Михаил Булгаков - A Country Doctor's Notebook

Yes, I would.

So Doctor Polyakov is a thief. I must remember to tear that page out.

Still, he was exaggerating when he said I was unfit to practise. It is absolutely true that I am degenerating; the break-up of my moral personality has set in. But I can still work, and I am incapable of inflicting harm or wrong on a single one of my patients.

Why did I steal? It’s very simple. During the fighting and unrest connected with the coup d’etat, I thought I might not be able to get any more supplies of morphine. But when the disturbances died down, I managed to find some in a suburban pharmacy—15 grammes of 1% solution, which to me was almost worse than useless, as one dose would have required nine injections. What was more, I had to put up with being humiliated: the pharmacist demanded a rubber stamp on my prescription and glowered at me suspiciously. Next day, however, all was well again when I was given 20 grammes in crystal form without the slightest delay, having written out a prescription for the hospital (adding, of course, an order for caffeine and aspirin as well). But why, after all, should I have to hide and feel afraid? I’m behaving as if the words ‘drug addict’ were branded on my forehead. Whose business is it besides mine, for heaven’s sake?

In any case, have I really gone so far downhill? I cite this diary as evidence. The entries are fragmentary, but then I’m not a writer by profession. Do they sound unbalanced? I would say that my reasoning is entirely sane.

For an addict there is one pleasure of which no one can deprive him—his ability to spend his time in absolute solitude. And solitude means deep, significant thought; it means, calm, contemplation—and wisdom.

The night flows on, black and silent. Somewhere out there is the bare leafless forest, beyond it the river, the chill air of autumn. Far away lies the strife-torn, restless city of Moscow. Nothing concerns me, I need nothing and there is nowhere for me to go.

The flame in my lamp burns softly; I want to rest after my adventures in Moscow and forget them.

And I have forgotten them.

18th November

Frost. The ground dry and hard. I went out for a walk along the path by the river, because I hardly ever get any fresh air.

I may be in a state of moral decay, but I am nevertheless making an effort to arrest it. This morning, for instance, I did not have an injection (I am now injecting myself with three syringes of 4% solution three times daily). Awkward. I feel sorry for Anna. Each extra per cent causes her agony, which saddens me. She is such a wonderful person.

So when the pains began I decided to suffer awhile (how Professor N. would approve if only he could see me!) by delaying my injection, and set off for a walk by the river.

It was completely deserted. Not a sound, not so much as a rustle. Dusk had not yet fallen, but it was in the air, lurking in the marshland, creeping between the tussocks and tree-stumps … slowly closing in on Levkovo hospital, while I shuffled along leaning on my stick (to tell the truth, I have grown somewhat weaker recently).

Then I noticed a little old woman with yellow hair coming quickly towards me up the slope from the river, moving so fast that I could not see her feet under her colourful, bell-shaped skirts. At first sight I paid no attention to her and felt no alarm; she was after all just an old peasant woman. Then it struck me as odd that she was bareheaded and wearing only a blouse, because it was so cold. A moment later I began to wonder—where was she from? Who was she? When consulting hours at Levkovo are over, the peasant sleighs all drive away and there is no one to be seen for miles around—nothing but mist, marshland and woods. Suddenly I felt a cold sweat break out up and down my spine and I realised: the old woman was not running but actually flying, without touching the ground. This was bad enough; but what made me scream aloud was the fact that she was holding a pitchfork in both hands. Why was I so frightened? I fell on to one knee, holding out my hands to shield myself from the sight, then I turned and ran, stumbling, for home and safety, praying that my heart would not give out before I could reach my warm room, see my flesh-and-blood Anna … and take some morphine …

And I came home at a run.

What nonsense. A meaningless, chance hallucination.

19th November

Vomiting. A bad sign.

My conversation with Anna on the night of the 21st:

Anna: The feldsher knows.

Myself: Does he? So what? I don’t care.

Anna: If you don’t leave this place and go into town, I shall kill myself. D’you hear? Look at your hands.

Myself: They’re trembling slightly. That doesn’t stop me working, though.

Anna: Just look at them—they’re absolutely transparent. Nothing but skin and bone. And take a look at your face. Listen, Sergei—go away, I implore you …

Myself: What about you?

Anna: Go away, go away. You’re dying.

Myself: Don’t exaggerate. Still, I must admit I don’t understand why I’ve suddenly weakened so quickly. After all, it’s less than a year since this illness started. I suppose it’s due to my constitution.

Anna (sadly): What can bring you back to life? Perhaps your Amneris, that opera singer?

Myself: Oh no, don’t worry. I’ve got over her, thanks to the drug. I have morphine instead of her.

Anna: Oh my God … what am I to do?

I thought that women like Anna only existed in novels. If ever I’m cured, I shall stay with her for the rest of my life. I only hope her husband never comes back from Germany.

27th December

I haven’t touched my diary for a long time. I am wrapped up for the journey, the horses are waiting. Bomgard has left his practice at Gorelovo and I am being sent to replace him. A woman doctor is coming to take over my practice.

Anna is staying here. She will drive over to see me. Even though it is twenty miles away.

We have firmly decided that I will take a month’s sick leave from 1st January and go back to the professor in Moscow. I shall sign a form again and suffer another month of inhuman torture in his clinic.

Farewell, Levkovo. Au revoir, Anna.

1918

January

I didn’t go. I can’t leave those life-giving crystals.

I would die if I took a cure now. I am becoming more and more convinced that I don’t need a cure at all.

15th January

Vomiting in the morning.

Three syringes of 4% solution at dusk.

Three syringes of 4% solution late at night.

16th January

Operation day today, so I have to endure a long period of abstinence—from night time until 6 p.m.

At dusk—always my worst time—I clearly heard a voice in my room, monotonous and threatening, repeating my name and patronymic:

‘Sergei Vasilievich. Sergei Vasilievich.’

It stopped as soon as I injected myself.

17th January

Blizzard today, so no consultation. During the hours of abstention I read a textbook of psychiatry and it appalled me. I am done for; there’s no hope.

During abstinence I am terrified by the slightest sound and I find people detestable. I am afraid of them. In the euphoric phase I love everyone, although I prefer solitude.

I must be careful at Gorelovo—there is a feldsher here and two midwives. I must take the greatest possible care not to give myself away. I shall succeed, because by now I am very experienced. No one will find out, as long as I have a supply of morphine. I either prepare the solution myself or send a prescription to Anna in good time. Once she made a clumsy attempt to substitute a 2% for a 5% solution. She brought it herself from Levkovo in bitter cold and a raging snowstorm.