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With the ink still wet on his diploma, the twenty-five-year-old Dr Mikhail Bulgakov was flung into the depths of rural Russia which, in 1916-17, was still largely unaffected by such novelties as the motor car, the telephone or electric light.
How his alter-ego copes (or fails to cope) with the new and often appalling responsibilities of a lone doctor in a vast country practice – on the eve of Revolution – is described in Bulgakov’s delightful blend of candid realism and imaginative exuberance.
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My favourite Russian writer-doctor is not Anton Chekhov but Mikhail Bulgakov, who describes with aching clarity the slow and at times humiliating road to acquiring what London taxi-drivers call...
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