Notes on the Cuff and Other Stories by Mikhail Bulgakov

 
     
1
     
    An editor of the deceased Russkoye Slovo , in gaiters and with a cigar,
snatched the telegram off the desk and read it through swiftly from beginning
to end with a practised professional eye. •
    One hand automatically jotted down "two
columns", while the lips unexpectedly rounded and whistled "Phew- ew !"
    He paused for a moment. Then abruptly tore off a sheet
of notepaper and scribbled:
     
    Tiflis
is forty miles
away,
    Who can sell me
a car today?
     
    "Short
feuilleton" at the top, "Long primer" at the side and
"Rook" at the bottom.
    Suddenly he muttered like Dickens's Jingle:
    "Uh-huh! Uh-huh! I guessed as much. Might have to beat it. Never mind! I've got six thousand
lire in
Rome
. Credito Italiano . What?
Six... And actually I'm an Italian officer! Yes, sir! Finita la comedia !"
    And with another whistle he pushed back his cap and
hurried out of the door — telegram and feuilleton in hand.
    "Stop!" I yelled, coming to my senses. "Stop! What Credito ? Finita ? What? Catastrophe?"
    But he had vanished.
    I was about to run after him... but then shrugged my
shoulders, frowned limply and sank onto the divan. What was bothering me? The Credito , whatever it was? The
commotion? No, it wasn't that... Ah, yes. My head! It was aching like billyho . The second day running. First a strange chill ran down my spine. Then just the opposite: my body felt
all hot and dry, and my forehead unpleasantly clammy. My temples were
throbbing. I'd caught cold. That wretched February fog! But I mustn't get ill!
I just mustn't get ill!
     
    *
     
    Everything's unfamiliar, but I must have got used to it
over the last six weeks. How good it feels after the fog. At
home. The cliff and the sea in the golden frame. The books in the bookcase. The carpet on the sofa is
too rough for comfort and the cushion's terribly hard. But I wouldn't get up
for anything. I feel so lazy! Can't be bothered to lift a
hand. I've spent half an hour thinking I must stretch it out to get the
aspirin powder on the chair, but even that's too much trouble.
    "Pop the thermometer in, Misha !"
    "Oh, I couldn't bear to! I haven't got a temperature
anyway!"
     
    *
     
    Oh, my goodness, my goodness, my goo-oodness !
Thirty-eight point nine ... could it be typhus? No, of course
not. Where from? But what if it is typhus! Anything you like, only not now! That would be awful. It's nothing. Hypochondria. I've just got a cold. Influenza. I'll take an aspirin tonight and be as right as rain tomorrow!
     
    *
     
    Thirty-nine point five!
    "It isn't typhus, is it, Doctor? Not typhus? I
think it's just influenza? Eh? The fog..."
    "Yes, yes... The fog. Breathe in, please. Deeper... That's it!"
    "I've got to attend to some very important
business, Doctor. It won't take long. Can I?"
    "Are you crazy! "
     
    *
     
    The cliff, the sea, and the sofa are blazing hot. The
pillow's already hot, as soon as I turn it over and put my head on it. Never
mind. I'll stick it out one more night, and leave tomorrow. Leave for good if
necessary! For good! Mustn't let this get me down! It's only influenza. Nice to be ill and have a temperature. Forget about
everything. Lie in bed and rest. Only not now, for Heaven's sake! There's no
time for reading in this diabolical chaos... How I long for... What do I long
for? Yes. Forests and mountains. Only not these damned
Caucasian ones. But ours, far away... Melnikov-Pechersky (1) . A hermitage in the snow. A light in the window and a nice hot steam bath. Yes,
forests and mountains. I'd give half my kingdom to be sweating in a steam bath.
That would do the trick-Then dive into the snow with nothing on... Forests! Dense pine forests. Good for making ships. Peter in a green
caftan (2) chopping down trees. What a
fine-sounding stately word — inasmuch! In-as-much! Forests,
ravines, carpets of pine-needles, a snow-covered hermitage. And a choir of nuns singing in sweet harmony:
     
    Victorious
leader of triumphant hosts!
     
    Hang on! What nuns! You won't