Michail Bulgakov. The heart of a dog

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     Copyright 1968 in the English translation by Michael Glenny
     Collins and Harvill Press
     London, and Harcourt, Brace & World Inc, New York.
     OCR:Scout
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        One
     Ooow-ow-ooow-owow!  Oh, look  at me,  I'm  dying.  There's  a snowstorm
moaning  a requiem  for  me  in  this  doorway and I'm howling  with it. I'm
finished. Some bastard in a dirty white cap - the cook in the office canteen
at the National Economic Council - spilled some boiling water and scalded my
left side.  Filthy swine -  and a proletarian, too. Christ, it  hurts!  That
boiling water scalded me right through to the bone. I can howl and howl, but
what's the use?
     What  harm was  I  doing  him,  anyway? I'm  not  robbing the  National
Economic 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  he
is. Hard-faced crook. Oh people, people. It was midday when that fool doused
me with boiling water, now it's getting dark, must be  about four o'clock in
the afternoon judging by  the smell  of onion coming  from the  Prechistenka
fire station. Firemen have soup for supper, you know. Not that I care for it
myself. I can manage without soup -  don't like mushrooms either. The dogs I
know  in Prechistenka  Street, by the  way, tell me there's  a restaurant in
Neglinny Street where  they get the chef's special every day - mushroom stew
with  relish  at 3 roubles  and  75  kopecks  the  portion.  All  right  for
connoisseurs, I  suppose. I  think  eating mushrooms  is about  as tasty  as
licking a pair of galoshes . . . Oow-owowow . . .
     My side hurts like hell and I  can see just what's going to  become  of
me. 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 special
grass that does you good. Besides,  you  can get a free meal of sausage-ends
and  there's  plenty of greasy bits  of food-wrappings  to lick.  And  if it
wasn't  for  some  old groaner singing '0 celeste Aida' out in the moonlight
till 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 enough
bricks thrown at me? Plenty . . . Still, after what I've been through, I can
take  a lot. I'm only whining now because  of the pain and cold - though I'm
not 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. The
trouble  is that when  that cook  doused  me  with boiling water it  scalded
through right under my  fur and now there's nothing  to keep the cold out on
my 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 up
under  someone's front doorstep,  and  then  who's  going  to run  round the
dustbins looking for food for a sick bachelor dog? I shall get a chill on my
lungs, crawl on my belly  till I'm so  weak that it'll only need one poke of
someone's stick to finish me  off. And the  dustmen  will pick  me up by the
legs and sling me on to their cart . . .
     Dustmen are the lowest form of proletarian life. Humans' rubbish is the
filthiest  stuff there is. Cooks vary  - for instance,  there was Vlas  from
Prechistenka,  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 your
strength  up. And when Vlas used to throw you a bone there was always a good
eighth of an  inch of meat on  it. He  was  a great character. God  rest his
soul, a gentleman's cook  who worked for Count Tolstoy's family and  not for
your stinking Food Rationing Board. As for the muck they dish  out there  as
rations, well  it makes even a  dog wonder. They make soup  out of salt beef
that's gone rotten, the cheats. The poor fools who eat there can't  tell the
difference. It's just grab, gobble and gulp.
     A typist on salary scale 9 gets 60 roubles a month. Of course her lover
keeps her  in silk stockings,  but  think  what  she  has to put up with  in
exchange 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, those
Frenchmen,  if  you  ask me - though they know how to  stuff their  guts all
right, and red wine with everything. Well,  along comes  this little  typist
and wants a meal. She can't afford to go into the restaurant on 60 roubles a
month  and go  to  the  cinema as well.  And  the  cinema  is a woman's  one
consolation in life. It's agony for  her to have to choose a meal . . . just
think:40 kopecks for two courses, and neither  of them is worth more than 15
because the  manager has pocketed the other  25 kopecks-worth. Anyhow, is it
the  right sort of  food for her? She's got a patch  on the top of her right
lung, she's having  her  period,  she's had her pay docked  at work and they
feed her  with any old muck at the canteen, poor girl . .  . There  she goes
now,  running into the doorway in her lover's stockings. Cold legs, and  the
wind  blows up her belly because even  though she has some hair  on it  like
mine  she  wears such cold, thin,  lacy little pants  - just  to please  her
lover. If  she tried to wear flannel ones he'd soon bawl her out for looking
a frump.  'My  girl  bores me',  he'll say, 'I'm  fed up with those  flannel
knickers of hers,  to  hell with her. I've made good  now  and all I make in
graft goes on women, lobsters and champagne. I went hungry often enough as a
kid. 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't
compare 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's
ears.  It blew  her  skirt up to her knees, showing her fawn stockings and a
little  strip of badly washed lace underwear, drowned  her words and covered
the dog in snow.
     'My God . . . what weather .  . . ugh  . . . And my stomach aches. It's
that awful salt beef. When is all this going to end?'
     Lowering her head the girl  launched into  the attack and rushed out of
the  doorway. On  the street  the violent storm spun her like a  top, then a
whirlwind of snow spiralled around her and she vanished.
     But the dog stayed  in the doorway. His scalded  flank was  so  painful
that he  pressed himself against  the  cold wall,  gasping  for  breath, and
decided  not to  move from the spot.  He would die in  the doorway.  Despair
overcame him. He was so bitter and sick  at heart,  so lonely and  terrified
that little dog's tears, like pimples, trickled down  from his  eyes, and at
once dried up.  His injured side  was covered with frozen, dried blood-clots
and between them peeped the angry red patches of the scald. All the fault of
that vicious,  thickheaded, stupid  cook. 'Sharik' she had  called him . . .
What a name to choose! Sharik is the sort of  name for a round, fat,  stupid
dog  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 a
citizen 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. I
suppose  you  thought I recognised  him by  his overcoat?  Nonsense. Lots of
proletarians even wear  overcoats nowadays. I admit they don't usually  have
collars like this one, of course, but even so you can sometimes be  mistaken
at a distance. No,  it's  the eyes:  you can't  go wrong with those, near or
far. Eyes mean a lot. Like a barometer. They tell you everything - they tell
you  who  has a heart of stone, who  would poke the  toe of his boot in your
ribs as soon as look at you - and who's afraid of you. The cowards - they're
the 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 snow
and  headed for the doorway.  Yes,  you  can tell  his sort  all  right.  He
wouldn't eat rotten salt beef, and if anyone did happen to give him any he'd
make a fuss and write to the  newspapers - someone has been trying to poison
me - me, Philip Philipovich.
     He came nearer and nearer. He's the kind who always eats well and never
steals, he wouldn't kick you, but he's not afraid of anyone either. And he's
never 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 and
bushy ones like the knights of old. But the smell of him, that came floating
on 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 beside
me . . . What does he want? Oowow, owow .  . . What would he  want to buy in
that filthy store,  surely he can afford to go to  the Okhotny Ryad?  What's
that he's holding? Sausage. Look sir,  if  you knew what  they put into that
sausage you'd never go near that store. Better give it to me.
     The dog gathered the last of his strength and crawled  fainting out  of
the doorway on to the pavement. The blizzard  boomed like  gunfire over  his
head,  flapping  a  great  canvas  billboard  marked  in huge  letters,  'Is
Rejuvenation Possible?'
     Of course it's possible.  The mere smell has rejuvenated me, got  me up
off my belly, sent scorching waves through my stomach that's  been empty for
two days.  The  smell  that overpowered the hospital smell was the  heavenly
aroma of minced horsemeat with garlic and pepper. I feel it, I know -there's
a 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 cook
did 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 good
lunch under  your belt, haven't you, you're a world-famous figure thanks  to
male sex  glands. Oowow-owow .  . . What can I do?  I'm too young to die yet
and 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  gold
spectacle-rims  flashing,  and  pulled  a  long  white  package out  of  his
right-hand coat pocket. Without taking  off  his tan  gloves he broke  off a
piece of the sausage, which was labelled 'Special Cracower'. And gave  it to
the 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 can
do anything you like to me,
     In a moment the dog had ripped off the sausage-skin. Mouth watering, he
bit into the Cracower and gobbled  it down in two swallows. Tears started to
his  eyes as  he  nearly choked on the  string, which in his greed he almost
swallowed. Let me lick your hand again, I'll kiss your boots -  you've saved
my life.
     'That's enough .  . .' The gentleman barked as though giving  an order.
He  bent  over Sharik,  stared  with  a  searching  look  into his eyes  and
unexpectedly stroked the dog gently  and  intimately along the stomach  with
his gloved hand.
     'Aha,' he pronounced meaningly. 'No collar. Excellent. You're just what
I want. Follow me.' He clicked his fingers. 'Good dog!'
     Follow you? To the end of the earth. Kick me with your felt boots and I
won't say a word.
     The street  lamps were alight all  along Prechistenka Street. His flank
hurt  unbearably, but for the moment Sharik forgot  about it, absorbed  by a
single thought:  how to avoid losing  sight  of  this  miraculous fur-coated
vision in the hurly-burly of  the storm and  how  to  show him his love  and
devotion. Seven times  along the whole length  of Prechistenka Street as far
as the cross-roads at  Obukhov Street  he  showed  it. At Myortvy  Street he
kissed his boot, he cleared the way by barking  at a lady and frightened her
into falling flat on the pavement, and twice he gave a howl to make sure the
gentleman still felt sorry for him.
     A filthy, thieving stray torn cat slunk out from behind a drainpipe and
despite the  snowstorm, sniffed the Cracower. Sharik went blind with rage at
the thought that this rich eccentric  who picked up injured dogs in doorways
might take pity on  this robber and make  him share the sausage. So he bared
his  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  loafing
about Prechistenka Street.
     The  gentleman  noticed  the dog's  devotion  as  they  passed the fire
station window, out of which came the pleasant sound of a  French  horn, and
rewarded 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  run
away. 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 that
block of flats. My worst enemies, porters, much worse than dustmen. Horrible
lot. 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 even
bring stray dogs  off the street past a porter? Look at the bastard -  not a
move, not a word! He looks grim enough, but he doesn't seem to mind, for all
the 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's
that - did  he make  a  move? Bite him. I wouldn't  mind  a mouthful of homy
proletarian leg. In exchange  for the trouble  I've had  from  all the other
porters 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 his
voice and adding intimately), 'but they've just moved some more tenants into
No. 3.'
     The dog's dignified benefactor turned sharply round on the step, leaned
over 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 to
build 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  new
house 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. Let
me lick your boot.
     The porter's gold braid disappeared from the lobby.
     Past warm  radiators on a marble landing, another flight of stairs  and
then - a mezzanine.

        Two
     Why bother to leam to  read when you can smell meat a mile away? If you
live in Moscow, though, and if you've got an ounce of brain in your head you
can't help learning to read -and without going to night-school either. There
are forty-thousand dogs in Moscow and I'll  bet  there's not  one of them so
stupid he can't spell out the word 'sausage'.
     Sharik had begun by learning from colours. When he was just four months
old, blue-green signs started  appearing  all  over Moscow with the  letters
MSFS - Moscow  State Food Stores - which meant a butcher and delicatessen. I
repeat that he had no need to  learn his letters because he could smell  the
meat anyway. Once  he made a bad  mistake:  trotting  up  to  a  bright blue
shop-sign one day when  the smell was drowned  by car exhaust, instead of  a
butcher's shop  he ran  into the Polubizner Brothers' electrical goods store
on  Myasnitzkaya Street.  There the  brothers taught him all about insulated
cable,  which  can be sharper than a cabman's whip. This famous occasion may
be regarded as  the  beginning of Sharik's education.  It  was here  on  the
pavement  that Sharik began  to  realise  that  'blue'  doesn't always  mean
'butcher',  and as he  squeezed his burningly painful tail between  his back
legs and howled, he remembered that on every butcher's shop the first letter
on  the  left  was  always  gold  or brown,  bow-legged,  and looked  like a
toboggan.
     After  that  the  lessons were  rather easier. 'A' he learned  from the
barber on the comer of Mokhovaya Street, followed by 'B' (there was always a
policeman  standing in front  of the last four letters of the word).  Corner
shops faced with tiles  always meant 'CHEESE' and the black half-moon at the
beginning 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  'Celeste
Aida'), and the  place smelted  of  frankfurters,  the first  letters on the
white  signboards very conveniently | spelled out the word 'NOOB', which was
short for 'No obscene  language. No tips.'  Sometimes at these places fights
would break out, people  would  start  punching each other in the face  with
their fists - sometimes even with napkins or boots.
     If there were  stale bits of ham and  mandarin oranges in the window it
meant  a  grrr . . .  grrocery.  If  there were black  bottles full  of evil
liquids it was . . . li-li-liquor . . . formerly Eliseyev Bros.
     The unknown gentleman had led the dog to the door of his luxurious flat
on the  mezzanine floor, and rang the doorbell. The dog at once looked up at
a big, black,  gold-lettered  nameplate hanging beside a pink  frosted-glass
door. He deciphered the first three letters at once: P-R-O- 'Pro . . .', but
after tliat there was a funny tall thing with  a  cross bar which he did not
know.  Surely he's  not  a  proletarian? thought Sharik with amazement... He
can't  be. He lifted up his nose,  sniffed the fur  coat and  said firmly to
himself:
     No, this doesn't smell proletarian.  Some high-falutin' word. God knows
what it means.
     Suddenly  a light  flashed on  cheerfully behind the  pink glass  door,
throwing the nameplate into even deeper shadow.  The door opened soundlessly
and a beautiful young  woman in a white apron  and lace cap stood before the
dog and his master. A wave of delicious  warmth flowed over the dog  and the
woman's skirt smelled of carnations.
     This I like, thought the dog.
     'Come  in,  Mr  Sharik,'  said  the  gentleman  ironically  and  Sharik
respectfully obeyed, wagging his tail.
     A great  multitude of objects filled the richly  furnished hall. Beside
him  was  a mirror  stretching  right  down to  the floor,  which  instantly
reflected  a  second  dirty,  exhausted  Sharik. High  up on the wall  was a
terrifying pair  of antlers, there  were countless  fur coats  and  pairs of
galoshes and an electric tulip made of opal glass hanging from the ceiling.
     'Where  on earth did you  get that from, Philip  Philipovich?' enquired
the woman,  smiling as  she helped to take off the heavy brown, blue-flecked
fox-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 English
material; 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 gave
a little whimper.
     'Zina,' ordered  the gentleman, 'take him  into the consulting-room  at
once and get me a white coat.'
     The  woman  whistled,  clicked her fingers  and  the dog  followed  her
slightly hesitantly. Together they walked down a narrow, dimly-lit corridor,
passed a varnished  door, reached the end then turned left and  arrived in a
dark little room which the dog instantly disliked for its ominous smell. The
darkness clicked and was transformed into blinding white  which flashed  and
shone from every angle.
     Oh, no,  the dog whined to himself, you  won't  catch  me as easily  as
that! I see it now - to hell with them and their sausage. They've tricked me
into a  dogs'  hospital.  Now  they'll  force  me to swallow  castor oil and
they'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 door
with his unharmed side so hard that the noise reverberated through the whole
apartment. Then  he jumped back,  spun around on the spot  like a top and in
doing so knocked over a white bucket,  spilling wads of  cotton  wool. As he
whirled 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  think
you're going?'
     Where's the back door? the dog wondered.  He swung round, rolled into a
ball  and hurled himself bullet-fashion at  a glass in the hope that  it was
another door. With a crash and  a tinkle a shower of splinters fell down and
a pot-bellied glass jar of  some reddish-brown  filth  shot  out and  poured
itself over the  floor, giving off a  sickening  stench. The real door swung
open.
     'Stop  it, you little beast,' shouted  the  gentleman  as he rushed  in
pulling  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 dashed
in, also wearing a white coat. Crunching  over the broken glass he went past
the 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, at
which the dog enthusiastically bit him just above his shoelaces. The  person
groaned but kept his head. The nauseating liquid  choked the dog's breathing
and his head began  to spin, then  his legs  collapsed  and he  seemed to be
moving sideways.  This is it, he thought dreamily as he collapsed on  to the
sharp  slivers of  glass.  Goodbye, Moscow!  I  shan't see  Chichkin  or the
proletarians  or  Cracow  sausages  again.  I'm  going  to  the  heaven  for
long-suffering dogs. You butchers -  why did you have to do this to me? With
that he finally collapsed on to his back and passed out.
     When he awoke  he  felt  slightly dizzy  and sick  to his  stomach. His
injured 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  was
tightly bandaged  all around his flanks and  belly. So those sons of bitches
did cut me up, he thought dully, but I must admit they've made a neat job of
it.
     . . . "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's
leg  propped  up on a stool. Trousers and sock had  been rolled back and the
yellow, 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 break
all that glass?  M'm?' Oowow, whined the dig miserably. 'All right, lie back
and relax, naughty  boy.'  'However did you manage to entice such a nervous,
excitable  dog  into  following  you  here,  Philip Philipovich?' enquired a
pleasant  male voice, and  a long knitted underpant lowered  itself  to  the
ground. There  was a smell of  tobacco,  and  glass  phials  tinkled in  the
closet.
     'By  kindness. The  only  possible  method when  dealing  with a living
creature. You'll  get nowhere  with an animal  if  you use terror, no matter
what its  level of development may be. That  I  have maintained, do maintain
and always  will maintain. People who think  you can use  terror  are  quite
wrong. No, terror's useless, whatever its colour - white, red or even brown!
Terror completely paralyses the nervous  system. Zina! I bought  this little
scamp some Cracow sausage for 1 rouble 40 kopecks. Please see that he is fed
when he gets over his nausea.'
     There  was  a crunching noise as glass splinters were  swept  up  and a
woman's voice said  teasingly: 'Cracower! Goodness,  you  ought  to buy  him
twenty kopecks-worth of scraps from the butcher. I'd rather eat the Cracower
myself!'
     'You  just  try!  That stuff's poison for human stomachs. A grown woman
and  you're ready to poke anything  into your mouth  like a child. Don't you
dare! I warn you that neither I nor Doctor Bormenthal will lift a finger for
you when your stomach finally gives out . . .'
     Just then a bell tinkled all through the flat and from far  away in the
hall came the sound of voices. The telephone rang. Zina disappeared.
     Philip Philipovich threw his cigar butt  into  the bucket, buttoned  up
his  white coat, smoothed his bushy moustache in  front of a  mirror  on the
wall 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  quickly
felt 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 was
brightly  lit from above by a round cut-glass lamp  in the ceiling. When the
varnished door opened he trotted into Philip Philipovich's study. Its luxury
blinded him. Above all it was blazing  with light: there was a light hanging
from the moulded ceiling, a light on the desk,  lights on the walls,  lights
on the glass-fronted cabinets. The light poured over countless knick-knacks,
of which  the most striking was an enormous owl perched on a branch fastened
to the wall.
     'Lie down,' ordered Philip Philipovich.
     The carved  door  at the other end of  the room opened and in  came the
doctor who had been bitten. In the bright light he now looked very young and
handsome, with a pointed beard. He put  down a sheet of paper and said: 'The
same as before . . .'
     Then  he  silently  vanished  and  Philip  Philipovich,  spreading  his
coat-tails, sat down  behind the huge  desk and immediately looked extremely
dignified and important.
     No, this can't  be  a hospital, I've landed up  somewhere else, the dog
thought  confusedly  and  stretched  out  on the patterned  carpet beside  a
massive 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 extraordinary
that the dog gave a timid yelp . . .
     'Shut up! . . . My dear fellow, I hardly recognised you!'
     Embarrassed, the  visitor  bowed  politely to  Philip  Philipovich  and
giggled nervously.
     'You're a wizard, a magician, professor!' he said bashfully.
     'Take down  your  trousers, old man,'  ordered Philip Philip-ovich  and
stood up.
     Christ, thought  the  dog, what  a sight! The man's hair was completely
green,  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.  His
left  leg would not  bend and had  to be dragged across  the carpet, but his
right leg  was as springy as a jack-in-the-box.  In  the  buttonhole  of his
superb jacket there shone, like an eye, a precious stone.
     The  dog was  so fascinated that he even forgot his  nausea. Oow-ow, he
whined softly.
     'Quiet! . . . How have you been sleeping!'
     The  man giggled. 'Are  we alone, professor? It's  indescribable,' said
the  visitor coyly. 'Parole d'honneur - I haven't known anything like it for
twenty-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  the
pupils  of his  visitor's  eyes. The man finally succeeded in mastering  his
flybuttons  and   took  off   his  checked   trousers,  revealing  the  most
extraordinary  pair  of pants.  They  were cream-coloured,  embroidered with
black silk cats and they smelled of perfume.
     The dog could not resist the cats and  gave such a  bark  that the  man
jumped.
     '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. It
was decorated  with a picture  of a naked girl with flowing hair. He  gave a
start, bent down to pick it up and blushed violently.
     'Look here,' said Philip Philipovich in a tone of grim warning, wagging
a threatening finger, 'you shouldn't overdo it, you know.'
     'I'm  not  overdo  . . .' the creature muttered in  embarrassment as he
went 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, I
haven't  known anything like it for twenty-five years. The last  time was in
1899 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  never
believe, professor, what those rogues palmed  off on me instead of dye. Just
take a look,' the  man muttered, searching  for a mirror. 'I'd like to punch
him on the snout,' he added in a rage. 'What am I to do now, professor?'  he
asked tearfully.
     'H'm. Shave all your hair off.'
     'But, professor,' cried the visitor miserably, 'then it would only grow
grey  again. Besides,  I daren't show my  face  at the office  like  this. I
haven't been there for three days. Ah, professor, if only you had discovered
a way of rejuvenating hair!'
     'One thing  at a time, old man, one thing at  a time,' muttered  Philip
Philipovich. Bending down, his glittering  eyes examined the patient's naked
abdomen.
     'Splendid, everything's in great shape. To tell you the  truth I didn't
even expect such results. You can get dressed now.'
     '  "Ah, she's  so  lovely .  .  ." ' sang the patient  in  a voice that
quavered  like the  sound  of  someone  hitting  an old,  cracked  saucepan.
Beaming, he started to dress. When he was  ready he skipped across the floor
in  a cloud  of  perfume,  counted  out  a heap  of  white banknotes on  the
professor's desk and shook him tenderly by both hands.
     'You needn't  come back for two weeks,' said Philip Philipovich, 'but I
must beg you - be careful.'
     The  ecstaticvoice  replied   from   behind   thedoor:  'Don't   worry,
professor.' The creature gave  a delighted giggle  and  went.  The  doorbell
tinkled through  the apartment  and the varnished door opened, admitting the
other 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 planted
gaily 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 as
red as a painted doll. She was extremely nervous.
     'How  old  are  you,  madam?'  enquired Philip  Philipovich  with great
severity.
     Frightened, the  lady paled  under her coating  of rouge. 'Professor, I
swear that if you knew the agony I've been going through . . .!'
     'How  old  are  you,  madam?'  repeated  Philip  Philipovich  even more
sternly.
     'Honestly . . . well, forty-five . . .'
     'Madam,' groaned Philip  Philipovich,  I am a  busy man.  Please  don't
waste 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 spectacles
glittering.
     '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 she
unbuttoned the fasteners on  her belt, 'this boy Moritz ... I honestly admit
to you . . .'
     '  "From Granada  to  Seville  .  .  ."  '  Philip  Philipovich  hummed
absentmindedly and pressed the foot-pedal of his marble washbasin. There was
a sound of running water.
     'I swear to God,' said the lady, patches of real colour showing through
the  rouge on  her cheeks, 'this will  be my last affair. Oh,  he's  such  a
brute! Oh,  professor!  All Moscow knows he's  a  card-sharper and  he can't
resist  any little  tart of  a dressmaker  who catches his  eye. But he's so
deliciously young . . .'As she talked the lady pulled out a crumpled blob of
lace from under her rustling skirts.
     A  mist  came  in  front  of  the  dog's eyes  and his brain  turned  a
somersault. To  hell with you, he  thought vaguely, laying his  head  on his
paws and closing his eyes with embarrassment. I'm not going to try and guess
what all this is about -it's beyond me, anyway.
     He was wakened by a tinkling sound and saw that Philip  Philipovich had
tossed some little shining tubes into a basin.
     The painted lady, her hands pressed to  her bosom, was gazing hopefully
at Philip Philipovich. Frowning impressively he had sat down at his desk and
was writing something.
     'I  am going  to implant some monkey's  ovaries into  you,  madam,'  he
announced 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 go
into 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 - 500
roubles.'
     'I'll pay, professor!'
     Again came the sound of running water, the feathered hat swayed out, to
be replaced  by  a  head as  bald as a  dinner-plate which  embraced  Philip
Philipovich. As  his  nausea  passed, the dog dozed off, luxuriating in  the
warmth and the sense of relief as his injury healed. He even snored a little
and managed to enjoy a snatch of a pleasant dream - he dreamed he had torn a
whole tuft of feathers out of the  owl's tail .  . . until an agitated voice
started 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  like
that. You must restrain yourself. How old is she?'
     'Fourteen,  professor . . . The scandal would ruin me, you see. I'm due
to go abroad on official business any day now.'
     'I'm afraid I'm not a  lawyer . . . you'd better wait a couple of years
and then marry her.'
     'I'm married already, professor.'
     'Oh, lord!'
     The door  opened,  faces  changed,  instruments  clattered  and  Philip
Philipovich worked on unceasingly.
     This place is indecent, thought the  dog,  but I like it! What the hell
can he want me for, though? Is he just going to let me live here? Maybe he's
eccentric.  After  all,  he could  get  a pedigree dog  as  easy as winking.
Perhaps  I'm good-looking! What  luck.  As for that  stupid owl . . . cheeky
brute.
     The dog  finally woke up late in the evening when the bells had stopped
ringing 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 modestly
dressed.
     What's all this?  thought the dog in  astonishment.  Philip Philipovich
treated these visitors with  considerable  hostility. He stood at  his desk,
staring  at  them like a general confronting the enemy.  The nostrils of his
hawk-like nose were dilated. The party shuffled awkwardly across the carpet.
     'The  reason why we've come  to see you, professor . . .'  began one of
them, 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 my
carpets are Persian.'
     The young man with the  shock of hair broke off, and all four stared at
Philip  Philipovich in consternation. The silence lasted several minutes and
was only broken by the drumming of Philip Philipovich's fingers on a painted
wooden platter on his desk.
     'Firstly, we're not gentlemen,' the youngest of  them, with a face like
a peach, said finally.
     'Secondly,'  Philip Philipovich interrupted him,  'are you a  man or  a
woman?'
     The four were silent again and their mouths dropped open. This time the
shock-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  a
leather jerkin,  and blushed  heavily. For some  reason one of the others, a
fair 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 dear
sir, to remove your headgear,' said Philip Philipovich imposingly.
     'I  am not your dear sir,' said the fair youth sharply, pulling off his
sheepskin 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 the
dark youth with suppressed fury. 'I am Shvonder, her name is Vyazemskaya and
these two are comrades Pestrukhin and Sharovkyan. So we . . .'
     'Are you the  people  who were  moved in as  extra  tenants into Fyodor
Pavlovich Sablin's apartment?' 'Yes, we are,' replied Shvonder.
     'God, what is this place  coming to!'  exclaimed  Philip Philipovich in
despair and wrung his  hands.  'What are you laughing for, professor?' 'What
do  you  mean   -  laughing?  I'm  in  absolute   despair,'  shouted  Philip
Philipovich. 'What's going to become of the central heating now?'
     'Are you making fun of  us.  Professor  Preobrazhensky?'  'Why have you
come to  see  me?  Please  be as  quick as possible. I'm  just  going in  to
supper.'
     'We, the house management,' said  Shvonder with  hatred, 'have come  to
see you as a result of a general meeting of the  tenants of this block,  who
are  charged with the problem  of increasing the occupancy of this house . .
.' 28

     'What d'you mean - charged?' cried  Philip Philipovich. 'Please try and
express yourself more clearly.'
     'We are charged with increasing the occupancy.'
     'All right, I  understand! Do yo