Dead Man's Notes - 3
FOREWORD
I warn the reader that I have nothing to do with the writing of these notes.
and they came to me under very strange and sad circumstances.
Just on the day of the suicide of Sergei Leontievich Maksudov, which occurred in
Kyiv in the spring of last year, I received a suicide message in advance
a thick parcel and a letter.
These notes were in the parcel, and the letter was of amazing content:
Sergei Leontyevich declared that when he passed away, he gave me his notes with the
so that I, his only friend, straighten them out, sign them with my name and release them in
light.
Strange, but dying will!
During the year I made inquiries about Sergei Leontyevich's relatives or friends.
In vain! He did not lie in his suicide letter - he had no one left on this
light.
And I accept the gift.
Now the second: I inform the reader that the suicide has nothing to do with
dramaturgy, never had a theater experience in his life, remaining what he was,
a small employee of the newspaper "Bulletin of the shipping company", the only time speaking
as a novelist, and even then unsuccessfully - Sergei Leontievich's novel was not
printed.
Thus, Maksudov's notes are the fruit of his imagination, and
fantasy, alas, sick. Sergei Leontyevich suffered from an illness that was very
an unpleasant name - melancholy.
I, who know the theatrical life of Moscow well, take responsibility for
that neither such theaters, nor such people as are shown in the work of the deceased,
nowhere and never was.
And finally, the third and last: my work on the notes was expressed in the fact that I
titled them, then destroyed the epigraph, which seemed to me pretentious, unnecessary
and unpleasant.
This epigraph was:
"To whom according to his deeds..."
And besides, he put punctuation marks where they were missing.
I did not touch Sergei Leontievich's style, although he is clearly slovenly. However, what
demand from a person who, two days after he put an end to
at the end of the notes, rushed from the Chain Bridge upside down.
So...
* PART ONE *
Chapter 1. THE BEGINNING OF THE ADVENTURE
A thunderstorm washed over Moscow on April 29, and the air became sweet, and the soul somehow softened,
and wanted to live.
In my new gray suit and fairly decent coat, I walked along one of the
the central streets of the capital, heading to a place where he had never been before.
The reason for my movement was the suddenly received
letter. Here it is:
"Deeply Revered
Sergei Leontievich!
I would very much like to get to know you, as well as talk to you one by one.
mysterious case, which may be very, very interesting for you.
If you are free, I would be happy to meet you at the Training Stage building.
Independent Theater on Wednesday at 4 o'clock.
With regards, K. Ilchin."
The letter was written in pencil on paper, in the left corner of which was printed:
"Ksavier Borisovich Ilchin director of the Educational Stage of the Independent Theatre".
I saw Ilchin's name for the first time, I didn't know that there was an Educational stage. ABOUT
Independent Theater heard, knew that this is one of the outstanding theaters, but never
was not in it.
The letter interested me extremely, all the more so since I had no letters at all.
didn't get it then. I must say, a small employee of the newspaper "Shipping". lived
at that time I was in a bad, but separate room on the seventh floor in the Red area
gate at Khomutovsky dead end.
So I walked, breathing in the fresh air and thinking that the storm would strike again,
and also about how Xavier Ilchin found out about my existence, how he
sought me out and what business he might have with me.
Bulgakov Mikhail Afanasyevich
Theatrical novel (Notes of a dead man)
FOREWORD
I warn the reader that I have nothing to do with the composition of these notes, and I got them under very strange and sad circumstances.
Just on the day of the suicide of Sergei Leontievich Maksudov, which took place in Kyiv last spring, I received a thick parcel and a letter sent by the suicide in advance.
These notes were in the parcel, and the letter was of amazing content:
Sergei Leontyevich declared that when he passed away, he gave me his notes so that I, his only friend, would correct them, sign with my name and release them to the public.
Strange, but dying will!
During the year I made inquiries about Sergei Leontyevich's relatives or friends. In vain! He did not lie in his suicide letter - he had no one left in this world.
And I accept the gift.
Now the second thing: I inform the reader that the suicide never had anything to do with dramaturgy or theater in his life, remaining what he was, a small employee of the newspaper Vestnik Shipping Company, the only time acting as a novelist, and then unsuccessfully - Sergei Leontyevich's novel was not published.
Thus, Maksudov's notes are the fruit of his imagination, and fantasy, alas, sick. Sergei Leontievich suffered from a disease that bears the very unpleasant name of melancholy.
I, who know the theatrical life of Moscow well, take upon myself the guarantee that there are no such theaters, nor such people as are shown in the work of the deceased, and never have been.
And finally, the third and last: my work on the notes was expressed in the fact that I titled them, then destroyed the epigraph, which seemed to me pretentious, unnecessary and unpleasant.
This epigraph was:
"To whom according to his deeds..."
And besides, he put punctuation marks where they were missing.
I did not touch Sergei Leontievich's style, although he is clearly slovenly. However, what to demand from a man who, two days after putting an end to the end of the notes, rushed from the Chain Bridge upside down.
So...
* PART ONE *
Chapter 1. THE BEGINNING OF THE ADVENTURE
A thunderstorm washed over Moscow on April 29, and the air became sweet, and the soul somehow softened, and I wanted to live.
In my new gray suit and a fairly decent coat, I walked along one of the central streets of the capital, heading for a place I had never been before. The reason for my movement was a letter suddenly received in my pocket. Here it is:
"Deeply revered Sergei Leontievich!
I would very much like to get to know you, as well as to talk over one mysterious case, which may be very, very interesting for you.
If you are free, I would be happy to meet you at the Independent Theater Training Stage building on Wednesday at 4 o'clock.
With regards, K. Ilchin."
The letter was written in pencil on paper, in the left corner of which was printed:
"Ksavier Borisovich Ilchin director of the Educational Stage of the Independent Theatre".
I saw Ilchin's name for the first time, I didn't know that there was an Educational stage. I heard about the Independent Theatre, I knew that it was one of the outstanding theatres, but I had never been to it.
The letter interested me extremely, especially since I did not receive any letters at that time. I must say, a small employee of the newspaper "Shipping". I lived at that time in a bad, but separate room on the seventh floor in the Red Gate area near the Khomutovsky dead end.
So, I walked, inhaling the fresh air and thinking about the fact that the storm would strike again, and also about how Xavier Ilchin knew about my existence, how he found me and what business he might have with me. But no matter how much I thought about it, I could not understand the latter, and finally settled on the thought that Ilchin wanted to change rooms with me.
Of course, I should have written to Ilchin to come to me, since he had business with me, but I must say that I was ashamed of my room, the furnishings and the people around me. I'm generally a strange person and I'm a little afraid of people. Imagine, Ilchin enters and sees the sofa, and the upholstery is ripped open and the spring sticks out, the lampshade on the lamp above the table is made of newspaper, and the cat walks, and Annushka’s swearing comes from the kitchen.
I entered the carved iron gates, saw a shop where a gray-haired man was selling badges and spectacle frames.
I jumped over the calming muddy stream and found myself in front of a yellow building and thought that this building was built a long, long time ago, when neither I nor Ilchin had yet been born.
A black board with golden letters proclaimed that this was the Study Stage. I entered, and a short man with a beard and a jacket with green buttonholes immediately blocked my way.
- Who do you want, citizen? he asked suspiciously, spreading his arms as if he wanted to catch a chicken.
“I need to see the director Ilchin,” I said, trying to make my voice sound haughty.
The man has changed tremendously before my very eyes. He dropped his hands to his sides and smiled a fake smile.
- Xavier Borisych? This very minute. Coat please. Are there no galoshes?
The man received my coat with such care, as if it were a precious ecclesiastical vestment.
I climbed the cast-iron stairs, saw the profiles of warriors in helmets and formidable swords under them in bas-reliefs, old Dutch stoves with air vents polished to a golden sheen.
The building was silent, there was no one anywhere, and only with buttonholes a man trudged after me, and turning around, I saw that they were giving me silent signs of attention, devotion, respect, love, joy over the fact that I had come and that he , although he comes behind, he guides me, leads me to where the lonely, mysterious Xavier Borisovich Ilchin is.
And suddenly it got dark, the Dutch women lost their greasy whitish sheen, darkness immediately fell - a second thunderstorm rustled outside the windows. I knocked on the door, went in, and in the twilight I finally saw Xavier Borisovich.
“Maksudov,” I said with dignity.
Here, somewhere far beyond Moscow, lightning ripped open the sky, illuminating Ilchin for a moment with phosphorescent light.
- So it's you, dear Sergei Leontyevich! Ilchin said with a sly smile.
And then Ilchin dragged me, hugging my waist, onto the exact same sofa as in my room - even the spring in it stuck out the same where I have it - in the middle.
In general, to this day I do not know the purpose of the room in which the fateful meeting took place. Why sofa? What notes lay disheveled on the floor in the corner? Why were there scales with cups on the window? Why was Ilchin waiting for me in this room, and not, say, in the next hall, in which, in the distance, vaguely, in the twilight of a thunderstorm, a piano was drawn?
And under the murmur of thunder, Xavier Borisovich said ominously:
- I read your novel.
I started.
The thing is...
Chapter 2
The fact is that, while serving in the modest position of a reader in the Shipping Company, I hated this position of mine and at night, sometimes until dawn, I wrote a novel in my attic.
It started one night when I woke up from a sad dream. I dreamed of my hometown, snow, winter, civil war... In my dream, a soundless blizzard passed in front of me, and then an old piano appeared and next to it were people who were no longer in the world. In a dream, I was struck by my loneliness, I felt sorry for myself. And I woke up in tears. I turned on the light, a dusty lightbulb hung over the table. She illuminated my poverty - a cheap inkwell, a few books, a stack of old newspapers. The left side ached from the spring, the heart was seized by fear. I felt that I would die now at the table, the pitiful fear of death humiliated me to the point that I groaned, looked around anxiously, looking for help and protection from death. And I found this help. A cat, which I once picked up at the gate, meowed softly. The animal was alarmed. In a second, the beast was already sitting on the newspapers, looking at me with round eyes, asking - what happened?
The smoky skinny beast was interested in making sure nothing happened. Really, who will feed this old cat?
“This is an attack of neurasthenia,” I explained to the cat. - It has already wound up in me, it will develop and devour me. But you can still live.
The house was asleep. I looked out the window. Not a single one in the five floors was lit, I realized that this was not a house, but a multi-tiered ship that was flying under a motionless black sky. The thought of movement cheered me up. I calmed down, calmed down and the cat closed her eyes.
So I started writing a novel. I described a sleepy blizzard. I tried to depict how the side of the piano gleams under a lamp with a shade. It didn't work out for me. But I became stubborn.
During the day I tried to do one thing - to spend as little energy as possible on my forced labor. I did it mechanically, so that it did not touch the head. At every opportunity, I tried to leave the service under the pretext of illness. Of course, they did not believe me, and my life became unpleasant. But I endured everything and gradually got involved. Just as an impatient youth waits for the hour of rendezvous, I waited for the hour of the night. The cursed apartment calmed down at this time. I sat down at the table ... An interested cat sat down on newspapers, but she was extremely interested in the novel, and she strove to transfer from a newspaper sheet to a sheet of writing. And I took her by the collar and put her in her place.
One night I looked up and was surprised. My ship did not fly anywhere, the house stood still, and it was completely light. The light bulb did not illuminate anything, it was nasty and intrusive. I extinguished it, and the loathsome room appeared before me at dawn. On the paved yard, multi-colored cats passed with a thieves' soundless gait. Every letter on the sheet could be seen without any lamp.
- God! It's April! - I exclaimed, for some reason frightened, and wrote in large: "The End."
End of winter, end of blizzards, end of cold. During the winter I lost my few acquaintances, dressed myself very much, fell ill with rheumatism and became a little wild. But he shaved daily.
Thinking about all this, I let the cat out into the yard, then returned and fell asleep - for the first time, it seems, all winter - a dreamless sleep.
The novel takes a long time to edit. You need to cross out many places, replace hundreds of words with others. Big but necessary work!
However, temptation seized me, and after straightening the first six pages, I returned to the people. I called the guests. Among them were two journalists from the Shipping Company, workers, like me, people, their wives, and two writers. One was a young man who amazed me by the fact that he wrote stories with unattainable dexterity, and the other was an elderly, worldly-wise man who, on closer acquaintance, turned out to be a terrible bastard.
In one evening I read about a quarter of my novel.
The wives became so mad from reading that I began to feel remorse. But journalists and writers turned out to be strong people. Their judgments were fraternally sincere, quite severe and, as I now understand, just. - Language! - shouted the writer (the one who turned out to be a bastard), - the language, the main thing! The language is no good.
He drank a large glass of vodka, swallowed a sardine. I poured him a second one. He drank it, ate a piece of sausage.
- Metaphor! - shouted the one who ate.
- Yes, - the young writer politely confirmed, - the language is poor.
The journalists said nothing, but nodded sympathetically and drank. The ladies did not nod, did not speak, completely refused the port wine bought especially for them and drank vodka.
- Yes, how can he not be poor, - the elderly cried out, - the metaphor is not a dog, please note this! Naked without her! Holo! Holo! Remember this, old man!
The word "old man" clearly referred to me. I got cold.
Dispersing, they agreed to come to me again. And a week later they were again. I have read the second half. The evening was marked by the fact that the elderly writer drank with me quite unexpectedly and against my will brotherhood and began to call me "Leontyich".
- Language to hell! but amusing. It's interesting that the devils tore you apart (it's me)! - shouted the elderly, eating the jelly prepared by Dusey.
On the third evening a new man appeared. Also a writer - with an evil and Mephistopheles face, oblique to the left eye, unshaven. He said that the novel was bad, but expressed a desire to listen to the fourth and last part. There was also some divorced wife and one with a guitar in a case. I learned a lot of useful things for myself at this evening. My modest comrades from the Shipping Company got used to the growing society and expressed their opinions.
One said that the seventeenth chapter was stretched out, the other said that Vasenka's character was not outlined clearly enough. Both were fair.
The fourth and last reading took place not with me, but with a young writer who skillfully composes stories. There were already about twenty people here, and I met the writer's grandmother, a very pleasant old woman, who was spoiled by only one thing - the expression of fright, which for some reason did not leave her all evening. In addition, I saw a nurse sleeping on a chest.
The novel was finished. And then disaster struck. All listeners, as one, said that my novel could not be published for the reason that censorship would not let it through.
It was the first time I heard this word and it was only then that I realized that when I was writing the novel, I had never once thought about whether it would be omitted or not.
One lady started (later I learned that she was also a divorced wife). She said this:
- Tell me, Maksudov, will your novel be missed?
- No-no-no! - exclaimed an elderly writer, - in no case! "Missing" is out of the question! There is simply no hope for it. You can, old man, do not worry - they will not let you through.
- They won't miss it! chorused the short end of the table.
- Language ... - began the one who was the brother of the guitarist, but the elderly interrupted him:
- To hell with the language! he exclaimed, putting salad on his plate. - It's not about the language. The old man wrote a bad but entertaining novel. In you, rogue, there is observation. And where does it come from! I didn't expect it at all, but! .. content!
- Yeah, the content...
- Precisely the content, - shouted, disturbing the nanny, the elderly, - do you know what is required? Do not you know? Aha! That's it!
He blinked his eyes, drinking at the same time. Then he hugged me and kissed me, shouting:
- There is something unsympathetic about you, believe me! You trust me. But I love you. I love you, kill me here! He is cunning, rogue! With a trick man! .. Huh? What? Did you pay attention to chapter four? What did he say to the heroine? That's it!..
“First of all, what are those words,” I began, tormented by his familiarity.
“Kiss me first,” the elderly writer shouted, “don’t you want to?” So you can immediately see what kind of friend you are! No, brother, you are not an ordinary person!
- Of course, not easy! - supported his second divorced wife.
“In the first place…” I began again in anger, but absolutely nothing came of it.
- Nothing first! - shouted the elderly, - but Dostoevshchina is sitting in you! Yes, sir! Well, okay, you don't love me, God will forgive you for that, I'm not offended by you. But we love you all sincerely and wish you well! - Here he pointed to the brother of the guitarist and another person unknown to me with a purple face, who, having appeared, apologized for being late, explaining that he was in the Central Baths. “And I’m telling you straight out,” the elderly man continued, “because I’m used to cutting the truth in everyone’s eyes, you, Leontich, don’t even poke your head anywhere with this novel. You will get yourself in trouble, and we, your friends, will have to suffer at the thought of your torment. You believe me! I am a man of great, bitter experience. I know life! Well, - he shouted offendedly and with a gesture called everyone to witnesses, - look, he is looking at me with wolf eyes. This is in gratitude for the good attitude! Leontich! - he squealed so that the nurse behind the curtain got up from the chest, - understand! Understand that the artistic merits of your novel are not so great (here a soft guitar chord was heard from the sofa) to make you go to Golgotha because of it. Understand!
- You r-understand, understand, understand! the guitarist sang in a pleasant tenor voice.
“And here’s my tale to you,” the elderly shouted, “if you don’t kiss me now, I’ll get up, leave, leave the friendly company, because you offended me!”
Feeling an inexpressible torment, I kissed him. The choir at this time sang well, and the tenor floated over the voices oily and tender:
- You understand, understand...
Like a cat, I crept out of the apartment with a heavy manuscript under my arm.
The nurse, with red watery eyes, leaned over and drank water from the tap in the kitchen.
It is not known why, I handed the nanny a ruble.
- Come on, - said the nurse angrily, pushing the ruble, - the fourth hour of the night! After all, this is hellish torment.
Then a familiar voice cut through the chorus from a distance:
- Where is he? Did you run? Detain him! You see, comrades...
But the oilcloth-covered door had already released me, and I ran without looking back.
Chapter 3. MY SUICIDE
“Yes, this is terrible,” I said to myself in my room, “everything is terrible. And this salad, and the nanny, and the elderly writer, and the unforgettable "understand", in general, my whole life. Outside the windows the autumn wind whined, the torn off iron sheet rumbled, the rain crawled down the panes in stripes. After the evening with the nanny and the guitar, many events happened, but they were so nasty that I don’t even want to write about them. First of all, I rushed to check the novel from the point of view that, they say, they will let it through or not. And it became clear that he would not be missed. The old man was absolutely right. It seemed to me that every line of the novel screamed about it.
After checking the novel, I spent the last of my money on the correspondence of two passages and took them to the editors of a thick magazine. Two weeks later I received the excerpts back. In the corner of the manuscripts was written: "Not suitable." Having cut off this resolution with nail scissors, I took the same passages to another thick magazine and received them back two weeks later with the same inscription: "Not suitable."
After that, my cat died. She stopped eating, hid in a corner and meowed, driving me into a frenzy. This went on for three days. On the fourth I found her motionless in the corner on her side.
I took a shovel from the janitor and buried it in the wasteland behind our house. I was left completely alone on earth, but, I confess, in the depths of my soul I was delighted. What a burden for me was the unfortunate beast.
And then the autumn rains came, my shoulder and left leg in the knee hurt again.
But the worst thing was not that, but that the novel was bad. If he was bad, it meant that my life was coming to an end.
Serving in the Shipping Company all your life? Yes you laugh!
All night I lay, staring into the pitch darkness, and repeated - "this is terrible." If you asked me - what do you remember about the time of work in the Shipping Company? - I would answer with a clear conscience - nothing.
Dirty galoshes by the hanger, someone's wet hat with the longest ears on the hanger - that's all.
- It's horrible! I repeated, listening to the silence of the night buzzing in my ears.
Insomnia made itself felt for two weeks.
I went by tram to Samotechnaya-Sadovaya, where I lived in one of the houses, the number of which I will keep, of course, in the strictest confidence, a certain person who, by the nature of his occupation, had the right to carry weapons.
Under what conditions we met, it does not matter.
Entering the apartment, I found my friend lying on the couch. While he was warming up tea on the primus stove in the kitchen, I opened the left drawer of his desk and stole a Browning from there, then drank some tea and left for my room.
It was about nine o'clock in the evening. I came home. Everything was as always. From the kitchen there was a smell of roast lamb, in the corridor there was an eternal fog, well known to me, in which a light bulb burned dimly under the ceiling. I entered myself. Light splashed from above, and immediately the room was plunged into darkness. The light bulb burned out.
“Everything is one to one, and everything is absolutely correct,” I said sternly.
I lit a kerosene stove on the floor in the corner. On a piece of paper he wrote: "Sim I inform you that Browning # (I forgot the number), say, such and such, I stole from Parfen Ivanovich (I wrote the surname, # houses, street, everything as it should be)". Signed, lay down on the floor by the kerosene stove. A deadly terror seized me. Dying is scary. Then I imagined our corridor, the lamb and grandmother Pelageya, the elderly and the Shipping Company, amused myself with the thought of how they would break the door to my room with a roar, etc.
I put the muzzle to my temple, groped for the dog with a wrong finger. At the same time, sounds very familiar to me were heard from below, the orchestra began to play hoarsely, and the tenor in the gramophone sang:
But will God return everything to me?!
"Fathers," Faust "! - I thought. - Well, it really is just in time. But I'll wait for Mephistopheles to come out. For the last time. I'll never hear it again."
The orchestra disappeared under the floor, then appeared, but the tenor shouted louder and louder:
I curse life, faith and all sciences!
"Now, now," I thought, "but how fast he sings..."
The tenor shouted desperately, then the orchestra rumbled.
A trembling finger rested on the dog, and at that moment a roar deafened me, my heart sank somewhere, it seemed to me that the flame flew out of the kerosene stove into the ceiling, I dropped the revolver.
Here the noise was repeated. From below came a heavy bass voice: “Here I am!”
I turned to the door.
Chapter 4
They knocked on the door. Powerfully and repeatedly. I put the revolver in my trouser pocket and called out weakly:
- Sign in!
The door swung open and I froze on the floor in horror. It was him, without a doubt. In the dusk, high above me, was a face with an authoritative nose and furrowed eyebrows. The shadows played, and it seemed to me that under the square chin the point of a black beard was sticking out. The beret was twisted famously over the ear. However, there was no pen.
In short, Mephistopheles stood before me. Then I saw that he was wearing a coat and shiny deep galoshes, and holding a briefcase under his arm. "It's natural," I thought, "it can't pass through Moscow in a different form in the twentieth century."
"Rudolfi," the evil spirit said in a tenor rather than a bass voice.
However, he might not introduce himself to me. I recognized him. In my room was one of the most prominent people in the literary world of that time, the editor-publisher of the only private magazine Rodina, Ilya Ivanovich Rudolfi.
I got up from the floor.
- Can't you light the lamp? asked Rudolfi.
“Unfortunately, I can’t do this,” I replied, “because the light bulb has burned out, and I don’t have another one.
The evil spirit, who assumed the guise of an editor, did one of his simple tricks - he immediately took out an electric light bulb from his briefcase.
- Do you always carry light bulbs with you? I wondered.
“No,” the spirit explained sternly, “just a coincidence—I was just in the store.
When the room lit up and Rudolphi took off his coat, I quickly removed from the table a note confessing to the theft of a revolver, and the spirit pretended not to notice this.
Sat down. They were silent.
- Have you written a novel? - Rudolphi finally inquired sternly.
- How do you know? - Likospastov said.
- You see, - I started talking (Likospastov is the very old one), - indeed, I ... but ... in a word, this is a bad novel.
“So,” said the spirit, and looked at me attentively.
It turned out that he didn't have a beard. The shadows joked.
"Show me," Rudolphi said authoritatively.
“Nothing,” I replied.
- Come on, - Rudolphi said separately.
- His censorship will not let through ...
- Show.
- You see, it is written by hand, and I have bad handwriting, the letter "o" comes out like a simple stick, and ...
And then I myself did not notice how my hands opened the drawer where the ill-fated novel lay.
- I make out any handwriting, as printed, - Rudolfi explained, - this is professional ... - And the notebooks ended up in his hands.
An hour has passed. I sat by the kerosene stove, heating the water, while Rudolph read a novel. Many thoughts swirled in my head. First, I thought about Rudolphi. I must say that Rudolphi was a wonderful editor and getting into his magazine was considered pleasant and honorable. I should have rejoiced at the fact that I had an editor even in the form of Mephistopheles. But, on the other hand, he might not like the affair, and that would be unpleasant... Besides, I felt that the suicide, interrupted at the most interesting place, would no longer take place, and, therefore, from tomorrow I I'm in the middle of disaster. Besides, tea had to be offered, and I had no butter. In general, there was a mess in my head, into which, moreover, a stolen revolver was entangled in vain.
Rudolphi, meanwhile, was swallowing page after page, and I tried in vain to find out what impression the novel made on him. Rudolf's face showed absolutely nothing.
When he made an intermission to wipe the lenses of his spectacles, I added one more nonsense to the nonsense already said:
- And what did Likospastov say about my novel?
“He said that this novel is no good,” Rudolfi answered coldly and turned the page. (“What a bastard Likospastov! Instead of supporting a friend, etc.”) At one in the morning we drank tea, and at two Rudolphi finished reading the last page.
I fidgeted on the sofa.
"Yes," said Rudolph.
They were silent.
“You imitate Tolstoy,” said Rudolph.
I got angry.
- Which of the Tolstoys exactly? I asked. - There were many ... Was it Alexei Konstantinovich, a famous writer, or Peter Andreevich, who caught Tsarevich Alexei abroad, was it Ivan Ivanovich, a numismatist, or Lev Nikolaich?
- Where did you study?
Here we have to reveal a little secret. The fact is that I graduated from two faculties at the university and hid it.
“I graduated from the parochial school,” I said, coughing.
- Wow! - said Rudolfi, and a smile touched his lips slightly.
Then he asked:
- How many times a week do you shave?
- Seven times.
“Excuse my indiscretion,” continued Rudolphi, “but how do you do that you have such a parting?”
- Grease my head. May I ask why all this...
Abstract
Full of intrigues, mysteries and secrets, the theatrical world living according to its own laws has never been shown so ironically and frankly as in Mikhail Bulgakov's novel "Notes of a Dead Man"! The author opens the doors to the holy of holies of the theatre, backstage, where serious passions boil, where comedies and dramas unfold, sometimes more exciting than on stage. This novel contains a lot of personal experience of Bulgakov himself, who in his youth dreamed of fame as a playwright and achieved it after many difficult trials.
For everyone who is interested in how the theater lived at the beginning of the 20th century, and who wants to know more about Mikhail Bulgakov himself!
Michael Bulgakov
FOREWORD FOR LISTENERS
PREFACE FOR READERS
[Part one]
Part two
Comments. V. I. Losev
Footnotes within text
Dead Man's Notes (theatrical novel)
Michael Bulgakov
DEAD MAN'S NOTES
theatrical romance
FOREWORD FOR LISTENERS
A rumor spread throughout the city of Moscow that I had composed a satirical novel in which a very famous Moscow theater was depicted.
I consider it my duty to inform the listeners that this rumor is based on nothing.
In the fact that today I will have the pleasure of reading, firstly, there is nothing satirical.
Secondly, this is not a novel.
And finally, this is not written by me.
The rumor, apparently, was born under the following circumstances. Somehow, being in a bad mood and wanting to amuse myself, I read excerpts from these notebooks to one of my acquaintances of actors.
After listening to what was proposed, my guest said:
Yes. Well, it is clear what kind of theater is depicted here.
And at the same time he laughed with that laughter that is commonly called satanic.
To my anxious question about what, in fact, became clear to him, he did not answer and left, as he was in a hurry to get to the tram.
In the second case it was. Among my listeners was a ten-year-old boy. Coming one day off to visit his aunt, who works in one of the prominent Moscow theaters, the boy said to her, smiling with a charming childish smile and burr:
Heard, heard how you were portrayed in the novel!
What will you take from a minor?
I strongly hope that my today's highly qualified listeners will understand the work from the very first pages and immediately understand that there is not and cannot be a hint of any particular Moscow theater in it, because the point is that ...
PREFACE FOR READERS
I warn the reader that I have nothing to do with the composition of these notes, and I got them under very strange and sad circumstances.
Just on the day of the suicide of Sergei Leontievich Maksudov, which took place in Kyiv last spring, I received a thick parcel and a letter sent by the suicide in advance.
These notes were in the parcel, and the letter was of amazing content:
Sergei Leontievich declared that, when he passed away, he gave me his notes so that I, his only friend, would straighten them out, sign them with my name and release them to the public.
Strange, but dying will!
During the year I made inquiries about Sergei Leontyevich's relatives or friends. In vain! He did not lie in his suicide letter - he had no one left in this world.
And I accept the gift.
Now the second thing: I inform the reader that the suicide never had anything to do with dramaturgy or theaters in his life, remaining what he was, a small employee of the newspaper Vestnik Shipping Company, who only once acted as a novelist, and then unsuccessfully - Sergei Leontyevich's novel was not published.
Thus, Maksudov's notes are the fruit of his imagination, and fantasy, alas, sick. Sergei Leontyevich suffered from a disease that had a very unpleasant name - melancholy.
I, who know the theatrical life of Moscow well, take upon myself the guarantee that there are no such theaters, nor such people as are shown in the work of the deceased, and never have been.
And finally, the third and last: my work on the notes was expressed in the fact that I titled them, then destroyed the epigraph, which seemed to me pretentious, unnecessary and unpleasant ...
This epigraph was:
“To each according to his deeds ...” And besides, he placed punctuation marks where they were missing.
I did not touch Sergei Leontievich's style, although he is clearly slovenly. However, what to demand from a man who, two days after putting an end to the end of the notes, rushed from the Chain Bridge upside down.
[Part one]
Chapter I
THE BEGINNING OF THE ADVENTURE
A thunderstorm washed over Moscow on April 29, and the air became sweet, and the soul somehow softened, and I wanted to live.
In my new gray suit and a fairly decent coat, I walked along one of the central streets of the capital, heading for a place I had never been before. The reason for my movement was a letter suddenly received in my pocket. Here it is:
"Deeply revered
Sergei Leontievich
I would like to the extreme to get to know you, and also to talk over one mysterious matter, which may be very, very interesting for you.
If you are free, I would be happy for you to come to the building of the Independent Theater Training Stage on Wednesday at 4 o'clock.
With regards, K. Ilchin.”
“Notes of a Dead Man” (subtitled “Theatrical Romance”) is a work by M.A. Bulgakov. Work on it began on November 26, 1936, interrupted in the autumn of 1937. It was first published in 1965 under the title "Theatrical Novel", which was preferred as more "neutral".
The title “Notes of a Dead Man” apparently paraphrases V. Pecherin’s “Graveyard Notes”: the publication of his memoirs with this title was carried out in 1932 (in turn, Pecherin named one of his memoir passages like this, focusing on “Graveyard Notes » Chateaubriand); cf. also the theme of the “living dead” common among romantics (for example, the story of the same name by V.F. Odoevsky). In essence, the motif of the "Dead Man's Notes" was used by Bulgakov already in the 1927 story "Morphine" (it is typical that the theme of the drug / hypnosis also appears in the finale of "Notes ...": "I returned to the theater, without which I could not live anymore like a morphine addict without morphine").
The subtitle "Theatrical novel" gives, first of all, the thematic characteristics of the work. However, the property of "theatricality" - not only at the thematic, but also at the genre level - is also inherent in two other novels of the writer: the artistic world of "The White Guard" includes the motifs of the opera and "operetta", and in the poetics of "The Master and Margarita" features play an important role variety show in the spirit of the Variety Theatre. Bulgakov's dramatic works are also indicative, in which the theatrical theme is combined with naked conventionality, "doubled" theatricality ("theater in the theater"): "The Crimson Island", "The Cabal of the Hypocrites", "The Crazy Jourdain".
The question of whether Bulgakov's novel should be considered finished is not entirely clear. It is possible that the abruptness of Maksudov's text is an artistic device of the author of the Notes; at the same time, it is known about Bulgakov’s intentions to continue the book (according to the memoirs of V. Lakshin, E.S. Bulgakov outlined, for example, the further development of the line of relations between the protagonist and Aurora Gosier: Maksudov likes the artist, and Bombardov persuades him to marry; however, the heroine soon dies from consumption).
The first draft of Notes of a Dead Man was the unfinished work The Secret Friend, written in September 1929 for E.S. Shilovskaya (later Bulgakova - the third wife of the writer). In addition, in a letter to the “Government of the USSR” dated March 28, 1930, among the manuscripts destroyed by Bulgakov himself, he names “the beginning of the novel The Theater” (probably, this text did not differ too much from the prose of “Secret Friend”).
A few years later, Bulgakov again returned to this idea - at a moment no less critical than the turn of the 1920s and 1930s was for him: in March 1936, a devastating article in Pravda completely ruined the play based on Bulgakov’s play “The Cabal of the Holy Ones”, work on which at the Moscow Art Theater dragged on for about four years; in May 1936, after a dress rehearsal at the Theater of Satire, the production of Bulgakov's comedy "Ivan Vasilievich" was banned; In September, Bulgakov left the Moscow Art Theater. “The next defeat, in fact theatrical destruction, had to be experienced as a fait accompli and irrevocable fact.<...>"Notes of a Dead Man" were composed by a person who, as it were, ceased to exist. The comical nature of the novel is borderline. This is laughter on the threshold of non-existence, this is a theater seen from the threshold of a disappearing life” (A. Smelyansky). It is no coincidence that the protagonist of "Notes of a Dead Man" Maksudov, who lives in Moscow, commits suicide in the hometown of the author of the novel - Kyiv.
The writer mentally returns to the events of about ten years ago: memories of working on the novel "The White Guard" (in "Notes ..." it is called "Black Snow"), the history of the creation and production of the play "Days of the Turbins" are connected in his mind with episodes of recent rehearsals of the long-suffering Molière. As A. Smelyansky noted, the first period of relations between Bulgakov and the Moscow Art Theater, filled with mutual love, is felt in the atmosphere of “Notes of a Dead Man” to a much lesser extent than those forms of theatrical life that were established in the Moscow Art Theater in the 30s. In the first approximation, "Notes ..." are perceived as a pamphlet for the Moscow Art Theater and the Moscow literary community. Realizing this, Bulgakov, who repeatedly read the novel to fellow actors, wrote a special "Foreword for Listeners", in which he humorously beat the wave of rumors raised by his book. E.S. Bulgakova compiled a list of prototypes of the novel - not only individual ones (for example, Ivan Vasilyevich - Stanislavsky; Aristarkh Platonovich - Nemirovich-Danchenko; Bondarevsky - A.N. Tolstoy; Agapenov - B.A. Pilnyak). but also "collective": Cohort of Friendly - Theater named after Evg. Vakhtangov; Old theater - Maly theater, etc.
At the same time, the theater in “Notes…” appears not just as a peculiar system of relations, but as a special “beyond” reality: it is compared (albeit comically) with the monastery and even with the afterlife (“It began to seem to me that around the shadows of the dead run around me"); the office of Fili, "in charge of internal order", appears as a parodic "purgatory"; "Sivtsev Vrazhek", Ivan Vasilyevich's patrimony, acquires the features of a fabulous "far away kingdom", and he himself resembles Kashchei the Immortal (it is characteristic that Bulgakov gives this character the name of the legendary "terrible king" and at the same time the hero of the forbidden play ").
Not only theatrical customs are specific, the theater appears as a special spatio-temporal continuum opposed to the outside world. As for the general structure of artistic time, then, as in many of Bulgakov's works, the annual cycle is essential in the plot of the Notes. It is difficult to determine how many years the whole thing, including the Preface, the action of the novel, should take (in any case, not less than five), but the number of these years is necessarily expressed as a whole number, because events constantly return to the same time of the year. . If we arrange the plot episodes chronologically, the following picture emerges: in April, Maksudov finishes writing the novel: in April of the following year, he writes the first picture of the play, and at the end of April he receives a letter from Ilchin and on April 29 meets him at the theater; in the spring (but not earlier than another two years later, since rehearsals at the theater begin on January 22, and the plot ends in June) Maksudov finishes (or rather interrupts) his notes, sends the manuscript to the author of the Preface two days later and commits suicide; in the spring of the next reptile, the author of the preface, who “during the year made inquiries about Sergei Leontievich’s relatives or friends,” fulfills his will and releases the notes under his own name (as the deceased wanted).
Bulgakov's novel also touches upon the actual theme of creativity - the question of the essence of art and the nature of the artist's talent. Maksudov does not accept the flat copying of the surrounding life, which is practiced by all the writers he knows. His own novel and play do not come from outside, but from within - they are born from memories and experiences, therefore they are lifelike in a higher, and not in a flat-naturalistic sense. About his play, the hero of "Notes ..." says: "She needed to exist, because I knew that there was truth in her." In the same way, he firmly believes in his vocation. Considering the tragic ending of Maksudov's fate, it can be noted that he appears as an "unrecognized prophet" and in this sense clearly resembles the hero of the novel The Master and Margarita.
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov
DEAD MAN'S NOTES
theatrical romance
FOREWORD FOR LISTENERS
A rumor spread throughout the city of Moscow that I had composed a satirical novel in which a very famous Moscow theater was depicted.
I consider it my duty to inform the listeners that this rumor is based on nothing.
In the fact that today I will have the pleasure of reading, firstly, there is nothing satirical.
Secondly, this is not a novel.
And finally, this is not written by me.
The rumor, apparently, was born under the following circumstances. Somehow, being in a bad mood and wanting to amuse myself, I read excerpts from these notebooks to one of my acquaintances of actors.
After listening to what was proposed, my guest said:
Yes. Well, it is clear what kind of theater is depicted here.
And at the same time he laughed with that laughter that is commonly called satanic.
To my anxious question about what, in fact, became clear to him, he did not answer and left, as he was in a hurry to get to the tram.
In the second case it was. Among my listeners was a ten-year-old boy. Coming one day off to visit his aunt, who works in one of the prominent Moscow theaters, the boy said to her, smiling with a charming childish smile and burr:
Heard, heard how you were portrayed in the novel!
What will you take from a minor?
I strongly hope that my today's highly qualified listeners will understand the work from the very first pages and immediately understand that there is not and cannot be a hint of any particular Moscow theater in it, because the point is that ...
PREFACE FOR READERS
I warn the reader that I have nothing to do with the composition of these notes, and I got them under very strange and sad circumstances.
Just on the day of the suicide of Sergei Leontievich Maksudov, which took place in Kyiv last spring, I received a thick parcel and a letter sent by the suicide in advance.
These notes were in the parcel, and the letter was of amazing content:
Sergei Leontievich declared that, when he passed away, he gave me his notes so that I, his only friend, would straighten them out, sign them with my name and release them to the public.
Strange, but dying will!
During the year I made inquiries about Sergei Leontyevich's relatives or friends. In vain! He did not lie in his suicide letter - he had no one left in this world.
And I accept the gift.
Now the second thing: I inform the reader that the suicide never had anything to do with dramaturgy or theaters in his life, remaining what he was, a small employee of the newspaper Vestnik Shipping Company, who only once acted as a novelist, and then unsuccessfully - Sergei Leontyevich's novel was not published.
Thus, Maksudov's notes are the fruit of his imagination, and fantasy, alas, sick. Sergei Leontyevich suffered from a disease that had a very unpleasant name - melancholy.
I, who know the theatrical life of Moscow well, take upon myself the guarantee that there are no such theaters, nor such people as are shown in the work of the deceased, and never have been.
And finally, the third and last: my work on the notes was expressed in the fact that I titled them, then destroyed the epigraph, which seemed to me pretentious, unnecessary and unpleasant ...
This epigraph was:
“To each according to his deeds ...” And besides, he placed punctuation marks where they were missing.
I did not touch Sergei Leontievich's style, although he is clearly slovenly. However, what to demand from a man who, two days after putting an end to the end of the notes, rushed from the Chain Bridge upside down.
[Part one]
THE BEGINNING OF THE ADVENTURE
A thunderstorm washed over Moscow on April 29, and the air became sweet, and the soul somehow softened, and I wanted to live.
In my new gray suit and a fairly decent coat, I walked along one of the central streets of the capital, heading for a place I had never been before. The reason for my movement was a letter suddenly received in my pocket. Here it is:
"Deeply revered
Sergei Leontievich!
I would like to the extreme to get to know you, and also to talk over one mysterious matter, which may be very, very interesting for you.
If you are free, I would be happy for you to come to the building of the Independent Theater Training Stage on Wednesday at 4 o'clock.
With regards, K. Ilchin.”
The letter was written in pencil on paper, in the left corner of which was printed:
"Ksavier Borisovich Ilchin, Director of the Educational Stage of the Independent Theatre."
I saw Ilchin's name for the first time, I didn't know that there was an Educational stage. I heard about the Independent Theatre, I knew that it was one of the outstanding theatres, but I had never been to it.
The letter interested me extremely, especially since I did not receive any letters at that time. It must be said that I am a small employee of the Parokhodstvo newspaper. I lived at that time in a bad, but separate room on the seventh floor in the Red Gate area near the Khomutovsky dead end.
So, I walked, inhaling the fresh air, and thought about the fact that the storm would strike again, and also about how Xavier Ilchin knew about my existence, and how he found me, and what business he might have with me. But no matter how much I thought about it, I could not understand the latter, and finally settled on the thought that Ilchin wanted to change rooms with me.
Of course, I should have written to Ilchin to come to me, since he had business with me, but I must say that I was ashamed of my room, the furnishings and the people around me. I'm generally a strange person and I'm a little afraid of people. Imagine, Ilchin enters and sees the sofa, and the upholstery is ripped open and the spring sticks out, the lampshade on the lamp above the table is made of newspaper, and the cat walks, and Annushka’s swearing comes from the kitchen.
I entered the carved iron gates, saw a shop where a gray-haired man was selling badges and spectacle frames.
I jumped over the calming muddy stream and found myself in front of a yellow building and thought that this building was built a long, long time ago, when neither I nor Ilchin had yet been born.
A black board with golden letters proclaimed that this was the Study Stage. I entered, and a short man with a beard, in a jacket with green buttonholes, immediately blocked my way.
Who do you want, citizen? he asked suspiciously, spreading his arms as if he wanted to catch a chicken.
I need to see the director Ilchin, - I said, trying to make my voice sound haughty.
The man has changed tremendously before my very eyes. He folded his arms at his sides and smiled a fake smile.
Xavier Borisych? This very minute. Coat please. Are there no galoshes?
The man received my coat with such care, as if it were a precious ecclesiastical vestment.
I climbed the cast-iron stairs, saw the profiles of warriors in helmets and formidable swords under them in bas-reliefs, old Dutch stoves with air vents polished to a golden sheen.
The building was silent, there was no one anywhere, and only with buttonholes a man trudged after me, and turning around, I saw that he was giving me silent signs of attention, devotion, respect, love, joy over the fact that I had come and that he although he comes behind, he directs me, leads me to where the lonely, mysterious Ksavier Borisovich Ilchin is.
And suddenly it got dark, the Dutch women lost their greasy whitish sheen, darkness immediately fell - a second thunderstorm rustled outside the windows. I knocked on the door, went in, and in the twilight I finally saw Xavier Borisovich.
Maksudov, - I said with dignity.
Here, somewhere far beyond Moscow, lightning ripped open the sky, illuminating Ilchin for a moment with phosphorescent light.
So it's you, dear Sergei Leontyevich! Ilchin said with a sly smile.
And then Ilchin dragged me, hugging my waist, onto such a sofa as in my room - even the spring in it stuck out in the same place as mine - in the middle.
In general, to this day I do not know the purpose of the room in which the fateful meeting took place. Why sofa? What notes lay disheveled on the floor in the corner? Why were there scales with cups on the window? Why was Ilchin waiting for me in this room, and not, say, in the next hall, in which, in the distance, vaguely, in the twilight of a thunderstorm, a piano was drawn?
And under the murmur of thunder, Xavier Borisovich said ominously:
I have read your novel.
I started.
The thing is...
NEURASTENIA
The fact is that, while serving in the modest position of a reader in the Shipping Company, I hated this position of mine and at night, sometimes until dawn, I wrote a novel in my attic.
It started one night when I woke up from a sad dream. I dreamed of my hometown, snow, winter, civil war... In my dream, a soundless blizzard passed in front of me, and then an old piano appeared and next to it were people who were no longer in the world. In a dream, I was struck by my loneliness, I felt sorry for myself. And I woke up in tears. I turned on the light, a dusty lightbulb hung over the table. She illuminated my poverty - a cheap inkwell, a few books, a stack of old newspapers. The left side ached from the spring, the heart was seized by fear. I felt that I would die now at the table, the pitiful fear of death humiliated me to the point that I groaned, looked around anxiously, looking for help and protection from death. And I found this help. A cat, which I once picked up at the gate, meowed softly. The animal was alarmed. In a second, the beast was already sitting on the newspapers, looking at me with round eyes, asking - what happened?
