bucket from the consulting-room!'
     Everybody rushed to help  the ailing  Sharikov. As he staggered  off to
bed  supported  by  Bormenthal he  swore  gently and melodiously,  despite a
certain difficulty in enunciation.
     The whole affair had occurred around  1 am and now it was Sam, but  the
two men  in the study talked  on, fortified by brandy and lemon. The tobacco
smoke in the room was so dense that it moved about in slow, flat,  unruffled
swathes.
     Doctor Bormenthal, pale but determined, raised his thin-stemmed glass.
     'Philip Philipovich,'  he exclaimed with great feeling, 'I  shall never
forget how  as a half-starved student I came to you and  you took  me  under
your wing.  Believe  me,  Philip Philipovich, you are much more to me than a
professor, a teacher . . . My respect for you is boundless . . . Allow me to
embrace you, dear Philip Philipovich . . .'
     'Yes,  yes,  my  dear  fellow  .  . .'  grunted  Philip Philipovich  in
embarrassment and rose  to meet  him. Bormenthal embraced him and kissed him
on his bushy, nicotine-stained moustaches.
     'Honestly, Philip Phili . . .'
     'Very  touching,  very   touching  .  .  .  Thank  you,'  said   Philip
Philipovich. 'I'm afraid I sometimes bawl at you during operations. You must
forgive 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 with
great  sincerity.  'Kindly don't talk  like  that  again  unless you want to
offend 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  . . .' cried
Bormenthal passionately. Leaping up from his  place he firmly shut the  door
leading  into  the corridor, came back  and went on in a whisper: 'Don't you
see, 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 dear
professor,  how that  touched me. But I'm not  a child either  and I can see
only too  well  what  a  terrible  affair  this could  be.  But  I am deeply
convinced 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 and
down the  room, disturbing the grey swathes. 'I won't  hear of it. Don't you
realise  what would happen if  they  found us  out? Because of  our  "social
origins"  you  and I  would never get away with it, despite the  fact of  it
being our  first offence. I don't suppose your "origins" are any better than
mine, are they?'
     'I suppose not. My father was a plain-clothes policeman in Vilno,' said
Bormenthal as he drained his brandy glass.
     'There you are, just as I thought.  From the  Bolshevik's point of view
you couldn't  have come from a more  unsuitable background.  Still,  mine is
even worse. My father  was dean of a cathedral. Perfect. ". . . from Granada
to Seville ... in the silent shades of night. . ." So there we are.'
     'But  Philip  Philipovich, you're a celebrity, a figure  of  world-wide
importance, 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   Philipovich
thoughtfully.
     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 shelter
behind  my  world-wide reputation,  do  you?  Really  . .  .  I'm  a  Moscow
University graduate, not a Sharikov.'
     Philip Philipovich  proudly squared  his  shoulders and looked like  an
ancient king of France.
     'Well, then,  Philip Philipovich,'  sighed  Bormenthal. 'What's  to  be
done?  Are  you  just going to  wait until that hooligan turns into  a human
being?'
     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 anatomy
and physiology of, shall we say, the human brain? What's your opinion?'
     'Philip Philipovich -  what  a question!'  replied Bormenthal with deep
feeling and spread his hands.
     'Very well.  No need, therefore, for any false  modesty. I also believe
that 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  in
London and Oxford too!' Bormenthal interrupted furiously.
     'Good. So be it. Now listen to me,  professor-to-be-Bor-menthal: no one
could  ever pull it off. It's obvious. No need to  ask. If anybody asks you,
tell them that Preobrazhensky said so. Finite. Klim!'  -  Philip Philipovich
suddenly  cried triumphantly  and the glass  cabinet  vibrated  in response.
'Klim,' he repeated. 'Now, Bormenthal, you are the first  pupil of my school
and apart  from that my friend, as I was able to convince myself today. So I
will  tell you as  a friend, in secret - because of course  I know that  you
wouldn't expose me - that this old ass Preobrazhensky bungled that operation
like 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' -  here
Philip Philipovich pointed  sadly with both hands towards  the window-blind,
obviously pointing  to  Moscow  - 'but just remember, Ivan Arnoldovich, that
the sole result of that discovery will be that from now on we shall all have
that creature Sharik hanging  round our necks' - here Preobrazhensky slapped
himself 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 down
and skewer me right now, I'd give him 50 roubles reward! ". . . from Granada
to  Seville ..."... Dammit, I spent five years  doing nothing but extracting
cerebral appendages . . . You know how much work I  did on the subject -  an
unbelievable amount. And now comes the crucial question -  what for? So that
one  fine day a  nice  litde  dog  could  be  transformed into a specimen of
so-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  a
researcher, instead of  keeping in step with nature, tries to force the pace
and lift the veil. Result - Sharikov. We have made  our bed and  now we must
lie on it.'
     'Supposing the brain had been Spinoza's, Philip Philipovich?'
     'Yes!'  bellowed  Philip Philipovich. 'Yes! Provided the  wretched  dog
didn't die under the  knife -  and you saw how  tricky the operation was. In
short - I, Philip Preobrazhensky would perform the most difficult feat of my
whole career  by transplanting Spinoza's, or  anyone  else's  pituitary  and
turning  a dog into  a highly  intelligent being. But what  in heaven's name
for? That's the point. Will you kindly  tell me  why one has  to manufacture
artificial Spinozas when  some peasant woman may  produce a real one any day
of  the week? After all, the great Lomonosov  was the son of a peasant woman
from Kholmogory. Mankind, doctor, takes care  of that. Every  year evolution
ruthlessly  casts aside the mass  of dross and  creates a  few  dozen men of
genius who become an ornament to the whole world. Now I hope  you understand
why  I condemned  the  deductions you  made from Sharikov's case history. My
discovery,  which you  are so concerned about, is  worth about as much  as a
bent penny . . . No, don't argue,  Ivan Arnoldovich, I have given it careful
thought. I don't give my views lightly, as you well know. Theoretically  the
experiment  was  interesting. Fine.  The  physiologists  will be  delighted.
Moscow will go mad  ...  But  what is  its  practical value?  What  is  this
creature?'  Preobrazhensky pointed toward the consulting-room where Sharikov
was asleep.
     'An unmitigated scoundrel.'
     'But what  was Klim . . .  Klim,'  cried the  professor. 'What was Klim
Chugunkin?' (Bormenthal opened his mouth.) 'I'll tell you:  two convictions,
an alcoholic,  "take  away all property and divide it up", my beaver hat and
20  roubles gone' - (At this point  Philip  Philipovich  also remembered his
presentation walking-stick and turned  purple.) - 'the swine! ...  I'll  get
that stick back somehow  ... In short the  pituitary is  a  magic box  which
determines the individual human image.  Yes,  individual ..."... from Granda
to Seville . . ." ' shouted Philip Philipovich,  his eyes rolling furiously,
'but not the universal human image. It's the brain itself  in miniature. And
it's of  no use to me at all -  to  hell  with  it.  I was  concerned  about
something  quite  different, about eugenics,  about the  improvement of  the
human race. And now I've ended up by specialising in rejuvenation. You don't
think I do these rejuvenation operations because of the money, do you? I  am
a scientist.'
     'And a great scientist!'  said Bormenthal, gulping down his brandy. His
eyes grew bloodshot.
     'I wanted  to do a  little experiment as a follow-up to my  success two
years ago in extracting sex hormone from the pituitary. Instead of that what
has 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 the
tip of his nose:
     'Right then, professor, if you don't want to, I will  take the  risk of
dosing  him  with  arsenic  myself.  I   don't  care  if  my  father  was  a
plain-clothes policeman under the old regime. When all's  said and done this
creature is yours - your own experimental creation.'
     Philip  Philipovich, limp  and exhausted, collapsed  into his chair and
said:
     'No, my dear boy, I  won't let you do it. I'm sixty, old enough to give
you advice. Never do anything criminal, no matter for what reason. Keep your
hands clean all your life.'
     'But just think,  Philip Philipovich,  what he  may  turn  into if that
character Shvonder  keeps on at him! I'm only just beginning to realise what
Sharikov may become, by God!'
     'Aha, so you realise now, do you? Well I realised it ten days after the
operation. My only comfort is that Shvonder is the  biggest fool of all.  He
doesn't realise that Sharikov is much more of a  threat to him than he is to
me.  At the  moment he's doing all he can  to turn Sharikov  against me, not
realising  that  if  someone in their turn  sets  Sharikov against  Shvonder
himself, there'll  soon  be nothing left of Shvonder but the bones  and  the
beak.'
     'You're right. Just think  of the way he goes for cats. He's a man with
the heart of a dog.'
     'Oh, no, no,' drawled Philip Philipovich in reply. 'You're making a big
mistake, doctor. For heaven's sake  don't insult  the dog. His  reaction  to
cats is purely temporary . . . It's a question of discipline, which could be
dealt with in two or  three weeks, I  assure you.  Another  month  or so and
he'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 a
vacuum. It is, after all, grafted on to a canine brain, you must  allow time
for it to take root. Sharikov now only shows traces of canine  behaviour and
you must remember this - chasing after cats is the least objectionable thing
he 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  his
powerful 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 the
door.
     Footsteps could be clearly heard approaching the study, and there was a
mumble  of  voices. Bormenthal  flung  open the  door  and started  back  in
amazement. Appalled, Philip Philipovich froze in his armchair. In the bright
rectangle of the doorway stood Darya Petrovna in nothing but her nightdress,
her face  hot  and furious.  Both doctor and  professor were  dazzled by the
amplitude of her powerful body, which their  shock  caused them  to  see  as
naked. Darya Petrovna was dragging something along in her enormous hands and
as that 'something' came  to a halt it  slid down and sat on its bottom. Its
short 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 of
potatoes and said:
     'Just look at  our precious lodger Telegraph Telegraphovich. I've  been
married, 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 a
scream, covered her bosom with her arms and vanished.
     'Darya Petrovna, please  forgive us,' the red-faced  Philip Philipovich
shouted after her as soon as he had regained his senses.
     Bormenthal  rolled up his shirtsleeves higher  still  and bore down  on
Sharikov. 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 his
neck and shook him so violently that the material of his shirt tore.
     Philip  Philipovich  threw himself  between them and began to drag  the
puny 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 Philip
Philipovich.  Bormenthal pulled  himself together slightly  and let Sharikov
go. He at once began to whimper.
     'Right,' hissed Bormenthal, 'just wait till tomorrow. I'll fix a little
demonstration for him when he sobers up.'  With  this  he  grabbed  Sharikov
under the  armpit and dragged him to his bed in the  waiting-room.  Sharikov
tried to kick, but his legs refused to obey him.
     Philip Philipovich spread his legs wide, sending the skirts of his robe
flapping,  raised his arms  and  his eyes towards the  lamp in  the corridor
ceiling and sighed.

        Eight

     The 'little demonstration' which Bormenthal had promised  to lay on for
Sharikov  did  not,  however,  take  place  the  following morning,  because
Poligraph Poligraphovich had disappeared from the house. Bormenthal gave way
to despair, cursing himself for a fool for not having hidden  the key of the
front  door.  Shouting  that this  was  unforgivable,  he ended  by  wishing
Sharikov would fall under a bus. Philip Philipovich, who was  sitting in his
study running his fingers through his hair, said:
     'I can just imagine what he must be up to on the street. . . I can just
imagine .. . "from Granada to Seville .. ." My God.'
     'He may  be with  the house  committee,' said Bormenthal furiously, and
dashed off.
     At the house committee he swore at the chairman, Shvonder, so violently
that 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.  Poligraph
Poligraphovich  was not very popular at the house committee either, as  only
yesterday he had taken 7 roubles from the funds, with the excuse that he was
going to buy text books at the co-operative store.
     For a  reward of 3 roubles  Fyodor searched the whole house from top to
bottom. 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 the
sideboard.  Doctor  Bormenthal's gloves,  and all his own  documents.  Darya
Petrovna  and Zina  openly expressed  their delight  and hoped that Sharikov
would  never come back again. Sharikov  had  borrowed  50 roubles from Darya
Petrovna only the day before.
     'Serve you right!' roared  Philip Philipovich,  shaking  his fists. The
telephone rang all that day and all the next day. The doctors saw an unusual
number of  patients and by  the  third day the two  men were  faced with the
question of  what to tell  the police, who  would have to start looking  for
Sharikov in the Moscow underworld.
     Hardly had the word 'police' been  mentioned than the reverent  hush of
Obukhov Street was broken by the roar of a lorry  and all the windows in the
house shook. Then with a confident ring at the bell Poligraph Poligraphovich
appeared and entered  with an air of unusual dignity. In absolute silence he
took off  his  cap and hung  his  coat  on the  hook.  He  looked completely
different. He had on a  second-hand leather tunic, worn leather breeches and
long  English riding-boots laced up to the  knee. An incredible odour of cat
immediately  permeated the whole hall.  As  though  at an  unspoken  word of
command  Preobrazhensky and  Bormenthal  simultaneously crossed their  arms,
leaned against the doorpost and waited for Poligraph  Poligraphovich to make
his  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  stirred
slightly.  Preobrazhensky was the first to collect his wits. Stretching  out
his hand he said: 'Papers.'
     The typewritten  sheet read: 'It is hereby  certified that the  bearer,
comrade Poligraph Poligraphovich Sharikov,  is  appointed in  charge  of the
sub-department  of  the   Moscow  Cleansing   Department   responsible   for
eliminating 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  all
yesterday strangling cats . . .'
     Philip  Philipovich  shuddered and looked  at  Bormenthal,  whose  eyes
reminded him of two black gun-barrels aimed  straight at  Sharikov.  Without
the  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  push
toward  the  fur-coat hanging up  on  a  nearby hook, 'repeat  after me:  "I
apologise .  . ." ' 'All right,  I'll repeat it . . .'  replied the defeated
Sharikov in a husky
     voice.
     Suddenly he took a deep breath, twisted, and tried to shout 'help', but
no sound came out and his head was pushed right into the fur-coat.
     'Doctor, please . . .' Sharikov nodded as a sign that he submitted  and
would
     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  of
intoxication.'
     'Intoxication . . .'
     'I shall never do it again . . .'
     'Do it again . . .'
     'Let  him  go, Ivan  Arnoldovich,'  begged both women at once.  'You're
throttling 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 to
Philip Philipovich's flat to stay?'
     'Where  else  can  I go?' asked  Sharikov  timidly, his  eyes nickering
around 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 kept
silent. He had leaned against the doorpost with a miserable look, chewed his
nails and stared  at the floor.  Then he suddenly looked up  at Sharikov and
asked in a toneless, husky voice:
     'What do you  do with them ... the dead cats,  I mean?' 'They  go to  a
laboratory,' replied  Sharikov,  'where they make them into protein  for the
workers.'
     After this silence  fell on the flat and lasted for two days. Poligraph
Poligraphovich went to work in the morning by truck, returned in the evening
and dined quietly with Philip Philipovich and Bormenthal.
     Although  Bormenthal  and  Sharikov  slept  in  the  same  room  -  the
waiting-room - they did not talk to  each other, which Bormenthal soon found
boring.
     Two days later, however, there appeared a  thin girl wearing eye shadow
and pale fawn stockings, very embarrassed by  the magnificence of  the flat.
In  her  shabby  little coat  she trotted  in behind Sharikov  and  met  the
professor 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 live
with me. Bormenthal  will have to move out of the waiting-room. He's got his
own flat,' said Sharikov in a sullen and very off-hand voice.
     Philip  Philipovich blinked,  reflected for a  moment as he watched the
girl  turn crimson, then  invited  her with  great courtesy to step into his
study 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 you
and I are going to stay here.'
     'I  won't,'  retorted   Sharikov  angrily,   trying  to  follow  Philip
Philipovich and the girl. Her face burned with shame.
     'No, I'm sorry,' Bormenthal took Sharikov by the wrist and led him into
the consulting-room.
     For about five minutes  nothing was heard from the study, then suddenly
came the sound of the girl's muffled sobbing.
     Philip Philipovich stood beside his desk as the girl  wept into a dirty
little lace handkerchief.
     'He told me he'd  been wounded  in  the  war,'  sobbed the  girl. 'He's
lying,'  replied Philip  Philipovich  inexorably. He shook his head and went
on. 'I'm  genuinely sorry for you, but you can't just  go off and  live with
the first  person you  happen  to  meet at  work  . . . my dear child,  it's
scandalous. Here . . .' He opened a desk drawer and took out three 10-rouble
notes.
     'I'd kill  myself,' wept the girl.  'Nothing but salt beef every day in
the  canteen . . . and he threatened me  . . .  then he said he'd been a Red
Army  officer  and he'd  take me to live  in  a posh flat . .  . kept making
passes at me . . . says he's kind-hearted really,  he only hates cats ... He
took 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 still
young.'
     'Did you really find him in a doorway?'
     'Look, I'm offering to  lend you this money -  take it,' grunted Philip
Philipovich.
     The door was then  solemnly  thrown open  and at  Philip  Philipovich's
request Bormenthal led in Sharikov, who glanced shiftily around. The hair on
his head stood up like a scrubbing-brush.
     'You beast,' said the girl, her eyes flashing, her mascara running past
her streakily powdered nose.
     'Where did you get that scar  on your forehead? Try  and explain to the
lady,' 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 a
large 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't
let him do you any harm.' He turned round and gave Sharikov such a look that
he 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 make
sure 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 own
hands. Take care, Sharikov - I mean what I say.' Transfixed, Sharikov stared
at  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's
shout pursued him as he fled.  That night and the  following morning were as
tense  as  the  atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Nobody spoke. The next day
Poligraph Poligraphovich went gloomily off to work by lorry, after waking up
with an uneasy  presentiment, while Professor  Preobrazhensky saw  a  former
patient, a tall, strapping man in uniform, at a quite abnormal hour. The man
insisted on a consultation and  was admitted. As he walked into the study he
politely 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  cap
on 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 respect
I feel .  .  . I've come to ...  er,  warn you. It's obviously nonsense,  of
course. He's simply a scoundrel.' The patient searched in  his briefcase and
took out  a piece of paper. 'It's a  good thing I  was told about this right
away . . .'
     Philip Philipovich slipped a pince-nez over his spectacles and began to
read.  For a  long time he mumbled half-aloud, his expression changing every
moment.  '. .  . also  threatening  to murder  the  chairman  of  the  house
committee, comrade Shvonder, which  shows that he must be keeping a firearm.
And  he makes  counter-revolutionary speeches, and even ordered his domestic
worker,  Zinaida Prokofievna Bunina, to burn Engels  in the stove. He  is an
obvious Menshevik and so is his assistant Ivan Arnoldovich Bormenthal who is
living 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. 'Or
perhaps you need it so that legal proceedings can be made?'
     'Really, professor.' The patient was  most  offended  and blew out  his
nostrils.  'You seem to regard us  with contempt.  I . . .' And  he began to
puff himself up like a turkeycock.
     'Please forgive  me, my dear  fellow!' mumbled  Philip  Philipovich. 'I
really  didn't mean to offend you. Please don't be angry.  You can't believe
what this creature has done to my nerves . . .'
     'So  I can  imagine,' said  the  patient, quite  mollified. 'But what a
swine! I'd be curious to have a look at him. Moscow is full of stories about
you . . .'
     Philip Philipovich could only  gesture in despair. It was then that the
patient  noticed how hunched the professor was looking and that he seemed to
have recently grown much greyer.

        Nine

     The crime ripened, then fell like a stone, as usually happens.  With an
uncomfortable feeling round his heart Poligraph Poligraphovich returned that
evening   by  lorry.   Philip  Philipovich's  voice  invited  him  into  the
consulting-room.  Surprised,  Sharikov  entered and  looked  first,  vaguely
frightened, at Bormenthal's steely face, then at Philip Philipovich. A cloud
of  smoke surrounded the  doctor's head  and  his left  hand, trembling very
slightly, held a cigarette and rested on the shiny handle of the obstetrical
chair.
     With ominous calm Philip Philipovich said:
     'Go  and collect your things at once - trousers,  coat, everything  you
need - then get out of this flat!'
     'What is all this?' Sharikov was genuinely astonished. 'Get out of this
flat  - and today,'  repeated  Philip  Philipovich,  frowning  down  at  his
fingernails.
     An evil  spirit  was at  work inside Poligraph Poligraphovich.  It  was
obvious that his end was in sight and  his  time  nearly up, but  he  hurled
himself towards the inevitable and barked in an angry staccato:
     'Like hell  I  will!  You got  to  give me  my rights. I've a  right to
thirty-seven square feet and I'm staying right here.'
     'Get out of  this  flat,' whispered Philip  Philipovich in a  strangled
voice.
     It was Sharikov himself who invited  his own death.  He raised his left
hand,  which stank  most  horribly of cats,  and cocked a  snook  at  Philip
Philipovich. Then with  his right  hand he  drew  a revolver  on Bormenthal.
Bormenthal's cigarette fell like a shooting star. A few seconds later Philip
Philipovich was hopping  about on broken glass and running  from the cabinet
to the couch.  On  it,  spreadeagled  and  croaking,  lay  a  sub-department
controller of  the City  Cleansing Department;  Bormenthal  the surgeon  was
sitting astride his chest and suffocating him with a small white pad.
     After some minutes Bormenthal, with a most unfamiliar  look, walked out
on to the landing and stuck a notice beside the doorbell:
     The Professor regrets that owing to indisposition he  will be unable to
hold consulting hours  today. Please do not disturb the Professor by ringing
the bell.
     With a  gleaming  penknife  he then cut  the bell-cable,  inspected his
scratched  and  bleeding  face  in  the  mirror and his lacerated,  slightly
trembling  hands. Then he went into the kitchen and said to the anxious Zina
and 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 only
temporary, not because we don't trust you. But if anybody came you might not
be able to keep them out and we mustn't be disturbed. We're busy.'
     'All right,' replied the two women, turning pale. Bormenthal locked the
back door, locked the front door, locked the door from the corridor into the
hall 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 courtyard
said that every light burned that evening in the windows of Preobrazhensky's
consulting-room and that they even saw the professor's white skullcap ... It
is  hard to be  sure. When it  was  all over Zina did say, though, that when
Bormenthal and the professor emerged from the consulting-room, there, by the
study fireplace, Ivan Amoldovich  had frightened her to  death. It seems  he
was squatting down  in  front  of the fire and burning one of the blue-bound
notebooks which contained the medical notes on the professor's patients. The
doctor's face, apparently, was quite  green and completely - yes, completely
- scratched to pieces.  And that evening  Philip  Philipovich had  been most
peculiar. And then there was  another thing  -  but maybe that innocent girl
from the flat in Prechistenka Street was talking rubbish . . .
     One  thing, though, was  certain:  there was  silence in the flat  that
evening - total, frightening silence.

        Epilogue

     One night, exactly ten days to the day after  the struggle in Professor
Preobrazhensky's consulting-room in his flat on Obukhov  Street, there was a
sharp ring of the doorbell.
     'Criminal police. Open up, please.'
     Footsteps  approached, people knocked and entered until  a considerable
crowd  filled the  brightly-lit waiting-room with  its newly-glazed cabinet.
There  were two in police uniform, one in a black  overcoat  and carrying  a
brief-case; there was  chairman Shvonder, pale and  gloating,  and the youth
who had turned out to  be a woman; there was Fyodor  the porter, Zina, Darya
Petrovna and Bormenthal, half dressed and  embarrassed as he tried  to cover
up his tieless neck.
     The door from the study opened to admit Philip Philipovich. He appeared
in his familiar  blue dressing gown and everybody  could  tell  at once that
over  the past  week Philip Philipovich had begun to  look very much better.
The old  Philip Philipovich,  masterful, energetic  and dignified, now faced
his nocturnal visitors and apologised for appearing in his dressing gown.
     'It  doesn't matter, professor,'  said the man in civilian  clothes, in
great embarrassment. He faltered and then said:
     'I'm sorry to say we have a warrant to  search  your flat and' -the men
stared  uneasily  at Philip Philipovich's moustaches  and  ended: 'to arrest
you, 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 paper
from his briefcase.
     'Preobrazhensky,  Bormenthal,  Zinaida  Bunina  and  Darya  Ivanova are
charged   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  general
movement.
     'I don't understand,' replied Philip Philipovich  with  a regal  shrug.
'Who  is this  Sharikov?  Oh, of  course, you mean my  dog . . . the  one  I
operated 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  he
was a man. Anyhow, it's irrelevant. Sharik is alive  at this  moment and  no
one has killed him.'
     'Really,  professor?'  said  the  man  in black,  deeply astonished and
raised his eyebrows. 'In that case you must produce him. It's  ten days  now
since  he disappeared and the evidence, if you'll forgive my saying  so,  is
most 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  study
appeared 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 circus
dog 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.  The
nightmarish-looking dog with the crimson scar on the forehead stood up again
on his hind legs, grinned and sat down in an armchair.
     The second policeman suddenly crossed  himself with a sweeping  gesture
and 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  was
recommended for the job by Mr Shvonder, if I'm not mistaken.'
     'I don't get it,' said the man in black, obviously confused, and turned
to 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 bit
fatter.'
     'But he talked . . .' the man in black giggled nervously.
     'And  he still talks, though less  and less, so if you want to hear him
talk 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. I
tried,  but  unsuccessfully, as you can see. He talked and then he began  to
revert back to his primitive state. Atavism.'
     'Don't swear  at me,' the dog suddenly barked from  his chair and stood
up.
     The man in black turned instantly pale, dropped his briefcase and began
to fall sideways.  A policeman caught him on  one  side and Fyodor supported
him  from behind. There  was  a  sudden  turmoil, clearly pierced  by  three
sentences:
     Philip Philipovich: 'Give him valerian. He's fainted.'
     Doctor Bormenthal: 'I shall personally throw Shvonder downstairs  if he
ever 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 out
the thick Prechistenka Street night sky with  its  lone star. The great, the
powerful benefactor  of dogs sat in his chair while Sharik lay stretched out
on the carpet beside the leather couch. In the  mornings the  March fog made
the dog's head ache, especially around  the circular scar on his  skull, but
by evening the warmth banished the pain. Now it  was easing all the time and
warm, comfortable thoughts flowed through the dog's mind.
     I've  been very, very lucky, he thought sleepily. Incredibly lucky. I'm
really 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.  God
rest her soul. Certainly they  cut my head around a bit, but who cares. None
of my business, really.
     From the  distance came a tinkle of glass. Bormenthal  was tidying  the
shelves of the cabinet in the consulting-room.
     The grey-haired magician sat and hummed: '  ". . .  to the banks of the
sacred Nile . . ." '
     That evening the dog saw terrible  things. He saw the great roan plunge
his  slippery, rubber-gloved hands into  a  jar  to  fish out a  brain; then
relentlessly,  persistently  the  great  man  pursued  his  search. Slicing,
examining, he frowned and sang:
     ' "To the banks of the sacred Nile . . ." '