The Embroidered Towel

The Embroidered Towel
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov

Перевод: S.E. TorrensThe newest translation of the story “The Embroidered Towel” by Mikhail Bulgakov. Translated by S.E. Torrens. Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov was a Russian writer, medical doctor and playwright active in the first half of the 20th century. “The Embroidered Towel” is one of the most famous story from a short story collection A Young Doctor's Notebook, also known as A Country Doctor's Notebook.

THE EMBROIDERED TOWEL

By Mikhail Bulgakov

Translated from the Russian by S.E. Torrens

If a person has never ridden on a tipcart over [1 - A two-wheeled cart]wild, backcountry roads, then telling him about it is pointless: all the same he won’t understand. And for the person who has done it, well, I don’t want to remind him of it.

I’ll say briefly: It took a full 24 hours for the cart driver and I to travel the 40 versts [2 - A vest is slightly more than a kilometer and about equal to 3/5 of a mile] that separate the district town of Grachevka from Murya Hospital. It was uncanny how we arrived almost to the minute: At two pm on September 16, 1917 we were at the last silo on the edge of that most wonderful town of Grachevka and on September 17

of that same, unforgettable year at five minutes past two o’clock in the afternoon, I stood on dying grass, beaten down and sodden with September rains, in the courtyard of Murya Hospital. I stood in the courtyard, legs ossified, dazed, I mentally flipped through the pages of my text books, stupidly trying to recall, if such an ailment did indeed exist or if I had dreamt of it last night in the village of Grabilovka – that illness where a man’s limbs go rigid? What is its damned name in Latin? Each of my muscles ached with an intolerable pain, like that of a toothache. I won’t even mention my toes. They no longer moved in my boots, instead they lay peacefully, like wooden stumps. I confess, in a burst of disheartened passion I whispered curses on the medical profession and the entrance application I submitted to the University Rector five years ago. During this entire time, it drizzled from above as if through a sieve. My coat welled up like a sponge. With the fingers of my right hand, I futilely tried to grasp the handle of the suitcase and finally I spat on the wet grass in frustration. My fingers unable to grip anything, my mind, filled with all sorts of facts from interesting medical textbooks, I finally remembered the illness – palsy…

”Paralysis,” I desperately, the devil knows why, said to myself.

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– T..t… travelling on your roads, – I said with blue, wooden lips, – takes a lot of g… getting used to…

I said spitefully, for some reason, to the cart driver, even though the state of the road wasn’t his fault.

– Ah, comrade Doctor, – retorted the coachman, his lips barely moving beneath a pale mustache, – I’ve been traveling this road for 15 years and I still can’t get used to it.

I shuddered, dismally gazing back at the white, peeling paint of the two-story building; at the unbleached log walls of the feldsher’s cottage; at my own future residence: a two-story, straight-lined house, with mysterious, coffin-like windows. I slowly sighed. And then, dully, there came to me not Latin words, but a sweet phrase sung, in my dazed-from-the-journey-and-cold mind, by a plump tenor wearing blue tights: