A Young Doctor's Notebook

Mikhail Bulgakov

• Publisher: Studium Legis
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9788826068169
• Topic: Literatur
• Subtopic: Drama

A Young Doctor's Notebook, also known as A Country Doctor's Notebook (Russian: «??????? ????? ?????»), is ashort story collectionby the Russian writerMikhail Bulgakov. The stories were written in the 1920s and inspired by Bulgakov's experiences as a newly graduated young doctor in 1916-18, practicing in a small village hospital inSmolensk Governorateinrevolutionary Russia. The stories initially appeared in Russian medical journals of the period and were later compiled by scholars into book form.The first English translation was done byMichael Glennyand was published byHarvill Pressin 1975. A more recent translation (2011) has been done by Hugh Aplin under the Oneworld Classics imprint. The title of the Aplin translation is A Young Doctor's Notebook. The French translation was done by Paul Lequesne in 1994.

A Young Doctor’s Notebook

Mikhail Bulgakov

The Towel with a Cockerel Motif

Baptism by Version

The Steel Throat

The Blizzard

Egyptian Darkness

The Starry Rash

The Missing Eye

Morphine

I

II

III

IV

V

The Towel with a Cockerel Motif

If a man has never travelled in horse-drawn vehicles on remote country roads, there’s no point my telling him about it: he won’t understand anyway. And for anyone who has, I don’t even want to call it to mind.

I’ll state briefly: it took me and my driver exactly twenty-four hours to travel the forty versts* that separate the small provincial town of Grachovka from the Muryino Hospital.* And the exactness was even something curious: at two o’clock in the afternoon of 16th September 1917 we were by the last grain-merchant’s warehouse on the boundary of that remarkable town of Grachovka, and at five past two on the 17th September of that same unforgettable year of 1917 I was standing on the trampled, dying grass, grown soft in the light September rain, of the Muryino Hospital yard. I stood there looking like this: my legs were ossified, and to such a degree that right there in the yard I was mentally leafing through the pages of textbooks, obtusely trying to remember whether there really did exist, or whether I had imagined it in my sleep in the village of Grabilovka the night before, an illness in which a man’s muscles become ossified. What was the damned thing called in Latin? Each of those muscles ached with an unbearable pain reminiscent of toothache. I hardly need mention my toes – inside my boots they no longer moved, they lay quiet, they were like wooden stumps. I confess that in a surge of faint-heartedness I whispered a curse on medicine and the application I had submitted to the rector of the university five years before. Rain was sprinkling down from on high at that moment as if through a sieve. My overcoat had swollen up like a sponge. In vain did I attempt to grab hold of the handle of my suitcase with the fingers of my right hand, and finally I spat on the wet grass. My fingers were unable to catch hold of anything, and being stuffed with all sorts of knowledge from interesting medical books, I again recalled an illness – palsy.

“Paralysis,” I said to myself mentally, despairingly, and the devil knows why.

“One has to g-get used,” I began with wooden, blue lips, “to t-travelling on your roads.”

And at the same time I for some reason stared angrily at the driver, although he personally wasn’t in the least to blame for the road.

“Blimey… Comrade Doctor,” the driver responded, he too barely moving his lips beneath his little fair moustache, “I’ve been travelling on ’em for fifteen years, and I still can’t get used to ’em.”

I shuddered and looked round miserably at the white, two-storeyed hospital building with its peeling paint, at the unwhitewashed log walls of the feldsher’s* little house, at my own future residence – a two-storeyed, very clean building with mysterious, funereal windows – and heaved a long sigh. And at once there flashed dimly through my mind not Latin words, but a sweet phrase which, in a brain gone crazy with the rocking and the cold, was sung by a plump tenor with blue thighs:

…Greetings to you… my sa-cred re-fuge…*

Farewell, farewell for many a long day, to the gold and red Bolshoi Theatre, Moscow, shop windows… ah, farewell.

“I’ll put on a sheepskin coat next time,” I thought in angry despair, trying with unbending hands to wrench the suitcase out by its straps, “I’ll… although next time it’ll already be October… it’ll make no difference if you put on two sheepskin coats. And the soonest I’ll be going to Grachovka will be in a month, it will… Just think of it… We actually had to stop for the night! We did twenty versts and found ourselves in sepulchral darkness… night… we had to stop for the night in Grabilovka… the teacher let us in… And we left this morning at seven a.m…. And there you are driving… good heavens… slower than a pedestrian. One wheel crashes into a pothole, the other lifts up in the air, the suitcase plonks down onto your feet… then it’s over onto one side, then the other, then it’s nose first, then nape first. And down and down comes the rain from on high, and your bones grow cold. Could I possibly have believed that in the middle of a grey, sour September a man can freeze in the fields as if in a harsh winter?! But it does indeed turn out that he can. And while you’re dying your slow death, all you see is one and the same thing, just the one. To the right, a field picked bare and with a hump in it, to the left, a stunted coppice, and beside it some grey, ramsackle huts, five or six of them. And there doesn’t seem to be a single living soul inside them. Silence, silence all around…”

The suitcase finally yielded. The driver had leant his stomach on it and shoved it out straight at me. I tried to keep hold of it by the strap, but my hand refused to work, and my distended, exasperated travelling companion, with its books and various bits and pieces, flopped straight down onto the grass, giving me a whack on the legs.

“Oh dear Lor…” the driver began in fright, but I made no complaint – my legs were good for nothing anyway.

“Hey, is anybody there? Hey!” the driver shouted, and started clapping his hands, making a noise like a cockerel does with its wings. “Hey, I’ve brought the doctor!”

At this point faces appeared at the dark window panes of the feldsher’s house and pressed up against them; a door slammed, and then I saw a man in an awful torn coat and tatty boots come stumping across the grass towards me. Politely and hurriedly he took off his cap, ran two paces towards me, for some reason gave a bashful smile, and greeted me in a hoarse voice.

“Hello, Comrade Doctor.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m Yegorych,” the man introduced himself, “the watchman hereabouts. We’ve been waiting and waiting for you…”

And at once he grabbed hold of the suitcase, hoisted it up onto his shoulder and carried it off. I began limping after him, trying unsuccessfully to put my hand into my trouser pocket and take out my purse.

In essence, a man needs very little. And what he needs first and foremost is fire. About to head for the backwoods of Muryino, I seem to remember promising myself while still in Moscow that I was going to conduct myself with dignity. To begin with, my youthful appearance poisoned my existence. I had to introduce myself to everyone:

“Dr So-and-so.”

And everyone was sure to raise their eyebrows and ask:

“Are you really? And there was I thinking you were still a student.”

“No, I’ve graduated,” I would answer sullenly, and think: “I need to get a pair of glasses, that’s what.” But there was no reason to get a pair of glasses, my eyes were healthy, and their clarity was still unclouded by worldly experience. As I didn’t have the option of protecting myself from the customary condescending and tender smiles with the aid of glasses, I tried to develop a particular manner to inspire respect. I attempted to speak in a weighty and measured way, to keep in check as far as possible any impetuous movements, not to run, the way people do at twenty-three when they’re university graduates, but to walk. As I now understand, after many years have passed, none of this worked very well at all.

At the moment in question I had violated this, my unwritten code of conduct. I sat hunched up, sat shoeless in my socks, and sat not somewhere like my study, but in the kitchen, and, like a fire-worshipper, inspired and passionate, reached out towards the birch logs glowing in the cooking stove. At my left hand stood an upturned tub, and on it lay my boots, and next to them lay a plucked, bare-skinned cockerel with a bloody neck, and in a heap next to the cockerel lay its multicoloured feathers. The fact is that, while still stiff with cold, I had managed to perform a whole series of actions demanded for life itself. Sharp-nosed Aksinya, Yegorych’s wife, I had confirmed in the position of my cook. And it was in consequence of this that the cockerel had perished at her hands. I was to eat it. I had met everyone. The feldsher was called Demyan Lukich, the midwives – Pelageya Ivanovna and Anna Nikolayevna. I had managed to go round the hospital and had satisfied myself with the utmost clarity that the stock of instruments it had was extremely rich. At the same time I was compelled to admit with the same clarity (to myself, of course) that the purpose of very many of the virginally shining instruments was completely unknown to me. Not only had I never held them in my hands, I had never, I admit it frankly, even seen them.

“Hm,” I mumbled most meaningfully, “you have a marvellous stock of instruments though. Hm…”

“Yes indeed, sir,” Demyan Lukich remarked sweetly, “it’s ...

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