Morphine author. Mikhail Bulgakovmorphy

Still from the film “Morphine” (2008)

Very briefly

The doctor administered morphine to relieve acute abdominal pain. The pain from the fact that his girlfriend had recently left him also went away. He started injecting himself to forget himself, but he got addicted, couldn’t get off and committed suicide.

The story is told from the perspective of a young doctor, Vladimir Bomgard.

In the winter of 1917, a young doctor Vladimir Bomgard transferred from the remote Gorelovsky district to a hospital in a district town and was appointed head of the children's department.

Vladimir Mikhailovich Bomgard - a young doctor who worked as a zemstvo doctor for a year and a half, experienced, responsive

For a year and a half, Dr. Bomgard treated a variety of diseases, performed complex operations in Spartan conditions, and delivered difficult births. Now he was resting, having thrown off the burden of responsibility from his shoulders, he slept peacefully at night, without fear that he would be picked up and taken “into the darkness to danger and inevitability.”

Happiness is like health: when it is present, you don’t notice it. But when the years pass, how you remember happiness, oh, how you remember!

Several months have passed. By February 1918, Bomgard began to forget “his distant plot,” the kerosene lamp, the snowdrifts and loneliness. Only occasionally, before going to bed, did he think about the young doctor who was now sitting in this wilderness instead of him.

By May, Bomgard expected to complete his seniority, return to Moscow and say goodbye to the province forever. However, he did not regret that he had to undergo such difficult practice in Gorelovo, believing that it made him a “brave man.”

One day, Bomgard received a letter written on the letterhead of his old hospital. The place in Gorelovo went to his university friend Sergei Polyakov. He “fell seriously ill” and asked a friend for help.

Sergey Polyakov - university friend of Dr. Baumgaard, a gloomy person, prone to migraines and depression

Bomgard asked the chief doctor for leave, but did not have time to leave - at night Polyakov, who had shot himself with a Browning, was brought to the district hospital. He died before handing over his diary to Bomgard. Returning to his room, Bomgard began to read.

Entries in the diary began on January 20, 1917. After being assigned to the institute, the young doctor Polyakov ended up in a remote zemstvo station. This did not upset him - he was glad to escape into the wilderness because of his personal drama. Polyakov was in love with an opera singer, lived with her for a whole year, but she recently left him, and he could not get over it.

Working with Polyakov at the site was a married paramedic who lived with his family in the outbuilding, and midwife Anna, a young woman whose husband was in German captivity.

Anna Kirillovna - midwife, Polyakova's "secret wife", a sweet and intelligent middle-aged woman

On February 15, 1917, Polyakov suddenly began to experience acute pain in the stomach, and Anna was forced to inject him with a portion of a one percent morphine solution. After the injection, Polyakov slept soundly and deeply for the first time in several months, without thoughts of the woman who had deceived him.

From that day on, Polyakov began injecting himself with morphine to ease his mental suffering. Anna became his “secret wife.” She very much regretted that she had injected him with that very first dose of morphine and begged him to leave this occupation. At moments when Polyakov felt bad without a new dose, he realized that he was playing with fire and promised himself to stop all this, but after the injection he felt euphoria and forgot about his promise.

Somewhere in the capital a revolution was raging, the people overthrew Nicholas II, but Polyakov was of little concern about these events. On the tenth of March he began to have hallucinations, which he called “double dreams.” After these dreams, Polyakov felt “strong and vigorous”, his interest in work awoke, he did not think about his former mistress and was absolutely calm.

Believing that morphine had a beneficial effect on him, Polyakov was not going to give it up and quarreled with Anna, who did not want to prepare new portions of morphine solution for him, and he himself did not know how to prepare it, since this was the responsibility of a paramedic.

Indeed, morphium hidrochloricum is a formidable thing. The habit of it is created very quickly. But a small habit is not morphinism...

In April, the supply of morphine at the site began to run low. Polyakov tried to replace it with cocaine and felt very bad. On April 13th, he finally admitted that he had become a morphine addict.

By the sixth of May, Polyakov was already injecting himself with two syringes of a three percent morphine solution twice a day. After the injection, it still seemed to him that nothing terrible was happening, and his addiction did not affect his performance, but, on the contrary, increased it. Polyakov had to go to the district town and get more morphine there. Soon he began to feel the anxious and melancholy state characteristic of morphine addicts.

Death from thirst is heavenly, a blissful death compared to thirst for morphine.

Polyakov’s dose increased to three syringes.

After the entry dated May 18, two dozen pages were cut out of the notebook. Polyakov made the next entry on November 14, 1917. During this period, he tried to undergo treatment and spent some time in a Moscow psychiatric clinic.

Taking advantage of the shooting that began in Moscow, Polyakov stole morphine from the clinic and fled. The next day, having revived after the injection, he returned to donate hospital clothes. The psychiatrist professor did not forcibly restrain Polyakov, confident that sooner or later he would end up in the clinic again, but in a much worse condition. The professor even agreed not to report anything to his place of employment.

On November 18, Polyakov was already “in the wilderness.” He became weak and emaciated, walked using a cane, and was haunted by hallucinations. The percentage of morphine in the solution increased, and vomiting began. The paramedic guessed everything, and Anna, who was caring for Polyakov, begged him to leave.

On December 27, Polyakov was transferred to the Gorelovsky station. He firmly decided to take a vacation from January 1st and return to the Moscow clinic, but then he realized that he could not stand the treatment and did not want to part with his “crystalline soluble god.”

Now twice a day he injected himself with three syringes of a four percent morphine solution. From time to time Polyakov tried to abstain, but he did not succeed. Anna brought morphine. Due to the injections, non-healing abscesses appeared on Polyakov’s forearms and thighs, and the visions drove him crazy.

On February 11th, Polyakov decided to turn to Bomgard for help and sent him a letter. Entries in the diary became abrupt, confusing, with numerous abbreviations. On February 13, 1918, after fourteen hours of abstinence, Polyakov left the last entry in his diary and shot himself.

In 1922, Anna died of typhus. In 1927, Bomgard decided to publish Polyakov's diary, believing that his notes would be useful and instructive.

First minute: sensation of touching. This touch becomes warm and expands. In the second minute, a cold wave suddenly passes in the pit of the stomach, and after this an extraordinary clarification of thoughts and an explosion of efficiency begins. Absolutely all unpleasant sensations stop. This is the highest point of manifestation of human spiritual power. And if I had not been spoiled by my medical education, I would have said that a person can work normally only after an injection of morphine...

This enthusiastic tirade by a great writer and talented doctor Michael Bulgakov wrote in the diary of Doctor Polyakov, the hero of his story “ Morphine“.

There is no doubt about the authenticity of the described sensations: the medical histories of morphine addicts - the fictional Polyakov and the real Bulgakov - practically coincide. Except for the finale. Bulgakov fantastically managed to defeat his morphine addiction. But Polyakov - no.

Accident

At the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th centuries, the range of medicines in pharmacies was surprisingly diverse. Sold openly without a prescription here: Camphor tincture of opium, with the help of which insomnia and diarrhea were treated; heroin powder as a remedy for the treatment of bronchitis, asthma, tuberculosis and depression; laudanum- a sedative with a high percentage of opiates. It was often given to young children so that when adults were absent, they could sit quietly at home, or better yet, sleep. And, of course, white morphine crystals- an excellent sleeping pill and pain reliever.

In the mid-20s of the 20th century, when, according to statistics, 40% of European doctors and 10% of their wives (not to mention patients!) became morphine addicts, a ban was imposed on the widespread use of white powder. But then, in 1916, 25-year-old doctor Mikhail Bulgakov arrived on assignment in the remote village of Nikolskoye near Vyazma without any serious prejudices about the prescription drug morphini.

For the first time, Bulgakov was forced to inject himself with morphine by chance. Mikhail Afanasyevich’s first wife, Tatyana Lappa, recalled: “Once, when we lived in Nikolskoye, they brought a boy with diphtheria. Mikhail examined him and decided to suck out the diphtheria films from his throat with a tube. It seemed to him that the contagious culture had also spread to him.

Then he ordered himself to be injected with anti-diphtheria serum. He began to experience terrible itching, his face became swollen, his body was covered in a rash, and he felt terrible pain in his chest. Mikhail, of course, could not stand this and asked to be given morphine. After the injection he felt better, he fell asleep, and later, fearing the itching would return, he demanded to repeat the injection. That's how it started..."

How does a habit start?

The World Health Organization has long described the scenario of addiction to morphine. Even in a small therapeutic dose - 0.02-0.06 g per day - morphine immerses the beginner in a “state of paradise”: fantasies come to life, perception is sharpened, the performance of easy physical and mental work is accompanied by the illusion of ease. At will, drug addicts can “order” and “change” the content of their dreams. However, over time, “control” over visions triples, and bouts of euphoria alternate with the experience of terrible hallucinations.

Getting used to opiates comes relatively quickly: literally after 2-3 doses, mental dependence sets in: thoughts about taking the drug become obsessive. The physical connection is also rapidly developing - morphine is quickly integrated into the metabolic processes of the body. Moreover, with each subsequent injection, in order to achieve the “state of paradise”, an increasingly larger dose has to be administered. The morphine addict is driven to the next injection not only by the thirst to experience unearthly sensations, but also by the horror of withdrawal syndrome.
The description of Pontius Pilate’s migraine attack in the novel “The Master and Margarita” is quite realistic, because Mikhail Bulgakov himself suffered from terrible headaches. It is believed that he belonged to the so-called migraine personalities, which are characterized by increased excitability, touchiness, conscientiousness, and intolerance to the mistakes of others.
The unfortunate slaves of morphine, having passed the initial euphoric stage, fall into an irreversible state of painful and physical suffering. The slightest delay in the next injection threatens unbearable pain in muscles, joints, internal organs, bloody diarrhea, vomiting, breathing and heart rhythm disturbances, phobias and terrible visions...

They are exhausted, incapable of action, their will is completely paralyzed, and the most important functions of the brain are damaged. The sallow face of a morphine addict resembles a mask behind which a real tragedy is played out. Weakened to the limit, the exhausted victim of morphini is helplessly present at his own physical and mental destruction. Of course, not everyone who knows morphine 100% becomes its slaves. But once morphinism has taken root, it can only be eliminated through enormous effort.

Terrible streak

Mikhail Bulgakov, like many of his colleagues of that time, became hostage to the common misconception that a doctor, due to his knowledge and experience, cannot become a morphine addict. Mikhail Afanasyevich’s illness was played into by his dreary life in the wilderness of the village. The young doctor, accustomed to city entertainment and amenities, had a hard time enduring forced rural life.

The drug gave oblivion, a feeling of creative exhilaration, and gave birth to sweet dreams. Usually, the writer’s injections were given to him by his wife Tatyana. She described the state in which Bulgakov was after a dose of morphine as “... very calm. Not exactly sleepy. Nothing like this. He even tried to write in this state.” Biographers claim that it was during the days of his illness that Bulgakov began working on the autobiographical story “Morphine.”

From the diary of Doctor Polyakov: “I pace the lonely empty large room in my doctor’s apartment, diagonally from door to window, from window to door. How many of these walks can I do? Fifteen or sixteen - no more. And then I have to turn and go to the bedroom. There is a syringe on the gauze next to the bottle. I take it and, casually smearing the punctured thigh with iodine, insert the needle into the skin. There is no pain. Oh, on the contrary, I look forward to the euphoria that will now arise. And it arises. I learn about this because the sounds of the accordion played by the watchman Vlas, who is happy about spring, on the porch, the ragged, hoarse sounds of the accordion, muffledly flying towards me through the glass, become angelic, and the rough bass in the swelling bellows hums like a heavenly choir...”

Realizing that this was serious, Bulgakov made attempts to switch to opium cigarettes, tried to reduce the dose - in vain. Morphine held him tightly in his arms. According to his wife’s recollections, he gave injections twice a day: at 5 o’clock in the afternoon (after lunch) and at 12 at night before bed.

When the village began to suspect that Mikhail Afanasyevich was ill, the Bulgakov couple had to move to Vyazma. The couple had high hopes for recovery with this city. However, the change of scenery did not help. T. Lappa recalls: “Vyazma is such a provincial town. They gave us a room there. As soon as we woke up - “Go, look for a pharmacy.”

I went. I found a pharmacy and bring it to him. It's over - we need to do it again. He used it very quickly. He had a seal that allowed him to write prescriptions. This is how the whole of Vyazma proceeded. And he’s standing right on the street, waiting for me. He was so scary back then... Do you remember his picture before his death? That's what his face was like. So pathetic, miserable. And he asked me one thing: “Just don’t send me to the hospital.” Lord, how much I persuaded him, exhorted him, entertained him. I wanted to drop everything and leave. But how can I look at him, what he is like, how can I leave him? Who needs it? Yes, it was a terrible streak...”

In Vyazma, the drug was accountable. In order to obtain a few grams of opiate, Bulgakov had to resort to all sorts of tricks, write out prescriptions under various fictitious names, and several times he sent his wife to Kyiv for him. If she refused, he flew into a rage. Once he put a Browning to her head, another time he threw a hot Primus at his wife.

“I didn’t know what to do,” said T. Lappa, “he regularly demanded morphine. I cried, asked him to stop, but he didn’t pay attention to it. At the cost of incredible efforts, I forced him to leave for Kyiv, otherwise, I said, I would have to commit suicide.”
Among celebrities of different times and nations, Byron and Shelley, the Bronte sisters, were addicted to drugs, and Dumas the father advised smoking opium mixed with hashish. Among the artists, the most famous morphinists were Modigliani and Beardsley.
From the diary of Doctor Polyakov: “...No, I, who have fallen ill with this terrible disease, warn doctors to be more compassionate towards their patients. It is not a “melancholy state”, but a slow death that takes possession of the morphine addict, as soon as you deprive him of morphine for an hour or two. The air is not nourishing, you can’t swallow it... There is not a cell in the body that doesn’t thirst... What? This cannot be defined or explained. In a word, there is no man. It's turned off. The corpse moves, yearns, suffers. He doesn't want anything, doesn't think about anything except morphine. Morphine! Death from thirst is heavenly, blissful compared to thirst for morphine. Thus, the person buried alive probably catches the last insignificant air bubbles in the coffin and tears the skin on his chest with his nails. So the heretic at the stake groans and moves when the first tongues of flame lick his feet... Death is a dry, slow death..."

Substitution effect

There are three versions about how the writer recovered. According to one of them, upon arrival in Kyiv, the Bulgakovs’ relative, Doctor Voznesensky, advised Tatyana to inject distilled water into her husband’s vein. Mikhail Afanasyevich allegedly accepted the “game” and gradually moved away from the terrible habit. However, narcologists claim that such a healing scenario is unlikely for a morphine addict. According to other sources, the wife began to reduce the percentage of morphine in injections in favor of distilled water, and gradually reduced it to zero. This is more believable.

Tatyana Lappa’s own confused memories of this period of time are as follows: “In Kiev, at first, I also kept going to pharmacies, one after another, once I tried to bring distilled water instead of morphine, so he threw this syringe at me... I stole Browning from him, when he was sleeping... And then she said: “You know what, I won’t go to the pharmacy anymore. They wrote down your address.”

I lied to him, of course. And he was terribly afraid that they would come and take away his seal. He wouldn’t have been able to practice then. He says, “Then bring me the opium.” It was then sold without a prescription in pharmacies. He got the whole bottle at once... And then he suffered a lot with his stomach. And so gradually, gradually, I began to move away from drugs. And it passed.”

It took Bulgakov at least three years to fight morphine. And according to medical psychotherapists, another drug helped to win it - creation.

Towards the end of his life, Mikhail Bulgakov was tormented by fears. “As soon as I turned off the lamp in a small room before going to bed, it seemed to me that some kind of octopus with very long and cold tentacles was crawling through the window, even though it was closed. And I had to sleep with fire.” Bulgakov tried to recover from terrible visions using hypnosis

The case of Bulgakov’s healing is unique, morphine, or opiate,addiction- one of the most difficult, because addiction to morphine due to the instantaneous achievement of a “state of paradise” occurs almost after the first dose. The recovery rate is one in tens of thousands. But not during courses of treatment, but as a spontaneous result of experiencing a turning point in life. For example, the death of a drug addict friend or the death of a loved one who fought to save him. Bulgakov's case is exceptional in that by his nature he was predisposed to all kinds of addictions.

The writer was a psychasthenic, anxious person, prone to depression, over-analysis, sleep disorders, hypochondria, and headaches. Later, he underwent psychotherapy and hypnosis sessions on this matter. Posthumously, he was even diagnosed with a “low-progradient (sluggish) form of schizophrenia” without hallucinations and delusions.

However, most scientists who have studied Bulgakov’s biography and work from the point of view reject this diagnosis. Depressive-anxious personality - nothing more. These are the people who most often end up in drug addiction. Therefore, the question of how he was able to move away from morphinism remains a real mystery.

Obviously, Bulgakov was greatly helped by his wife, his intuitive psychotherapist. Apparently, she actually injected him with distillate and at the same time gave him opium tincture to drink. Gradually, he switched from injection addiction to an easier option - oral. Over time, the dosage decreased and gradually faded away.

But the most important thing is Bulgakov had motivation. Only if it is present can the patient recover. The narcissistic soul of the writer demanded creation, presenting himself to the world. He could not present himself as a drug addict; on the contrary, he hid this side of his life in every possible way. And then, at the cost of incredible efforts, he replaced one drug with another: he preferred creativity to morphine.

Dear blog readers, what is the secret of Mikhail Bulgakov’s genius? Leave comments or reviews. This will be very useful for someone!

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Michael Bulgakov
Morphine

Chapter 1

It has long been noted by smart people that happiness is like health: when it is present, you don’t notice it. But when the years pass, how you remember happiness, oh, how you remember!

As for me, as it now turns out, I was happy in 1917, in the winter. An unforgettable, blizzard, rapid year!

The blizzard that began picked me up like a piece of torn newspaper and carried me from a remote area to a provincial town. Big thing, think about it, a county town? But if someone like me sat in the snow in winter, in austere and poor forests in summer, for a year and a half, without leaving a single day, if someone tore the parcel on the newspaper from last week with such a heartbeat, like a happy lover blue envelope If anyone has traveled eighteen miles to a birth in a sleigh drawn in single file, he will probably understand me.

The coziest thing is a kerosene lamp, but I am for electricity!

And then I finally saw them again, seductive light bulbs! The main street of the town, well-rolled by peasant sleighs, a street on which, enchanting the eye, hung a sign with boots, a golden pretzel, red flags, an image of a young man with piggy and insolent eyes and with an absolutely unnatural hairstyle, which meant that behind the glass doors there was local Basil, who, for thirty kopecks, would undertake to shave you at any time, with the exception of holidays, of which my fatherland abounds.

I still remember with trembling Basil’s napkins, napkins that made me constantly imagine that page in the German textbook of skin diseases, on which with convincing clarity a chancre is depicted on the chin of some citizen.

But these napkins still won’t darken my memories!

At the crossroads there was a living policeman, in a dusty shop window one could vaguely see iron sheets with close rows of cakes with red cream, hay covered the square, and they walked, and drove, and talked, in a booth they sold yesterday's Moscow newspapers, containing amazing news, not far away they whistled invitingly Moscow trains. In a word, it was civilization, Babylon, Nevsky Prospekt.

There is no need to talk about the hospital. It had a surgical department, a therapeutic department, an infectious department, and an obstetric department. There was an operating room in the hospital, an autoclave shone in it, the taps were silver, the tables revealed their cunning claws, teeth, and screws. The hospital had a senior doctor, three residents (except me), paramedics, midwives, nurses, a pharmacy and a laboratory. Laboratory, just think! With a Zeiss microscope and an excellent supply of paints.

I shuddered and grew cold, impressions crushed me. Many days passed until I got used to the fact that the one-story buildings of the hospital in the December twilight, as if on command, lit up with electric light.

He blinded me. The water raged and thundered in the baths, and the stained wooden thermometers dived and floated in them. In the children's infectious diseases department, moans flared up all day, thin pitiful crying and hoarse gurgling were heard...

The nurses were running and rushing...

A heavy burden slipped from my soul. I no longer bore fatal responsibility for everything that happened in the world. I was not to blame for the strangulated hernia and did not flinch when the sleigh arrived and brought a woman with a transverse position; I was not affected by purulent pleurisy that required surgery... For the first time I felt like a person whose scope of responsibility was limited by some kind of framework. Childbirth? Please, there is a low building, there is the outermost window, hung with white gauze. There is an obstetrician there, handsome and fat, with a red mustache and bald. It's his business. Sleigh, turn to the window with gauze! Complicated fracture - chief surgeon. Pneumonia? To the therapeutic department to Pavel Vladimirovich.

Oh, the majestic machine of a large hospital on a well-oiled, well-oiled run! Like a new screw according to a previously taken measure, I entered the apparatus and took over the children's department. And diphtheria and scarlet fever consumed me, took my days. But only days. I began to sleep at night, because I could no longer hear the ominous night knocking under my windows, which could wake me up and drag me into the darkness towards danger and inevitability. In the evenings I began to read (about diphtheria and scarlet fever, of course, firstly and then for some reason with the strange interest of Fenimore Cooper) and fully appreciated the lamp above the table, and the gray coals on the tray of the samovar, and the cooling tea, and the dream after sleepless year and a half...

So I was happy in the winter of 17, when I received a transfer to a district town from a remote blizzard area.

Chapter 2

A month flew by, followed by a second and a third, the 17th year passed and February 18th flew by. I got used to my new position and little by little I began to forget my distant site. The green lamp with hissing kerosene, loneliness, snowdrifts have been erased from my memory... Ungrateful! I forgot my combat post, where I alone, without any support, fought against diseases, on my own, like Fenimore Cooper’s hero, getting out of the most outlandish situations.

Occasionally, however, when I went to bed with the pleasant thought of how I would now fall asleep, some fragments flashed through my already darkening consciousness. A green light, a flashing lantern... the creaking of a sleigh... a short groan, then darkness, the dull howl of a snowstorm in the fields... Then it all tumbled sideways and fell through...

“I wonder who’s sitting there now in my place?.. Is there anyone sitting there... A young doctor like me... Well, well, I’ve done my time. February, March, April... well, and, say, May - and the end of my experience. This means that at the end of May I will part with my brilliant city and return to Moscow. And if the revolution takes me on its wing, I may have to travel some more... but, in any case, I will never see my site again in my life... Never... The capital... The clinic... Asphalt, lights..."

That's what I thought.

“...Still, it’s good that I stayed at the station... I became a brave person... I’m not afraid... Why didn’t I treat?! Indeed? Huh?.. Didn’t treat mental illnesses... After all... that’s right, no. Excuse me... And then the agronomist drank himself to death... And I treated him, and quite unsuccessfully... Delirium tremens... What is not a mental illness? You should read psychiatry... Come on... Sometime later in Moscow... And now, first of all, childhood illnesses... and more childhood illnesses... and especially this convict children's prescription... Ugh, damn... If a child is ten years old, then, Let's say, how much pyramidon can he be given per dose? 0.1 or 0.15?.. I forgot. And if three years?.. Only childhood illnesses... and nothing more... quite mind-blowing accidents! Farewell, my plot!.. And why is this plot so insistently creeping into my head this evening?.. Green fire... After all, I’m done with it for the rest of my life... Well, that’s enough... Sleep..."

- Here's the letter. They brought it with opportunity.

- Let's go here.

The nurse was standing in my front room. A coat with a peeling collar was thrown over a white robe with a brand. The snow was melting on the cheap blue envelope.

– Are you on duty in the emergency room today? – I asked, yawning.

- Nobody here?

- No, it's empty.

“Let’s go…” a yawn tore my mouth, and this word made me pronounce it sloppily, “they’ll bring someone... you let me know shuda... I’ll go to bed...”

- Fine. Can I go?

- Yes Yes. Go.

She left. The door squealed, and I stomped my shoes into the bedroom, ugly and crookedly tearing the envelope with my fingers along the way.

It contained an oblong crumpled form with the blue stamp of my station, my hospital... An unforgettable form...

I chuckled.

“That’s interesting... I’ve been thinking about the site all evening, and now it comes to remind me of itself... A premonition...”

Below the stamp was a recipe written in crayon. Latin words, illegible, crossed out...

“I don’t understand anything... Confused recipe...” I muttered and stared at the word “morphini...”. “What, I mean, is unusual in this recipe?.. Oh, yes... A four percent solution! Who prescribes a four percent morphine solution?.. Why?!”

I turned the paper over and my yawning went away. On the back of the piece of paper was written in ink, sluggish and fast-paced handwriting:

“February 11, 1918. Dear colleague! Sorry for writing on a piece of paper. There is no paper at hand. I fell very seriously and unwell. There is no one to help me, and I don’t want to seek help from anyone but you.

This is the second month I’ve been sitting at your former site, I know that you are in the city and relatively close to me.

In the name of our friendship and university years, I ask you to come to me as soon as possible. At least for a day. At least for an hour. And if you say that I am hopeless, I will believe you... Or maybe I can be saved?.. Yes, maybe I can still be saved?.. Will hope flash for me? Please do not inform anyone about the contents of this letter.”

- Marya! Go to the emergency room right now and call me for the nurse on duty... What’s her name?.. Well, I forgot... In a word, the nurse on duty who brought me the letter just now. Hurry up.

A few minutes later the nurse stood in front of me, and the snow melted on the mangy cat that served as material for the collar.

-Who brought the letter?

- I don’t know. With beard. He is a cooperator. He was on his way to the city, he says.

- Um... well, go ahead. No, wait. Now I’ll write a note to the chief doctor, please take it to me and return the answer to me.

- Fine.

My note to the chief physician:

Dear Pavel Illarionovich. I have just received a letter from my university friend Dr. Polyakov. He sits on my former site in Gorelovsky, completely alone. Apparently he became seriously ill. I consider it my duty to go to him. If you allow me, tomorrow I will rent out the department to Dr. Rodovich for one day and go to Polyakov. The man is helpless.

Dear Dr. Bomgard."

Response note from the chief physician:

“Dear Vladimir Mikhailovich, go.

Petrov."

I spent the evening reading a railway guide. It was possible to get to Gorelov in this way: tomorrow leave at two o'clock in the afternoon with the Moscow postal train, travel thirty miles by rail, disembark at station N, and from there travel twenty-two miles by sleigh to the Gorelov hospital.

“With luck, I’ll be in Gorelov tomorrow night,” I thought, lying in bed. -What did he get sick with? Typhoid, pneumonia? Neither one nor the other... Then he would have simply written: “I got pneumonia.” And here is a chaotic, slightly false letter... “I’m seriously ill... and ill...” What? Syphilis? Yes, definitely syphilis. He’s terrified... he’s hiding... he’s afraid... But on what horses, it’s interesting to know, will I ride from the station to Gorelovo? A bad number will come out when you arrive at the station at dusk, and there will be nothing to get there... Well, no. I'll find a way. I'll find some horses at the station. Should I send a telegram asking him to send the horses? To nothing! The telegram will arrive the day after my arrival... It won’t fly by air to Gorelovo. It will lie at the station until the opportunity happens. I know this Gorelovo. Oh, bear corner!

The letter on the letterhead lay on the night table in the circle of light from the lamp, and next to it stood the companion of irritable insomnia, with the stubble of cigarette butts, an ashtray. I tossed and turned on the crumpled sheet, and frustration was born in my soul. The letter began to irritate me.

“Really: if it’s nothing acute, but, say, syphilis, then why doesn’t he come here himself? Why should I rush through the blizzard to get to him? Am I going to cure him of lues in one evening, or what? Or esophageal cancer? What a cancer! He is two years younger than me. He is twenty-five years old... “It’s hard...” Sarcoma? The letter is ridiculous, hysterical. A letter that could give the recipient a migraine... And here it is. It tightens the vein on the temple... In the morning you will wake up, and from the vein it will climb up to the crown, bind half of your head, and by the evening you will be swallowing pyramidon with caffeine. What is it like in a sleigh with a pyramidon?! You'll have to get a traveling fur coat from the paramedic, you'll freeze tomorrow in your coat... What's wrong with it? this. Tomorrow everything will become clear... Tomorrow.”

I turned on the switch, and instantly darkness engulfed my room. Sleep... My vein aches... But I have no right to be angry with a person for an absurd letter, not yet knowing what the matter is. A person suffers in his own way, so he writes to another. Well, as he knows how, as he understands... And it is unworthy to discredit him, even mentally, because of a migraine, because of anxiety... Maybe this is not a fake or romantic letter. I haven’t seen him, Seryozhka Polyakov, for two years, but I remember him well. He was always a very reasonable person... Yes. This means that some kind of misfortune has happened... And my veins are lighter... Apparently, sleep is coming. What is the mechanism of sleep?.. I read it in physiology... but the story is dark... I don’t understand what sleep means... how do brain cells fall asleep?.. I don’t understand, I’m telling you in confidence. Yes, for some reason I am sure that the compiler of physiology himself is also not very firmly convinced... One theory is worth another... There stands Seryozhka Polyakov in a green jacket with gold buttons over a zinc table, and on the table is a corpse...

Hmm, yes... well, it's a dream...

Chapter 3

Knock, knock... Thump, thump, thump... Yeah... Who? Who? What?.. Oh, they're knocking... oh, damn, they're knocking... Where am I? What am I?.. What's the matter? Yes, in my bed... Why do they wake me up? They have the right because I am on duty. Wake up, Dr. Bomgard. There Marya padded to the door to open it. How much time? Half past twelve... Night. That means I only slept for one hour. How's the migraine? On the face. Here she is!

There was a quiet knock on the door.

- What's the matter?

I opened the door to the dining room. The nurse's face looked at me from the darkness, and I immediately saw that it was pale, that the eyes were wide and excited.

- Who did they bring?

“Doctors from the Gorelovsky station,” the nurse answered hoarsely and loudly, “the doctor shot himself.”

- Po-la-ko-va? Can't be! Polyakova?!

- I don’t know the last name.

- That's it... Now, I'm going now. And you run to the chief doctor, wake him up this very second. Tell him that I am calling him urgently to the emergency room.

The nurse darted and the white spot disappeared from her eyes.

Two minutes later, an angry blizzard, dry and prickly, whipped my cheeks on the porch, blew up the skirts of my coat, and froze my frightened body.

A white and restless light was blazing in the windows of the emergency room. On the porch, in a cloud of snow, I ran into a senior doctor who was heading in the same direction as me.

– Yours? Polyakov? – asked the surgeon, coughing.

- I do not get it. Obviously, he is,” I answered, and we quickly entered peace.

A muffled woman stood up from the bench. Familiar eyes looked at me tearfully from under the edge of a brown scarf. I recognized Marya Vlasevna, a midwife from Gorelov, my faithful assistant during childbirth in the Gorelov hospital.

- Polyakov? – I asked.

“Yes,” answered Marya Vlasyevna, “such horror, doctor, I drove, trembling all the way, just to get there...

“This morning at dawn,” Marya Vlasyevna muttered, “the watchman came running and said: “The doctor has a shot in the apartment...”

Doctor Polyakov lay under the lamp, which shed a nasty, disturbing light, and from the first glance at his lifeless, stone-like feet in his felt boots, my heart sank as usual.

They took off his hat and his matted, damp hair was revealed. My hands, the nurse’s hands, Marya Vlasyevna’s hands flashed over Polyakov, and white gauze with blurry yellow-red spots came out from under the coat. His chest rose weakly. I felt the pulse and trembled, the pulse disappeared under my fingers, stretched and broke into a thread with knots, frequent and fragile. The surgeon’s hand was already reaching to the shoulder, taking the pale body with a pinch on the shoulder to inject camphor. Here the wounded man opened his lips, and a pinkish bloody stripe appeared on them, slightly moved his blue lips and said dryly and weakly:

- Throw in the camphor. To hell.

“Be silent,” the surgeon answered him and pushed the yellow oil under the skin.

“The heart sac is probably hurt,” Marya Vlasyevna whispered, tenaciously grabbed the edge of the table and began to peer into the bloodless eyelids of the wounded man (his eyes were closed). Gray-violet shadows, like the shadows of a sunset, began to bloom more and more brightly in the recesses at the wings of the nose, and fine sweat, like mercury, appeared like dew on the shadows.

- Revolver? – the surgeon asked, twitching his cheek.

“Browning,” Marya Vlasyevna stammered.

“Eh,” the surgeon suddenly said, as if angrily and annoyed, and, waving his hand, walked away.

I turned to him in fear, not understanding. Someone else's eyes flashed over my shoulder. Another doctor approached.

Polyakov suddenly moved his mouth, crookedly, as if sleepy when he wants to drive away a sticky fly, and then his lower jaw began to move, as if he was choking on a lump and wanted to swallow it. Ah, anyone who has seen nasty revolver or rifle wounds knows this movement well! Marya Vlasyevna frowned painfully and sighed.

“Doctor Bomgard,” Polyakov said barely audibly.

“A notebook for you...” Polyakov responded hoarsely and even weaker.

Then he opened his eyes and raised them to the joyless ceiling of peace receding into darkness. As if the dark pupils began to fill with light from within, the whites of the eyes became as if transparent, bluish. The eyes stopped high, then grew dim and lost this fleeting beauty.

Doctor Polyakov died.

Night. Near dawn. The lamp burns very clearly, because the town is sleeping and there is a lot of electric current. Everything is silent, and Polyakov’s body is in the chapel. Night.

On the table in front of my eyes, sore from reading, lie an opened envelope and a piece of paper. It says:

“Dear comrade!

I won't wait for you. I changed my mind about getting treatment. It's hopeless. And I don’t want to suffer anymore either. I've tried enough. I caution others to be careful with the white, 25 parts water soluble crystals. I trusted them too much and they ruined me. I give you my diary. You have always seemed to me to be an inquisitive person and a lover of human documents. If you are interested, read my medical history. Farewell, your S. Polyakov.”

Postscript in large letters:

“I ask you not to blame anyone for my death.

Doctor Sergey Polyakov

Next to the suicide letter is a notebook like common notebooks in black oilcloth. The first half of the pages have been torn out. The remaining half contains short notes, at the beginning in pencil or ink, in clear, small handwriting, at the end of the notebook in crayon and a thick red pencil, in careless handwriting, jumping handwriting and with many abbreviated words.

Chapter 4

“...year 71
Undoubtedly, 1917. Dr. Bomgard.

...and very happy. And thank God: the more remote, the better. I can’t see people, and here I won’t see any people except sick peasants. But they won’t touch my wound with anything? Others, however, were placed in zemstvo plots no worse than me. All of my graduates who were not subject to conscription for war (militia warriors of the second category, graduated in 1916) were placed in zemstvos. However, this is of no interest to anyone. Of my friends, I only learned about Ivanov and Bomgard. Ivanov chose the Arkhangelsk province (a matter of taste), and Bomgard, as the paramedic said, sits in a remote area like mine, three counties away from me, in Gorelov. I wanted to write to him, but changed my mind. I don’t want to see or hear people.

Snowstorm. Nothing.

What a clear sunset. Migraine is a combination of antipyrin, coffein and ac. citric.

Powders contain 1.0... is it possible to have 1.0?.. It's possible.

Today I received last week's newspapers. I didn’t read it, but I was still drawn to look at the theater department. "Aida" was on last week. So, she went out onto the dais and sang: “...My dear friend, come to me...”

(There is a break here, two or three pages have been torn out.)

...of course, undignified, Dr. Polyakov. Yes, and it’s stupid in high school to attack a woman with vulgar abuse for leaving! She doesn't want to live - she left. And the end. How simple it is, in essence. The opera singer met a young doctor, lived for a year and left.

Kill her? Kill? Oh, how stupid and empty everything is. Hopelessly!

I don't want to think. Don't want…

All the blizzards and blizzards... It takes me away! Whole evenings I'm alone, alone. I turn on the lamp and sit. During the day I still see people. But I work mechanically. I'm used to work. She's not as scary as I thought before. However, the hospital helped me a lot during the war. After all, I didn’t come here completely illiterate.

Today I had rotation surgery for the first time.

So, three people are buried here under the snow: me, Anna Kirillovna - a nurse-midwife and a paramedic. The paramedic is married. They (medical staff) live in the outbuilding. And I'm alone.

An interesting thing happened last night. I was getting ready to go to bed when suddenly I had pain in my stomach. But what! Cold sweat broke out on my forehead. Still, our medicine is a dubious science, I must note. Why can a person who has absolutely no disease of the stomach or intestines (appendix, for example), who has an excellent liver and kidneys, whose intestines function completely normally, experience such pain at night that he begins to roll around in bed?

With a groan, he reached the kitchen, where the cook and her husband, Vlas, were spending the night. Vlas was sent to Anna Kirillovna. That night she came to me and was forced to inject me with morphine. He says that I was completely green. From what?

I don't like our paramedic. Unsociable. And Anna Kirillovna is a very sweet and developed person. I’m surprised how a woman who is not old can live completely alone in this snowy coffin. Her husband is in German captivity.

I cannot help but praise the one who first extracted morphine from poppy heads. A true benefactor of humanity. The pain stopped seven minutes after the injection. It’s interesting: the pain came in a full wave, without giving any pauses, so that I positively suffocated, as if a red-hot crowbar had been stuck into my stomach and rotated. About four minutes after the injection, I began to distinguish the wavy nature of the pain:

It would be very good if the doctor had the opportunity to test many medications on himself. He would have had a completely different understanding of their action. After the injection, for the first time in recent months, I slept deeply and well - without thoughts of mine, which deceived me.

Today, at the reception, Anna Kirillovna inquired about how I was feeling and said that for the first time in all time she saw me not frowning.

- Am I gloomy?

- That's the kind of person I am.

But that's a lie. I was a very cheerful person before my family drama.

Dusk comes early. I'm alone in the apartment. In the evening the pain came, but not strong, like a shadow of yesterday’s pain, somewhere behind the breast bone. Fearing a return of yesterday's attack, I injected one centigram into my thigh.

The pain stopped almost instantly. It’s good that Anna Kirillovna left the bottle.

18th.

Four injections are not scary.

This Anna Kirillovna is an eccentric! I'm definitely not a doctor. One and a half syringes = 0.015 morph? Yes.

Doctor Polyakov, be careful!

But for half a month now, I have not once returned in thought to the woman who deceived me. The motive from her party Amneris left me. I'm very proud of this. I am a man.

Anna K. became my secret wife. It couldn't be any other way. We are imprisoned on a desert island.

The snow has changed, it seems to have become grayer. There are no more severe frosts, but snowstorms recur from time to time...

First minute: sensation of touching the neck. This touch becomes warm and expands. In the second minute, a cold wave suddenly passes in the pit of the stomach, and after this an extraordinary clarification of thoughts and an explosion of efficiency begins. Absolutely all unpleasant sensations stop. This is the highest point of manifestation of human spiritual power. And if I had not been spoiled by my medical education, I would have said that a person can work normally only after being injected with morphine. In fact: what the hell is a person good for if the slightest neuralgia can knock him completely out of the saddle!

Anna K. is afraid. I reassured her by saying that since childhood I had been distinguished by enormous willpower.

Rumors of something big. As if Nicholas II had been overthrown.

I go to bed very early. About nine o'clock.

And I sleep sweetly.

There is a revolution happening there. The day has become longer, and the twilight seems to be a little bluer.

I have never seen such dreams at dawn before. These are double dreams.

Moreover, the main one, I would say, is glass. He is transparent.

So here I see an eeriely lit ramp, with a multi-colored ribbon of lights shining out of it. Amneris, waving his green feather, sings. The orchestra, completely unearthly, has an unusually full sound. However, I cannot put it into words. In a word, in a normal dream the music is silent... (In a normal dream? Another question is which dream is more normal! However, I’m kidding...) It is silent, but in my dream it is heard absolutely heavenly. And the main thing is that I can strengthen or weaken the music at my own will. I remember in “War and Peace” it is described how Petya Rostov, half asleep, experienced the same state. Leo Tolstoy is a wonderful writer!

Now about transparency; So, through the shimmering colors of “Aida” the edge of my desk, visible from the office door, the lamp, the shiny floor appear quite realistically, and clear steps are heard, breaking through the wave of the Bolshoi Theater orchestra, walking pleasantly, like dull castanets.

That means it’s eight o’clock, and Anna K. is coming to me to wake me up and tell me what’s going on in the waiting room.

She doesn’t realize that there is no need to wake me up, that I hear everything and can talk to her.

And I did this experience yesterday.

Anna. Sergey Vasilevich…

I. I hear... (Quietly to the music: “Stronger.”)

Music is a great chord.

D sharp...

Anna. Twenty people signed up.

Amneris(sings).

However, this cannot be conveyed on paper. Are these dreams harmful? Oh no. After them I get up strong and cheerful. And I work well. I even developed an interest, which I didn’t have before. And no wonder, all my thoughts were focused on my ex-wife.

And now I'm calm.

I am calm.

At night I had a quarrel with Anna K.

“I won’t prepare the solution anymore.”

I began to persuade her:

- Nonsense, Annusya. Am I small, or what?

- I won’t. You will die.

- Well, as you wish. Please understand that I have chest pains!

- Get treatment.

- Go on vacation. Morphine is not treated. “Then she thought and added: “I can’t forgive myself for preparing a second bottle for you then.”

- What am I, a morphine addict or what?

- Yes, you become a morphine addict.

- So you won't go?

Here I first discovered in myself the unpleasant ability to get angry and, most importantly, to shout at people when I am wrong.

However, this will not happen immediately. I went to the bedroom. I looked. There was a little splash on the bottom of the bottle. I filled the syringe and it turned out to be a quarter of the syringe. He threw the syringe, almost broke it and began to tremble. He carefully picked it up and examined it - not a single crack. I sat in the bedroom for about twenty minutes. I go out and she’s gone.

Imagine, I couldn’t stand it, I went to her. I knocked on the lighted window in her outbuilding. She went out, wrapped in a scarf, onto the porch. The night is quiet, quiet. The snow was loose. Somewhere far in the sky it feels like spring.

- Anna Kirillovna, please give me the keys to the pharmacy.

She whispered:

- I'm not giving it.

- Comrade, please give me the keys to the pharmacy. I'm telling you as a doctor.

I see in the dusk, her face has changed, it has become very white, and her eyes are deepened, sunken, blackened. And she answered in a voice that stirred pity in my soul. But then anger came over me again.

- Why, why do you say that? Oh, Sergey Vasilyevich, I feel sorry for you.

And then she freed her hands from under the scarf, and I saw that she had the keys in her hands. So she came out to me and captured them.

Me (rudely):

- Give me the keys!

And he snatched them from her hands.

And he walked towards the whitening building of the hospital along the rotten, jumping walkways.

Fury was hissing in my soul, and primarily because I had absolutely no idea how to prepare a morphine solution for subcutaneous injection. I'm a doctor, not a paramedic!

He walked and shook.

And I hear, behind me, like a faithful dog, she walked. And tenderness surged within me, but I strangled it. I turned around and bared my teeth and said:

– Will you do it or not?

And she waved her hand as if doomed, “It doesn’t matter,” and quietly answered:

- Let me do it...

...An hour later I was in normal condition. Of course, I asked her to apologize for the senseless rudeness. I don’t know how this happened to me. I used to be a polite person.

She reacted strangely to my apology. She knelt down, pressed herself against my hands and said:

- I'm not angry with you. No. Now I already know that you are missing. I already know. And I curse myself for injecting you then.

I reassured her as best I could, assuring her that she had absolutely nothing to do with it, that I myself was responsible for my actions. I promised her that starting tomorrow I would start seriously weaning myself, reducing the dose.

- How much have you injected now?

- Nonsense. Three syringes of a one percent solution.

She shook her head and fell silent.

- Don't worry!

...In essence, I understand her concern. Indeed, Morphinum hidro chloricum is a formidable thing. The habit of it is created very quickly. But a little habit isn’t morphinism, is it?..

...In truth, this woman is my only true, true person. And, in essence, she should be my wife. I forgot that one. Forgot. Still, thanks to morphine for this...

This is torture.

Spring is terrible.

Devil in a bottle. Cocaine is the devil in a bottle!

Its action is as follows:

When injecting one syringe of a two percent solution, a state of calm sets in almost instantly, immediately turning into delight and bliss. And this only lasts one, two minutes. And then everything disappears without a trace, as if it never happened. Pain, horror, darkness sets in. Spring is thundering, black birds fly from bare branches to branches, and in the distance the forest stretches to the sky with broken and black bristles, and behind it the first spring sunset burns, covering a quarter of the sky.

I pace the lonely empty large room in my doctor’s apartment, diagonally from door to window, from window to door. How many of these walks can I do? Fifteen or sixteen - no more. And then I have to turn and go to the bedroom. There is a syringe on the gauze next to the bottle. I take it and, casually smearing the punctured thigh with iodine, insert the needle into the skin. There is no pain. Oh, on the contrary: I'm anticipating the euphoria that will now arise. And then it appears. I know this by the fact that the sounds of the accordion played by the watchman Vlas, who was happy about spring, on the porch, the ragged, hoarse sounds of the accordion, muffledly flying through the glass towards me, become angelic voices, and the rough bass in the swelling bellows hums like a heavenly choir. But then a moment, and cocaine in the blood, according to some mysterious law, not described in any pharmacology, turns into something new. I know: this is a mixture of the devil and my blood. And Vlas collapses on the porch, and I hate him, and the sunset, rumbling restlessly, burns my insides. And so several times in a row throughout the evening until I realized that I was poisoned. My heart starts beating so hard that I feel it in my hands, in my temples... and then it falls into the abyss, and there are seconds when I think that Dr. Polyakov will never come back to life...

"orphic"- a story, also called a story by some researchers of Bulgakov’s work. Published: Medical Worker, M., 1927, No. 45-47.

Obviously, Bulgakov's morphinism was not only a consequence of an accident with a tracheotomy, but also stemmed from the general dull atmosphere of life in Nikolskoye. The young doctor, accustomed to city entertainment and amenities, endured forced rural life with difficulty and pain. The drug gave oblivion and even a feeling of creative exhilaration, gave birth to sweet dreams, and created the illusion of disconnection from reality.

Hopes for a change in lifestyle were pinned on Vyazma, but it turned out to be, according to T.N. Lapp’s definition, “such a provincial town.” According to the recollections of Bulgakov’s first wife, immediately after the move, “as soon as we woke up, “go, look for a pharmacy.” I went, found a pharmacy, and brought it to him. It ran out - I need it again. He used it very quickly (according to T. N. Lapp , Bulgakov injected himself twice a day). Well, he has a stamp - “go to another pharmacy, look for it.” And so I looked there in Vyazma, somewhere on the edge of the city there was another pharmacy. I walked for almost three hours . And he’s standing right on the street waiting for me. He was so scary then... Do you remember his picture before his death? That’s his face. He was so pitiful, so unhappy. And he asked me one thing: “Just don’t give it away.” me to the hospital." Lord, how much I persuaded him, exhorted him, entertained him... I wanted to give up everything and leave. But when I look at him, what he is like, how can I leave him? Who needs him? Yes, it was a terrible period." .

In M., the role, which in reality was played by T.N. Lappa, was largely transferred to the nurse Anna, Polyakov’s mistress, who gives him morphine injections. In Nikolskoye, such injections were given to Bulgakov by nurse Stepanida Andreevna Lebedeva, and in Vyazma and Kiev - by T.N. Lappa.

In the end, Bulgakov's wife insisted on leaving Vyazma in an attempt to save her husband from a drug-induced illness. T.N. Lappa talked about this: “...I arrived and said: “You know what, we need to leave here for Kiev.” After all, the hospital had already noticed. And he: “But I like it here.” I told him: “ They will inform you from the pharmacy, they will take away your seal, what will you do then?" In general, there was a row, a row, he went, bothered, and he was released due to illness, they said: "Okay, go to Kiev." And in February (1918 .) we left."

In M., the portrait of Polyakov - “thin, pale with a waxy pallor” - recalls how the writer himself looked when he abused the drug. The episode with Anna repeats the scandal with his wife, which caused the departure to Kiev: “Anna arrived. She is yellow, sick. I finished her off. I finished her off. Yes, I have a great sin on my conscience. I swore to her that I was leaving in mid-February.”

After arriving in Kyiv, author M. managed to get rid of morphinism. V. M. Bulgakova’s husband I. P. Voskresensky (about 1879 - 1966) advised T. N. Lappa to gradually reduce the dose of the drug in solution, eventually completely replacing it with distilled water. As a result, Bulgakov weaned himself off morphine.

In M., the author seemed to reproduce the version of his fate that would have been realized had he stayed in Nikolskoye or Vyazma. Most likely, in Kyiv, the author M. was saved not only by the medical experience of I.P. Voskresensky, but also by the atmosphere of his native city, which after the revolution had not yet lost its charm, was saved by a meeting with family and friends. In Moscow, Doctor Polyakov’s suicide occurs on February 14, 1918, just before Bulgakov’s departure from Vyazma.

Polyakov's diary, which is read by Dr. Bomgard, who did not find his friend alive, is a kind of “notes of a dead man” - a form later used in “Theatrical Novel”, where the main character, the playwright Maksudov, who committed suicide, is called Sergei, like Dr. Polyakov in M. It is significant that the hero of the “Theatrical Novel” takes his own life in Kiev by throwing himself from the Chain Bridge, that is, in the city where Bulgakov was able to escape from Vyazma and thereby escape from morphine and the desire to commit suicide. But the hero M. never made it to Kyiv.

Unlike the stories in the “Notes of a Young Doctor” series, M. has a framing story in the first person, and the confession of the victim of morphinism, Doctor Polyakov, is captured in the form of a diary. The diary is also kept by the main character of The Doctor's Extraordinary Adventures. In both cases, this form is used to further distance the characters from the author of the stories, since both “The Extraordinary Adventures of the Doctor” and M. feature things that could compromise Bulgakov in the eyes of unfriendly readers: drug addiction and service with the Reds, and then with the Whites, Moreover, it is not entirely clear how the hero got from one army to another.

Subsequently, M.'s draft, along with other manuscripts, was transferred by N.A. Bulgakova to the writer, who destroyed them all. Most likely, “Ailment” meant the main character’s morphinism, and the initially conceived novel resulted in a big story (or short story) by M.

“MORPHINE”, a story, also called a story by some researchers of Bulgakov’s work. Published: Medical Worker, M., 1927, No. No. 45-47. M. is adjacent to the cycle “Notes of a Young Doctor”, and, like the stories of this cycle, has an autobiographical basis associated with Bulgakov’s work as a zemstvo doctor in the village of Nikolskoye, Sychevsky district, Smolensk province from September 1916 to September. 1917, as well as in the district city of Vyazma of the same province from September 1917 to January 1918. However, most researchers do not include M. in “Notes of a Young Doctor”, since he appeared a year later than the stories of this cycle and has no direct indications of belonging to “Notes of a Young Doctor”. Probably, at the time of M.’s publication, the idea of a separate edition of the book “Notes of a Young Doctor” had already been abandoned (note that the story “Star Rash” also did not have any indication of belonging to the cycle when published, although the story “The Missing Eye”, which appeared somewhat later, was supplied note: “Notes of a young doctor”).

M. reflected the morphinism of Bulgakov, who became addicted to the drug after being infected with diphtheria films during a tracheotomy described in the story “Steel Throat.” This happened in March 1917, shortly after his trip to Moscow and Kyiv, which occurred during the days of the February Revolution. T. N. Lappa, Bulgakov’s first wife, later characterized his state after taking the drug as follows: “Very, so calm. Calm state. Not exactly sleepy. Nothing like this. He even tried to write in this state.” Bulgakov conveyed the feeling of a drug addict in the diary entry of the main character M. Doctor Polyakov (the main part of the story is Polyakov’s diary, which is read by his friend Doctor Bomgard after the suicide of the village doctor, and the framing narration is conducted on behalf of Bomgard): “First minute: the feeling of touching neck. This touch becomes warm and expands. In the second minute, a cold wave suddenly passes in the pit of the stomach, and after this an extraordinary clarification of thoughts and an explosion of efficiency begins. Absolutely all unpleasant sensations stop. This is the highest point of manifestation of human spiritual power. And if I had not been spoiled by my medical education, I would have said that a normal person can only work after being injected with morphine.” In Bulgakov’s last novel, “The Master and Margarita,” the poet Ivan Bezdomny becomes a morphine addict in the epilogue, leaving poetry and turning into literature professor Ivan Nikolaevich Ponyrev. Only after injecting the drug does he see in a dream, as if in reality, what is described in the Master’s novel about Pontius Pilate and Yeshua Ha-Nozri.

Bulgakov suffered from morphinism even after his transfer to the Vyazma city zemstvo hospital in September 1917. As T.N. Lappa recalled, one of the reasons for leaving for Vyazma was that those around him had already noticed the disease: “Then he himself began to get (morphine. - B.S.), go somewhere. And others have already noticed. He sees that it is no longer possible to stay here (in Nikolskoye - B.S.). We need to get out of here. He went - they wouldn’t let him go. He says: “I can’t go there anymore, I’m sick,” and all that. And then just in Vyazma a doctor was needed, and he was transferred there.” Obviously, Bulgakov's morphinism was not only a consequence of an accident with a tracheotomy, but also stemmed from the general dull atmosphere of life in Nikolskoye. The young doctor, accustomed to city entertainment and amenities, endured forced rural life with difficulty and pain. The drug gave oblivion and even a feeling of creative exhilaration, gave birth to sweet dreams, and created the illusion of disconnection from reality. Hopes were pinned on Vyazma for a change in lifestyle, but it turned out to be, according to T.N. Lapp’s definition, “such a provincial town.” According to the recollections of Bulgakov’s first wife, immediately after the move, “as soon as you woke up, “go and look for a pharmacy.” I went, found a pharmacy, and brought it to him. It's over - we need to do it again. He used it very quickly (according to T.N. Lapp, Bulgakov injected himself twice a day. - B.S.). Well, he has a stamp - “go to another pharmacy, look for it.” And so I looked in Vyazma, somewhere on the edge of the city there was some kind of pharmacy. I walked for almost three hours. And he’s standing right on the street waiting for me. He was so scary back then... Do you remember his picture before his death? This is his face. He was so pitiful, so unhappy. And he asked me one thing: “Just don’t send me to the hospital.” Lord, how much I persuaded him, exhorted him, entertained him... I wanted to give up everything and leave. But when I look at him, what he is like, how can I leave him? Who needs it? Yes, it was a terrible streak.” In M., the role, which in reality was played by T.N. Lappa, was largely transferred to the nurse Anna, Polyakov’s mistress, who gives him morphine injections. In Nikolskoye such injections were given to Bulgakov by nurse Stepanida Andreevna Lebedeva, and in Vyazma and Kiev by T.N. Lappa. In the end, Bulgakov's wife insisted on leaving Vyazma in an attempt to save her husband from a drug-induced illness. T.N. Lappa talked about this: “...I arrived and said: “You know what, we need to leave here for Kyiv.” After all, the hospital had already noticed it. And he: “I like it here.” I told him: “They will inform you from the pharmacy and take away your seal, what will you do then? “In general, there was a row, a row, he went, made trouble, and he was released due to illness, they said: “Okay, go to Kyiv.” And in February (1918 - B.S.) we left.” In M., the portrait of Polyakov - “thin, pale with a waxy pallor” - recalls how the writer himself looked when he abused the drug. The episode with Anna repeats the scandal with his wife, which caused the departure to Kyiv: “Anna has arrived. She is yellow and sick. I finished her off. Dokonal. Yes, there is a great sin on my conscience. I swore to her that I was leaving in mid-February.”

In M., the author seemed to reproduce the version of his fate that would have been realized had he stayed in Nikolskoye or Vyazma (probably thoughts of suicide came to Bulgakov’s mind then, because he even threatened his wife with a pistol when she refused to give him morphine, and once almost killed her by throwing a lit kerosene stove at her). Most likely, in Kyiv, the author M. was saved not only by the medical experience of I.P. Voskresensky, but also by the atmosphere of his native city, which after the revolution had not yet lost its charm, was saved by a meeting with family and friends. In Moscow, Doctor Polyakov’s suicide occurs on February 14, 1918, just before Bulgakov’s departure from Vyazma. Polyakov’s diary, which Dr. Bomgard reads, having not found his friend alive, is a kind of “notes of a dead man” - a form later used in “Theatrical Novel”, where the main character, the playwright Maksudov, who committed suicide, is called Sergei, like Dr. Polyakov in M. It is significant that the hero of the “Theatrical Novel” takes his own life in Kiev by throwing himself from the Chain Bridge, that is, in the city where Bulgakov was able to escape from Vyazma and thereby escape from morphine and the desire for suicide. But the hero M. never made it to Kyiv.

Unlike the stories in the “Notes of a Young Doctor” series, M. has a framing story in the first person, and the confession of the victim of morphinism, Doctor Polyakov, is captured in the form of a diary. The diary is also kept by the main character of “The Extraordinary Adventures of the Doctor.” In both cases, this form is used to further distance the characters from the author of the stories, since both “The Extraordinary Adventures of the Doctor” and M. feature things that could compromise Bulgakov in the eyes of unfriendly readers: drug addiction and service with the Reds, and then with the Whites, Moreover, it is not entirely clear how the hero got from one army to another.

It can be assumed with a high degree of confidence that M.’s early edition was the story “The Illness.” Bulgakov’s letter to N.A. Bulgakova in April 1921 contained a request to preserve a number of manuscripts remaining in Kyiv, including “the draft “Ailment” that was especially important for me.” Earlier, on February 16, 1921, in a letter to his cousin Konstantin Petrovich Bulgakov in Moscow, the author M. also asked, among other drafts in Kiev, to save this sketch, indicating that “now I am writing a big novel based on the outline of “Malease”.” Subsequently, M.'s draft, along with other manuscripts, was transferred by N.A. Bulgakova to the writer, who destroyed them all. Most likely, “Ailment” meant the main character’s morphinism, and the initially conceived novel resulted in a big story (or short story) by M.