythe  Yalta-visiting Likhodeev, was empty, and in  the  study wax  seals hungpeacefully  on  the  bookcases, unbroken  by anyone.  With  that  they  leftSadovaya,  and there also  departed with  them  the perplexed and dispiritedsecretary of the house management, Bedsornev.     In the evening Nikanor Ivanovich was delivered  to Stravinsky's clinic.There  he   became  so  agitated   that  an  injection,  made  according  toStravinsky's  recipe, had  to  be  given him,  and  only after  midnight didNikanor  Ivanovich fall  asleep in  room 119,  every now and then emitting aheavy, painful moan.     But the  longer he  slept, the  easier  his  sleep  became.  He stoppedtossing and groaning, his breathing became easy and regular, and he was leftalone. Then Nikanor Ivanovich was visited by a dream,  at the basis of whichundoubtedly lay  the experience of that day. It began with Nikanor Ivanovichseeing as it  were some people with  golden trumpets in their  hands leadinghim, and very solemnly, to a big lacquered door. At this door his companionsplayed as  it were a nourish for Nikanor  Ivanovich, and then from the sky aresounding bass said merrily:     'Welcome, Nikanor Ivanovich, turn over your currency!'     Exceedingly astonished, Nikanor Ivanovich saw a black loudspeaker abovehim.     Then he found himself for some reason in a theatre house, where crystalchandeliers  blazed  under   a  gilded  ceiling  and  Quinquet  lamps^[2]on the walls. Everything was as it ought to  be  in a small-sized butvery costly theatre.  There was a  stage closed off by a velvet curtain, itsdark cerise  background spangled,  as  if  with  stars, with  oversized goldpieces, there was a prompter's box, and there was even an audience.     What surprised Nikanor Ivanovich was that  this audience was all of thesame sex  - male - and all  for some reason bearded.  Besides  that, it  wasstriking  that  there were no seats in the theatre, and the audience was allsitting on the floor, splendidly polished and slippery.     Abashed in this new and big  company, Nikanor Ivanovich,  after a briefhesitation,  followed  the  general  example  and  sat down  on the  parquetTurkish-fashion, huddled  between some stalwart, bearded redhead and anothercitizen, pale and quite overgrown. None of the sitters paid any attention tothe newly arrived spectator.     Here the soft ringing of a bell was heard, the lights in the house wentout, and the  curtain opened to reveal a lighted  stage  with an armchair, alittle  table  on  which stood  a  golden bell,  and  a solid  black  velvetbackdrop.     An  artiste came  out  from the  wings in an  evening  jacket, smoothlyshaven,  his hair neatly parted, young and with  very pleasant features. Theaudience in the house livened up, and everyone turned towards the stage. Theartiste advanced to the prompter's box and rubbed his hands.     'All sitting?'^[3] he asked in a soft baritone and smiled  tothe house. 'Sitting,  sitting,' a chorus of tenors and  basses answered fromthe house.     'Hm ..  .' the artiste began pensively, 'and how you're not sick of it.I just don't understand! Everybody else is out walking around  now, enjoyingthe spring sun  and the  warmth, and you're stuck in here on  the floor of astuffy theatre! Is  the programme so interesting?  Tastes  differ, however,'the artiste concluded philosophically.     Then he  changed both the  timbre of  his voice and its intonation, andannounced gaily and resoundingly:     'And  now for  the next number  on our  programme -- Nikanor  IvanovichBosoy, chairman of a  house committee and  director of  a dietetic  kitchen.Nikanor Ivanovich, on-stage!'     General  applause greeted  the artiste. The surprised Nikanor Ivanovichgoggled his eyes, while the master of ceremonies,  blocking the glare of thefootlights  with  his  hand,  located him  among  the  sitters and  tenderlybeckoned  him  on-stage  with  his  finger.  And Nikanor  Ivanovich, withoutknowing how, found himself on-stage. Beams of coloured light struck his eyesfrom in front and below, which at once caused the house and the  audience tosink into darkness.     'Well,  Nikanor  Ivanovich, set  us  a  good example,  sir,' the  youngartiste said soulfully, 'turn over your currency.'     Silence ensued.  Nikanor Ivanovich took  a deep breath and quiedy beganto speak:     'I swear to God that I...'     But before he had time to get the words out, the whole house burst intoshouts of indignation. Nikanor Ivanovich got confused and fell silent.     'As far as I understand you,' said the programme announcer, 'you wantedto  swear  to  God  that  you  haven't  got  any currency?',  and  he  gazedsympathetically at Nikanor Ivanovich.     'Exactly right, I haven't,' replied Nikanor Ivanovich.     'Right,' responded the artiste, 'and  .  . .  excuse the  indiscretion,where did the  four  hundred  dollars that  were found  in the privy  of theapartment of which you and your wife are the sole inhabitants come from?'     'Magic!' someone in the dark house said with obvious irony.     'Exactly right -- magic,' Nikanor Ivanovich  timidly  replied,  vaguelyaddressing either the artiste or the dark house, and he explained:     'Unclean powers, the checkered interpreter stuck me with them.'     And  again the house  raised an indignant  roar. When silence came, theartiste said:     'See what  La Fontaine fables I  have to listen to! Stuck him with fourhundred dollars! Now, all of you here are currency dealers, so I address youas experts: is that conceivable?'     We're  not  currency  dealers,' various  offended voices came  from thetheatre, 'but, no, it's not conceivable!'     'I'm entirely of the same mind,'  the artiste said firmly, 'and  let meask you: what is it that one can be stuck with?'     'A baby!' someone cried from the house.     'Absolutely  correct,' the  programme announcer confirmed, 'a baby,  ananonymous letter, a  tract, an infernal machine, anything  else, but no  onewill stick  you with four  hundred dollars, for  such  idiots don't exist innature.' And  turning to Nikanor Ivanovich,  the artiste added reproachfullyand sorrowfully: 'You've  upset me, Nikanor Ivanovich, and I was counting onyou. So, our number didn't come off.'     Whistles came from the house, addressed to Nikanor Ivanovich.     'He's a currency dealer,' they shouted from the house, 'and we innocentones have to suffer for the likes of him!'     'Don't  scold  him,'  the  master  of  ceremonies  said softly,  'he'llrepent.' And turning to  Nikanor Ivanovich, his blue eyes filled with tears,he added: 'Well, Nikanor Ivanovich, you may go to your place.'     After that the artiste rang the bell and announced loudly:     'Intermission, you blackguards!'     The shaken Nikanor Ivanovich, who unexpectedly for himself had become aparticipant in some  sort  of theatre programme, again found himself  in hisplace  on  the  floor.  Here he dreamed that  the house was plunged in totaldarkness, and fiery red words leaped out on the walls:     Turn over your currency!' Then  the curtain opened again and the masterof ceremonies invited:     'I call Sergei Gerardovich Dunchil to the stage.'     Dunchil turned out to be a fine-looking but rather unkempt man of aboutfifty.     'Sergei  Gerardovich,' the master of ceremonies addressed  him, 'you'vebeen sitting here for a  month and a half now,  stubbornly refusing  to turnover the currency you still have,  while  the country  is in need of it, andyou  have  no  use  for  it  whatsoever.  And  still  you persist. You're anintelligent  man, you  understand it all perfectly  well, and  yet you don'twant to comply with me.'     To  my  regret, there  is  nothing I  can  do,  since  I have  no  morecurrency,' Dunchil calmly replied.     'Don't  you  at  least  have  some diamonds?'  asked the  artiste.  'Nodiamonds either.'     The  artiste hung  his  head and pondered,  then clapped his  hands.  Amiddle-aged lady came out from the wings, fashionably dressed -- that is, ina collarless coat  and  a tiny hat.  The  lady  looked  worried, but Dunchilglanced at her without moving an eyebrow.     'Who is this lady?' the programme  announcer asked Dunchil. 'That is mywife,' Dunchil replied with dignity and looked at the lady's long neck  witha certain repugnance.     We  have  troubled  you, Madame  Dunchil,'  the  master  of  ceremoniesadverted to the  lady, 'with regard to  the following: we wanted to ask you,does your husband have any more currency?'     'He  turned  it  all  over  the other  time,'  Madame  Dunchil  repliednervously.     'Right,' said the  artiste,  'well, then,  if it's so, it's  so.  If heturned  it  all  over,  then  we  ought  to  part  with  Sergei  Gerardovichimmediately, there's nothing else to  do!  If you wish, Sergei  Gerardovich,you may leave the theatre.' And the artiste made a regal gesture.     Dunchil turned calmly and with dignity, and headed for the wings. 'Justa  moment!' the master of ceremonies stopped him.  'Allow me  on parting  toshow  you  one more number from our  programme.'  And  again  he clapped hishands.     The black backdrop parted, and on to the stage came a young beauty in aball gown, holding in her hands a golden  tray on which  lay a fat  wad tiedwith candy-box ribbon and a diamond necklace from which blue, yellow and redfire leaped in all directions.     Dunchil took a  step back and  his face  went  pale.  The  house froze.'Eighteen thousand dollars and a necklace worth forty thousand in gold,' theartiste solemnly announced,  'kept  by Sergei  Gerardovich  in  the city  ofKharkov,  in the apartment of his mistress,  Ida  Herkulanovna Vors, whom wehave the  pleasure  of seeing  here before us and  who  so kindly helped  indiscovering these treasures  -- priceless, vet  useless in the  hands  of  aprivate person. Many thanks, Ida Herkulanovna!'     The  beauty  smiled,  flashing  her  teeth,   and  her  lush  eyelashesfluttered. 'And under your so very dignified  mask,' the artiste adverted toDunchil, 'is  concealed  a  greedy spider and an astonishing  bamboozler andliar. You wore everyone out during  this month  and a half  with  your  dullobstinacy. Go home now, and let the hell your  wife  sets up for you be yourpunishment.'     Dunchil  swayed and, it seems, wanted to fall  down, but was held up bysomeone's sympathetic  hands. Here the  front  curtain dropped and concealedall those on-stage.     Furious applause shook the  house, so  much so  that Nikanor Ivano-vichfancied  the lights  were  leaping in the chandeLers. When the front curtainwent up,  there was  no one on-stage except the lone artiste. Greeted with asecond burst of applause, he bowed and began to speak:     'In the person  of this Dunchil, our programme has shown you  a typicalass.  I  did have the pleasure  of saying  yesterday that  the concealing ofcurrency is senseless. No one  can make use of it under any circumstances, Iassure  you.  Let's  take this same Dunchil. He gets a  splendid salary  anddoesn't  want  for  anything.  He  has  a  splendid apartment, a wife and  abeautiful mistress. But no, instead of living quietly and peacefully withoutany troubles, having turned over  the  currency  and stones, this  mercenaryblockhead gets  himself  exposed in front of everybody,  and  to top  it offcontracts  major  family  trouble.  So,  who's  going  to  turn  over?   Anyvolunteers?  In that case,  for the  next number on our programme,  a famousdramatic  talent, the actor  Kurolesov, Sawa  Potapovich, especially invitedhere, will perform excerpts from The Covetous Knight by the poet Pushkin.'     The promised Kurolesov  was not  slow in coming on stage and turned outto be a strapping and beefy man, clean-shaven,  in a tailcoat and white tie.Without any  preliminaries, he concocted a gloomy  face, knitted  his brows,and began speaking in an  unnatural voice, glancing  sidelong at  the goldenbell:     'As  a  young scapegrace  awaits  a  tryst  with  some  sly  strumpet...'^[5]     And Kurolesov  told many  bad things about  himself. Nikanor Ivano-vichheard Kurolesov  confess  that some wretched widow had gone on  her knees tohim, howling, in the rain, but had failed to move the actor's callous heart.     Before his dream, Nikanor Ivanovich had been completely ignorant of thepoet Pushkin's works, but the man himself he knew perfectly well and severaltimes a  day used to say phrases like: 'And who's  going to pay  the rent  -Pushkin?'^[6] or Then who did unscrew the bulb  on the stairway --Pushkin?' or 'So who's going to buy the fuel -- Pushkin?'     Now,  having become acquainted with one of his works, Nikanor Ivanovichfelt  sad,  imagined the  woman on her knees, with her orphaned children, inthe rain, and involuntarily thought: "What a type, though, this Kurolesov!'     And the latter, ever raising his voice, went on with his confession andgot  Nikanor  Ivanovich definitively muddled,  because he  suddenly  startedaddressing someone  who was  not on-stage, and responded for this absent onehimself, calling himself now  dear sir,  now baron, now father, now son, nowformally, and now familiarly.     Nikanor  Ivanovich understood only one thing,  that  the actor died  anevil death, crying out:  'Keys! My keys!', after  which  he collapsed on thefloor, gasping and carefully tearing off his tie.     Having  died,  Kurolesov got  up,  brushed  the dust from his trousers,bowed  with  a  false  smile,  and  withdrew  to  the accompaniment of  thinapplause. And the master of ceremonies began speaking thus:     'We have just  heard  The Covetous Knight wonderfully performed by SawaPotapovich. This  knight  hoped that frolicking nymphs would come running tohim, and that many other pleasant things in the same vein would  occur. But,as you  see,  none of  it happened, no nymphs  came running to him,  and themuses paid  him no tribute, and he raised no mansions, but, on the contrary,ended  quite badly, died of  a  stroke,  devil  take  him, on  his chest  ofcurrency and jewels. I warn  you that the same sort of  thing, if not worse,is going to happen to you if you don't turn over your currency!'     Whether Pushkin's poetry produced such an effect, or it was the prosaicspeech of the master  of ceremonies, in any case a shy  voice  suddenly camefrom the house:     'I'll turn over my currency.'     'Kindly  come to the  stage,'  the  master  of  ceremonies  courteouslyinvited, peering into the dark house.     On-stage appeared a short,  fair-haired  citizen, who, judging  by  hisface, had not shaved in about three weeks.     'Beg pardon, what is your name?' the master of ceremonies inquired.     'Kanavkin, Nikolai,' the man responded shyly.     'Ah! Very pleased. Citizen Kanavkin. And so? ...'     'I'll turn it over,' Kanavkin said quiedy.     'How much?'     'A thousand dollars and twenty ten-rouble gold pieces.'     'Bravo! That's all, then?'     The programme announcer stared straight into  Kanavkin's  eyes,  and iteven  seemed  to Nikanor  Ivanovich  that  those  eyes  sent  out rays  thatpenetrated Kanavkin like X-rays. The house stopped breathing.     'I  believe  you!' the artiste  exclaimed finally and extinguished  hisgaze. I  do! These eyes are not  lying! How many times  have I told you thatyour basic error  consists in underestimating the significance of the  humaneye. Understand  that  the tongue can  conceal  the  truth, but  the eyes --never! A sudden question is put to you, you don't even flinch, in one secondyou get  hold of yourself and know  what  you must say to conceal the truth,and you speak quite convincingly, and not a wrinkle on your face moves,  but-- alas --  the  truth which the question  stirs up  from the bottom of yoursoul leaps momentarily into your eyes, and  it's  all over! They see it, andyou're caught!'     Having delivered, and with great ardour, this highly convincing speech,the artiste tenderly inquired of Kanavkin:     'And where is it hidden?'     With my aunt, Porokhovnikova, on Prechistenka.'     'Ah! That's ... wait . .. that's Klavdia Ilyinishna, isn't it?'     'Yes.'     'Ah, yes, yes, yes, yes! A separate little house? A little front gardenopposite? Of course, I know, I know! And where did you put it there?'     'In the cellar, in a candy tin . ..'     The artiste clasped his hands.     'Have you ever seen the like?' he cried out, chagrined. "Why, it'll getdamp and mouldy there! Is it conceivable to entrust currency to such people?Eh? Sheer childishness! By God! ...'     Kanavkin himself  realized he had fouled up and  was  in for it, and hehung his tufty head.     'Money,' the  artiste went  on, 'must be  kept in the  state  bank,  inspecial dry and  well-guarded rooms, and  by no means in some aunt's cellar,where it may, in particular, suffer damage from  rats! Really, Kanavkin, forshame! You're a grown-up!'     Kanavkin no longer knew what to do  with himself, and  merely picked atthe lapel of his jacket with his finger.     'Well,  all  right,' the artiste relented,  'let bygones be ...' And hesuddenly added  unexpectedly: 'Ah, by the way ... so that in one ... to savea trip ... this same aunt also has some, eh?'     Kanavkin,  never  expecting  such a turn of affairs,  wavered, and  thetheatre fell silent.     'Ehh, Kanavkin...' the  master of ceremonies said in  tender  reproach,'and here I was praising him! Look,  he just went  and  messed it up  for noreason  at all!  It's  absurd, Kanavkin!  Wasn't  I just talking about eyes?Can't we see that the aunt has got some?  Well, then  why  do you torment usfor nothing?'     'She has!' Kanavkin cried dashingly.     'Bravo!' cried the master of ceremonies.     'Bravo!' the house roared frightfully.     When  things  quieted  down,  the  master  of  ceremonies congratulatedKanavkin, shook his hand,  offered him a ride home to the city in a car, andtold someone in the  wings to go in  that same car to fetch the aunt and askher kindly to come for the programme at the women's theatre.     'Ah,  yes, I wanted to ask you,  has  the aunt ever mentioned where shehides  hers?'  the  master  of  ceremonies  inquired,  courteously  offeringKanavkin a  cigarette  and a lighted match. As  he  lit up,  the man grinnedsomehow wistfully.     'I believe you, I believe you,' the artiste responded with a sigh. 'Notjust  her nephew,  the old pinchfist wouldn't tell the  devil himself! Well,so, we'll  try  to  awaken some human feelings  in  her.  Maybe not all  thestrings have rotted in her usurious little soul. Bye-bye, Kanavkin!'     And  the  happy Kanavkin drove off. The artiste inquired  whether therewere  any others  who wished to turn over their  currency,  but was answeredwith silence.     'Odd birds, by God!' the artiste said,  shrugging, and the  curtain hidhim.     The lights went out,  there  was  darkness  for  a  while, and  in it anervous tenor was heard singing from far away:     There great heaps of  gold do shine, and all those  heaps  of  gold aremine ..."     Then twice the sound of subdued applause came from somewhere.     'Some little lady in the women's theatre is turning hers over,' NikanorIvanovich's  red-bearded neighbour  spoke up unexpectedly,  and added with asigh:  'Ah,  if it  wasn't  for my geese! ..  . I've  got fighting  geese inLianozovo,  my dear  fellow  . ..  they'll  die without  me,  I'm afraid.  Afighting bird's delicate, it needs care ... Ah, if it wasn't for my geese!     '...  They won't surprise  me with  Pushkin...' And again he  began  tosigh.     Here the  house  lit  up brightly, and  Nikanor Ivanovich  dreamed thatcooks in white  chef's hats and with ladles in their hands came pouring fromall the doors. Scullions  dragged  in a cauldron of  soup  and a  stand withcut-up rye bread. The spectators livened up.  The jolly cooks shuttled amongthe theatre buffs, ladled out bowls of soup, and distributed bread.     'Dig in, lads,' the cooks shouted, 'and turn over your currency! What'sthe point of sitting  here? Who wants to slop up this swill! Go home, have agood drink, a little bite, that's the way!'     'Now, you, for instance,  what're  you  doing sitting  here, old  man?"Nikanor   Ivanovich  was   directly   addressed  by   a  fat  cook  with   araspberry-coloured neck,  as  he offered him a bowl in which  a lone cabbageleaf floated in some liquid.     'I don't have any! I don't! I don't!' Nikanor  Ivanovich cried out in aterrible voice. 'YOU understand, I don't!'     'YOU  don't?' the  cook  bellowed in  a menacing  bass. 'You don't?' heasked  in  a  tender woman's  voice. 'You  don't, you  don't,'  he  murmuredsoothingly, turning into the nurse Praskovya Fyodorovna.     She was gently shaking Nikanor Ivanovich  by the shoulder  as he moanedin his sleep. Then the cooks melted  away, and  the theatre with its curtainbroke up.  Through his  tears, Nikanor  Ivanovich  made out his  room in thehospital and two  people in white coats,  who were  by no means casual cooksgetting at people  with their advice, but the doctor and that same PraskovyaFyodorovna, who was holding not a bowl but a little dish covered with gauze,with a syringe lying on it.     'What  is  all this?' Nikanor  Ivanovich said  bitterly,  as  they weregiving  him the injection.  'I don't have  any and that's that! Let  Pushkinturn over his currency for them. I don't have any!'     'No,  you  don't,  you  don't,'  the kind-hearted Praskovya  Fyodorovnasoothed him, 'and if you don't, there's no more to be said.'     After  the injection, Nikanor  Ivanovich  felt  better and  fell asleepwithout any dreams.     But, thanks to his cries, alarm was communicated to room 120, where thepatient  woke up and began looking for his head, and to room 118, where  theunknown master became restless and wrung  his hands  in  anguish, looking atthe moon, remembering the last bitter  autumn night  of his life, a strip oflight under the basement door, and uncurled hair.     From room 118,  the  alarm flew by way of  the balcony to  Ivan, and hewoke up and began to weep.     But the doctor  quickly calmed all  these anxious, sorrowing heads, andthey began to  fall asleep. Ivan  was  the last to become oblivious, as dawnwas already breaking over the river. After the medicine,  which suffused hiswhole body, calm  came like a wave and covered  him. His  body grew lighter,his head basked in the warm wind  of  reverie. He fell asleep, and the  lastwaking thing he heard was the pre-dawn  chirping of birds in the woods.  Butthey soon fell silent, and he began dreaming that the sun was already  goingdown  over  Bald Mountain,  and the mountain was cordoned  off  by a  doublecordon ...