Michail Bulgakov. The heart of a dog

Michail Bulgakov. The heart of a dog

One

Ooow-ow-ooow-owow! Oh, look at me, I'm dying. There's a snowstormmoaning a requiem for me in this doorway and I'm howling with it. I'mfinished. Some bastard in a dirty white cap - the cook in the office canteenat the National Economic Council - spilled some boiling water and scalded myleft side. Filthy swine - and a proletarian, too. Christ, it hurts! Thatboiling water scalded me right through to the bone. I can howl and howl, butwhat's the use? What harm was I doing him, anyway? I'm not robbing the NationalEconomic Council's food supply if I go foraging in their dustbins, am I? Greedy pig! Just take a look at his ugly mug - it's almost fatter than heis. Hard-faced crook. Oh people, people. It was midday when that fool dousedme with boiling water, now it's getting dark, must be about four o'clock inthe afternoon judging by the smell of onion coming from the Prechistenkafire station. Firemen have soup for supper, you know. Not that I care for itmyself. I can manage without soup - don't like mushrooms either. The dogs Iknow in Prechistenka Street, by the way, tell me there's a restaurant inNeglinny Street where they get the chef's special every day - mushroom stewwith relish at 3 roubles and 75 kopecks the portion. All right forconnoisseurs, I suppose. I think eating mushrooms is about as tasty aslicking a pair of galoshes. . . Oow-owowow. . . My side hurts like hell and I can see just what's going to become ofme. Tomorrow it will break out in ulcers and then how can I make them heal? In summer you can go and roll in Sokolniki Park where there's a specialgrass that does you good. Besides, you can get a free meal of sausage-endsand there's plenty of greasy bits of food-wrappings to lick. And if itwasn't for some old groaner singing '0 celeste Aida' out in the moonlighttill it makes you sick, the place would be perfect. But where can I go now? Haven't I been kicked around enough? Sure I have. Haven't I had enoughbricks thrown at me? Plenty. . . Still, after what I've been through, I cantake a lot. I'm only whining now because of the pain and cold - though I'mnot licked yet... it takes a lot to keep a good dog down. But my poor old body's been knocked about by people once too often. Thetrouble is that when that cook doused me with boiling water it scaldedthrough right under my fur and now there's nothing to keep the cold out onmy left side. I could easily get pneumonia - and if I get that, citizens, I'll die of hunger. When you get pneumonia the only thing to do is to lie upunder someone's front doorstep, and then who's going to run round thedustbins looking for food for a sick bachelor dog? I shall get a chill on mylungs, crawl on my belly till I'm so weak that it'll only need one poke ofsomeone's stick to finish me off. And the dustmen will pick me up by thelegs and sling me on to their cart. . . Dustmen are the lowest form of proletarian life. Humans' rubbish is thefilthiest stuff there is. Cooks vary - for instance, there was Vlas fromPrechistenka, who's dead now. He saved I don't know how many dogs' lives, because when you're sick you've simply got to be able to eat and keep yourstrength up. And when Vlas used to throw you a bone there was always a goodeighth of an inch of meat on it. He was a great character. God rest hissoul, a gentleman's cook who worked for Count Tolstoy's family and not foryour stinking Food Rationing Board. As for the muck they dish out there asrations, well it makes even a dog wonder. They make soup out of salt beefthat's gone rotten, the cheats. The poor fools who eat there can't tell thedifference. It's just grab, gobble and gulp. A typist on salary scale 9 gets 60 roubles a month. Of course her loverkeeps her in silk stockings, but think what she has to put up with inexchange for silk. He won't just want to make the usual sort of love to her, he'll make her do it the French way. They're a lot of bastards, thoseFrenchmen, if you ask me - though they know how to stuff their guts allright, and red wine with everything. Well, along comes this little typistand wants a meal. She can't afford to go into the restaurant on 60 roubles amonth and go to the cinema as well. And the cinema is a woman's oneconsolation in life. It's agony for her to have to choose a meal. . . justthink: 40 kopecks for two courses, and neither of them is worth more than 15because the manager has pocketed the other 25 kopecks-worth. Anyhow, is itthe right sort of food for her? She's got a patch on the top of her rightlung, she's having her period, she's had her pay docked at work and theyfeed her with any old muck at the canteen, poor girl. . . There she goesnow, running into the doorway in her lover's stockings. Cold legs, and thewind blows up her belly because even though she has some hair on it likemine she wears such cold, thin, lacy little pants - just to please herlover. If she tried to wear flannel ones he'd soon bawl her out for lookinga frump. 'My girl bores me', he'll say, 'I'm fed up with those flannelknickers of hers, to hell with her. I've made good now and all I make ingraft goes on women, lobsters and champagne. I went hungry often enough as akid. So what - you can't take it with you. ' I feel sorry for her, poor thing. But I feel a lot sorrier for myself. I'm not saying it out of selfishness, not a bit, but because you can'tcompare us. She at least has a warm home to go to, but what about me? . . . Where can I go? Oowow-owow! 'Here, doggy, here, boy! Here, Sharik. . . What are you whining for, poor little fellow? Did somebody hurt you, then? ' The terrible snowstorm howled around the doorway, buffeting the girl'sears. It blew her skirt up to her knees, showing her fawn stockings and alittle strip of badly washed lace underwear, drowned her words and coveredthe dog in snow. 'My God. . . what weather. . . ugh. . . And my stomach aches. It'sthat awful salt beef. When is all this going to end? ' Lowering her head the girl launched into the attack and rushed out ofthe doorway. On the street the violent storm spun her like a top, then awhirlwind of snow spiralled around her and she vanished. But the dog stayed in the doorway. His scalded flank was so painfulthat he pressed himself against the cold wall, gasping for breath, anddecided not to move from the spot. He would die in the doorway. Despairovercame him. He was so bitter and sick at heart, so lonely and terrifiedthat little dog's tears, like pimples, trickled down from his eyes, and atonce dried up. His injured side was covered with frozen, dried blood-clotsand between them peeped the angry red patches of the scald. All the fault ofthat vicious, thickheaded, stupid cook. 'Sharik' she had called him. . . What a name to choose! Sharik is the sort of name for a round, fat, stupiddog that's fed on porridge, a dog with a pedigree, and he was a tattered, scraggy, filthy stray mongrel with a scalded side. Across the street the door of a brightly lit store slammed and acitizen came through it. Not a comrade, but a citizen, or even more likely -a gentleman. As he came closer it was obvious that he was a gentleman. Isuppose you thought I recognised him by his overcoat? Nonsense. Lots ofproletarians even wear overcoats nowadays. I admit they don't usually havecollars like this one, of course, but even so you can sometimes be mistakenat a distance. No, it's the eyes: you can't go wrong with those, near orfar. Eyes mean a lot. Like a barometer. They tell you everything - they tellyou who has a heart of stone, who would poke the toe of his boot in yourribs as soon as look at you - and who's afraid of you. The cowards - they'rethe ones whose ankles I like to snap at. If they're scared, I go for them. Serve them right. . . grrr. . . bow-wow. . . The gentleman boldly crossed the street in a pillar of whirling snowand headed for the doorway. Yes, you can tell his sort all right. Hewouldn't eat rotten salt beef, and if anyone did happen to give him any he'dmake a fuss and write to the newspapers - someone has been trying to poisonme - me, Philip Philipovich. He came nearer and nearer. He's the kind who always eats well and neversteals, he wouldn't kick you, but he's not afraid of anyone either. And he'snever afraid because he always has enough to eat. This man's a brain worker, with a carefully trimmed, sharp-pointed beard and grey moustaches, bold andbushy ones like the knights of old. But the smell of him, that came floatingon the wind, was a bad, hospital smell. And cigars. I wonder why the hell he wants to go into that Co-op? Here he is besideme. . . What does he want? Oowow, owow. . . What would he want to buy inthat filthy store, surely he can afford to go to the Okhotny Ryad? What'sthat he's holding? Sausage. Look sir, if you knew what they put into thatsausage you'd never go near that store. Better give it to me. The dog gathered the last of his strength and crawled fainting out ofthe doorway on to the pavement. The blizzard boomed like gunfire over hishead, flapping a great canvas billboard marked in huge letters, 'IsRejuvenation Possible? ' Of course it's possible. The mere smell has rejuvenated me, got me upoff my belly, sent scorching waves through my stomach that's been empty fortwo days. The smell that overpowered the hospital smell was the heavenlyaroma of minced horsemeat with garlic and pepper. I feel it, I know -there'sa sausage in his right-hand coat pocket. He's standing over me. Oh, master! Look at me. I'm dying. I'm so wretched, I'll be your slave for ever! The dog crawled tearfully forward on his stomach. Look what that cookdid to me. You'll never give me anything, though. I know these rich people. What good is it to you? What do you want with a bit of rotten old horsemeat? The Moscow State Food Store only sells muck like that. But you've a goodlunch under your belt, haven't you, you're a world-famous figure thanks tomale sex glands. Oowow-owow. . . What can I do? I'm too young to die yetand despair's a sin. There's nothing for it, I shall have to lick his hand. The mysterious gentleman bent down towards the dog, his goldspectacle-rims flashing, and pulled a long white package out of hisright-hand coat pocket. Without taking off his tan gloves he broke off apiece of the sausage, which was labelled 'Special Cracower'. And gave it tothe dog. Oh, immaculate personage! Oowow-oowow! 'Here, doggy, ' the gentleman whistled, and added sternly, 'Come on! Take it, Sharik! ' He's christened me Sharik too. Call me what you like. For this you cando anything you like to me, In a moment the dog had ripped off the sausage-skin. Mouth watering, hebit into the Cracower and gobbled it down in two swallows. Tears started tohis eyes as he nearly choked on the string, which in his greed he almostswallowed. Let me lick your hand again, I'll kiss your boots - you've savedmy life. 'That's enough. . . ' The gentleman barked as though giving an order. He bent over Sharik, stared with a searching look into his eyes andunexpectedly stroked the dog gently and intimately along the stomach withhis gloved hand. 'Aha, ' he pronounced meaningly. 'No collar. Excellent. You're just whatI want. Follow me. ' He clicked his fingers. 'Good dog! ' Follow you? To the end of the earth. Kick me with your felt boots and Iwon't say a word. The street lamps were alight all along Prechistenka Street. His flankhurt unbearably, but for the moment Sharik forgot about it, absorbed by asingle thought: how to avoid losing sight of this miraculous fur-coatedvision in the hurly-burly of the storm and how to show him his love anddevotion. Seven times along the whole length of Prechistenka Street as faras the cross-roads at Obukhov Street he showed it. At Myortvy Street hekissed his boot, he cleared the way by barking at a lady and frightened herinto falling flat on the pavement, and twice he gave a howl to make sure thegentleman still felt sorry for him. A filthy, thieving stray torn cat slunk out from behind a drainpipe anddespite the snowstorm, sniffed the Cracower. Sharik went blind with rage atthe thought that this rich eccentric who picked up injured dogs in doorwaysmight take pity on this robber and make him share the sausage. So he baredhis teeth so fiercely that the cat, with a hiss like a leaky hosepipe, shinned back up the drainpipe right to the second floor. Grrrr! Woof! Gone! We can't go handing out Moscow State groceries to all the strays loafingabout Prechistenka Street. The gentleman noticed the dog's devotion as they passed the firestation window, out of which came the pleasant sound of a French horn, andrewarded him with a second piece that was an ounce or two smaller. Queer chap. He's beckoning to me. Don't worry, I'm not going to runaway. I'll follow you wherever you like. 'Here, doggy, here, boy! ' Obukhov Street? OK by me. I know the place - I've been around. 'Here, doggy! ' Here? Sure. . . Hey, no, wait a minute. No. There's a porters on thatblock of flats. My worst enemies, porters, much worse than dustmen. Horriblelot. Worse than cats. Butchers in gold braid. 'Don't be frightened, come on. ' 'Good evening, Philip Philipovich. ''Good evening, Fyodor. ' What a character. I'm in luck, by God. Who is this genius, who can evenbring stray dogs off the street past a porter? Look at the bastard - not amove, not a word! He looks grim enough, but he doesn't seem to mind, for allthe gold braid on his cap. That's how it should be, too. Knows his place. Yes, I'm with this gentleman, so you can keep your hands to yourself. What'sthat - did he make a move? Bite him. I wouldn't mind a mouthful of homyproletarian leg. In exchange for the trouble I've had from all the otherporters and all the times they've poked a broom in my face. 'Come on, come on. ' OK, OK, don't worry. I'll go wherever you go. Just show me the way. I'll be right behind you. Even if my side does hurt like hell. From hallway up the staircase: 'Were there any letters for me, Fyodor? ' From below, respectfully: 'No sir, Philip Philipovich' (dropping hisvoice and adding intimately), 'but they've just moved some more tenants intoNo. 3. ' The dog's dignified benefactor turned sharply round on the step, leanedover the railing and asked in horror: 'Wh-at? ' His eyes went quite round and his moustache bristled. The porter looked upwards, put his hand to his lips, nodded and said: 'That's right, four of them. ' 'My God! I can just imagine what it must be like in that apartment now. What sort of people are they? ' 'Nobody special, sir. ' 'And what's Fyodor Pavolovich doing? ' 'He's gone to get some screens and a load of bricks. They're going tobuild some partitions in the apartment. ' 'God - what is the place coming to? ' 'Extra tenants are being moved into every apartment, except yours, Philip Philipovich. There was a meeting the other day; they elected a newhouse committee and kicked out the old one. ' 'What will happen next? Oh, God. . . 'Come on, doggy. ' I'm coming as fast as I can. My side is giving me trouble, though. Letme lick your boot. The porter's gold braid disappeared from the lobby. Past warm radiators on a marble landing, another flight of stairs andthen - a mezzanine.

Two

Why bother to leam to read when you can smell meat a mile away? If youlive in Moscow, though, and if you've got an ounce of brain in your head youcan't help learning to read -and without going to night-school either. Thereare forty-thousand dogs in Moscow and I'll bet there's not one of them sostupid he can't spell out the word 'sausage'. Sharik had begun by learning from colours. When he was just four monthsold, blue-green signs started appearing all over Moscow with the lettersMSFS - Moscow State Food Stores - which meant a butcher and delicatessen. Irepeat that he had no need to learn his letters because he could smell themeat anyway. Once he made a bad mistake: trotting up to a bright blueshop-sign one day when the smell was drowned by car exhaust, instead of abutcher's shop he ran into the Polubizner Brothers' electrical goods storeon Myasnitzkaya Street. There the brothers taught him all about insulatedcable, which can be sharper than a cabman's whip. This famous occasion maybe regarded as the beginning of Sharik's education. It was here on thepavement that Sharik began to realise that 'blue' doesn't always mean'butcher', and as he squeezed his burningly painful tail between his backlegs and howled, he remembered that on every butcher's shop the first letteron the left was always gold or brown, bow-legged, and looked like atoboggan. After that the lessons were rather easier. 'A' he learned from thebarber on the comer of Mokhovaya Street, followed by 'B' (there was always apoliceman standing in front of the last four letters of the word). Cornershops faced with tiles always meant 'CHEESE' and the black half-moon at thebeginning of the word stood for the name of their former owners 'Chichkin'; they were full of mountains of red Dutch cheeses, salesmen who hated dogs, sawdust on the floor and reeking Limburger. If there was accordion music (which was slightly better than 'CelesteAida'), and the place smelted of frankfurters, the first letters on thewhite signboards very conveniently | spelled out the word 'NOOB', which wasshort for 'No obscene language. No tips. ' Sometimes at these places fightswould break out, people would start punching each other in the face withtheir fists - sometimes even with napkins or boots. If there were stale bits of ham and mandarin oranges in the window itmeant a grrr. . . grrocery. If there were black bottles full of evilliquids it was. . . li-li-liquor. . . formerly Eliseyev Bros. The unknown gentleman had led the dog to the door of his luxurious flaton the mezzanine floor, and rang the doorbell. The dog at once looked up ata big, black, gold-lettered nameplate hanging beside a pink frosted-glassdoor. He deciphered the first three letters at once: P-R-O- 'Pro. . . ', butafter tliat there was a funny tall thing with a cross bar which he did notknow. Surely he's not a proletarian? thought Sharik with amazement... Hecan't be. He lifted up his nose, sniffed the fur coat and said firmly tohimself: No, this doesn't smell proletarian. Some high-falutin' word. God knowswhat it means. Suddenly a light flashed on cheerfully behind the pink glass door, throwing the nameplate into even deeper shadow. The door opened soundlesslyand a beautiful young woman in a white apron and lace cap stood before thedog and his master. A wave of delicious warmth flowed over the dog and thewoman's skirt smelled of carnations. This I like, thought the dog. 'Come in, Mr Sharik, ' said the gentleman ironically and Sharikrespectfully obeyed, wagging his tail. A great multitude of objects filled the richly furnished hall. Besidehim was a mirror stretching right down to the floor, which instantlyreflected a second dirty, exhausted Sharik. High up on the wall was aterrifying pair of antlers, there were countless fur coats and pairs ofgaloshes and an electric tulip made of opal glass hanging from the ceiling. 'Where on earth did you get that from, Philip Philipovich? ' enquiredthe woman, smiling as she helped to take off the heavy brown, blue-fleckedfox-fur coat. 'God, he looks lousy. ' 'Nonsense. He doesn't look lousy to me, ' said the gentleman abruptly. With his fur coat off he was seen to be wearing a black suit of Englishmaterial; a gold chain across his stomach shone with a dull glow. 'Hold still, boy, keep still doggy. . . keep still you little fool. H'm. . . that's not lice. . . Stand still, will you. . . H'mm. . . aha -yes. . . It's a scald. Who was mean enough to throw boiling water over you, I wonder? Eh? Keep still, will you. . .! ' It was that miserable cook, said the dog with his pitiful eyes and gavea little whimper. 'Zina, ' ordered the gentleman, 'take him into the consulting-room atonce and get me a white coat. ' The woman whistled, clicked her fingers and the dog followed herslightly hesitantly. Together they walked down a narrow, dimly-lit corridor, passed a varnished door, reached the end then turned left and arrived in adark little room which the dog instantly disliked for its ominous smell. Thedarkness clicked and was transformed into blinding white which flashed andshone from every angle. Oh, no, the dog whined to himself, you won't catch me as easily asthat! I see it now - to hell with them and their sausage. They've tricked meinto a dogs' hospital. Now they'll force me to swallow castor oil andthey'll cut up my side with knives - well, I won't let them touch it. 'Hey - where are you trying to go? ' shouted the girl called Zina. The animal dodged, curled up like a spring and suddenly hit the doorwith his unharmed side so hard that the noise reverberated through the wholeapartment. Then he jumped back, spun around on the spot like a top and indoing so knocked over a white bucket, spilling wads of cotton wool. As hewhirled round there flashed past him shelves full of glittering instruments, a white apron and a furious woman's face. 'You little devil, ' cried Zina in desperation, 'where d'you thinkyou're going? ' Where's the back door? the dog wondered. He swung round, rolled into aball and hurled himself bullet-fashion at a glass in the hope that it wasanother door. With a crash and a tinkle a shower of splinters fell down anda pot-bellied glass jar of some reddish-brown filth shot out and poureditself over the floor, giving off a sickening stench. The real door swungopen. 'Stop it, you little beast, ' shouted the gentleman as he rushed inpulling on one sleeve of his white coat. He seized the dog by the legs. 'Zina, grab him by the scruff of the neck, damn him. ' 'Oh - these dogs. ..! ' The door opened wider still and another person of the male sex dashedin, also wearing a white coat. Crunching over the broken glass he went pastthe dog to a cupboard, opened it and the whole room was filled with a sweet, nauseating smell. Then the person turned the animal over on his back, atwhich the dog enthusiastically bit him just above his shoelaces. The persongroaned but kept his head. The nauseating liquid choked the dog's breathingand his head began to spin, then his legs collapsed and he seemed to bemoving sideways. This is it, he thought dreamily as he collapsed on to thesharp slivers of glass. Goodbye, Moscow! I shan't see Chichkin or theproletarians or Cracow sausages again. I'm going to the heaven forlong-suffering dogs. You butchers - why did you have to do this to me? Withthat he finally collapsed on to his back and passed out. When he awoke he felt slightly dizzy and sick to his stomach. Hisinjured side did not seem to be there at all, but was blissfully painless. The dog opened a languid right eye and saw out of its corner that he wastightly bandaged all around his flanks and belly. So those sons of bitchesdid cut me up, he thought dully, but I must admit they've made a neat job ofit. . . . " from Granada to Seville. . . those soft southern nights" . . . 'a muzzy, falsetto voice sang over his head. Amazed, the dog opened both eyes wide and saw two yards away a man'sleg propped up on a stool. Trousers and sock had been rolled back and theyellow, naked ankle was smeared with dried blood and iodine. Swine! thought the dog. He must be the one I bit, so that's my doing. Now there'll be trouble. '. . . " the murmur of sweet serenades, the clink of Spanish blades. .. " Now, you little tramp, why did you bite the doctor? Eh? Why did you breakall that glass? M'm? ' Oowow, whined the dig miserably. 'All right, lie backand relax, naughty boy. ' 'However did you manage to entice such a nervous, excitable dog into following you here, Philip Philipovich? ' enquired apleasant male voice, and a long knitted underpant lowered itself to theground. There was a smell of tobacco, and glass phials tinkled in thecloset. 'By kindness. The only possible method when dealing with a livingcreature. You'll get nowhere with an animal if you use terror, no matterwhat its level of development may be. That I have maintained, do maintainand always will maintain. People who think you can use terror are quitewrong. No, terror's useless, whatever its colour - white, red or even brown! Terror completely paralyses the nervous system. Zina! I bought this littlescamp some Cracow sausage for 1 rouble 40 kopecks. Please see that he is fedwhen he gets over his nausea. ' There was a crunching noise as glass splinters were swept up and awoman's voice said teasingly: 'Cracower! Goodness, you ought to buy himtwenty kopecks-worth of scraps from the butcher. I'd rather eat the Cracowermyself! ' 'You just try! That stuff's poison for human stomachs. A grown womanand you're ready to poke anything into your mouth like a child. Don't youdare! I warn you that neither I nor Doctor Bormenthal will lift a finger foryou when your stomach finally gives out. . . ' Just then a bell tinkled all through the flat and from far away in thehall came the sound of voices. The telephone rang. Zina disappeared. Philip Philipovich threw his cigar butt into the bucket, buttoned uphis white coat, smoothed his bushy moustache in front of a mirror on thewall and called the dog. 'Come on, boy, you'll be all right. Let's go and see our visitors. ' The dog stood up on wobbly legs, staggered and shivered but quicklyfelt better and set off behind the napping hem of Philip Philipovich's coat. Again the dog walked down the narrow corridor, but saw that this time it wasbrightly lit from above by a round cut-glass lamp in the ceiling. When thevarnished door opened he trotted into Philip Philipovich's study. Its luxuryblinded him. Above all it was blazing with light: there was a light hangingfrom the moulded ceiling, a light on the desk, lights on the walls, lightson the glass-fronted cabinets. The light poured over countless knick-knacks, of which the most striking was an enormous owl perched on a branch fastenedto the wall. 'Lie down, ' ordered Philip Philipovich. The carved door at the other end of the room opened and in came thedoctor who had been bitten. In the bright light he now looked very young andhandsome, with a pointed beard. He put down a sheet of paper and said: 'Thesame as before. . . ' Then he silently vanished and Philip Philipovich, spreading hiscoat-tails, sat down behind the huge desk and immediately looked extremelydignified and important. No, this can't be a hospital, I've landed up somewhere else, the dogthought confusedly and stretched out on the patterned carpet beside amassive leather-covered couch. I wish I knew what that owl was doing here.. . The door gently opened and in came a man who looked so extraordinarythat the dog gave a timid yelp. . . 'Shut up! . . . My dear fellow, I hardly recognised you! ' Embarrassed, the visitor bowed politely to Philip Philipovich andgiggled nervously. 'You're a wizard, a magician, professor! ' he said bashfully. 'Take down your trousers, old man, ' ordered Philip Philip-ovich andstood up. Christ, thought the dog, what a sight! The man's hair was completelygreen, although at the back it shaded off into a brownish tobacco colour, wrinkles covered his face yet his complexion was as pink as a boy's. Hisleft leg would not bend and had to be dragged across the carpet, but hisright leg was as springy as a jack-in-the-box. In the buttonhole of hissuperb jacket there shone, like an eye, a precious stone. The dog was so fascinated that he even forgot his nausea. Oow-ow, hewhined softly. 'Quiet! . . . How have you been sleeping! ' The man giggled. 'Are we alone, professor? It's indescribable, ' saidthe visitor coyly. 'Parole d'honneur - I haven't known anything like it fortwenty-five years. . . ' the creature started struggling with his flybuttons. . . 'Would you believe it, professor - hordes of naked girls every night. I am absolutely entranced. You're a magician. ' 'H'm, ' grunted Philip Philipovich, preoccupied as he stared into thepupils of his visitor's eyes. The man finally succeeded in mastering hisflybuttons and took off his checked trousers, revealing the mostextraordinary pair of pants. They were cream-coloured, embroidered withblack silk cats and they smelled of perfume. The dog could not resist the cats and gave such a bark that the manjumped. 'Oh! ' 'Quiet - or I'll beat you! . . . Don't worry, he won't bite. ' Won't I? thought the dog in amazement. Out of the man's trouser pocket a little envelope fell to the floor. Itwas decorated with a picture of a naked girl with flowing hair. He gave astart, bent down to pick it up and blushed violently. 'Look here, ' said Philip Philipovich in a tone of grim warning, wagginga threatening finger, 'you shouldn't overdo it, you know. ' 'I'm not overdo. . . ' the creature muttered in embarrassment as hewent on undressing. 'It was just a sort of experiment. ' 'Well, what were the results? ' asked Philip Philipovich sternly. The man waved his hand in ecstasy. 'I swear to God, professor, Ihaven't known anything like it for twenty-five years. The last time was in1899 in Paris, in the Rue de la Paix. ' 'And why have you turned green? ' The visitor's face clouded over. 'That damned stuff! You'd neverbelieve, professor, what those rogues palmed off on me instead of dye. Justtake a look, ' the man muttered, searching for a mirror. 'I'd like to punchhim on the snout, ' he added in a rage. 'What am I to do now, professor? ' heasked tearfully. 'H'm. Shave all your hair off. ' 'But, professor, ' cried the visitor miserably, 'then it would only growgrey again. Besides, I daren't show my face at the office like this. Ihaven't been there for three days. Ah, professor, if only you had discovereda way of rejuvenating hair! ' 'One thing at a time, old man, one thing at a time, ' muttered PhilipPhilipovich. Bending down, his glittering eyes examined the patient's nakedabdomen. 'Splendid, everything's in great shape. To tell you the truth I didn'teven expect such results. You can get dressed now. ' ' " Ah, she's so lovely. . . " ' sang the patient in a voice thatquavered like the sound of someone hitting an old, cracked saucepan. Beaming, he started to dress. When he was ready he skipped across the floorin a cloud of perfume, counted out a heap of white banknotes on theprofessor's desk and shook him tenderly by both hands. 'You needn't come back for two weeks, ' said Philip Philipovich, 'but Imust beg you - be careful. ' The ecstaticvoice replied from behind thedoor: 'Don't worry, professor. ' The creature gave a delighted giggle and went. The doorbelltinkled through the apartment and the varnished door opened, admitting theother doctor, who handed Philip Philipovich a sheet of paper and announced: 'She has lied about her age. It's probably about fifty or fifty-five. Heart-beats muffled. ' He disappeared, to be succeeded by a rustling lady with a hat plantedgaily on one side of her head and with a glittering necklace on her slack, crumpled neck. There were black bags under her eyes and her cheeks were asred as a painted doll. She was extremely nervous. 'How old are you, madam? ' enquired Philip Philipovich with greatseverity. Frightened, the lady paled under her coating of rouge. 'Professor, Iswear that if you knew the agony I've been going through. . .! ' 'How old are you, madam? ' repeated Philip Philipovich even moresternly. 'Honestly. . . well, forty-five. . . ' 'Madam, ' groaned Philip Philipovich, I am a busy man. Please don'twaste my time. You're not my only patient, you know. ' The lady's bosom heaved violently. 'I've come to you, a great scientist... I swear to you - it's terrible. . . ' 'How old are you? ' Philip Philipovich screeched in fury, his spectaclesglittering. 'Fifty-one! ' replied the lady, wincing with terror. 'Take off your underwear, please, ' said Philip Philipovich with relief, and pointed to a high white examination table in the comer. 'I swear, professor, ' murmured the lady as with trembling fingers sheunbuttoned the fasteners on her belt, 'this boy Moritz... I honestly admitto you. . . ' ' " From Granada to Seville. . . " ' Philip Philipovich hummedabsentmindedly and pressed the foot-pedal of his marble washbasin. There wasa sound of running water. 'I swear to God, ' said the lady, patches of real colour showing throughthe rouge on her cheeks, 'this will be my last affair. Oh, he's such abrute! Oh, professor! All Moscow knows he's a card-sharper and he can'tresist any little tart of a dressmaker who catches his eye. But he's sodeliciously young. . . 'As she talked the lady pulled out a crumpled blob oflace from under her rustling skirts. A mist came in front of the dog's eyes and his brain turned asomersault. To hell with you, he thought vaguely, laying his head on hispaws and closing his eyes with embarrassment. I'm not going to try and guesswhat all this is about -it's beyond me, anyway. He was wakened by a tinkling sound and saw that Philip Philipovich hadtossed some little shining tubes into a basin. The painted lady, her hands pressed to her bosom, was gazing hopefullyat Philip Philipovich. Frowning impressively he had sat down at his desk andwas writing something. 'I am going to implant some monkey's ovaries into you, madam, ' heannounced with a stern look. 'Oh, professor - not monkey's? ' 'Yes, ' replied Philip Philipovich inexorably. 'When will you operate? ' asked the lady in a weak voice, turning pale. ' ". . . from Granada to Seville. . . " H'm... on Monday. You must gointo hospital on Monday morning. My assistant will prepare you. ' 'Oh, dear. I don't want to go into hospital. Couldn't you operate here, professor? ' 'I only operate here in extreme cases. It would be very expensive - 500roubles. ' 'I'll pay, professor! ' Again came the sound of running water, the feathered hat swayed out, tobe replaced by a head as bald as a dinner-plate which embraced PhilipPhilipovich. As his nausea passed, the dog dozed off, luxuriating in thewarmth and the sense of relief as his injury healed. He even snored a littleand managed to enjoy a snatch of a pleasant dream - he dreamed he had torn awhole tuft of feathers out of the owl's tail. . . until an agitated voicestarted yapping above his head. 'I'm too well known in Moscow, professor. What am I to do? ' 'Really, ' cried Philip Philipovich indignantly, 'you can't behave likethat. You must restrain yourself. How old is she? ' 'Fourteen, professor. . . The scandal would ruin me, you see. I'm dueto go abroad on official business any day now. ' 'I'm afraid I'm not a lawyer. . . you'd better wait a couple of yearsand then marry her. ' 'I'm married already, professor. ' 'Oh, lord! ' The door opened, faces changed, instruments clattered and PhilipPhilipovich worked on unceasingly. This place is indecent, thought the dog, but I like it! What the hellcan he want me for, though? Is he just going to let me live here? Maybe he'seccentric. After all, he could get a pedigree dog as easy as winking. Perhaps I'm good-looking! What luck. As for that stupid owl. . . cheekybrute. The dog finally woke up late in the evening when the bells had stoppedringing and at the very moment when the door admitted some special visitors. There were four of them at once, all young people and all extremely modestlydressed. What's all this? thought the dog in astonishment. Philip Philipovichtreated these visitors with considerable hostility. He stood at his desk, staring at them like a general confronting the enemy. The nostrils of hishawk-like nose were dilated. The party shuffled awkwardly across the carpet. 'The reason why we've come to see you, professor. . . ' began one ofthem, who had a six-inch shock of hair sprouting straight out of his head. 'You ought not to go out in this weather without wearing galoshes, gentlemen, ' Philip Philipovich interrupted in a schoolmasterish voice. 'Firstly you'll catch cold and secondly you've muddied my carpets and all mycarpets are Persian. ' The young man with the shock of hair broke off, and all four stared atPhilip Philipovich in consternation. The silence lasted several minutes andwas only broken by the drumming of Philip Philipovich's fingers on a paintedwooden platter on his desk. 'Firstly, we're not gentlemen, ' the youngest of them, with a face likea peach, said finally. 'Secondly, ' Philip Philipovich interrupted him, 'are you a man or awoman? ' The four were silent again and their mouths dropped open. This time theshock-haired young man pulled himself together. 'What difference does it make, comrade? ' he asked proudly. 'I'm a woman, ' confessed the peach-like youth, who was wearing aleather jerkin, and blushed heavily. For some reason one of the others, afair young man in a sheepskin hat, also turned bright red. 'In that case you may leave your cap on, but I must ask you, my dearsir, to remove your headgear, ' said Philip Philipovich imposingly. 'I am not your dear sir, ' said the fair youth sharply, pulling off hissheepskin hat. 'We have come to see you, ' the dark shock-headed boy began again. 'First of all - who are 'we'? ' 'We are the new management committee of this block of flats, ' said thedark youth with suppressed fury. 'I am Shvonder, her name is Vyazemskaya andthese two are comrades Pestrukhin and Sharovkyan. So we. . . ' 'Are you the people who were moved in as extra tenants into FyodorPavlovich Sablin's apartment? ' 'Yes, we are, ' replied Shvonder. 'God, what is this place coming to! ' exclaimed Philip Philipovich indespair and wrung his hands. 'What are you laughing for, professor? ' 'Whatdo you mean - laughing? I'm in absolute despair, ' shouted PhilipPhilipovich. 'What's going to become of the central heating now? ' 'Are you making fun of us. Professor Preobrazhensky? ' 'Why have youcome to see me? Please be as quick as possible. I'm just going in tosupper. ' 'We, the house management, ' said Shvonder with hatred, 'have come tosee you as a result of a general meeting of the tenants of this block, whoare charged with the problem of increasing the occupancy of this house. .. ' 28 'What d'you mean - charged? ' cried Philip Philipovich. 'Please try andexpress yourself more clearly. ' 'We are charged with increasing the occupancy. ' 'All right, I understand! Do you realise that under the regulation ofAugust 12th this year my apartment is exempt from any increase inoccupancy? ' 'We know that, ' replied Shvonder, 'but when the general meeting hadexamined this question it came to the conclusion that taken all round youare occupying too much space. Far too much. You are living, alone, in sevenrooms. ' 'I live and work in seven rooms, ' replied Philip Philipovich, 'and Icould do with eight. I need a room for a library. ' The four were struck dumb. 'Eight! Ha, ha! ' said the hatless fair youth. 'That's rich, that is! ' 'It's indescribable! ' exclaimed the youth who had turned out to be awoman. 'I have a waiting-room, which you will notice also has to serve as mylibrary, a dining-room, and my study - that makes three. Consulting-room -four, operating theatre -five. My bedroom - six, and the servant's roommakes seven. It's not really enough. But that's not the point. My apartmentis exempt, and our conversation is therefore at an end. May I go and havesupper? ' 'Excuse me, ' said the fourth, who looked like a fat beetle. 'Excuse me, ' Shvonder interrupted him, 'but it was just because of yourdining-room and your consulting-room that we came to see you. The generalmeeting requests you, as a matter of labour discipline, to give up yourdining-room voluntarily. No one in Moscow has a dining-room. ' 'Not even Isadora Duncan, ' squeaked the woman. Something happened toPhilip Philipovich which made his face turn gently purple. He said nothing, waiting to hear what came next. 'And give up your consulting-room too, ' Shvonder went on. ' You caneasily combine your consulting-room with your study. ' 'Mm'h, ' said Philip Philipovich in a strange voice. 'And where am Isupposed to eat? ' 'In the bedroom, ' answered the four in chorus. Philip Philipovich's purple complexion took on a faintly grey tinge. 'So I can eat in the bedroom, ' he said in a slightly muffled voice, 'read in the consulting-room, dress in the hall, operate in the maid's roomand examine patients in the dining-room. I expect that is what IsadoraDuncan does. Perhaps she eats in her study and dissects rabbits in thebathroom. Perhaps. But I'm not Isadora Duncan. . . ! ' he turned yellow. 'Ishall eat in the dining-room and operate in the operating theatre! Tell thatto the general meeting, and meanwhile kindly go and mind your own businessand allow me to have my supper in the place where all normal people eat. Imean in the dining-room - not in the hall and not in the nursery. ' 'In that case, professor, in view of your obstinate refusal, ' said thefurious Shvonder, 'we shall lodge a complaint about you with higherauthority. ' 'Aha, ' said Philip Philipovich, 'so that's your game, is it? ' And hisvoice took on a suspiciously polite note. 'Please wait one minute. ' What a man, thought the dog with delight, he's just like me. Any minutenow and he'll bite them. I don't know how, but he'll bite them all right... Go on! Go for 'em! I could just get that long-legged swine in the tendonbehind his knee. . . ggrrr. . . Philip Philipovich lifted the telephone receiver, dialled and said intoit: 'Please give me. . . yes. . . thank you. Put me through to PyotrAlexandrovich, please. Professor Preobraz-hensky speaking. PyotrAlexandrovich? Hello, how are you? I'm so glad I was able to get you. Thanks, I'm fine. Pyotr Alexandrovich, I'm afraid your operation iscancelled. What? Cancelled. And so are all my other operations. I'll tellyou why: I am not going to work in Moscow, in fact I'm not going to work inRussia any longer. . . I am just having a visit from four people, one ofwhom is a woman disguised as a man, and two of whom are armed withrevolvers. They are terrorising me in my own apartment and threatening toevict me. ' 'Hey, now, professor. . . ' began Shvonder, his expression changing. 'Excuse me... I can't repeat all they've been saying. I can't makesense of it, anyway. Roughly speaking they have told me to give up myconsulting-room, which will oblige me to operate in the room I have useduntil now for dissecting rabbits. I not only cannot work under suchconditions - I have no right to. So I am closing down my practice, shuttingup my apartment and going to Sochi. I will give the keys to Shvonder. He canoperate for me. ' The four stood rigid. The snow was melting on their boots. 'Can't behelped, I'm afraid . . . Of course I'm very upset, but... What? Oh, no, Pyotr Alexandrovich! Oh, no. That I must flatly refuse. My patience hassnapped. This is the second time since August. . . What? H'm. . . Allright, if you like. I suppose so. Only this time on one condition: I don'tcare who issues it, when they issue it or what they issue, provided it's thesort of certificate which will mean that neither Shvonder nor anyone elsecan so much as knock on my door. The ultimate in certificates. Effective. Real. Armour-plated! I don't even want my name on it. The end. As far asthey are concerned, I am dead. Yes, yes. Please do. Who? Aha. . . well, that's another matter. Aha. . . good. I'll just hand him the receiver. Would you mind, ' Philip Philipovich spoke to Shvonder in a voice like asnake's, 'you're wanted on the telephone. ' 'But, professor, ' said Shvonder, alternately flaring up and cringing, 'what you've told him is all wrong' - 'Please don't speak to me like that. ' Shvonder nervously picked up the receiver and said: 'Hello. Yes... I'm the chairman of the house management committee. .. We were only acting according to the regulations. . . the professor is anabsolutely special case. . . Yes, we know about his work. . . We weregoing to leave him five whole rooms. . . Well, OK... if that's how it is... OK. ' Very red in the face, he hung up and turned round. What a fellow! thought the dog rapturously. Does he know how to handlethem! What's his secret, I wonder? He can beat me as much as he likes now -I'm not leaving this place! ' The three young people stared open-mouthed at the wretched Shvonder. 'This is a disgrace! ' he said miserably. 'If that Pyotr Alexandrovich had been here, ' began the woman, reddeningwith anger, 'I'd have shown him. . . ' 'Excuse me, would you like to talk to him now? ' enquired PhilipPhilipovich politely. The woman's eyes flashed. 'You can be as sarcastic as you like, professor, but we're going now.. . Still, as manager of the cultural department of this house. . . ' ' Manager, ' Philip Philipovich corrected her. 'I want to ask you' - here the woman pulled a number of colouredmagazines wet with snow, from out of the front of her tunic - 'to buy a fewof these magazines in aid of the children of Germany. 50 kopecks a copy. ' 'No, I will not, ' said Philip Philipovich curtly after a glance at themagazines. Total amazement showed on the faces, and the girl turnedcranberry-colour. 'Why not? ' 'I don't want to. ' 'Don't you feel sorry for the children of Germany? ' 'Yes, I do. ' 'Can't you spare 50 kopecks? ' 'Yes, I can. ' 'Well, why won't you, then? ' 'I don't want to. ' Silence. 'You know, professor, ' said the girl with a deep sigh, 'if you weren'tworld-famous and if you weren't being protected by certain people in themost disgusting way, ' (the fair youth tugged at the hem of her jerkin, butshe brushed him away), 'which we propose to investigate, you should bearrested. ' 'What for? ' asked Philip Philipovich with curiosity. 'Because you hate the proletariat! ' said the woman proudly. 'You're right, I don't like the proletariat, ' agreed Philip Philipovichsadly, and pressed a button. A bell rang in the distance. The door opened onto the corridor. 'Zina! ' shouted Philip Philipovich. 'Serve the supper, please. Do youmind, ladies and gentlemen? ' Silently the four left the study, silently they trooped down thepassage and through the hall. The front door closed loudly and heavilybehind them. The dog rose on his hind legs in front of Philip Philipovich andperformed obeisance to him.

Three

On gorgeous flowered plates with wide black rims lay thin slices ofsalmon and soused eel; a slab of over-ripe cheese on a heavy wooden platter, and in a silver bowl packed around with snow - caviare. Beside the platesstood delicate glasses and three crystal decanters of different-colouredvodkas. All these objects were on a small marble table, handily placedbeside the huge carved oak sideboard which shone with glass and silver. Inthe middle of the room was a table, heavy as a gravestone and covered with awhite tablecloth set with two places, napkins folded into the shape of papaltiaras, and three dark bottles. Zina brought in a covered silver dish beneath which something bubbled. The dish gave off such a smell that the dog's mouth immediately filled withsaliva. The gardens of Semiramis! he thought as he thumped the floor withhis tail. 'Bring it here, ' ordered Philip Philipovich greedily. 'I beg you, Doctor Bormenthal, leave the caviare alone. And if you want a piece of goodadvice, don't touch the English vodka but drink the ordinary Russian stuff. ' The handsome Bormenthal - who had taken off his white coat and waswearing a smart black suit - shrugged his broad shoulders, smirked politelyand poured out a glass of clear vodka. 'What make is it? ' he enquired. 'Bless you, my dear fellow, ' replied his host, 'it's pure alcohol. Darya Petrovna makes the most excellent homemade vodka. ' 'But surely, Philip Philipovich, everybody says that 30-degree vodka isquite good enough. ' 'Vodka should be at least 40 degrees, not 30 - that's firstly, ' PhilipPhilipovich interrupted him didactically, 'and secondly - God knows whatmuck they make into vodka nowadays. What do you think they use? ' 'Anything they like, ' said the other doctor firmly. 'I quite agree, ' said Philip Philipovich and hurled the contents of hisglass down his throat in one gulp. 'Ah. . . m'm. . . Doctor Bormenthal -please drink that at once and if you ask me what it is, I'm your enemy forlife. " From Granada to Seville. . . " ' With these words he speared something like a little piece of blackbread on his silver fish-fork. Bormenthal followed his example. PhilipPhilipovich's eyes shone. 'Not bad, eh? ' asked Philip Philipovich, chewing. 'Is it? Tell me, doctor. ' 'It's excellent, ' replied the doctor sincerely. 'So I should think. . . Kindly note, Ivan Arnoldovich, that the onlypeople who eat cold hors d'oeuvres nowadays are the few remaining landlordswho haven't had their throats cut. Anybody with a spark of self-respecttakes his hors d'oeuvres hot. And of all the hot hors d'oeuvres in Moscowthis is the best. Once they used to do them magnificently at the SlavyanskyBazaar restaurant. There, you can have some too. ' 'If you feed a dog at table, ' said a woman's voice, 'you won't get himout of here afterwards for love or money. ' 'I don't mind. The poor thing's hungry. ' On the point of his forkPliilip Philipovich handed the dog a tit-bit, which the animal took with thedexterity of a conjuror. The professor then threw the fork with a clatterinto the slop-basin. The dishes now steamed with an odour of lobster; the dog sat in theshadow of the tablecloth with the look of a sentry by a powder magazine asPhilip Philipovich, thrusting the end of a thick napkin into his collar, boomed on: 'Food, Ivan Arnoldovich, is a subtle thing. One must know how to eat, yet just think - most people don't know how to eat at all. One must not onlyknow what to eat, but when and how. ' (Philip Philipovich waved his forkmeaningfully. ) 'And what to say while you're eating. Yes, my dear sir. Ifyou care about your digestion, my advice is - don't talk about bolshevism ormedicine at table. And, God forbid - never read Soviet newspapers beforedinner. ' 'M'mm. . . But there are no other newspapers. ' 'In that case don't read any at all. Do you know I once made thirtytests in my clinic. And what do you think? The patients who never readnewspapers felt excellent. Those whom I specially made read Pravda all lostweight. 'H'm. . . ' rejoined Bormenthal with interest, turning gently pink fromthe soup and the wine. 'And not only did they lose weight. Their knee reflexes were retarded, they lost appetite and exhibited general depression. ' 'Good heavens. . . ' 'Yes, my dear sir. But listen to me - I'm talking about medicine! ' Leaning back, Philip Philipovich rang the bell and Zina appearedthrough the cerise portiere. The dog was given a thick, white piece ofsturgeon, which he did not like, then immediately afterwards a chunk ofunderdone roast beef. When he had gulped it down the dog suddenly felt thathe wanted to sleep and could not bear the sight of any more food. Strangefeeling, he thought, blinking his heavy eyelids, it's as if my eyes won'tlook at food any longer. As for smoking after they've eaten - that's crazy. The dining-room was filling with unpleasant blue smoke. The animaldozed, its head on its forepaws. 'Saint Julien is a very decent wine, ' thedog heard sleepily, 'but there's none of it to be had any more. ' A dull mutter of voices in chorus, muffled by the ceiling and carpets, was heard coming from above and to one side. Philip Philipovich rang for Zina. 'Zina my dear, what's that noise? ' 'They're having another general meeting, Philip Philipovich, ' repliedZina. 'What, again? ' exclaimed Philip Philipovich mournfully. 'Well, this isthe end of this house. I'll have to go away -but where to? I can see exactlywhat'll happen. First of all there'll be community singing in the evening, then the pipes will freeze in the lavatories, then the central heatingboiler will blow up and so on. This is the end. ' 'Philip Philipovich worries himself to death, ' said Zina with a smileas she cleared away a pile of plates. 'How can I help it? ' exploded Philip Philipovich. 'Don't you know whatthis house used to be like? ' 'You take too black a view of things, Philip Philipovich, ' objected thehandsome Bormenthal. 'There is a considerable change for the better now. ' 'My dear fellow, you know me, don't you? I am a man of facts, a man whoobserves. I'm the enemy of unsupported hypotheses. And I'm known as such notonly in Russia but in Europe too. If I say something, that means that it isbased on some fact from which I draw my conclusions. Now there's a fact foryou: there is a hat-stand and a rack for boots and galoshes in this house. ' 'Interesting. . . ' Galoshes - hell. Who cares about galoshes, thought the dog, but he's agreat fellow all the same. 'Yes, a rack for galoshes. I have been living in this house since 1903. And from then until March 1917 there was not one case - let me underline inred pencil not one case - of a single pair of galoshes disappearing fromthat rack even when the front door was open. There are, kindly note, twelveflats in this house and a constant stream of people coming to myconsulting-rooms. One fine day in March 1917 all the galoshes disappeared, including two pairs of mine, three walking sticks, an overcoat and theporter's samovar. And since then the rack has ceased to exist. And I won'tmention the boiler. The rule apparently is - once a social revolution takesplace there's no need to stoke the boiler. But I ask you: why, when thiswhole business started, should everybody suddenly start clumping up and downthe marble staircase in dirty galoshes and felt boots? Why must we now keepour galoshes under lock and key? And put a soldier on guard over them toprevent them from being stolen? Why has the carpet been removed from thefront staircase? Did Marx forbid people to keep their staircases carpeted? Did Karl Marx say anywhere that the front door of No. 2 Kalabukhov House inPrechistenka Street must be boarded up so that people have to go round andcome in by the back door? WTiat good does it do anybody? Why can't theproletarians leave their galoshes downstairs instead of dirtying thestaircase? ' 'But the proletarians don't have any galoshes, Philip Philipovich, 'stammered the doctor. 'Nothing of the sort! ' replied Philip Philipovich in a voice ofthunder, and poured himself a glass of wine. 'H'mm... I don't approve ofliqueurs after dinner. They weigh on the digestion and are bad for the liver. . . Nothing of the sort! The proletarians do have galoshes now and thosegaloshes are - mine! The very ones that vanished in the spring of 1917. Whoremoved them, you may ask? Did I remove them? Impossible. The bourgeoisSablin? ' (Philip Philipovich pointed upwards to the ceiling. ) 'The veryidea's laughable. Polozov, the sugar manufacturer? ' (Philip Philipovichpointed to one side. ) 'Never! You see? But if they'd only take them off whenthey come up the staircase! ' (Philip Philipovich started to turn purple. )'Why on earth do they have to remove the flowers from the landing? Why doesthe electricity, which to the best of my recollection has only failed twicein the past twenty years, now go out regularly once a month? Statistics, Doctor Bormenthal, are terrible things. You who know my latest work mustrealise that better than anybody. ' 'The place is going to ruin, PhilipPhilipovich. ' 'No, ' countered Philip Philipovich quite firmly. 'No. You must first ofall refrain, my dear Ivan Arnoldovich, from using that word. It's a mirage, a vapour, a fiction, ' Philip Philipovich spread out his short fingers, producing a double shadow like two skulls on the tablecloth. 'What do youmean by ruin? An old woman with a broomstick? A witch who smashes all thewindows and puts out all the lights? No such thing. What do you mean by thatword? ' Philip Philipovich angrily enquired of an unfortunate cardboard duckhanging upside down by the sideboard, then answered the question himself. 'I'll tell you what it is: if instead of operating every evening I were tostart a glee club in my apartment, that would mean that I was on the road toruin. If when I go to the lavatory I don't pee, if you'll excuse theexpression, into the bowl but on to the floor instead and if Zina and DaryaPetrovna were to do the same thing, the lavatory would be ruined. Ruin, therefore, is not caused by lavatories but it's something that starts inpeople's heads. So when these clowns start shouting " Stop the ruin! " - Ilaugh! ' (Philip Philipovich's face became so distorted that the doctor'smouth fell open. ) 'I swear to you, I find it laughable! Every one of themneeds to hit himself on the back of the head and then when he has knockedall the hallucinations out of himself and gets on with sweeping outbackyards - which is his real job - all this " ruin" will automaticallydisappear. You can't serve two gods! You can't sweep the dirt out of thetram tracks and settle the fate of the Spanish beggars at the same time! Noone can ever manage it, doctor - and above all it can't be done by peoplewho are two hundred years behind the rest of Europe and who so far can'teven manage to do up their own fly-buttons properly! ' Philip Philipovich had worked himself up into a frenzy. His hawk-likenostrils were dilated. Fortified by his ample dinner he thundered like anancient prophet and his hair shone like a silver halo. His words sounded to the sleepy dog like a dull subterranean rumble. Atfirst he dreamed uneasily that the owl with its stupid yellow eyes hadhopped off its branch, then he dreamed about the vile face of that cook inhis dirty white cap, then of Philip Philipovich's dashing moustaches sharplylit by electric light from the lampshade. The dreamy sleigh-ride came to anend as the mangled piece of roast beef, floating in gravy, stewed away inthe dog's stomach. He could earn plenty of money by talking at political meetings, the dogthought sleepily. That was a great speech. Still, he's rolling in moneyanyway. 'A policeman! ' shouted Philip Philipovich. 'A policeman! ' Policeman? Ggrrr... - something snapped inside the dog's brain. 'Yes, a policeman! Nothing else will do. Doesn't matter whether hewears a number or a red cap. A policeman should be posted alongside everyperson in the country with the job of moderating the vocal outbursts of ourhonest citizenry. You talk about ruin. I tell you, doctor, that nothing willchange for the better in this house, or in any other house for that matter, until you can make these people stop talking claptrap! As soon as they putan end to this mad chorus the situation will automatically change for thebetter. ' 'You sound like a counter-revolutionary, Philip Philipovich, ' said thedoctor jokingly. 'I hope to God nobody hears you. ' 'I'm doing no harm, ' Philip Philipovich objected heatedly. 'Nothingcounter-revolutionary in all that. Incidentally, that's a word I simplycan't tolerate. What the devil is it supposed to mean, anyway? Nobody knows. That's why I say there's nothing counter-revolutionary in what I say. It'sfull of sound sense and a lifetime of experience. ' At this point Philip Philipovich pulled the end of his luxurious napkinout of his collar. Crumpling it up he laid it beside his unfinished glass ofwine. Bormenthal at once rose and thanked his host. 'Just a minute, doctor, ' Philip Philipovich stopped him and took awallet out of his hip pocket. He frowned, counted out some white 10-roublenotes and handed them to the doctor, saying, 'You are due for 40 roublestoday, Ivan Arnoldovich. There you are. ' Still in slight pain from his dog-bite, the doctor thanked him andblushed as he stuffed the money into his coat pocket. 'Do you need me this evening, Philip Philipovich? ' he enquired. 'No thanks, my dear fellow. We shan't be doing anything this evening. For one thing the rabbit has died and for another Aida is on at the Bolshoithis evening. It's a long time since I heard it. I love it... Do youremember that duet? Pom-pom-ti-pom. . . ' 'How do you find time for it, Philip Philipovich? ' asked the doctorwith awe. 'One can find time for everything if one is never in a hurry, 'explained his host didactically. 'Of course if I started going to meetingsand carolling like a nightingale all day long, I'd never find time to goanywhere' - the repeater in Philip Philipovich's pocket struck its celestialchimes as he pressed the button - 'It starts at nine. I'll go in time forthe second act. I believe in the division of labour. The Bolshoi's job is tosing, mine's to operate. That's how things should be. Then there'd be noneof this " ruin" . . . Look, Ivan Arnoldovich, you must go and take a carefullook: as soon as he's properly dead, take him off the table, put himstraight into nutritive fluid and bring him to me! ' 'Don't worry, Philip Philipovich, the pathologist has promised me. ' 'Excellent. Meanwhile, we'll examine this neurotic street arab of oursand stitch him up. I want his flank to heal. . . ' He's worrying about me, thought the dog, good for him. Now I know whathe is. He's the wizard, the magician, the sorcerer out of those dogs' fairytales... I can't have dreamed it all. Or have I? (The dog shuddered in hissleep. ) Any minute now I'll wake up and there'll be nothing here. Nosilk-shaded lamp, no warmth, no food. Back on the streets, back in the cold, the frozen asphalt, hunger, evil-minded humans. . . the factory canteen, the snow. . . God, it will be unbearable. . .! But none of that happened. It was the freezing doorway which vanishedlike a bad dream and never came back. Clearly the country was not yet in a total state of ruin. In spite ofit the grey accordion-shaped radiators under the windows filled with heattwice a day and warmth flowed in waves through the whole apartment. The doghad obviously drawn the winning ticket in the dogs' lottery. Never less thantwice a day his eyes filled with tears of gratitude towards the sage ofPrechistenka. Every mirror in the living-room or the hall reflected agood-looking, successful dog. I am handsome. Perhaps I'm really a dog prince, living incognito, musedthe dog as he watched the shaggy, coffee-coloured dog with the smugexpression strolling about in the mirrored distance. I wouldn't be surprisedif my grandmother didn't have an affair with a labrador. Now that I look atmy muzzle, I see there's a white patch on it. I wonder how it got there. Philip Philipovich is a man of great taste -he wouldn't just pick up anystray mongrel. In two weeks the dog ate as much as in his previous six weeks on thestreet. Only by weight, of course. In quality the food at the professor'sapartment was incomparable. Apart from the fact that Darya Petrovna bought aheap of meat-scraps for 18 kopecks every day at the Smolensk market, therewas dinner every evening in the dining-room at seven o'clock, at which thedog was always present despite protests from the elegant Zina. It was duringthese meals that Philip Philipovich acquired his final title to divinity. The dog stood on his hind legs and nibbled his jacket, the dog learned torecognise Philip Philipovich's ring at the door - two loud, abruptproprietorial pushes on the bell - and would run barking out into the hall. The master was enveloped in a dark brown fox-fur coat, which glittered withmillions of snowflakes and smelled of mandarin oranges, cigars, perfume, lemons, petrol, eau de cologne and cloth, and his voice, like a megaphone, boomed all through the apartment. 'Why did you ruin the owl, you little monkey? Was the owl doing you anyharm? Was it, now? Why did you smash the portrait of Professor Mechnikov? ' 'He needs at least one good whipping, Philip Philipovich, ' said Zinaindignantly, 'or he'll become completely spoiled. Just look what he's doneto your galoshes. ' 'No one is to be beaten, ' said Philip Philipovich heatedly, 'rememberthat once and for all. Animals and people can only be influenced bypersuasion. Have you given him his meat today? ' 'Lord, he's eaten us out of house and home. What a question, PhilipPhilipovich. He eats so much I'm surprised he doesn't burst. ' 'Fine. It's good for him. . . what harm did the owl do you, you littleruffian? ' Ow-ow, whined the dog, crawling on his belly and splaying out his paws. The dog was forcefully dragged by the scruff of his neck through thehall and into the study. He whined, snapped, clawed at the carpet and slidalong on his rump as if he were doing a circus act. In the middle of thestudy floor lay the glass-eyed owl. From its disembowelled stomach flowed astream of red rags that smelled of mothballs. Scattered on the desk were thefragments of a portrait. 'I purposely didn't clear it up so that you could take a good look, 'said Zina distractedly. 'Look - he jumped up on to the table, the littlebrute, and then - bang! - he had the owl by the tail. Before I knew what washappening he had torn it to pieces. Rub his nose in the owl, PhilipPhilipovich, so that he learns not to spoil things. ' Then the howling began. Clawing at the carpet, the dog was dragged overto have his nose rubbed in the owl. He wept bitter tears and thought: Beatme, do what you like, but don't throw me out. 'Send the owl to the taxidermist at once. There's 8 roubles, and 16kopecks for the tram-fare, go down to Murat's and buy him a good collar anda lead. ' Next day the dog was given a wide, shiny collar. As soon as he sawhimself in the mirror he was very upset, put his tail between his legs anddisappeared into the bathroom, where he planned to pull the collar offagainst a box or a basket. Soon, however, the dog realised that he wassimply a fool. Zina took him walking on the lead along Obukhov Street. Thedog trotted along like a prisoner under arrest, burning with shame, but ashe walked along Prechistenka Street as far as the church of Christ theSaviour he soon realised exactly what a collar means in life. Mad envyburned in the eyes of every dog he met and at Myortvy Street a shaggymongrel with a docked tail barked at him that he was a 'master's pet' and a'lackey'. As they crossed the tram tracks a policeman looked at the collarwith approval and respect. When they returned home the most amazing thing ofall happened - with his own hands Fyodor the porter opened the front door toadmit Sharik and Zina, remarking to Zina as he did so: 'What a sight he waswhen Philip Philipovich brought him in. And now look how fat he is. ' 'So he should be - he eats enough for six, ' said the beautiful Zina, rosy-cheeked from the cold. A collar's just like a briefcase, the dog smiled to himself. Wagginghis tail, he climbed up to the mezzanine like a gentleman. Once having appreciated the proper value of a collar, the dog made hisfirst visit to the supreme paradise from which hitherto he had beencategorically barred - the realm of the cook, Darya Petrovna. Two squareinches of Darya's kitchen was worth more than all the rest of the flat. Every day flames roared and flashed in the tiled, black-leaded stove. Delicious crackling sounds came from the oven. Tortured by perpetual heatand unquenchable passion, Darya Petrovna's face was a constant livid purple, slimy and greasy. In the neat coils over her ears and in the blonde bun onthe back of her head flashed twenty-two imitation diamonds. Golden saucepanshung on hooks round the walls, the whole kitchen seethed with smells, whilecovered pans bubbled and hissed. . . 'Get out! ' screamed Darya Petrovna. 'Get out, you no-good little thief! Get out of here at once or I'll be after you with the poker! ' Hey, why all the barking? signalled the dog pathetically with his eyes. What d'you mean - thief? Haven't you noticed my new collar? He backedtowards the door, his muzzle raised appealingly towards her. The dog Sharik possessed some secret which enabled him to win people'shearts. Two days later he was stretched out beside the coal-scuttle watchingDarya Petrovna at work. With a thin sharp knife she cut off the heads andclaws of a flock of helpless grouse, then like a merciless executionerscooped the guts out of the fowls, stripped the flesh from the bones and putit into the mincer. Sharik meanwhile gnawed a grouse's head. Darya Petrovnafished lumps of soaking bread out of a bowl of milk, mixed them on a boardwith the minced meat, poured cream over the whole mixture, sprinkled it withsalt and kneaded it into cutlets. The stove was roaring like a furnace, thefrying pan sizzled, popped and bubbled. The oven door swung open with aroar, revealing a terrifying inferno of heaving, crackling flame. In the evening the fiery furnace subsided and above the curtainhalf-way up the kitchen window hung the dense, ominous night sky ofPrechistenka Street with its single star. The kitchen floor was damp, thesaucepans shone with a dull, mysterious glow and on the table was afireman's cap. Sharik lay on the warm stove, stretched out like a lion abovea gateway, and with one ear cocked in curiosity he watched through thehalf-open door of Zina's and Darya Petrovna's room as an excited, black-moustached man in a broad leather belt embraced Darya Petrovna. Allher face, except her powdered nose, glowed with agony and passion. A streakof light lay across a picture of a man with a black moustache and beard, from which hung a little Easter loaf. 'Don't go too far, ' muttered Darya Petrovna in the half-darkness. 'Stopit! Zina will be back soon. What's the matter with you - have you beenrejuvenated too? ' 'I don't need rejuvenating, ' croaked the black-moustached firemanhoarsely, scarcely able to control himself. 'You're so passionate! ' In the evenings the sage of Prechistenka Street retired behind histhick blinds and if there was no A'ida at the Bolshoi Theatre and no meetingof the All-Russian Surgical Society, then the great man would settle down ina deep armchair in his study. There were no ceiling lights; the only lightcame from a green-shaded lamp on the desk. Sharik lay on the carpet in theshadows, unable to take his eyes off the horrors that lined the room. Human brains floated in a disgustingly acrid, murky liquid in glassjars. On his forearms, bared to the elbow, the great man wore red rubberglobes as his blunt, slippery fingers delved into the convoluted greymatter. Now and again he would pick up a small glistening knife and calmlyslice off a spongey yellow chunk of brain. '. . . " to the banks of the sa-acred Nile. . ., " ' he hummed quietly, licking his lips as he remembered the gilded auditorium of the BolshoiTheatre. It was the time of evening when the central heating was at its warmest. The heat from it floated up to the ceiling, from there dispersing all overthe room. In the dog's fur the warmth wakened the last flea, which hadsomehow managed to escape Philip Philipovich's comb. The carpets deadenedall sound in the flat. Then, from far away, came the sound of the front doorbell. Zina's gone out to the cinema, thought the dog, and I suppose we'llhave supper when she gets home. Something tells me that it's veal chopstonight! On the morning of that terrible day Sharik had felt a sense offoreboding, which had made him suddenly break into a howl and he had eatenhis breakfast - half a bowl of porridge and yesterday's mutton-bone -without the least relish. Bored, he went padding up and down the hall, whining at his own reflection. The rest of the morning, after Zina had takenhim for his walk along the avenue, passed normally. There were no patientsthat day as it was Tuesday - a day when as we all know there are noconsulting hours. The master was in his study, several large books withcoloured pictures spread out in front of him on the desk. It was nearlysupper-time. The dog was slightly cheered by the news from the kitchen thatthe second course tonight was turkey. As he was walking down the passage thedog heard the startling, unexpected noise of Philip Philipovich's telephonebell ringing. Philip Philipovich picked up the receiver, listened andsuddenly became very excited. 'Excellent, ' he was heard saying, 'bring it round at once, at once! ' Bustling about, he rang for Zina and ordered supper to be servedimmediately: 'Supper! Supper! ' Immediately there was a clatter of plates in the dining-room and Zinaran in, pursued by the voice of Darya Petrovna grumbling that the turkey wasnot ready yet. Again the dog felt a tremor of anxiety. I don't like it when there's a commotion in the house, he mused. . . and no sooner had the thought entered his head than the commotion took on aneven more disagreeable nature. This was largely due to the appearance ofDoctor Bormenthal, who brought with him an evil-smelling trunk and withoutwaiting to remove his coat started heaving it down the corridor into theconsulting-room. Philip Philipovich put down his unfinished cup of coffee, which normally he would never do, and ran out to meet Bormenthal, anotherquite untypical thing for him to do. 'When did he die? ' he cried. 'Three hours ago, ' replied Bormenthal, his snow-covered hat still onhis head as he unstrapped the trunk. Who's died? wondered the dog sullenly and disagreeably as he slunkunder the table. I can't bear it when they dash about the room like that. 'Out of my way, animal! Hurry, hurry, hurry! ' cried Philip Philipovich. It seemed to the dog that the master was ringing every bell at once. Zina ran in. 'Zina! Tell Darya Petrovna to take over the telephone and notto let anybody in. I need you here. Doctor Bormenthal - please hurry! ' I don't like this, scowled the dog, offended, and wandered off roundthe apartment. All the bustle, it seemed, was confined to theconsulting-room. Zina suddenly appeared in a white coat like a shroud andbegan running back and forth between the consulting-room and the kitchen. Isn't it time I had my supper? They seem to have forgotten about me, thought the dog. He at once received an unpleasant surprise. 'Don't give Sharik anything to eat, ' boomed the order from theconsulting-room. 'How am I to keep an eye on him? ' 'Lock him up! ' Sharik was enticed into the bathroom and locked in. Beasts, thought Sharik as he sat in the semi-darkness of the bathroom. What an outrage... In an odd frame of mind, half resentful, half depressed, he spent about a quarter of an hour in the bathroom. He felt irritated anduneasy. Right. This means the end of your galoshes tomorrow, PhilipPhilipovich, he thought. You've already had to buy two new pairs. Now you'regoing to have to buy another. That'll teach you to lock up dogs. Suddenly a violent thought crossed his mind. Instantly and clearly heremembered a scene from his earliest youth -a huge sunny courtyard near thePreobrazhensky Gate, slivers of sunlight reflected in broken bottles, brick-rubble, and a free world of stray dogs. No, it's no use. I could never leave this place now. Why pretend? musedthe dog, with a sniff. I've got used to this life. I'm a gentleman's dognow, an intelligent being, I've tasted better things. Anyhow, what isfreedom? Vapour, mirage, fiction. . . democratic rubbish. . . Then the gloom of the bathroom began to frighten him and he howled. Hurling himself at the door, he started scratching it. Ow-ow. . ., the noise echoed round the apartment like someone shoutinginto a barrel. I'll tear that owl to pieces again, thought the dog, furious butimpotent. Then he felt weak and lay down. When he got up his coat suddenlystood up on end, as he had an eerie feeling that a horrible, wolfish pair ofeyes was staring at him from the bath. In the midst of his agony the door opened. The dog went out, shookhimself, and made gloomily for the kitchen, but Zina firmly dragged him bythe collar into the consulting-room. The dog felt a sudden chill around hisheart. What do they want me for? he wondered suspiciously. My side has healedup - I don't get it. Sliding along on his paws over the slippery parquet, hewas pulled into the consulting-room. There he was immediately shocked by theunusually brilliant lighting. A white globe on the ceiling shone so brightlythat it hurt his eyes. In the white glare stood the high priest, hummingthrough his teeth something about the sacred Nile. The only way ofrecognising him as Philip Philipovich was a vague smell. His smoothed-backgrey hair was hidden under a white cap, making him look as if he weredressed up as a patriarch; the divine figure was all in white and over thewhite, like a stole, he wore a narrow rubber apron. His hands were in blackgloves. The other doctor was also there. The long table was fully unfolded, asmall square box placed beside it on a shining stand. The dog hated the other doctor more than anyone else and more than everbecause of the look in his eyes. Usually frank and bold, they now flickeredin all directions to avoid the dog's eyes. They were watchful, treacherousand in their depths lurked something mean and nasty, even criminal. Scowlingat him, the dog slunk into a comer. 'Collar, Zina, ' said Philip Philipovich softly, 'only don't excitehim. ' For a moment Zina's eyes had the same vile look as Bormenthal's. Shewalked up to the dog and with obvious treachery, stroked him. What're you doing... all three of you? OK, take me if you want me. Youought to be ashamed... If only I knew what you're going to do to me. . . Zina unfastened his collar, the dog shook his head and snorted. Bormenthal rose up in front of him, reeking of that foul, sickening smell. Ugh, disgusting. . . wonder why I feel so queer. . ., thought the dogas he dodged away. 'Hurry, doctor, ' said Philip Philipovich impatiently. There was asharp, sweet smell in the air. The doctor, without taking his horriblewatchful eyes off the dog slipped his right hand out from behind his backand quickly clamped a pad of damp cotton wool over the dog's nose. Sharikwent dumb, his head spinning a little, but he still managed to jump back. The doctor jumped after him and rapidly smothered his whole muzzle in cottonwool. His breathing stopped, but again the dog jerked himself away. Youbastard. . ., flashed through his mind. Why? And down came the pad again. Then a lake suddenly materialised in the middle of the consulting-roomfloor. On it was a boat, rowed by a crew of extraordinary pink dogs. Thebones in his legs gave way and collapsed. 'On to the table! ' Philip Philipovich boomed from somewhere in acheerful voice and the sound disintegrated into orange-coloured streaks. Fear vanished and gave way to joy. For two seconds the dog loved the man hehad bitten. Then the whole world turned upside down and he felt a cold butsoothing hand on his belly. Then - nothing. The dog Sharik lay stretched out on the narrow operating table, hishead lolling helplessly against a white oilcloth pillow. His stomach wasshaven and now Doctor Bormenthal, breathing heavily, was hurriedly shavingSharik's head with clippers that ate through his fur. Philip Philipovich, leaning on the edge of the table, watched the process through his shiny, gold-rimmed spectacles. He spoke urgently: 'Ivan Arnoldovich, the most vital moment is when I enter the turkishsaddle. You must then instantly pass me the gland and start suturing atonce. If we have a haemorrhage then we shall lose time and lose the dog. Inany case, he hasn't a chance. . . ' He was silent, frowning, and gave anironic look at the dog's half-closed eye, then added: 'Do you know, I feelsorry for him. I've actually got used to having him around. ' So saying he raised his hands as though calling down a blessing on theunfortunate Sharik's great sacrificial venture. Bormenthal laid aside theclippers and picked up a razor. He lathered the defenceless little head andstarted to shave it. The blade scraped across the skin, nicked it and drewblood. Having shaved the head the doctor wiped it with an alcohol swab, thenstretched out the dog's bare stomach and said with a sigh of relief: 'Ready. ' Zina turned on the tap over the washbasin and Bormenthal hurriedlywashed his hands. From a phial Zina poured alcohol over them. 'May I go, Philip Philipovich? ' she asked, glancing nervously at thedog's shaven head. 'You may. ' Zina disappeared. Bormenthal busied himself further. He surroundedShank's head with tight gauze wadding, which framed the odd sight of a nakedcanine scalp and a muzzle that by comparison seemed heavily bearded. The priest stirred. He straightened up, looked at the dog's head andsaid: 'God bless us. Scalpel. ' Bormenthal took a short, broad-bladed knife from the glittering pile onthe small table and handed it to the great man. He too then donned a pair ofblack gloves. 'Is he asleep? ' asked Philip Philipovich. 'He's sleeping nicely. ' Philip Philipovich clenched his teeth, his eyes took on a sharp, piercing glint and with a flourish of his scalpel he made a long, neatincision down the length of Sharik's belly. The skin parted instantly, spurting blood in several directions. Bormenthal swooped like a vulture, began dabbing Sharik's wound with swabs of gauze, then gripped its edgeswith a row of little clamps like sugar-tongs, and the bleeding stopped. Droplets of sweat oozed from Bormenthal's forehead. Philip Philipovich madea second incision and again Sharik's body was pulled apart by hooks, scissors and little clamps. Pink and yellow tissues emerged, oozing withblood. Philip Philipovich turned the scalpel in the wound, then barked: 'Scissors! ' Like a conjuring trick the instrument materialised in Bormenthal'shand. Philip Philipovich delved deep and with a few twists he removed thetesticles and some dangling attachments from Sharik's body. Dripping withexertion and excitement Bormenthal leapt to a glass jar and removed from ittwo more wet, dangling testicles, their short, moist, stringy vesiclesdangling like elastic in the hands of the professor and his assistant. Thebent needles clicked faintly 54 against the clamps as the new testicles were sewn in place of Sharik's. The priest drew back from the incision, swabbed it and gave the order: 'Suture, doctor. At once. ' He turned around and looked at the whiteclock on the wall. 'Fourteen minutes, ' grunted Bormenthal through clenched teeth as hepierced the flabby skin with his crooked needle. Both grew as tense as twomurderers working against the clock. 'Scalpel! ' cried Philip Philipovich. The scalpel seemed to leap into his hand as though of its own accord, at which point Philip Philipovich's expression grew quite fearsome. Grindinghis gold and porcelain bridge-work, in a single stroke he incised a redfillet around Sharik's head. The scalp, with its shaven hairs, was removed, the skull bone laid bare. Philip Philipovich shouted: 'Trepan! ' Bormenthal handed him a shining auger. Biting his lips PhilipPhilipovich began to insert the auger and drill a complete circle of littleholes, a centimetre apart, around the top of Sharik's skull. Each hole tookno more than five seconds to drill. Then with a saw of the most curiousdesign he put its point into the first hole and began sawing through theskull as though he were making a lady's fretwork sewing-basket. The skullshook and squeaked faintly. After three minutes the roof of the dog's skullwas removed. The dome of Sharik's brain was now laid bare - grey, threaded withbluish veins and spots of red. Philip Philipovich plunged his scissorsbetween the membranes and eased them apart. Once a thin stream of bloodspurted up, almost hitting the professor in the eye and spattering his whitecap. Like a tiger Bormenthal pounced in with a tourniquet and squeezed. Sweat streamed down his face, which was growing puffy and mottled. His eyesflicked to and fro from the professor's hand to the instrument-table. PhilipPhilipovich was positively awe-inspiring. A hoarse snoring noise came fromhis nose, his teeth were bared to the gums. He peeled aside layers ofcerebral membrane and penetrated deep between the hemispheres of the brain. It was then that Bor-menthal went pale, and seizing Sharik's breast with onehand he said hoarsely: 'Pulse falling sharply. . . ' Philip Philipovich flashed him a savage look, grunted something anddelved further still. Bormenthal snapped open a glass ampoule, filled asyringe with the liquid and treacherously injected the dog near his heart. 'I'm coming to the turkish saddle, ' growled Philip Philipovich. Withhis slippery, bloodstained gloves he removed Sharik's greyish-yellow brainfrom his head. For a second he glanced at Sharik's muzzle and Bormenthalsnapped open a second ampoule of yellow liquid and sucked it into the longsyringe. 'Shall I do it straight into the heart? ' he enquired cautiously. 'Don't waste time asking questions! ' roared the professor angrily. 'Hecould die five times over while you're making up your mind. Inject, man! What are you waiting for? ' His face had the look of an inspired robberchieftain. With a flourish the doctor plunged the needle into the dog's heart. 'He's alive, but only just, ' he whispered timidly. 'No time to argue whether he's alive or not, ' hissed the terriblePhilip Philipovich. 'I'm at the saddle. So what if he does die... hell... "... the banks of the sa-acred Nile" . . . give me the gland. ' Bormenthal handed him a beaker containing a white blob suspended on athread in some fluid. With one hand ('God, there's no one like him in allEurope, ' thought Bormenthal) he fished out the dangling blob and with theother hand, using the scissors, he excised a similar blob from deep withinthe separated cerebral hemispheres. Sharik's blob he threw on to a plate, the new one he inserted into the brain with a piece of thread. Then hisstumpy fingers, now miraculously delicate and sensitive, sewed theamber-coloured thread cunningly into place. After that he removed variousstretchers and clamps from the skull, replaced the brain in its bonycontainer, leaned back and said in a much calmer voice: 'I suppose he's died? ' 'There's just a flicker of pulse, ' replied Bormenthal. 'Give him another shot of adrenalin. ' The professor replaced the membranes over the brain, restored thesawn-off lid to its exact place, pushed the scalp back into position androared: 'Suture! ' Five minutes later Bormenthal had sewn up the dog's head, breakingthree needles. There on the bloodstained pillow lay Sharik's slack, lifeless muzzle, acircular wound on his tonsured head. Like a satisfied vampire PhilipPhilipovich finally stepped back, ripped off one glove, shook out of it acloud of sweat-drenched powder, tore off the other one, threw it on theground and rang the bell in the wall. Zina appeared in the doorway, lookingaway to avoid seeing the blood-spattered dog. With chalky hands the greatman pulled off his skull-cap and cried: " Give me a cigarette, Zina. And then some clean clothes and a bath. ' Layino- his chin on the edge of the table he parted the dog's righteyelids, peered into the obviously moribund eye and said: 'Well, I'll be... He's not dead yet. Still, he'll die. I feel sorryfor the dog, Bormenthal. He was naughty but I couldn't help liking him. '

Four

Subject of experiment: Male dog aged approx. 2 years. Breed: Mongrel. Name: 'Sharik'. Coat sparse, in tufts, brownish with traces of singeing. Tail thecolour of baked milk. On right flank traces of healed second-degree burn. Previous nutritional state -poor. After a week's stay with Prof. Preobrazhensky -extremely well nourished. Weight: 8 kilograms (! ). Heart: .. . Lungs: . . . Stomach: . . . Temperature: . . . December 23rd At 8. 05pm Prof. Preobrazhensky commenced the firstoperation of its kind to be performed in Europe: removal under anaesthesiaof the dog's testicles and their replacement by implanted human testes, withappendages and seminal ducts, taken from a 28-year-old human male, dead 4hours and 4 minutes before the operation and kept by Prof. Preobrazhensky insterilised physiological fluid. Immediately thereafter, following a trepanning operation on the cranialroof, the pituitary gland was removed and replaced by a human pituitaryoriginating from the above-mentioned human male. Drugs used: Chloroform - 8cc. Camphor - 1 syringe. Adrenalin - 2 syringes (by cardiac injection ). Purpose of operation: Experimental observation by Prof. Preobrazhenskyof the effect of combined transplantation of the pituitary and testes inorder to study both the functional viability in a host-organism and its rolein cellular etc. rejuvenation. Operation performed by; Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky. Assisted by: Dr I. A. Bormenthal. During the night following the operation, frequent and graveweakening of the pulse. Dog apparently in terminal state. Preobrazhensky prescribes camphor injections in massive dosage. December 24th am Improvement. Respiration rate doubled. Temperature: 42C. Camphor and caffeine injected subcutaneously. December 25th Deterioration. Pulse barely detectable, cooling of the extremities, no pupillaryreaction. Preobrazhensky orders cardiac injection of adrenalin and camphor, intravenous injections of physiological solution. December 26th Slight improvement. Pulse: 180. Respiration: 92. Temperature: 41C. Camphor. Alimentation per rectum. December 27th Pulse: 152. Respiration: 50. Temperature: 39. 8C. Pupillary reaction. Camphor - subcutaneous. December 28th Significant improvement. At noon sudden heavyperspiration. Temperature: 37C. Condition of surgical wounds unchanged. Re-bandaged. Signs of appetite. Liquid alimentation. December 29th Sudden moulting of hair on forehead and torso. Thefollowing were summoned for consultation: 1. Professor of Dermatology - Vasily Vasilievich Bundaryov. 2. Director, Moscow Veterinary Institute. Both stated the case to be without precedent in medical literature. No diagnosis established. Temperature: (entered in pencil). 8. 15pm. First bark. Distinct alteration of timbre and lowering of pitch noticeable. Instead of diphthong 'aow-aow', bark now enunciated onvowels 'ah-oh', in intonation reminiscent of a groan. December 30th Moulting process has progressed to almost total baldness. Weighing produced the unexpected result of 80 kg., due to growth(lengthening of the bones). Dog still lying prone. December 31st Subject exhibits colossal appetite. (Ink-blot. After the blot the following entry in scrawledhand-writing): At 12. 12pm the dog distinctly pronounced the sounds'Nes-set-a'. (Gap in entries. The following entries show errors due to excitement): December 1st (deleted; corrected to): January 1st 1925. Dogphotographed a. m. Cheerfully barks 'Nes-set-a', repeating loudly and with apparentpleasure. 3. 0pm (in heavy lettering): Dog laughed, causing maid Zina to faint. Later, pronounced the following 8 times in succession: 'Nesseta-ciled'. (Sloping characters, written in pencil): The professor has deciphered the word 'Nesseta-ciled' by reversal: itis 'delicatessen'. . . Quite extraord. . . January 2nd Dog photographed by magnesium flash while smiling. Got upand remained confidently on hind legs for a half-hour. Now nearly my height. (Loose page inserted into notebook): Russian science almost suffered a mostserious blow. History of Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky's illness: 1. 13pm Prof. Preobrazhensky falls into deep faint. On falling, strikeshead on edge of table. Temp.: . . . The dog in the presence of Zina and myself, had called Prof. Preobrazhensky a 'bloody bastard'. January 6th (entries made partly in pencil, partly in violet ink): Today, after the dog's tail had fallen out, he quite clearly pronouncedthe word 'liquor'. Recording apparatus switched on. God knows what's happening. (Total confusion. ) Professor has ceased to see patients. From 5pm this evening sounds ofvulgar abuse issuing from the consulting-room, where the creature is stillconfined. Heard to ask for 'another one, and make it a double. ' January 7th Creature can now pronounce several words: 'taxi', 'fullup', 'evening paper', 'take one home for the kiddies' and every knownRussian swear-word. His appearance is strange. He now only has hair on hishead, chin and chest. Elsewhere he is bald, with flabby skin. His genitalregion now has the appearance of an immature human male. His skull hasenlarged considerably. Brow low and receding. My God, I must be going mad. . . . Philip Philipovich still feels unwell. Most of the observations(pictures and recordings) are being carried out by myself. Rumours are spreading round the town. . . Consequences may beincalculable. All day today the whole street was full of loafing rubbernecksand old women. . . Dogs still crowding round beneath the windows. Amazingreport in the morning papers: The rumours of a Martian in Obukhov Street aretotally unfounded. They have been spread by black-market traders and theirrepetition will be severely punished. What Martian, for God's sake? This isturning into a nightmare. Reports in today's evening paper even worse - they say that a child hasbeen born who could play the violin from birth. Beside it is a photograph ofmyself with the caption: 'Prof. Preobrazhensky performing a Caesarianoperation on the mother. ' The situation is getting out of hand... He cannow say a new word - 'policeman'. . . Apparently Darya Petrovna was in love with me and pinched the snapshotof me out of Philip Philipovich's photograph album. After I had kicked outall the reporters one of them sneaked back into the kitchen, and so... Consulting hours are now impossible. Eighty-two telephone calls today. The telephone has been cut off. We are besieged by child-less women. . . House committee appeared in full strength, headed by Shvonder - theycould not explain why they had come. January 8th Late this evening diagnosis finally agreed. With theimpartiality of a true scholar Philip Philipovich has acknowledged hiserror: transplantation of the pituitary induces not rejuvenation but totalhumanisation (underlined three times). This does not, however, lessen thevalue of his stupendous discovery. The creature walked round the flat today for the first time. Laughed inthe corridor after looking at the electric light. Then, accompanied byPhilip Philipovich and myself, he went into the study. Stands firmly on hishind (deleted)... his legs and gives the impression of a short, ill-knithuman male. Laughed in the study. His smile is disagreeable and somehow artificial. Then he scratched the back of his head, looked round and registered afurther, clearly-pronounced word: 'Bourgeois'. Swore. His swearing ismethodical, uninterrupted and apparently totally meaningless. There issomething mechanical about it - it is as if this creature had heard all thisbad language at an earlier phase, automatically recorded it in hissubconscious and now regurgitates it wholesale. However, I am nopsychiatrist. The swearing somehow has a very depressing effect on PhilipPhilipovich. There are moments when he abandons his cool, unemotionalobservation of new phenomena and appears to lose patience. Once when thecreature was swearing, for instance, he suddenly burst out impulsively: 'Shut up! ' This had no effect. After his visit to the study Sharik was shut up in the consulting-roomby our joint efforts. Philip Philipovich and I then held a conference. Iconfess that this was the first time I had seen this self-assured and highlyintelligent man at a loss. He hummed a little, as he is in the habit ofdoing, then asked: 'What are we going to do now? ' He answered himselfliterally as follows: 'Moscow State Clothing Stores, yes. . . " from Granada to Seville" . .. M. S. C. S., my dear doctor. . . ' I could not understand him, then heexplained: 'Ivan Arnold-ovich, please go and buy him some underwear, shirt, jacket and trousers. ' January 9th The creature's vocabulary is being enriched by a new wordevery five minutes (on average) and, since this morning, by sentences. It isas if they had been lying frozen in his mind, are melting and emerging. Onceout, the word remains in use. Since yesterday evening the machine hasrecorded the following: 'Stop pushing', 'You swine', 'Get off the bus - fullup', 'I'll show you', 'American recognition', 'kerosene stove'. January10th The creature was dressed. He took to a vest quite readily, even laughing cheerfully. He refused underpants, though, protesting withhoarse shrieks: 'Stop queue-barging, you bastards! ' Finally we dressed him. The sizesof his clothes were too big for him. (Here the notebook contains a number of schematised drawings, apparently depicting the transformation of a canine into a human leg. ) Therear lialf of the skeleton of the foot is lengthening. Elongation of thetoes. Nails. (With appropriate sketches. ) Repeated systematic toilet training. The servants are angry anddepressed. However, the creature is undoubtedly intelligent. The experiment isproceeding satisfactorily. January llth Quite reconciled to wearing clothes, although was heard tosay, 'Christ, I've got ants in my pants. ' Fur on head now thin and silky; almost indistinguishable from hair, though scars still visible in parietal region. Today last traces of furdropped from his ears. Colossal appetite. Enjoys salted herring. At 5pmoccurred a significant event: for the first time the words spoken by thecreature were not disconnected from surrounding phenomena but were areaction to them. Thus when the professor said to him, 'Don't throwfood-scraps on the floor, ' he unexpectedly replied: 'Get stuffed. ' PhilipPhilipovich was appalled, but recovered and said: 'If you swear at me or thedoctor again, you're in trouble. ' I photographed Sharik at that moment and Iswear that he understood what the professor said. His face clouded over andhe gave a sullen look, but said nothing. Hurrah - he understands! January 12th. Put hands in pockets. We are teaching him not to swear. Whistled, 'Hey, little apple'. Sustained conversation. I cannot resistcertain hypotheses: we must forget rejuvenation for the time being. Theother aspect is immeasurably more important. Prof. Preobrazhensky'sastounding experiment has revealed one of the secrets of the human brain. The mysterious function of the pituitary as an adjunct to the brain has nowbeen clarified. It determines human appearance. Its hormones may now beregarded as the most important in the whole organism - the hormones of man'simage. A new field has been opened up to science; without the aid of anyFaustian retorts a homunculus has been created. The surgeon's scalpel hasbrought to life a new human entity. Prof. Preobrazhensky-you are a creator. (ink blot) But I digress... As stated, he can now sustain a conversation. As Isee it, the situation is as follows: the implanted pituitary has activatedthe speech-centre in the canine brain and words have poured out in a stream. I do not think that we have before us a newly-created brain but a brainwhich has been stimulated to develop. Oh, what a glorious confirmation ofthe theory of evolution! Oh, the sublime chain leading from a dog toMendeleyev the great chemist! A further hypothesis of mine is that duringits canine stage Sharik's brain had accumulated a massive quantity ofsense-data. All the words which he used initially were the language of thestreets which he had picked up and stored in his brain. Now as I walk alongthe streets I look at every dog I meet with secret horror. God knows what islurking in their minds. Sharik can read. He can read (three exclamation marks). I guessed itfrom his early use of the word 'delicatessen'. He could read from thebeginning. And I even know the solution to this puzzle - it lies in thestructure of the canine optic nerve. God alone knows what is now going on inMoscow. Seven black-market traders are already behind bars for spreadingrumours that the end of the world is imminent and has been caused by theBolsheviks. Darya Petrovna told me about this and even named the date -November 28th, 1925, the day of St Stephen the Martyr, when the earth willspiral off into infinity. . . . Some charlatans are already giving lecturesabout it. We have started such a rumpus with this pituitary experiment thatI have had to leave my flat. I have moved in with Preobrazhensky and sleepin the waiting-room with Sharik. The consulting-room has been turned into anew waiting-room. Shvender was right. Trouble is brewing with the housecommittee. There is not a single glass left, as he will jump on to theshelves. Great difficulty in teaching him not to do this. Something odd is happening to Philip. When I told him about myhypotheses and my hopes of developing Sharik into an intellectually advancedpersonality, he hummed and hahed, then said: 'Do you really think so? ' Histone was ominous. Have I made a mistake? Then he had an idea. While I wroteup these case-notes, Preobrazhensky made a careful study of the life-storyof the man from whom we took the pituitary. (Loose page inserted into the notebook. ) Name: Elim Grigorievich Chugunkin. Age: 25. Marital status: Unmarried. Not a Party member, but sympathetic to the Party. Three times chargedwith theft and acquitted - on the first occasion for lack of evidence, inthe second case saved by his social origin, the third time put on probationwith a conditional sentence of 15 years hard labour. Profession: plays the balalaika in bars. Short, poor physical shape. Enlarged liver (alcohol). Cause of death: knife-wound in the heart, sustained in the Red Light Bar at Preobrazhensky Gate. The old man continues to study Chugunkin's case exhaustively, althoughI cannot understand why. He grunted something about the pathologist havingfailed to make a complete examination of Chugunkin's body. What does hemean? Does it matter whose pituitary it is? January 17th Unable to make notes for several days, as I have had anattack of influenza. Meanwhile the creature's appearance has assumeddefinitive form: (a) physically a complete human being. (b) weight about 108 Ibs. (c) below medium height. (d) small head. (e) eats human food. (f) dresses himself. (g) capable of normal conversation. So much for the pituitary (ink blot). This concludes the notes on this case. We now have a new organism whichmust be studied as such. appendices: Verbatim reports of speech, recordings, photographs. Signed: I. A. Bormenthal, M. D. Asst. to Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky.

Five

A winter afternoon in late January, the time before supper, the timebefore the start of evening consulting hours. On the drawing-room doorposthung a sheet of paper, on which was written in Philip Philipovich's hand: I forbid the consumption of sunflower seeds in this flat. P. Preobrazhensky Below this in big, thick letters Bormenthal had written in blue pencil: Musical instruments may not be played between 7pm and 6am. Then from Zina: When you come back tell Philip Philipovich that he's gone out and Idon't know where to. Fyodor says he's with Shvonder. Preobrazhensky's hand: How much longer do I have to wait before the glazier comes? Darya Petrovna (in block letters): Zina has, gone out to the store, says she'll bring him back. In the dining-room there was a cosy evening feeling, generated by thelamp on the sideboard shining beneath its dark cerise shade. Its light wasreflected in random shafts all over the room, as the mirror was cracked fromside to side and had been stuck in place with a criss-cross of tape. Bendingover the table, Philip Philipovich was absorbed in the large double page ofan open newspaper. His face was working with fury and through his teethissued a jerky stream of abuse. This is what he was reading: There's no doubt that it is his illegitimate (as they used to say inrotten bourgeois society) son. This is how the pseudo-learned members of ourbourgeoisie amuse themselves. He will only keep his seven rooms until theglittering sword ofjustice fi'ashes over him like a red ray. Sh. . . r. Someone was hard at work playing a rousing tune on the balalaika tworooms away and the sound of a series of intricate variations on 'The Moon isShining' mingled in Philip Philipovich's head with the words of thesickening newspaper article. When he had read it he pretended to spit overhis shoulder and hummed absentmindedly through his teeth: ' " The moo-oon isshining. . . shining bright. . . the moon is shining. . . " God, thatdamned tune's on my brain! ' He rang. Zina's face appeared in the doorway. 'Tell him it's five o'clock and he's to shut up. Then tell him to comehere, please. ' Philip Philipovich sat down in an armchair beside his desk, a browncigar butt between the fingers of his left hand. Leaning against thedoorpost there stood, legs crossed, a short man of unpleasant appearance. His hair grew in clumps of bristles like a stubble field and on his face wasa meadow of unsliaven fluff. His brow was strikingly low. A thick brush ofhair began almost immediately above his spreading eyebrows. His jacket, torn under the left armpit, was covered with bits of straw, his checked trousers had a hole on the right knee and the left leg wasstained with violet paint. Round the man's neck was a poisonously brightblue tie with a gilt tiepin. The colour of the tie was so garish thatwhenever Philip Philipovich covered his tired eyes and gazed at the completedarkness of the ceiling or the wall, he imagined he saw a flaming torch witha blue halo. As soon as he opened them he was blinded again, dazzled by apair of patent-leather boots with white spats. 'Like galoshes, ' thought Philip Philipovich with disgust. He sighed, sniffed and busied himself with relighting his dead cigar. The man in thedoorway stared at the professor with lacklustre eyes and smoked a cigarette, dropping the ash down his shirtfront. The clock on the wall beside a carved wooden grouse struck fiveo'clock. The inside of the clock was still wheezing as Philip Philipovichspoke. 'I think I have asked you twice not to sleep by the stove in thekitchen - particularly in the daytime. ' The man gave a hoarse cough as though he were choking on a bone andreplied: 'It's nicer in the kitchen. ' His voice had an odd quality, at once muffled yet resonant, as if hewere far away and talking into a small barrel. Philip Philipovich shook his head and asked: 'Where on earth did you get that disgusting thing from? I mean yourtie. ' Following the direction of the pointing finger, the man's eyes squintedas he gazed lovingly down at his tie. 'What's disgusting about it? ' he said. 'It's a very smart tie. DaryaPetrovna gave it to me. ' 'In that case Darya Petrovna has very poor taste. Those boots arealmost as bad. Why did you get such horrible shiny ones? Where did you buythem? What did I tell you? I told you to find yourself a pair of decentboots. Just look at them. You don't mean to tell me that Doctor Bormenthalchose them, do you? ' 'I told him to get patent leather ones. Why shouldn't I wear them? Everybody else does. If you go down Kuznetzky Street you'll see nearlyeverybody wearing patent leather boots. ' Philip Philipovich shook his head and pronounced weightily: 'No more sleeping in the kitchen. Understand? I've never heard of suchbehaviour. You're a nuisance there and the women don't like it. ' The man scowled and his lips began to pout. 'So what? Those women act as though they owned the place. They're justmaids, but you'd think they were commissars. It's Zina - she's alwaysbellyaching about me. ' Philip Philipovich gave him a stern look. 'Don't you dare talk about Zina in that tone of voice! Understand? ' Silence. 'I'm asking you - do you understand? ' 'Yes, I understand. ' 'Take that trash off your neck. Sha. . . if you saw yourself in amirror you'd realise what a fright it makes you look. You look like a clown. For the hundredth time - don't throw cigarette ends on to the floor. And Idon't want to hear any more swearing in this flat! And don't spiteverywhere! The spittoon's over there. Kindly take better aim when you pee. Cease all further conversation with Zina. She complains that you lurk roundher room at night. And don't be rude to my patients! Where do'you think youare - in some dive? ' 'Don't be so hard on me. Dad, ' the man suddenly said in a tearfulwhine. Philip Philipovich turned red and his spectacles flashed. 'Who are you calling " Dad"? What impertinent familiarity! I never wantto hear that word again! You will address me by my name and patronymic! ' The man flared up impudently: 'Oh, why can't you lay off? Don't spit.. . don't smoke. . . don't go there, don't do this, don't do that. . . sounds like the rules in a tram. Why don't you leave me alone, for God'ssake? And why shouldn't I call you " Dad", anyway? I didn't ask you to do theoperation, did I? ' - the man barked indignantly - 'A nice business -you getan animal, slice his head open and now you're sick of him. Perhaps Iwouldn't have given permission for the operation. Nor would. . . (the manstared up at the ceiling as though trying to remember a phrase he had beentaught). . . nor would my relatives. I bet I could sue you if I wanted to. ' Philip Philipovich's eyes grew quite round and his cigar fell out ofhis fingers. 'Well, I'll be. . . ' he thought to himself. 'So you object to having been turned into a human being, do you? ' heasked, frowning slightly. 'Perhaps you'd prefer to be sniffing arounddustbins again? Or freezing in doorways? Well, if I'd known that I wouldn't. . . ' 'So what if I had to eat out of dustbins? At least it was an honestliving. And supposing I'd died on your operating table? What d'you say tothat, comrade? ' 'My name is Philip Philipovich! ' exclaimed the professor irritably. 'I'm not your comrade! This is monstrous! ' ('I can't stand it much longer, 'he thought to himself. ) 'Oh, yes! ' said the man sarcastically, triumphantly uncrossing hislegs. 'I know! Of course we're not comrades! How could we be? I didn't go tocollege, I don't own a flat with fifteen rooms and a bathroom. Only allthat's changed now - now everybody has the right to. . . ' Growing rapidly paler, Philip Philipovich listened to the man'sargument. Then the creature stopped and swaggered demonstratively over to anashtray with a chewed butt-end in his fingers. He spent a long time stubbingit out, with a look on his face which clearly said: 'Drop dead! ' Having putout his cigarette he suddenly clicked his teeth and poked his nose under hisarmpit. 'You're supposed to catch fleas with your fingersV shouted PhilipPhilipovich in fury. 'Anyhow, how is it that you still have any fleas? ' 'You don't think I breed them on purpose, do you? ' said the man, offended. 'I suppose fleas just like me, that's all. ' With this he poked hisfingers through the lining of his jacket, scratched around and produced atuft of downy red hair. Philip Philipovich turned his gaze upwards to the plaster rosette onthe ceiling and started drumming his fingers on the desk. Having caught hisflea, the man sat down in a chair, sticking his thumbs behind the lapels ofhis jacket. Squinting down at the parquet, he inspected his boots, whichgave him great pleasure. Philip Philipovich also looked down at thehighlights glinting on the man's blunt-toed boots, frowned and enquired: 'What else were you going to say? ' 'Oh, nothing, really. I need some papers, Philip Philipovich. ' Philip Philipovich winced. 'H'm. . . papers, eh? Really, well. . . H'm. . . Perhaps we might. . . ' His voice sounded vague and unhappy. 'Now, look, ' said the man firmly. 'I can't manage without papers. Afterall you know damn well that people who don't have any papers aren't allowedto exist nowadays. To begin with, there's the house committee. ' 'What does the house committee have to do with it? ' 'A lot. Every time I meet one of them they ask me when I'm going to getregistered. ' 'Oh, God, ' moaned Philip Philipovich. ' " Every time you meet one ofthem... " I can just imagine what you tell them. I thought I told you not tohang about the staircases, anyway. ' 'What am I - a convict? ' said the man in amazement. His glow ofrighteous indignation made even his fake ruby tiepin light up. " Hang about" indeed! That's an insult. I walk about just like everybody else. ' So saying he wriggled his patent-leather feet. Philip Philipovich said nothing, but looked away. 'One must restrainoneself, ' he thought, as he walked over to the sideboard and drank aglassful of water at one gulp. 'I see, ' he said rather more calmly. 'All right, I'll overlook yourtone of voice for the moment. What does your precious house committee say, then? ' 'Hell, I don't know exactly. Anyway, you needn't be sarcastic about thehouse committee. It protects people's interests. ' 'Whose interest, may I ask? ' 'The workers', of course. ' Philip Philipovich opened his eyes wide. 'What makes you think thatyou're a worker? ' 'I must be - I'm not a capitalist. ' 'Very well. How does the house committee propose to stand up for yourrevolutionary rights? ' 'Easy. Put me on the register. They say they've never heard of anybodybeing allowed to live in Moscow without being registered. That's for astart. But the most important thing is an identity card. I don't want to bearrested for being a deserter. ' 'And where, pray, am I supposed to register you? On that tablecloth oron my own passport? One must, after all, be realistic. Don't forget that youare. . . h'm, well. . . you are what you might call a... an unnaturalphenomenon, an artefact. . . ' Philip Philipovich sounded less and lessconvincing. Triumphant, the man said nothing. 'Very well. Let's assume that in the end we shall have to register you, if only to please this house committee of yours. The trouble is - you haveno name. ' 'So what? I can easily choose one. Just put it in the newspapers andthere you are. ' 'What do you propose to call yourself? ' The man straightened his tie and replied: Toligraph Poligraphovich. ' 'Stop playing the fool, ' groaned Philip Philipovich. 'I meant itseriously. ' The man's face twitched sarcastically. 'I don't get it, ' he said ingenuously. 'I mustn't swear. I mustn'tspit. Yet all you ever do is call me names. I suppose only professors areallowed to swear in the RSFSR. ' Blood rushed to Philip Philipovich's face. He filled a glass, breakingit as he did so. Having drunk from another one, he thought: 'Much more ofthis, and he'll start teaching me how to behave, and he'll be right. I mustcontrol myself. ' He turned round, made an exaggeratedly polite bow and said with ironself-control: 'I beg your pardon. My nerves are slightly upset. Your namestruck me as a little odd, that is all. Where, as a matter of interest, didyou dig it up? ' 'The house committee helped me. We looked in the calendar. And I chosea name. ' 'That name cannot possibly exist on any calendar. ' 'Can't it? ' The man grinned. 'Then how was it I found it on thecalendar in your consulting-room? ' Without getting up Philip Philipovich leaned over to the knob on thewall and Zina appeared in answer to the bell. 'Bring me the calendar from the consulting-room. ' There was a pause. When Zina returned with the calendar, PhilipPhilipovich asked: 'Where is it? ' 'The name-day is March 4th. ' 'Show me. . . h'm. . . dammit, throw the thing into the stove atonce. ' Zina, blinking with fright, removed the calendar. The man shook hishead reprovingly. 'And what surname will you take? ' 'I'll use my real name. ' 'You're real name? What is it? ' 'Sharikov. * Shvonder the house committee chairman was standing in his leather tunicin front of the professor's desk. Doctor Bormen-thal was seated in anarmchair. The doctor's glowing face (he had just come in from the cold) worean expression whose perplexity was only equalled by that of PhilipPhilipovich. 'Write it? ' he asked impatiently. 'Yes, ' said Shvonder, 'it's not very difficult. Write a certificate, professor. You know the sort of thing - 'This is to certify that the beareris really Poligraph Poligraphovich Sharikov. . . h'm, born in, h'm. . . this flat. ' Bormenthal wriggled uneasily in his armchair. Philip Philipovich tuggedat his moustache. 'God dammit, I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. Hewasn't born at all, he simply. . . well, he sort of.. ' 'That's your problem, ' said Shvonder with quiet malice. 'It's up to youto decide whether he was born or not... It was your experiment, professor, and you brought citizen Sharikov into the world. ' 'It's all quite simple, ' barked Sharikov from the glass-frontedcabinet, where he was admiring the reflection of his tie. 'Kindly keep out of this conversation, ' growled Philip Philipovich. 'It's not at all simple. ' 'Why shouldn't I join in? ' spluttered Sharikov in an offended voice, and Shvonder instantly supported him. 'I'm sorry, professor, but citizen Sharikov is absolutely correct. Hehas a right to take part in a discussion about his affairs, especially asit's about his identity documents. An identity document is the mostimportant thing in the world. ' At that moment a deafening ring from the telephone cut into theconversation. Philip Philipovich said into the receiver: 'Yes. . . ', then reddened and shouted: 'Will you please not distractme with trivialities. What's it to do with you? ' And he hurled the receiverback on to the hook. Delight spread over Shvonder's face. Purpling, Philip Philipovich roared: 'Right, let's get this finished. ' He tore a sheet of paper from a notepad and scribbled a few words, thenread it aloud in a voice of exasperation: ' " I hereby certify. . . " God, what am I supposed to certify? . . . let's see. . . " That the bearer is a man created during a laboratoryexperiment by means of an operation on the brain and that he requiresidentity papers" . . . 'I object in principle to his having these idioticdocuments, but still. . . Signed: " Professor Preobrazhensky! " ' 'Really, professor, ' said Shvonder in an offended voice. 'What do youmean by calling these documents idiotic? I can't allow an undocumentedtenant to go on living in this house, especially one who hasn't beenregistered with the police for military service. Supposing war suddenlybreaks out with the imperialist aggressors? ' 'I'm not going to fight! ' yapped Sharikov. Shvonder was dumbfounded, but quickly recovered himself and saidpolitely to Sharikov: 'I'm afraid you seem to be completely lacking inpolitical consciousness, citizen Sharikov. You must register for militaryservice at once. ' 'I'll register, but I'm dammed if I'm going to fight, ' answeredSharikov nonchalantly, straightening his tie. Now it was Shvonder's turn to be embarrassed. Preobraz-hensky exchangeda look of grim complicity with Bormenthal, who nodded meaningly. 'I was badly wounded during the operation, ' whined Sharikov. 'Look -they cut me right open. ' He pointed to his head. The scar of a freshsurgical wound bisected his forehead. 'Are you an anarchist-individualist? ' asked Shvonder, raising hiseyebrows. 'I ought to be exempt on medical grounds, ' said Sharikov. 'Well, there's no hurry about it, ' said the disconcerted Shvonder. 'Meanwhile we'll send the professor's certificate to the police and they'llissue your papers. ' 'Er, look here. . . ' Philip Philipovich suddenly interrupted him, obviously struck by an idea. 'I suppose you don't liave a room to spare inthe house, do you? I'd be prepared to buy it. ' Yellowish sparks flashed in Shvonder's brown eyes. 'No, professor, I very much regret to say that we don't have a room. And aren't likely to, either. ' Philip Philipovich clenched his teeth and said nothing. Again thetelephone rang as though to order. Without a word Philip Philipovich flickedthe receiver off the rest so that it hung down, spinning slightly, on itsblue cord. Everybody jumped. 'The old man's getting rattled, ' thoughtBormenthal. With a glint in his eyes Shvonder bowed and went out. Sharikov disappeared after him, his boots creaking. The professor and Bormenthal were left alone. After a short silence, Philip Philipovich shook his head gently and said: 'On my word of honour, this is becoming an absolute nightmare. Don'tyou see? I swear, doctor, that I've suffered more these last fourteen daysthan in the past fourteen years! I tell you, he's a scoundrel. . . ' From a distance came the faint tinkle of breaking glass, followed by astifled woman's scream, then silence. An evil spirit dashed down thecorridor, turned into the consulting-room where it produced another crashand immediately turned back. Doors slammed and Darya Petrovna's low cry washeard from the kitchen. There was a howl from Sharikov. 'Oh, God, what now! ' cried Philip Philipovich, rushing for the door. 'A cat, ' guessed Bormenthal and leaped after him. They ran down thecorridor into the hall, burst in, then turned into the passage leading tothe bathroom and the kitchen. Zina came dashing out of the kitchen and ranfull tilt into Philip Philipovich. 'How many times have I told you not to let cats into the flat, ' shoutedPhilip Philipovich in fury. 'Where is he? Ivan Amoldovich, for God's sake goand calm the patients in the waiting-room! ' 'He's in the bathroom, the devil, ' cried Zina, panting. PhilipPhilipovich hurled himself at the bathroom door, but it would not give way. 'Open up this minute! ' The only answer from the locked bathroom was the sound of somethingleaping up at the walls, smashing glasses, and Sharikov's voice roaringthrough the door: 'I'll kill you. . . ' Water could be heard gurgling through the pipes and pouring into thebathtub. Philip Philipovich leaned against the door and tried to break itopen. Darya Petrovna, clothes torn and face distorted with anger, appearedin the kitchen doorway. Then the glass transom window, high up in the wallbetween the bathroom and the kitchen, shattered with a multiple crack. Twolarge fragments crashed into the kitchen followed by a tabby cat of giganticproportions with a face like a policeman and a blue bow round its neck. Itfell on to the middle of the table, right into a long platter, which itbroke in half. From there it fell to the floor, turned round on three legsas it waved the fourth in the air as though executing a dance-step, andinstantly streaked out through the back door, which was slightly ajar. Thedoor opened wider and the cat was replaced by the face of an old woman in aheadscarf, followed by her polka-dotted skirt. The old woman wiped her mouthwith her index and second fingers, stared round the kitchen with protrudingeyes that burned with curiosity and she said: 'Oh, my lord! ' Pale, Philip Philipovich crossed the kitchen and asked threateningly: 'What do you want? ' 'I wanted to have a look at the talking dog, ' replied the old womaningratiatingly and crossed herself. Philip Philipovich went even paler, strode up to her and hissed: 'Get out of my kitchen this instant! ' The old woman tottered back toward the door and said plaintively: 'You needn't be so sharp, professor. ' 'Get out, I say! ' repeated Philip Philipovich and his eyes went asround as the owl's. He personally slammed the door behind the old woman. 'Darya Petrovna, I've asked you before. . . ' 'But Philip Philipovich, ' replied Darya Petrovna in desperation, clenching her hands, 'what can I do? People keep coming in all day long, however often I throw them out. ' A dull, threatening roar of water was still coming from the bathroom, although Sharikov was now silent. Doctor Bormenthal came in. 'Please, Ivan Amoldovich... er... how many patients are there in thewaiting-room? ' 'Eleven, ' replied Bormenthal. 'Send them all away, please. I can't see any patients today. ' With a bony finger Philip Philipovich knocked on the bathroom door andshouted: 'Come out at once! Why have you locked yourself in? ' 'Oh. . . oh. . .! ' replied Sharikov in tones of misery. 'What on earth... I can't hear you - turn off the water. ' 'Ow-wow! . . . ' 'Turn off the water! What has he done? I don't understand. . . ' criedPhilip Philipovich, working himself into a frenzy. Zina and Darya Petrovnaopened the kitchen door and peeped out. Once again Philip Philipovichthundered on the bathroom door with his fist. 'There he is! ' screamed Darya Petrovna from the kitchen. PhilipPhilipovich rushed in. The distorted features of Poligraph Poligraphovichappeared through the broken transom and leaned out into the kitchen. Hiseyes were tear-stained and there was a long scratch down his nose, red with fresh blood. 'Have you gone out of your mind? ' asked Philip Philipovich. 'Why don'tyou come out of there? ' Terrified and miserable, Sharikov stared around and replied: 'I've shut myself in. ' 'Unlock the door, then. Haven't you ever seen a lock before? ' 'The blasted thing won't open! ' replied Poligraph, terrified. 'Oh, my God, he's shut the safety-catch too! ' screamed Zina, wringingher hands. 'There's a sort of button on the lock, ' shouted Philip Philipovich, trying to out-roar the water. 'Press it downwards. . . press it down! Downwards! ' Sharikov vanished, to reappear over the transom a minute later. 'I can't see a thing! ' he barked in terror. 'Well, turn the light on then! He's gone crazy! ' 'That damned cat smashed the bulb, ' replied Sharikov, 'and when I triedto catch the bastard by the leg I turned on the tap and now I can't findit. ' Appalled, all three wrung their hands in horror. Five minutes later Bormenthal, Zina and Darya Petrovna were sitting ina row on a damp carpet that had been rolled up against the foot of thebathroom door, pressing it hard with their bottoms. Fyodor the porter wasclimbing up a ladder into the transom window, with the lighted candle fromDarya Petrovna's ikon in his hand. His posterior, clad in broad grey checks, hovered in the air, then vanished through the opening. 'Ooh! . . . ow! ' came Sharikov's strangled shriek above the roar ofwater. Fyodor's voice was heard: 'There's nothing for it, Philip Philipovich, we'll have to open the door and let the water out. We can mop it up from thekitchen. ' 'Open it then! ' shouted Philip Philipovich angrily. The three got up from the carpet and pushed the bathroom door open. Immediately a tidal wave gushed out into the passage, where it divided intothree streams - one straight into the lavatory opposite, one to the rightinto the kitchen and one to the left into the hall. Splashing and prancing, Zina shut the door into the hall. Fyodor emerged, up to his ankles in water, and for some reason grinning. He was soaking wet and looked as if he werewearing oilskins. 'The water-pressure was so strong, I only just managed to turn it off, 'he explained. 'Where is he? ' asked Philip Philipovich, cursing as he lifted one wetfoot. 'He's afraid to come out, ' said Fyodor, giggling stupidly. 'Will you beat me. Dad' came Sharikov's tearful voice from thebathroom. 'You idiot! ' was Philip Philipovich's terse reply. Zina and Darya Petrovna, with bare legs and skirts tucked up to theirknees, and Sharikov and the porter barefoot with rolled-up trousers werehard at work mopping up the kitchen floor with wet cloths, squeezing themout into dirty buckets and into the sink. The abandoned stove roared away. The water swirled out of the back door, down the well of the back staircaseand into the cellar. On tiptoe, Bormenthal was standing in a deep puddle on the parquetfloor of the hall and talking through the crack of the front door, openedonly as far as the chain would allow. 'No consulting hours today, I'm afraid, the professor's not well. Please keep away from the door, we have a burst pipe. 'But when can the professor see me? ' a voice came through the door. 'Itwouldn't take a minute. . . ' 'I'm sorry. ' Bormenthal rocked back from his toes to his heels. 'Theprofessor's in bed and a pipe has burst. Come tomorrow. Zina dear, quicklymop up the hall or it will start running down the front staircase. ' 'There's too much - the cloths won't do it. ' 'Never mind, ' said Fyodor. 'We'll scoop it up with jugs. ' While the doorbell rang ceaselessly, Bormenthal stood up to his anklesin water. 'When is the operation? ' said an insistent voice as it tried to forceits way through the crack of the door. 'A pipe's burst. . . ' 'But I've come in galoshes. . . ' Bluish silhouettes appeared outside the door. 'I'm sorry, it's impossible, please come tomorrow. ' 'But I have an appointment. ' 'Tomorrow. There's been a disaster in the water supply. ' Fyodor splashed about in the lake, scooping it up with a jug, but thebattle-scared Sharikov had thought up a new method. He rolled up an enormouscloth, lay on his stomach in the water and pushed it backwards from the halltowards the lavatory. 'What d'you think you're doing, you fool, slopping it all round theflat? ' fumed Darya Petrovna. 'Pour it into the sink. ' 'How can I? ' replied Sharikov, scooping up the murky water with hishands. 'If I don't push it back into the flat it'll run out of the frontdoor. ' A bench was pushed creaking out of the corridor, with PhilipPhilipovich riding unsteadily on it in his blue striped socks. 'Stop answering the door, Ivan Amoldovich. Go into the bedroom, you canborrow a pair of my slippers. ' 'Don't bother, Philip Philipovich, I'm all right. ' 'You're wearing nothing but a pair of galoshes. ' 'I don't mind. My feet are wet anyway. ' 'Oh, my God! ' Philip Philipovich was exhausted and depressed. 'Destructive animal! ' Sharikov suddenly burst out as he squatted on thefloor, clutching a soup tureen. Bormenthal slammed the door, unable to contain himself any longer andburst into laughter. Philip Philipovich blew out his nostrils and hisspectacles glittered. 'What are you talking about? ' he asked Sharikov from the eminence ofhis bench. 'I was talking about the cat. Filthy swine, ' answered Sharikov, hiseyes swivelling guiltily. 'Look here, Sharikov, ' retorted Philip Philipovich, taking a deepbreath. 'I swear I have never seen a more impudent creature than you. ' Bormenthal giggled. 'You, ' went on Philip Philipovich, 'are nothing but a lout. How dareyou say that? You caused the whole thing and you have the gall. . . No, really! It's too much! ' 'Tell me, Sharikov, ' said Bormenthal, 'how much longer are you going tochase cats? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. It's disgraceful! You're asavage! ' 'Me - a savage? ' snarled Sharikov. 'I'm no savage. I won't stand forthat cat in this flat. It only comes here to find what it can pinch. Itstole Darya's mincemeat. I wanted to teach it a lesson. ' 'You should teach yourself a lesson! ' replied Philip Philipovich. 'Justtake a look at your face in the mirror. ' 'Nearly scratched my eyes out, ' said Sharikov gloomily, wiping a dirtyhand across his eyes. By the time that the water-blackened parquet had dried out a little, all the mirrors were covered in a veil of condensed vapour and the doorbellhad stopped ringing. Philip Philipovich in red morocco slippers was standingin the hall. 'There you are, Fyodor. Thank you. ' 'Thank you very much, sir. ' 'Mind you change your clothes straight away. No, wait -have a glass ofDarya Petrovna's vodka before you go. ' 'Thank you, sir, ' Fyodor squirmed awkwardly, then said: 'There is one more thing, Philip Philipovich. I'm sorry, I hardly liketo mention it, but it's the matter of the window-pane in No 7. CitizenSharikov threw some stones at it, you see. . . ' 'Did he throw them at a cat? ' asked Philip Philipovich, frowning like athundercloud. 'Well, no, he was throwing them at the owner of the flat. He'sthreatening to sue. ' 'Oh, lord! ' 'Sharikov tried to kiss their cook and they threw him out. They had abit of a fight, it seems. ' 'For God's sake, do you have to tell me all these disasters at once? How much? ' 'One rouble and 50 kopecks. ' Philip Philipovich took out three shining 50-kopeck pieces and handedthem to Fyodor. 'And on top of it all you have to pay 1 rouble and 50 kopecks becauseof that damned cat, ' grumbled a voice from the doorway. 'It was all thecat's fault. . . ' Philip Philipovich turned round, bit his lip and gripped Sharikov. Without a word he pushed him into the waiting-room and locked the door. Sharik immediately started to hammer on the door with his fists. 'Shut up! ' shouted Philip Philipovich in a voice that was nearlyderanged. 'This is the limit, ' said Fyodor meaningfully. 'I've never seen suchimpudence in my life. ' Bormenthal seemed to materialise out of the floor. 'Please, Philip Philipovich, don't upset yourself. ' The doctor thrust open the door into the waiting-room. He could be heard saying: 'Where d'you think you are? In some dive? ' 'That's it, ' said Fyodor approvingly. 'Serve him right. . . a punch onthe ear's what he needs. . . ' 'No, not that, Fyodor, ' growled Philip Philipovich sadly. 'I thinkyou've just about had all you can take, Philip Philipovich. '

Six

'No, no, no! ' insisted Bormenthal. 'You must tuck in vour napkin. ' 'Why the hell should I, ' grumbled Sharikov. 'Thank you, doctor, ' said Philip Philipovich gratefully. 'I simplyhaven't the energy to reprimand him any longer. ' 'I shan't allow you to start eating until you put on your napkin. Zina, take the mayonnaise away from Sharikov. ' 'Hey, don't do that, ' said Sharikov plaintively. 'I'll put it onstraight away. ' Pushing away the dish from Zina with his left hand and stuffing anapkin down his collar with the right hand, he looked exactly like acustomer in a barber's shop. 'And eat with your fork, please, ' added Bormenthal. Sighing long and heavily Sharikov chased slices of sturgeon around in athick sauce. 'Can't I have some vodka? ' he asked. 'Will you kindly keep quiet? ' said Bormenthal. 'You've been at thevodka too often lately. ' 'Do you grudge me it? ' asked Sharikov, glowering sullenly across thetable. 'Stop talking such damn nonsense. . . ' Philip Philipovich broke inharshly, but Bormenthal interrupted him. 'Don't worry, Philip Philipovich, leave it to me. You, Sharikov aretalking nonsense and the most disturbing thing of all is that you talk itwith such complete confidence. Of course I don't grudge you the vodka, especially as it's not mine but belongs to Philip Philipovich. It's simplythat it's harmful. That's for a start; secondly you behave badly enoughwithout vodka. ' Bormenthal pointed to where the sideboard had been brokenand glued together. 'Zina, dear, give me a little more fish please, ' said the professor. Meanwhile Sharikov had stretched out his hand towards the decanter and, with a sideways glance at Bormenthal, poured himself out a glassful. 'You should offer it to the others first, ' said Bormenthal. 'Like this- first to Philip Philipovich, then to me, then yourself. ' A faint, sarcastic grin nickered across Sharikov's mouth and he pouredout glasses of vodka all round. 'You act just as if you were on parade here, ' he said. 'Put your napkinhere, your tie there, " please", " thank you", " excuse me" -why can't youbehave naturally? Honestly, you stuffed shirts act as if it was still thedays oftsarism. ' 'What do you mean by " behave naturally"? ' Sharikov did not answer Philip Philipovich's question, but raised hisglass and said: 'Here's how. . . ' 'And you too, ' echoed Bormenthal with a tinge of irony. Sharikov tossed the glassful down his throat, blinked, lifted a pieceof bread to his nose, sniffed it, then swallowed it as his eyes filled withtears. 'Phase, ' Philip Philipovich suddenly blurted out, as if preoccupied. Bormenthal gave him an astonished look. 'I'm sorry? . . . ' 'It's a phase, ' repeated Philip Philipovich and nodded bitterly. 'There's nothing we can do about it. Klim. ' Deeply interested, Bormenthal glanced sharply into Philip Philipovich'seyes: 'Do you suppose so, Philip Philipovich? ' 'I don't suppose; I'mconvinced. ' 'Can it be that. . . ' began Bormenthal, then stopped after a glance atSharikov, who was frowning suspiciously. 'Spdter. . . ' said PhilipPhilipovich softly. 'Gut, ' replied his assistant. Zina brought in the turkey. Bormenthal poured out some red wine forPhilip Philipovich, then offered some to Sharikov. 'Not for me, I prefer vodka. ' His face had grown puffy, sweat wasbreaking out on his forehead and he was distinctly merrier. PhilipPhilipovich also cheered up slightly after drinking some wine. His eyes grewclearer and he looked rather more approvingly at Sharikov, whose black headabove his white napkin now shone like a fly in a pool of cream. Bormenthal however, when fortified, seemed to want activity. 'Well now, what are you and I going to do this evening? ' he askedSharikov. Sharikov winked and replied: 'Let's go to the circus. I like thatbest. ' 'Why go to the circus every day? ' remarked Philip Philipovich in agood-humoured voice. 'It sounds so boring to me. If I were you I'd go to thetheatre. ' 'I won't go to the theatre, ' answered Sharikov nonchalantly and madethe sign of the cross over his mouth. 'Hiccuping at table takes other people's appetites away, ' saidBormenthal automatically. 'If you don't mind my mentioning it... Incidentally, why don't you like the theatre? ' Sharikov held his empty glassup to his eye and looked through it as though it were an opera glass. Aftersome thought he pouted and said: 'Hell, it's just rot. . . talk, talk. Pure counter-revolution. ' Philip Philipovich leaned against his high, carved gothic chairback andlaughed so hard that he displayed what looked like two rows of goldfence-posts. Bormenthal merely shook his head. 'You should do some reading, ' he suggested, 'and then, perhaps. . . ' 'But I read a lot. . . ' answered Sharikov, quickly and surreptitiouslypouring himself half a glass of vodka. 'Zina! ' cried Philip Philipovich anxiously. 'Clear away the vodka, mydear. We don't need it any more. . . What have you been reading? ' He suddenly had a mental picture of a desert island, palm trees, and aman dressed in goatskins. 'I'll bet he says Robinson Crusoe. . . 'hethought. 'That guy. . . what's his name. . . Engels' correspondence with. . . hell, what d'you call him... oh - Kautsky. ' Bormenthal's forkful of turkey meat stopped in mid-air and PhilipPhilipovich choked on his wine. Sharikov seized this moment to gulp down hisvodka. Philip Philipovich put his elbows on the table, stared at Sharikov andasked: 'What comment can you make on what you've read? ' Sharikov shrugged. 'I don't agree. ' 'With whom - Engels or Kautsky? ' 'With neither of 'em, ' replied Sharikov. 'That is most remarkable. Anybody who says that. . . Well, what wouldyou suggest instead? ' 'Suggest? I dunno. . . They just write and write all that rot... allabout some congress and some Germans. . . makes my head reel. Takeeverything away from the bosses, then divide it up. . . ' 'Just as I thought! ' exclaimed Philip Philipovich, slapping thetablecloth with his palm. 'Just as I thought. ' 'And how is this to be done? ' asked Bormenthal with interest. 'How to do it? ' Sharikov, grown loquacious with wine, explainedgarrulously: 'Easy. Fr'instance - here's one guy with seven rooms and forty pairs oftrousers and there's another guy who has to eat out of dustbins. ' 'I suppose that remark about the seven rooms is a hint about me? ' askedPhilip Philipovich with a haughty raise of the eyebrows. Sharikov hunched his shoulders and said no more. 'All right, I'venothing against fair shares. How many patients did you turn away yesterday, doctor? ' 'Thirty-nine, ' was Bormenthal's immediate reply. 'H'm. . . 390roubles, shared between us three. I won't count Zina and Darya Petrovna. Right, Sharikov - that means your share is 130 roubles. Kindly hand itover. ' 'Hey, wait a minute, ' said Sharikov, beginning to be scared. 'What'sthe idea? What d'you mean? ' 'I mean the cat and the tap, ' Philip Philipovich suddenly roared, dropping his mask of ironic imperturbability. 'Philip Philipovich! 'exclaimed Bormenthal anxiously. 'Don't interrupt. The scene you createdyesterday was intolerable, and thanks to you I had to turn away all mypatients. You were leaping around in the bathroom like a savage, smashingeverything and jamming the taps. Who killed Madame Polasukher's cat? Who. .. ' 'The day before yesterday, Sharikov, you bit a lady you met on thestaircase, ' put in Bormenthal. 'You ought to be. . . ' roared Philip Philipovich. 'But she slapped me across the mouth, ' whined Sharikov 'She can't godoing that to me! ' 'She slapped you because you pinched her on the bosom, ' shoutedBormenthal, knocking over a glass. 'You stand there and. . . ' 'You belong to the lowest possible stage of development, ' PhilipPhilipovich shouted him down. 'You are still in the formative stage. You areintellectually weak, all your actions are purely bestial. Yet you allowyourself in the presence of two university-educated men to offer advice, with quite intolerable familiarity, on a cosmic scale and of quite cosmicstupidity, on the redistribution of wealth. . . and at the same time youeat toothpaste. . . ' 'The day before yesterday, ' added Bormenthal. 'And now, ' thundered Philip Philipovich, 'that you have nearly got yournose scratched off - incidentally, why have you wiped the zinc ointment offit? - you can just shut up and listen to what you're told. You are going toleam to behave and try to become a marginally acceptable member of society. By the way, who was fool enough to lend you that book? ' 'There you go again - calling everybody fools, ' replied Sharikovnervously, deafened by the attack on him from both sides. 'Let me guess, ' exclaimed Philip Philipovich, turning red with fury. 'Well, Shvonder gave it to me... so what? He's not a fool... it wasso I could get educated. ' 'I can see which way your education is going after reading Kautsky, 'shouted Philip Philipovich, hoarse and turning faintly yellow. With this hegave the bell a furious jab. 'Today's incident shows it better than anythingelse. Zina! ' 'Zina! ' shouted Bormenthal. 'Zina! ' cried the terrified Sharikov. Looking pale, Zina ran into the room. 'Zina, there's a book in the waiting-room... It is in thewaiting-room, isn't it? ' 'Yes, it is, ' said Sharikov obediently. 'Green, the colour of coppersulphate. ' 'A green book. . . ' 'Bum it if you like, ' cried Sharikov in desperation. 'It's only apublic library book. ' 'It's called Correspondence. . . between, er, Engels and that otherman, what's his name. . . Anyway, throw it into the stove! ' Zina flew out. 'I'd like to hang that Shvonder, on my word of honour, on the firsttree, ' said Philip Philipovich, with a furious lunge at a turkey-wing. 'There's a gang of poisonous people in this house - it's just like anabscess. To say nothing of his idiotic newspapers. . . ' Sharikov gave the professor a look of malicious sarcasm. PhilipPhilipovich in his turn shot him a sideways glance and said no more. 'Oh, dear, it looks as if nothing's going to go right, ' cameBormenthal's sudden and prophetic thought. Zina brought in a layer cake on a dish and a coffee pot. 'I'm not eating any of that, ' Sharikov growled threateningly. 'No one has offered you any. Behave yourself. Please have some, doctor. ' Dinner ended in silence. Sharikov pulled a crumpled cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. Having drunk his coffee, Philip Philipovich looked at the clock. He pressedhis repeater and it gently struck a quarter past eight. As was his habitPhilip Philipovich leaned against his gothic chairback and turned to thenewspaper on a side-table. 'Would you like to go to the circus with him tonight, doctor? Only docheck the programme in advance and make sure there are no cats in it. ' 'I don't know how they let such filthy beasts into the circus at all, 'said Sharikov sullenly, shaking his head. 'Well never mind what filthy beasts they let into the circus for themoment, ' said Philip Philipovich ambiguously. 'What's on tonight? ' 'At Solomon's, ' Bormenthal began to read out, 'there's something calledthe Four. . . . the Four Yooshems and the Human Ball-Bearing. ' 'What are Yooshems? ' enquired Philip Philipovich suspiciously. 'God knows. First time I've ever come across the word. ' 'Well in that case you'd better look at Nikita's. We must be absolutelysure about what we're going to see. ' 'Nikita's. . . Nikita's. . . h'm. . . elephants and the Ultimate inHuman Dexterity. ' 'I see. What is your attitude to elephants, my dear Sharikov? ' enquiredPhilip Philipovich mistrustfully. Sharikov was immediately offended. 'Hell - I don't know. Cats are a special case. Elephants are usefulanimals, ' replied Sharikov. 'Excellent. As long as you think they're useful you can go and watchthem. Do as Ivan Arnoldovich tells you. And don't get talking to anyone inthe bar! I beg you, Ivan Arnoldovich, not to offer Sharikov beer to drink. ' Ten minutes later Ivan Arnoldovich and Sharikov, dressed in a peakedcap and a raglan overcoat with turned-up collar, set off for the circus. Silence descended on the flat. Philip Philipovich went into his study. Heswitched on the lamp under its heavy green shade, which gave the study agreat sense of calm, and began to pace the room. The tip of his cigar glowedlong and hard with its pale green fire. The professor put his hands into hispockets and deep thoughts racked his balding, learned brow. Now and again hesmacked his lips, hummed 'to the banks of the sacred Nile. . . ' andmuttered something. Finally he put his cigar into the ashtray, went over tothe glass cabinet and lit up the entire study with the three powerful lampsin the ceiling. From the third glass shelf Philip Philipovich took out anarrow jar and began, frowning, to examine it by the lamplight. Suspended ina transparent, viscous liquid there swam a little white blob that had beenextracted from the depths of Sharik's brain. With a shrug of his shoulders, twisting his lips and murmuring to himself, Philip Philipovich devoured itwith his eyes as though the floating white blob might unravel the secret ofthe curious events which had turned life upside down in that flat onPrechistenka. It could be that this most learned man did succeed in divining thesecret. At any rate, having gazed his full at this cerebral appendage hereturned the jar to the cabinet, locked it, put the key into his waistcoatpocket and collapsed, head pressed down between his shoulders and handsthrust deep into his jacket pockets, on to the leather-covered couch. Hepuffed long and hard at another cigar, chewing its end to fragments. Finally, looking like a greying Faust in the green-tinged lamplight, heexclaimed aloud: 'Yes, by God, I will. ' There was no one to reply. Every sound in the flat was hushed. Byeleven o'clock the traffic in Obukhov Street always died down. The rarefootfall of a belated walker echoed in the distance, ringing out somewherebeyond the lowered blinds, then dying away. In Philip Philipovich's studyhis repeater chimed gently beneath his fingers in his waistcoat pocket. . . Impatiently the professor waited for Doctor Bormenthal and Sharikov toreturn from the circus.

Seven

We do not know what Philip Philipovich had decided to do. He didnothing in particular during the subsequent week and perhaps as a result ofthis things began happening fast. About six days after the affair with the bath-water and the cat, theyoung person from the house committee who had turned out to be a woman cameto Sharikov and handed him some papers. Sharikov put them into his pocketand immediately called Doctor Bormenthal. 'Bormenthal! ' 'Kindly address me by my name and patronymic! ' retorted Bormenthal, hisexpression clouding. I should mention that in the past six days the greatsurgeon had managed to quarrel eight times with his ward Sharikov and theatmosphere in the flat was tense. 'All right, then you can call me by my name and patronymic too! 'replied Sharikov with complete justification. 'No! ' thundered Philip Philipovich from the doorway. 'I forbid you toutter such an idiotic name in my flat. If you want us to stop calling youSharikov, Doctor Bormenthal and I will call you " Mister Sharikov". ' 'I'm not mister - all the " misters" are in Paris! ' barked Sharikov. 'I see Shvonder's been at work on you! ' shouted Philip Philipovich. 'Well, I'll fix that rascal. There will only be " misters" in my flat as longas I'm living in it! Otherwise either I or you will get out, and it's morelikely to be you. I'm putting a " room wanted" advertisement in the paperstoday and believe me I intend to find you a room. ' 'You don't think I'm such a fool as to leave here, do you? ' wasSharikov's crisp retort. 'What? ' cried Philip Philipovich. Such a change came over hisexpression that Bormenthal rushed anxiously to his side and gently took himby the sleeve. 'Don't you be so impertinent, Monsieur Sharikov! ' said Bormenthal, raising his voice. Sharikov stepped back and pulled three pieces of paperout of his pocket - one green, one yellow and one white, and said as hetapped them with his fingers: 'There. I'm now a member of this residential association and the tenantin charge of flat No. 5, Preobrazhensky, has got to give me my entitlementof thirty-seven square feet. . . ' Sharikov thought for a moment and thenadded a word which Bormenthal's mind automatically recorded as new -'please'. Philip Philipovich bit his lip and said rashly: 'I swear I'll shoot that Shvonder one of these days. ' It was obvious from the look in Sharikov's eyes that he had takencareful note of the remark. 'Vorsicht, Philip Philipovich. . . ' warned Bormenthal. 'Well, what do you expect? The gall of it. . .! ' shouted PhilipPhilipovich in Russian. 'Look here, Sharikov... Mister Sharikov... If you commit one morepiece of impudence I shall deprive you of your dinner, in fact of all yourfood. Thirty-seven square feet may be all very well, but there's nothing onthat stinking little bit of paper which says that I have to feed you! ' Frightened, Sharikov opened his mouth. 'I can't go without food, ' he mumbled. 'Where would I eat? ' 'Then behave yourself! ' cried both doctors in chorus. Sharikov relapsedinto meaningful silence and did no harm to anybody that day with theexception of himself - taking advantage of Bormenthal's brief absence he gothold of the doctor's razor and cut his cheek-bone so badly that PhilipPhilipovich and Doctor Bormenthal had to bandage the cut with much wailingand weeping on Sharikov's part. Next evening two men sat in the green twilight of the professor's study- Philip Philipovich and the faithful, devoted Bormenthal. The house wasasleep. Philip Philipovich was wearing his sky-blue dressing gown and redslippers, while Bormenthal was in his shirt and blue braces. On the roundtable between the doctors, beside a thick album, stood a bottle of brandy, aplate of sliced lemon and a box of cigars. Through the smoke-laden air thetwo scientists were heatedly discussing the latest event: that eveningSharikov had stolen two 10-rouble notes which had been lying under apaperweight in Philip Philipovich's study, had disappeared from the flat andthen returned later completely drunk. But that was not all. With him hadcome two unknown characters who had created a great deal of noise on thefront staircase and expressed a desire to spend the night with Sharikov. Theindividuals in question were only removed after Fyodor, appearing on thescene with a coat thrown over his underwear, had telephoned the 45thPrecinct police station. The individuals vanished instantly as soon asFyodor had replaced the receiver. After they had gone it was found that amalachite ashtray had mysteriously vanished from a console in the hall, alsoPhilip Philipovich's beaver hat and his walking-stick with a gold bandinscribed: 'From the grateful hospital staff to Philip Philipovich in memoryof " X" -day with affection and respect/ 'Who were they? ' said Philip Philipovich aggressively, clenching hisfists. Staggering and clutching the fur-coats, Sharikov muttered somethingabout not knowing who they were, that they were a couple of bastards butgood chaps. 'The strangest thing of all was that they were both drunk. . . How didthey manage to lay their hands on the stuff? ' said Philip Philipovich inastonishment, glancing at the place where his presentation walking-stick hadstood until recently. 'They're experts, ' explained Fyodor as he returned home to bed with arouble in his pocket. Sharikov categorically denied having stolen the 20 roubles, mumblingsomething indistinct about himself not being the only person in the flat. 'Aha, I see - I suppose Doctor Bormenthal stole the money? ' enquiredPhilip Philipovich in a voice that was quiet but terrifying in itsintonation. Sharikov staggered, opened his bleary eyes and offered the suggestion: 'Maybe Zina took it. . . * 'What? ' screamed Zina, appearing in the doorway like a spectre, clutching an unbuttoned cardigan across her bosom. 'How could he. . . ' Philip Philipovich's neck flushed red. 'Calm down, Zina, ' he said, stretching out his arm to her, 'don't getupset, we'll fix this. ' Zina immediately burst into tears, her mouth fell wide open and herhand dropped from her bosom. 'Zina - aren't you ashamed? Who could imagine you taking it? What adisgraceful exhibition! ' said Bormenthal in deep embarrassment. 'You silly girl, Zina, God forgive you. . . ' began Philip Philipovich. But at that moment Zina stopped crying and the others froze in horror -Sharikov was feeling unwell. Banging his head against the wall, he wasemitting a moan that was pitched somewhere between the vowels 'i' and 'o' -a sort of 'eeuuhh'. His face turned pale and his jaw twitched convulsively. 'Look out - get the swine that bucket from the consulting-room! ' Everybody rushed to help the ailing Sharikov. As he staggered off tobed supported by Bormenthal he swore gently and melodiously, despite acertain difficulty in enunciation. The whole affair had occurred around 1 am and now it was Sam, but thetwo men in the study talked on, fortified by brandy and lemon. The tobaccosmoke in the room was so dense that it moved about in slow, flat, unruffledswathes. Doctor Bormenthal, pale but determined, raised his thin-stemmed glass. 'Philip Philipovich, ' he exclaimed with great feeling, 'I shall neverforget how as a half-starved student I came to you and you took me underyour wing. Believe me, Philip Philipovich, you are much more to me than aprofessor, a teacher. . . My respect for you is boundless. . . Allow me toembrace you, dear Philip Philipovich. . . ' 'Yes, yes, my dear fellow. . . ' grunted Philip Philipovich inembarrassment and rose to meet him. Bormenthal embraced him and kissed himon his bushy, nicotine-stained moustaches. 'Honestly, Philip Phili. . . ' 'Very touching, very touching. . . Thank you, ' said PhilipPhilipovich. 'I'm afraid I sometimes bawl at you during operations. You mustforgive an old man's testiness. The fact is I'm really so lonely... "... from Granada to Seville. . . " ' 'How can you say that, Philip Philipovich? ' exclaimed Bormenthal withgreat sincerity. 'Kindly don't talk like that again unless you want tooffend me. . . ' 'Thank you, thank you... "... to the banks of the sacred Nile... "... thank you... I liked you because you were such a competent doctor. ' 'I tell you, Philip Philipovich, it's the only way. . . ' criedBormenthal passionately. Leaping up from his place he firmly shut the doorleading into the corridor, came back and went on in a whisper: 'Don't yousee, it's the only way out? Naturally I wouldn't dare to offer you advice, but look at yourself, Philip Philipovich - you're completely worn out, you're in no fit state to go on working! ' 'You're quite right, ' agreed Philip Philipovich with a sigh. 'Very well, then, you agree this can't go on, ' whispered Bormenthal. 'Last time you said you were afraid for me and I wish you knew, my dearprofessor, how that touched me. But I'm not a child either and I can seeonly too well what a terrible affair this could be. But I am deeplyconvinced that there is no other solution. ' Philip Philipovich stood up, waved his arms at him and cried: 'Don't tempt me. Don't even mention it. ' The professor walked up anddown the room, disturbing the grey swathes. 'I won't hear of it. Don't yourealise what would happen if they found us out? Because of our " socialorigins" you and I would never get away with it, despite the fact of itbeing our first offence. I don't suppose your " origins" are any better thanmine, are they? ' 'I suppose not. My father was a plain-clothes policeman in Vilno, ' saidBormenthal as he drained his brandy glass. 'There you are, just as I thought. From the Bolshevik's point of viewyou couldn't have come from a more unsuitable background. Still, mine iseven worse. My father was dean of a cathedral. Perfect. ". . . from Granadato Seville... in the silent shades of night. . . " So there we are. ' 'But Philip Philipovich, you're a celebrity, a figure of world-wideimportance, and just because of some, forgive the expression, bastard. . . Surely they can't touch you! ' 'All the same, I refuse to do it, ' said Philip Philipovichthoughtfully. He stopped and stared at the glass-fronted cabinet. 'But why? ' 'Because you are not a figure of world importance. ' 'But what. . . ' 'Come now, you don't think I could let you take the rap while I shelterbehind my world-wide reputation, do you? Really. . . I'm a MoscowUniversity graduate, not a Sharikov. ' Philip Philipovich proudly squared his shoulders and looked like anancient king of France. 'Well, then, Philip Philipovich, ' sighed Bormenthal. 'What's to bedone? Are you just going to wait until that hooligan turns into a humanbeing? ' Philip Philipovich stopped him with a gesture, poured himself a brandy, sipped it, sucked a slice of lemon and said: 'Ivan Arnoldovich. Do you think I understand a little about the anatomyand physiology of, shall we say, the human brain? What's your opinion? ' 'Philip Philipovich - what a question! ' replied Bormenthal with deepfeeling and spread his hands. 'Very well. No need, therefore, for any false modesty. I also believethat I am perhaps not entirely unknown in this field in Moscow. ' 'I believe there's no one to touch you, not only in Moscow but inLondon and Oxford too! ' Bormenthal interrupted furiously. 'Good. So be it. Now listen to me, professor-to-be-Bor-menthal: no onecould ever pull it off. It's obvious. No need to ask. If anybody asks you, tell them that Preobrazhensky said so. Finite. Klim! ' - Philip Philipovichsuddenly cried triumphantly and the glass cabinet vibrated in response. 'Klim, ' he repeated. 'Now, Bormenthal, you are the first pupil of my schooland apart from that my friend, as I was able to convince myself today. So Iwill tell you as a friend, in secret - because of course I know that youwouldn't expose me - that this old ass Preobrazhensky bungled that operationlike a third-year medical student. It's true that it resulted in a discovery- and you know yourself just what sort of a discovery that was' - herePhilip Philipovich pointed sadly with both hands towards the window-blind, obviously pointing to Moscow - 'but just remember, Ivan Arnoldovich, thatthe sole result of that discovery will be that from now on we shall all havethat creature Sharik hanging round our necks' - here Preobrazhensky slappedhimself on his bent and slightly sclerotic neck - 'of that you may be sure! If someone, ' went on Philip Philipovich with relish, 'were to knock me downand skewer me right now, I'd give him 50 roubles reward! ". . . from Granadato Seville... "... Dammit, I spent five years doing nothing but extractingcerebral appendages. . . You know how much work I did on the subject - anunbelievable amount. And now comes the crucial question - what for? So thatone fine day a nice litde dog could be transformed into a specimen ofso-called humanity so revolting that he makes one's hair stand on end. ' 'Well, at least it is a unique achievement. ' 'I quite agree with you. This, doctor, is what happens when aresearcher, instead of keeping in step with nature, tries to force the paceand lift the veil. Result - Sharikov. We have made our bed and now we mustlie on it. ' 'Supposing the brain had been Spinoza's, Philip Philipovich? ' 'Yes! ' bellowed Philip Philipovich. 'Yes! Provided the wretched dogdidn't die under the knife - and you saw how tricky the operation was. Inshort - I, Philip Preobrazhensky would perform the most difficult feat of mywhole career by transplanting Spinoza's, or anyone else's pituitary andturning a dog into a highly intelligent being. But what in heaven's namefor? That's the point. Will you kindly tell me why one has to manufactureartificial Spinozas when some peasant woman may produce a real one any dayof the week? After all, the great Lomonosov was the son of a peasant womanfrom Kholmogory. Mankind, doctor, takes care of that. Every year evolutionruthlessly casts aside the mass of dross and creates a few dozen men ofgenius who become an ornament to the whole world. Now I hope you understandwhy I condemned the deductions you made from Sharikov's case history. Mydiscovery, which you are so concerned about, is worth about as much as abent penny. . . No, don't argue, Ivan Arnoldovich, I have given it carefulthought. I don't give my views lightly, as you well know. Theoretically theexperiment was interesting. Fine. The physiologists will be delighted. Moscow will go mad... But what is its practical value? What is thiscreature? ' Preobrazhensky pointed toward the consulting-room where Sharikovwas asleep. 'An unmitigated scoundrel. ' 'But what was Klim. . . Klim, ' cried the professor. 'What was KlimChugunkin? ' (Bormenthal opened his mouth. ) 'I'll tell you: two convictions, an alcoholic, " take away all property and divide it up", my beaver hat and20 roubles gone' - (At this point Philip Philipovich also remembered hispresentation walking-stick and turned purple. ) - 'the swine! ... I'll getthat stick back somehow... In short the pituitary is a magic box whichdetermines the individual human image. Yes, individual... "... from Grandato Seville. . . " ' shouted Philip Philipovich, his eyes rolling furiously, 'but not the universal human image. It's the brain itself in miniature. Andit's of no use to me at all - to hell with it. I was concerned aboutsomething quite different, about eugenics, about the improvement of thehuman race. And now I've ended up by specialising in rejuvenation. You don'tthink I do these rejuvenation operations because of the money, do you? I ama scientist. ' 'And a great scientist! ' said Bormenthal, gulping down his brandy. Hiseyes grew bloodshot. 'I wanted to do a little experiment as a follow-up to my success twoyears ago in extracting sex hormone from the pituitary. Instead of that whathas happened? My God! What use were those hormones in the pituitary. . . Doctor, I am faced by despair. I confess I am utterly perplexed. ' Suddenly Bormenthal rolled up his sleeves and said, squinting at thetip of his nose: 'Right then, professor, if you don't want to, I will take the risk ofdosing him with arsenic myself. I don't care if my father was aplain-clothes policeman under the old regime. When all's said and done thiscreature is yours - your own experimental creation. ' Philip Philipovich, limp and exhausted, collapsed into his chair andsaid: 'No, my dear boy, I won't let you do it. I'm sixty, old enough to giveyou advice. Never do anything criminal, no matter for what reason. Keep yourhands clean all your life. ' 'But just think, Philip Philipovich, what he may turn into if thatcharacter Shvonder keeps on at him! I'm only just beginning to realise whatSharikov may become, by God! ' 'Aha, so you realise now, do you? Well I realised it ten days after theoperation. My only comfort is that Shvonder is the biggest fool of all. Hedoesn't realise that Sharikov is much more of a threat to him than he is tome. At the moment he's doing all he can to turn Sharikov against me, notrealising that if someone in their turn sets Sharikov against Shvonderhimself, there'll soon be nothing left of Shvonder but the bones and thebeak. ' 'You're right. Just think of the way he goes for cats. He's a man withthe heart of a dog. ' 'Oh, no, no, ' drawled Philip Philipovich in reply. 'You're making a bigmistake, doctor. For heaven's sake don't insult the dog. His reaction tocats is purely temporary. . . It's a question of discipline, which could bedealt with in two or three weeks, I assure you. Another month or so andhe'll stop chasing them. ' 'But why hasn't he stopped by now? ' 'Elementary, Ivan Arnoldovich. . . think what you're saying. After all, the pituitary is not suspended in avacuum. It is, after all, grafted on to a canine brain, you must allow timefor it to take root. Sharikov now only shows traces of canine behaviour andyou must remember this - chasing after cats is the least objectionable thinghe does! The whole horror of the situation is that he now has a human heart, not a dog's heart. And about the rottenest heart in all creation! ' Bormenthal, wrought to a state of extreme anxiety, clenched hispowerful sinewy hands, shrugged and said firmly: 'Very well, I shall kill him! ' 'I forbid it! ' answered Philip Philipovich categorically. 'But... ' Philip Philipovich was suddenly on the alert. He raised his finger. 'Wait... I heard footsteps. ' Both listened intently, but there was silence in the corridor. 'I thought. . . ' said Philip Philipovich and began speaking German, several times using the Russian word 'crime'. 'Just a minute, ' Bormenthal suddenly warned him and strode over to thedoor. Footsteps could be clearly heard approaching the study, and there was amumble of voices. Bormenthal flung open the door and started back inamazement. Appalled, Philip Philipovich froze in his armchair. In the brightrectangle of the doorway stood Darya Petrovna in nothing but her nightdress, her face hot and furious. Both doctor and professor were dazzled by theamplitude of her powerful body, which their shock caused them to see asnaked. Darya Petrovna was dragging something along in her enormous hands andas that 'something' came to a halt it slid down and sat on its bottom. Itsshort legs, covered in black down, folded up on the parquet floor. The'something', of course, was Sharikov, confused, still slightly drunk, dishevelled and wearing only a shirt. Darya Petrovna, naked and magnificent, shook Sharikov like a sack ofpotatoes and said: 'Just look at our precious lodger Telegraph Telegraphovich. I've beenmarried, but Zina's an innocent girl. It was a good thing I woke up. ' Having said her piece, Darya Petrovna was overcome by shame, gave ascream, covered her bosom with her arms and vanished. 'Darya Petrovna, please forgive us, ' the red-faced Philip Philipovichshouted after her as soon as he had regained his senses. Bormenthal rolled up his shirtsleeves higher still and bore down onSharikov. Philip Philipovich caught the look in his eye and said in horror: 'Doctor! I forbid you. . . ' With his right hand Bormenthal picked up Sharikov by the scruff of hisneck and shook him so violently that the material of his shirt tore. Philip Philipovich threw himself between them and began to drag thepuny Sharikov free from Bormenthal's powerful surgeon's hands. 'You haven't any right to beat me, ' said Sharikov in a stifled moan, rapidly sobering as he slumped to the ground. 'Doctor! ' shrieked PhilipPhilipovich. Bormenthal pulled himself together slightly and let Sharikovgo. He at once began to whimper. 'Right, ' hissed Bormenthal, 'just wait till tomorrow. I'll fix a littledemonstration for him when he sobers up. ' With this he grabbed Sharikovunder the armpit and dragged him to his bed in the waiting-room. Sharikovtried to kick, but his legs refused to obey him. Philip Philipovich spread his legs wide, sending the skirts of his robeflapping, raised his arms and his eyes towards the lamp in the corridorceiling and sighed.

Eight

The 'little demonstration' which Bormenthal had promised to lay on forSharikov did not, however, take place the following morning, becausePoligraph Poligraphovich had disappeared from the house. Bormenthal gave wayto despair, cursing himself for a fool for not having hidden the key of thefront door. Shouting that this was unforgivable, he ended by wishingSharikov would fall under a bus. Philip Philipovich, who was sitting in hisstudy running his fingers through his hair, said: 'I can just imagine what he must be up to on the street. . . I can justimagine.. . " from Granada to Seville.. . " My God. ' 'He may be with the house committee, ' said Bormenthal furiously, anddashed off. At the house committee he swore at the chairman, Shvonder, so violentlythat Shvonder sat down and wrote a complaint to the local People's Court, shouting as he did so that he wasn't Sharikov's bodyguard. PoligraphPoligraphovich was not very popular at the house committee either, as onlyyesterday he had taken 7 roubles from the funds, with the excuse that he wasgoing to buy text books at the co-operative store. For a reward of 3 roubles Fyodor searched the whole house from top tobottom. Nowhere was there a trace to be found of Sharikov. Only one thing was clear - that Poligraph had left at dawn wearing cap, scarf and overcoat, taking with him a bottle of rowanberry brandy from thesideboard. Doctor Bormenthal's gloves, and all his own documents. DaryaPetrovna and Zina openly expressed their delight and hoped that Sharikovwould never come back again. Sharikov had borrowed 50 roubles from DaryaPetrovna only the day before. 'Serve you right! ' roared Philip Philipovich, shaking his fists. Thetelephone rang all that day and all the next day. The doctors saw an unusualnumber of patients and by the third day the two men were faced with thequestion of what to tell the police, who would have to start looking forSharikov in the Moscow underworld. Hardly had the word 'police' been mentioned than the reverent hush ofObukhov Street was broken by the roar of a lorry and all the windows in thehouse shook. Then with a confident ring at the bell Poligraph Poligraphovichappeared and entered with an air of unusual dignity. In absolute silence hetook off his cap and hung his coat on the hook. He looked completelydifferent. He had on a second-hand leather tunic, worn leather breeches andlong English riding-boots laced up to the knee. An incredible odour of catimmediately permeated the whole hall. As though at an unspoken word ofcommand Preobrazhensky and Bormenthal simultaneously crossed their arms, leaned against the doorpost and waited for Poligraph Poligraphovich to makehis first remark. He smoothed down his rough hair and cleared his throat, obviously wanting to hide his embarrassment by a nonchalant air. At last he spoke. 'I've taken a job, Philip Philipovich. ' Both doctors uttered a vague dry noise in the throat and stirredslightly. Preobrazhensky was the first to collect his wits. Stretching outhis hand he said: 'Papers. ' The typewritten sheet read: 'It is hereby certified that the bearer, comrade Poligraph Poligraphovich Sharikov, is appointed in charge of thesub-department of the Moscow Cleansing Department responsible foreliminating vagrant quadrupeds (cats, etc. )' 'I see, ' said Philip Philipovich gravely. 'Who fixed this for you? No, don't tell me - I can guess. ' 'Yes, well, it was Shvonder. ' 'Forgive my asking, but why are you giving off such a revolting smell? ' Sharikov anxiously sniffed at his tunic. 'Well, it may smell a bit - that's because of my job. I spent allyesterday strangling cats. . . ' Philip Philipovich shuddered and looked at Bormenthal, whose eyesreminded him of two black gun-barrels aimed straight at Sharikov. Withoutthe slightest warning he stepped up to Sharikov and took him in a light, practised grip around the throat. 'Help! ' squeaked Sharikov, turning pale. 'Doctor! ' 'Don't worry, Philip Philipovich, I shan't do anything violent, 'answered Bormenthal in an iron voice and roared: 'Zina and Darya Petrovna! ' The two women appeared in the lobby. 'Now, ' said Bormenthal, giving Sharikov's throat a very slight pushtoward the fur-coat hanging up on a nearby hook, 'repeat after me: " Iapologise. . . " ' 'All right, I'll repeat it. . . ' replied the defeatedSharikov in a husky voice. Suddenly he took a deep breath, twisted, and tried to shout 'help', butno sound came out and his head was pushed right into the fur-coat. 'Doctor, please. . . ' Sharikov nodded as a sign that he submitted andwould repeat what he had to do. '. . . I apologise, dear Darya Petrovna and Zinaida? . . . ' " Prokofievna, ' whispered Zina nervously. 'Ow. . . Prokofievna. . . that I allowed myself. . . ' '. . . to behave so disgustingly the other night in a state ofintoxication. ' 'Intoxication. . . ' 'I shall never do it again. . . ' 'Do it again. . . ' 'Let him go, Ivan Arnoldovich, ' begged both women at once. 'You'rethrottling him. ' Bormenthal released Sharikov and said: 'Is that lorry waiting for you? ' 'It just brought me here, ' replied Poligraph submissively. 'Zina, tell the driver he can go. Now tell me - have you come back toPhilip Philipovich's flat to stay? ' 'Where else can I go? ' asked Sharikov timidly, his eyes nickeringaround the room. 'Very well. You will be as good as gold and as quiet as a mouse. Otherwise you will have to reckon with me each time you misbehave. Understand? ' 'I understand, ' replied Sharikov. Throughout Bormenthal's attack on Sharikov Philip Philipovich had keptsilent. He had leaned against the doorpost with a miserable look, chewed hisnails and stared at the floor. Then he suddenly looked up at Sharikov andasked in a toneless, husky voice: 'What do you do with them... the dead cats, I mean? ' 'They go to alaboratory, ' replied Sharikov, 'where they make them into protein for theworkers. ' After this silence fell on the flat and lasted for two days. PoligraphPoligraphovich went to work in the morning by truck, returned in the eveningand dined quietly with Philip Philipovich and Bormenthal. Although Bormenthal and Sharikov slept in the same room - thewaiting-room - they did not talk to each other, which Bormenthal soon foundboring. Two days later, however, there appeared a thin girl wearing eye shadowand pale fawn stockings, very embarrassed by the magnificence of the flat. In her shabby little coat she trotted in behind Sharikov and met theprofessor in the hall. Dumbfounded, the professor frowned and asked: 'Who is this? ' 'Me and her's getting married. She's our typist. She's coming to livewith me. Bormenthal will have to move out of the waiting-room. He's got hisown flat, ' said Sharikov in a sullen and very off-hand voice. Philip Philipovich blinked, reflected for a moment as he watched thegirl turn crimson, then invited her with great courtesy to step into hisstudy for a moment. 'And I'm going with her, ' put in Sharikov quickly and suspiciously. At that moment Bormenthal materialised from the floor. 'I'm sorry, ' he said, 'the professor wants to talk to the lady and youand I are going to stay here. ' 'I won't, ' retorted Sharikov angrily, trying to follow PhilipPhilipovich and the girl. Her face burned with shame. 'No, I'm sorry, ' Bormenthal took Sharikov by the wrist and led him intothe consulting-room. For about five minutes nothing was heard from the study, then suddenlycame the sound of the girl's muffled sobbing. Philip Philipovich stood beside his desk as the girl wept into a dirtylittle lace handkerchief. 'He told me he'd been wounded in the war, ' sobbed the girl. 'He'slying, ' replied Philip Philipovich inexorably. He shook his head and wenton. 'I'm genuinely sorry for you, but you can't just go off and live withthe first person you happen to meet at work. . . my dear child, it'sscandalous. Here. . . ' He opened a desk drawer and took out three 10-roublenotes. 'I'd kill myself, ' wept the girl. 'Nothing but salt beef every day inthe canteen. . . and he threatened me. . . then he said he'd been a RedArmy officer and he'd take me to live in a posh flat. . . kept makingpasses at me. . . says he's kind-hearted really, he only hates cats... Hetook my ring as a memento. . . ' 'Well, well... so he's kind-hearted... "... from Granada to Seville. .. ". ' muttered Philip Philipovich. 'You'll get over it, my dear. You're stillyoung. ' 'Did you really find him in a doorway? ' 'Look, I'm offering to lend you this money - take it, ' grunted PhilipPhilipovich. The door was then solemnly thrown open and at Philip Philipovich'srequest Bormenthal led in Sharikov, who glanced shiftily around. The hair onhis head stood up like a scrubbing-brush. 'You beast, ' said the girl, her eyes flashing, her mascara running pasther streakily powdered nose. 'Where did you get that scar on your forehead? Try and explain to thelady, ' said Philip Philipovich softly. Sharikov staked his all on one preposterous card: 'I was wounded at the front fighting against Kolchak, ' he barked. The girl stood up and went out, weeping noisily. 'Stop crying! ' Philip Philipovich shouted after her. 'Just a minute -the ring, please, ' he said, turning to Sharikov, who obediently removed alarge emerald ring from his finger. 'I'll get you, ' he suddenly said with malice. 'You'll remember me. Tomorrow I'll make sure they cut your salary. ' 'Don't be afraid of him, ' Bormenthal shouted after the girl. *I won'tlet him do you any harm. ' He turned round and gave Sharikov such a look thathe stumbled backwards and hit his head on the glass cabinet. 'What's her surname? ' asked Bormenthal. 'Her surname! ' he roared, suddenly terrible. 'Basnetsova, ' replied Sharikov, looking round for a way of escape. 'Every day, ' said Bormenthal, grasping the lapels of Sharikov's tunic, 'I shall personally make enquiries at the City Cleansing Department to makesure that you haven't been interfering with citizeness Basnetsova's salary. And if I find out that you have. . . then I will shoot you down with my ownhands. Take care, Sharikov - I mean what I say. ' Transfixed, Sharikov staredat Bormenthal's nose. 'You're not the only one with a revolver. . . 'muttered Poligraph quietly. Suddenly he dodged and spurted for the door. 'Take care! ' Bormenthal'sshout pursued him as he fled. That night and the following morning were astense as the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Nobody spoke. The next dayPoligraph Poligraphovich went gloomily off to work by lorry, after waking upwith an uneasy presentiment, while Professor Preobrazhensky saw a formerpatient, a tall, strapping man in uniform, at a quite abnormal hour. The maninsisted on a consultation and was admitted. As he walked into the study hepolitely clicked his heels to the professor. 'Have your pains come back? ' asked Philip Philipovich pursing his lips. 'Please sit down. ' 'Thank you. No, professor, ' replied his visitor, putting down his capon the edge of the desk. 'I'm very grateful to you... No... I've come, h'm, on another matter, Philip Philipovich... in view of the great respectI feel. . . I've come to... er, warn you. It's obviously nonsense, ofcourse. He's simply a scoundrel. ' The patient searched in his briefcase andtook out a piece of paper. 'It's a good thing I was told about this rightaway. . . ' Philip Philipovich slipped a pince-nez over his spectacles and began toread. For a long time he mumbled half-aloud, his expression changing everymoment. '. . . also threatening to murder the chairman of the housecommittee, comrade Shvonder, which shows that he must be keeping a firearm. And he makes counter-revolutionary speeches, and even ordered his domesticworker, Zinaida Prokofievna Bunina, to burn Engels in the stove. He is anobvious Menshevik and so is his assistant Ivan Arnoldovich Bormenthal who isliving secretly in his flat without being registered. Signed: P. P. Sharikov Sub-Dept. Controller City Cleansing Dept. Countersigned: Shvonder Chairman, House Committee. Pestrukhin Secretary, House Committee. 'May I keep this? ' asked Philip Philipovich, his face blotchy. 'Orperhaps you need it so that legal proceedings can be made? ' 'Really, professor. ' The patient was most offended and blew out hisnostrils. 'You seem to regard us with contempt. I. . . ' And he began topuff himself up like a turkeycock. 'Please forgive me, my dear fellow! ' mumbled Philip Philipovich. 'Ireally didn't mean to offend you. Please don't be angry. You can't believewhat this creature has done to my nerves. . . ' 'So I can imagine, ' said the patient, quite mollified. 'But what aswine! I'd be curious to have a look at him. Moscow is full of stories aboutyou. . . ' Philip Philipovich could only gesture in despair. It was then that thepatient noticed how hunched the professor was looking and that he seemed tohave recently grown much greyer.

Nine

The crime ripened, then fell like a stone, as usually happens. With anuncomfortable feeling round his heart Poligraph Poligraphovich returned thatevening by lorry. Philip Philipovich's voice invited him into theconsulting-room. Surprised, Sharikov entered and looked first, vaguelyfrightened, at Bormenthal's steely face, then at Philip Philipovich. A cloudof smoke surrounded the doctor's head and his left hand, trembling veryslightly, held a cigarette and rested on the shiny handle of the obstetricalchair. With ominous calm Philip Philipovich said: 'Go and collect your things at once - trousers, coat, everything youneed - then get out of this flat! ' 'What is all this? ' Sharikov was genuinely astonished. 'Get out of thisflat - and today, ' repeated Philip Philipovich, frowning down at hisfingernails. An evil spirit was at work inside Poligraph Poligraphovich. It wasobvious that his end was in sight and his time nearly up, but he hurledhimself towards the inevitable and barked in an angry staccato: 'Like hell I will! You got to give me my rights. I've a right tothirty-seven square feet and I'm staying right here. ' 'Get out of this flat, ' whispered Philip Philipovich in a strangledvoice. It was Sharikov himself who invited his own death. He raised his lefthand, which stank most horribly of cats, and cocked a snook at PhilipPhilipovich. Then with his right hand he drew a revolver on Bormenthal. Bormenthal's cigarette fell like a shooting star. A few seconds later PhilipPhilipovich was hopping about on broken glass and running from the cabinetto the couch. On it, spreadeagled and croaking, lay a sub-departmentcontroller of the City Cleansing Department; Bormenthal the surgeon wassitting astride his chest and suffocating him with a small white pad. After some minutes Bormenthal, with a most unfamiliar look, walked outon to the landing and stuck a notice beside the doorbell: The Professor regrets that owing to indisposition he will be unable tohold consulting hours today. Please do not disturb the Professor by ringingthe bell. With a gleaming penknife he then cut the bell-cable, inspected hisscratched and bleeding face in the mirror and his lacerated, slightlytrembling hands. Then he went into the kitchen and said to the anxious Zinaand Darya Petrovna: 'The professor says you mustn't leave the fiat on any account. ' 'No, we won't, ' they replied timidly. 'Now I must lock the back door and keep the key, ' said Bormenthal, sidling round the room and covering his face with his hand. 'It's onlytemporary, not because we don't trust you. But if anybody came you might notbe able to keep them out and we mustn't be disturbed. We're busy. ' 'All right, ' replied the two women, turning pale. Bormenthal locked theback door, locked the front door, locked the door from the corridor into thehall and his footsteps faded away into the consulting-room. Silence filled the flat, flooding into every comer. Twilight crept in, dank and sinister and gloomy. Afterwards the neighbours across the courtyardsaid that every light burned that evening in the windows of Preobrazhensky'sconsulting-room and that they even saw the professor's white skullcap... Itis hard to be sure. When it was all over Zina did say, though, that whenBormenthal and the professor emerged from the consulting-room, there, by thestudy fireplace, Ivan Amoldovich had frightened her to death. It seems hewas squatting down in front of the fire and burning one of the blue-boundnotebooks which contained the medical notes on the professor's patients. Thedoctor's face, apparently, was quite green and completely - yes, completely- scratched to pieces. And that evening Philip Philipovich had been mostpeculiar. And then there was another thing - but maybe that innocent girlfrom the flat in Prechistenka Street was talking rubbish. . . One thing, though, was certain: there was silence in the flat thatevening - total, frightening silence.

Epilogue

One night, exactly ten days to the day after the struggle in ProfessorPreobrazhensky's consulting-room in his flat on Obukhov Street, there was asharp ring of the doorbell. 'Criminal police. Open up, please. ' Footsteps approached, people knocked and entered until a considerablecrowd filled the brightly-lit waiting-room with its newly-glazed cabinet. There were two in police uniform, one in a black overcoat and carrying abrief-case; there was chairman Shvonder, pale and gloating, and the youthwho had turned out to be a woman; there was Fyodor the porter, Zina, DaryaPetrovna and Bormenthal, half dressed and embarrassed as he tried to coverup his tieless neck. The door from the study opened to admit Philip Philipovich. He appearedin his familiar blue dressing gown and everybody could tell at once thatover the past week Philip Philipovich had begun to look very much better. The old Philip Philipovich, masterful, energetic and dignified, now facedhis nocturnal visitors and apologised for appearing in his dressing gown. 'It doesn't matter, professor, ' said the man in civilian clothes, ingreat embarrassment. He faltered and then said: 'I'm sorry to say we have a warrant to search your flat and' -the menstared uneasily at Philip Philipovich's moustaches and ended: 'to arrestyou, depending on the results of our search. ' Philip Philipovich frowned and asked: 'What, may I ask, is the charge, and who is being charged? ' The man scratched his cheek and began reading from a piece of paperfrom his briefcase. 'Preobrazhensky, Bormenthal, Zinaida Bunina and Darya Ivanova arecharged with the murder of Poligraph Poligraph-ovich Sharikov, sub-department controller. City of Moscow Cleansing Department. ' The end of his speech was drowned by Zina's sobs. There was generalmovement. 'I don't understand, ' replied Philip Philipovich with a regal shrug. 'Who is this Sharikov? Oh, of course, you mean my dog. . . the one Ioperated on? ' 'I'm sorry, professor, not a dog. This happened when he was a man. That's the trouble. ' 'Because he talked? ' asked Philip Philipovich. 'That doesn't mean hewas a man. Anyhow, it's irrelevant. Sharik is alive at this moment and noone has killed him. ' 'Really, professor? ' said the man in black, deeply astonished andraised his eyebrows. 'In that case you must produce him. It's ten days nowsince he disappeared and the evidence, if you'll forgive my saying so, ismost disquieting. ' 'Doctor Bormenthal, will you please produce Sharik for the detective, 'ordered Philip Philipovich, pocketing the charge-sheet. Bormenthal went out, smiling enigmatically. As he returned he gave a whistle and from the door into the studyappeared a dog of the most extraordinary appearance. In patches he was bald, while in other patches his coat had grown. He entered like a trained circusdog walking on his hind legs, then dropped on to all fours and looked round. The waiting-room froze into a sepulchral silence as tangible as jelly. Thenightmarish-looking dog with the crimson scar on the forehead stood up againon his hind legs, grinned and sat down in an armchair. The second policeman suddenly crossed himself with a sweeping gestureand in stepping back knocked Zina's legs from under her. The man in black, his mouth still wide open, said: 'What's been going on? ... He worked in the City Cleansing Department.. . ' 'I didn't send him there, ' answered Philip Philipovich. 'He wasrecommended for the job by Mr Shvonder, if I'm not mistaken. ' 'I don't get it, ' said the man in black, obviously confused, and turnedto the first policeman. 'Is that him? ' 'Yes, ' whispered the policeman, 'it's him all right. ' 'That's him, ' came Fyodor's voice, 'except the little devil's got a bitfatter. ' 'But he talked. . . ' the man in black giggled nervously. 'And he still talks, though less and less, so if you want to hear himtalk now's the time, before he stops altogether'. 'But why? ' asked the man in black quietly. Philip Philipovich shrugged his shoulders. 'Science has not yet found the means of turning animals into people. Itried, but unsuccessfully, as you can see. He talked and then he began torevert back to his primitive state. Atavism. ' 'Don't swear at me, ' the dog suddenly barked from his chair and stoodup. The man in black turned instantly pale, dropped his briefcase and beganto fall sideways. A policeman caught him on one side and Fyodor supportedhim from behind. There was a sudden turmoil, clearly pierced by threesentences: Philip Philipovich: 'Give him valerian. He's fainted. ' Doctor Bormenthal: 'I shall personally throw Shvonder downstairs if heever appears in Professor Preobrazhensky's flat again. ' And Shvonder said: 'Please enter that remark in the report. ' The grey accordion-shaped radiators hissed gently. The blinds shut outthe thick Prechistenka Street night sky with its lone star. The great, thepowerful benefactor of dogs sat in his chair while Sharik lay stretched outon the carpet beside the leather couch. In the mornings the March fog madethe dog's head ache, especially around the circular scar on his skull, butby evening the warmth banished the pain. Now it was easing all the time andwarm, comfortable thoughts flowed through the dog's mind. I've been very, very lucky, he thought sleepily. Incredibly lucky. I'mreally settled in this flat. Though I'm not so sure now about my pedigree. Not a drop of labrador blood. She was just a tart, my old grandmother. Godrest her soul. Certainly they cut my head around a bit, but who cares. Noneof my business, really. From the distance came a tinkle of glass. Bormenthal was tidying theshelves of the cabinet in the consulting-room. The grey-haired magician sat and hummed: ' ". . . to the banks of thesacred Nile. . . " ' That evening the dog saw terrible things. He saw the great roan plungehis slippery, rubber-gloved hands into a jar to fish out a brain; thenrelentlessly, persistently the great man pursued his search. Slicing, examining, he frowned and sang: ' " To the banks of the sacred Nile. . . " '