u realise that under the regulation of
August 12th this year my apartment is exempt from any increase in
occupancy?'
'We know that,' replied Shvonder, 'but when the general meeting had
examined this question it came to the conclusion that taken all round you
are occupying too much space. Far too much. You are living, alone, in seven
rooms.'
'I live and work in seven rooms,' replied Philip Philipovich, 'and I
could 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 a
woman.
'I have a waiting-room, which you will notice also has to serve as my
library, a dining-room, and my study - that makes three. Consulting-room -
four, operating theatre -five. My bedroom - six, and the servant's room
makes seven. It's not really enough. But that's not the point. My apartment
is exempt, and our conversation is therefore at an end. May I go and have
supper?'
'Excuse me,' said the fourth, who looked like a fat beetle.
'Excuse me,' Shvonder interrupted him, 'but it was just because of your
dining-room and your consulting-room that we came to see you. The general
meeting requests you, as a matter of labour discipline, to give up your
dining-room voluntarily. No one in Moscow has a dining-room.'
'Not even Isadora Duncan,' squeaked the woman. Something happened to
Philip 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 can
easily combine your consulting-room with your study.'
'Mm'h,' said Philip Philipovich in a strange voice. 'And where am I
supposed 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 room
and examine patients in the dining-room. I expect that is what Isadora
Duncan does. Perhaps she eats in her study and dissects rabbits in the
bathroom. Perhaps. But I'm not Isadora Duncan. . . !' he turned yellow. 'I
shall eat in the dining-room and operate in the operating theatre! Tell that
to the general meeting, and meanwhile kindly go and mind your own business
and allow me to have my supper in the place where all normal people eat. I
mean in the dining-room - not in the hall and not in the nursery.'
'In that case, professor, in view of your obstinate refusal,' said the
furious Shvonder, 'we shall lodge a complaint about you with higher
authority.'
'Aha,' said Philip Philipovich, 'so that's your game, is it?' And his
voice took on a suspiciously polite note. 'Please wait one minute.'
What a man, thought the dog with delight, he's just like me. Any minute
now 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 tendon
behind his knee . . . ggrrr . . .
Philip Philipovich lifted the telephone receiver, dialled and said into
it: 'Please give me . . . yes . . . thank you. Put me through to Pyotr
Alexandrovich, please. Professor Preobraz-hensky speaking. Pyotr
Alexandrovich? 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 is
cancelled. What? Cancelled. And so are all my other operations. I'll tell
you why:
I am not going to work in Moscow, in fact I'm not going to work in
Russia any longer . . . I am just having a visit from four people, one of
whom is a woman disguised as a man, and two of whom are armed with
revolvers. They are terrorising me in my own apartment and threatening to
evict me.'
'Hey, now, professor . . .' began Shvonder, his expression changing.
'Excuse me ... I can't repeat all they've been saying. I can't make
sense of it, anyway. Roughly speaking they have told me to give up my
consulting-room, which will oblige me to operate in the room I have used
until now for dissecting rabbits. I not only cannot work under such
conditions - I have no right to. So I am closing down my practice, shutting
up my apartment and going to Sochi. I will give the keys to Shvonder. He can
operate for me.'
The four stood rigid. The snow was melting on their boots. 'Can't be
helped, I'm afraid . . . Of course I'm very upset, but ... What? Oh, no,
Pyotr Alexandrovich! Oh, no. That I must flatly refuse. My patience has
snapped. This is the second time since August . . . What? H'm . . . All
right, if you like. I suppose so. Only this time on one condition: I don't
care who issues it, when they issue it or what they issue, provided it's the
sort of certificate which will mean that neither Shvonder nor anyone else
can 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 as
they 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 a
snake'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 an
absolutely special case . . . Yes, we know about his work . . . We were
going 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 handle
them! 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, reddening
with anger, 'I'd have shown him . . .'
'Excuse me, would you like to talk to him now?' enquired Philip
Philipovich 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 coloured
magazines wet with snow, from out of the front of her tunic - 'to buy a few
of 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 the
magazines.
Total amazement showed on the faces, and the girl turned
cranberry-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't
world-famous and if you weren't being protected by certain people in the
most disgusting way,' (the fair youth tugged at the hem of her jerkin, but
she brushed him away), 'which we propose to investigate, you should be
arrested.'
'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 Philipovich
sadly, and pressed a button. A bell rang in the distance. The door opened on
to the corridor.
'Zina!' shouted Philip Philipovich. 'Serve the supper, please. Do you
mind, ladies and gentlemen?'
Silently the four left the study, silently they trooped down the
passage and through the hall. The front door closed loudly and heavily
behind them.
The dog rose on his hind legs in front of Philip Philipovich and
performed obeisance to him.
Three
On gorgeous flowered plates with wide black rims lay thin slices of
salmon 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 plates
stood delicate glasses and three crystal decanters of different-coloured
vodkas. All these objects were on a small marble table, handily placed
beside the huge carved oak sideboard which shone with glass and silver. In
the middle of the room was a table, heavy as a gravestone and covered with a
white tablecloth set with two places, napkins folded into the shape of papal
tiaras, 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 with
saliva. The gardens of Semiramis! he thought as he thumped the floor with
his tail.
'Bring it here,' ordered Philip Philipovich greedily. 'I beg you,
Doctor Bormenthal, leave the caviare alone. And if you want a piece of good
advice, don't touch the English vodka but drink the ordinary Russian stuff.'
The handsome Bormenthal - who had taken off his white coat and was
wearing a smart black suit - shrugged his broad shoulders, smirked politely
and 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 is
quite good enough.'
'Vodka should be at least 40 degrees, not 30 - that's firstly,' Philip
Philipovich interrupted him didactically, 'and secondly - God knows what
muck 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 his
glass 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 for
life. "From Granada to Seville . . ." '
With these words he speared something like a little piece of black
bread on his silver fish-fork. Bormenthal followed his example. Philip
Philipovich'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 only
people who eat cold hors d'oeuvres nowadays are the few remaining landlords
who haven't had their throats cut. Anybody with a spark of self-respect
takes his hors d'oeuvres hot. And of all the hot hors d'oeuvres in Moscow
this is the best. Once they used to do them magnificently at the Slavyansky
Bazaar restaurant. There, you can have some too.'
'If you feed a dog at table,' said a woman's voice, 'you won't get him
out of here afterwards for love or money.'
'I don't mind. The poor thing's hungry.' On the point of his fork
Pliilip Philipovich handed the dog a tit-bit, which the animal took with the
dexterity of a conjuror. The professor then threw the fork with a clatter
into the slop-basin.
The dishes now steamed with an odour of lobster; the dog sat in the
shadow of the tablecloth with the look of a sentry by a powder magazine as
Philip 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 only
know what to eat, but when and how.' (Philip Philipovich waved his fork
meaningfully.) 'And what to say while you're eating. Yes, my dear sir. If
you care about your digestion, my advice is - don't talk about bolshevism or
medicine at table. And, God forbid - never read Soviet newspapers before
dinner.'
'M'mm . . . But there are no other newspapers.'
'In that case don't read any at all. Do you know I once made thirty
tests in my clinic. And what do you think? The patients who never read
newspapers felt excellent. Those whom I specially made read Pravda all lost
weight.
'H'm . . .' rejoined Bormenthal with interest, turning gently pink from
the 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 appeared
through the cerise portiere. The dog was given a thick, white piece of
sturgeon, which he did not like, then immediately afterwards a chunk of
underdone roast beef. When he had gulped it down the dog suddenly felt that
he wanted to sleep and could not bear the sight of any more food. Strange
feeling, he thought, blinking his heavy eyelids, it's as if my eyes won't
look at food any longer. As for smoking after they've eaten - that's crazy.
The dining-room was filling with unpleasant blue smoke. The animal
dozed, its head on its forepaws. 'Saint Julien is a very decent wine,' the
dog 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,' replied
Zina.
'What, again?' exclaimed Philip Philipovich mournfully. 'Well, this is
the end of this house. I'll have to go away -but where to? I can see exactly
what'll happen. First of all there'll be community singing in the evening,
then the pipes will freeze in the lavatories, then the central heating
boiler will blow up and so on. This is the end.'
'Philip Philipovich worries himself to death,' said Zina with a smile
as she cleared away a pile of plates.
'How can I help it?' exploded Philip Philipovich. 'Don't you know what
this house used to be like?'
'You take too black a view of things, Philip Philipovich,' objected the
handsome 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 who
observes. I'm the enemy of unsupported hypotheses. And I'm known as such not
only in Russia but in Europe too. If I say something, that means that it is
based on some fact from which I draw my conclusions. Now there's a fact for
you: 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 a
great 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 in
red pencil not one case - of a single pair of galoshes disappearing from
that rack even when the front door was open. There are, kindly note, twelve
flats in this house and a constant stream of people coming to my
consulting-rooms. One fine day in March 1917 all the galoshes disappeared,
including two pairs of mine, three walking sticks, an overcoat and the
porter's samovar. And since then the rack has ceased to exist. And I won't
mention the boiler. The rule apparently is - once a social revolution takes
place there's no need to stoke the boiler. But I ask you: why, when this
whole business started, should everybody suddenly start clumping up and down
the marble staircase in dirty galoshes and felt boots? Why must we now keep
our galoshes under lock and key? And put a soldier on guard over them to
prevent them from being stolen? Why has the carpet been removed from the
front staircase? Did Marx forbid people to keep their staircases carpeted?
Did Karl Marx say anywhere that the front door of No. 2 Kalabukhov House in
Prechistenka Street must be boarded up so that people have to go round and
come in by the back door? WTiat good does it do anybody? Why can't the
proletarians leave their galoshes downstairs instead of dirtying the
staircase?'
'But the proletarians don't have any galoshes, Philip Philipovich,'
stammered the doctor.
'Nothing of the sort!' replied Philip Philipovich in a voice of
thunder, and poured himself a glass of wine. 'H'mm ... I don't approve of
liqueurs after dinner. They weigh on the digestion and are bad for the liver
. . . Nothing of the sort! The proletarians do have galoshes now and those
galoshes are - mine! The very ones that vanished in the spring of 1917. Who
removed them, you may ask? Did I remove them? Impossible. The bourgeois
Sablin?' (Philip Philipovich pointed upwards to the ceiling.) 'The very
idea's laughable. Polozov, the sugar manufacturer?' (Philip Philipovich
pointed to one side.) 'Never! You see? But if they'd only take them off when
they come up the staircase!' (Philip Philipovich started to turn purple.)
'Why on earth do they have to remove the flowers from the landing? Why does
the electricity, which to the best of my recollection has only failed twice
in the past twenty years, now go out regularly once a month? Statistics,
Doctor Bormenthal, are terrible things. You who know my latest work must
realise that better than anybody.' 'The place is going to ruin, Philip
Philipovich.'
'No,' countered Philip Philipovich quite firmly. 'No. You must first of
all 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 you
mean by ruin? An old woman with a broomstick? A witch who smashes all the
windows and puts out all the lights? No such thing. What do you mean by that
word?' Philip Philipovich angrily enquired of an unfortunate cardboard duck
hanging 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 to
start a glee club in my apartment, that would mean that I was on the road to
ruin. If when I go to the lavatory I don't pee, if you'll excuse the
expression, into the bowl but on to the floor instead and if Zina and Darya
Petrovna were to do the same thing, the lavatory would be ruined. Ruin,
therefore, is not caused by lavatories but it's something that starts in
people's heads. So when these clowns start shouting "Stop the ruin!" - I
laugh!' (Philip Philipovich's face became so distorted that the doctor's
mouth fell open.) 'I swear to you, I find it laughable! Every one of them
needs to hit himself on the back of the head and then when he has knocked
all the hallucinations out of himself and gets on with sweeping out
backyards - which is his real job - all this "ruin" will automatically
disappear. You can't serve two gods! You can't sweep the dirt out of the
tram tracks and settle the fate of the Spanish beggars at the same time! No
one can ever manage it, doctor - and above all it can't be done by people
who are two hundred years behind the rest of Europe and who so far can't
even manage to do up their own fly-buttons properly!'
Philip Philipovich had worked himself up into a frenzy. His hawk-like
nostrils were dilated. Fortified by his ample dinner he thundered like an
ancient prophet and his hair shone like a silver halo.
His words sounded to the sleepy dog like a dull subterranean rumble. At
first he dreamed uneasily that the owl with its stupid yellow eyes had
hopped off its branch, then he dreamed about the vile face of that cook in
his dirty white cap, then of Philip Philipovich's dashing moustaches sharply
lit by electric light from the lampshade. The dreamy sleigh-ride came to an
end as the mangled piece of roast beef, floating in gravy, stewed away in
the dog's stomach.
He could earn plenty of money by talking at political meetings, the dog
thought sleepily. That was a great speech. Still, he's rolling in money
anyway.
'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 he
wears a number or a red cap. A policeman should be posted alongside every
person in the country with the job of moderating the vocal outbursts of our
honest citizenry. You talk about ruin. I tell you, doctor, that nothing will
change 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 put
an end to this mad chorus the situation will automatically change for the
better.'
'You sound like a counter-revolutionary, Philip Philipovich,' said the
doctor jokingly. 'I hope to God nobody hears you.'
'I'm doing no harm,' Philip Philipovich objected heatedly. 'Nothing
counter-revolutionary in all that. Incidentally, that's a word I simply
can'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's
full of sound sense and a lifetime of experience.'
At this point Philip Philipovich pulled the end of his luxurious napkin
out of his collar. Crumpling it up he laid it beside his unfinished glass of
wine. Bormenthal at once rose and thanked his host.
'Just a minute, doctor,' Philip Philipovich stopped him and took a
wallet out of his hip pocket. He frowned, counted out some white 10-rouble
notes and handed them to the doctor, saying, 'You are due for 40 roubles
today, Ivan Arnoldovich. There you are.'
Still in slight pain from his dog-bite, the doctor thanked him and
blushed 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 Bolshoi
this evening. It's a long time since I heard it. I love it ... Do you
remember that duet? Pom-pom-ti-pom . . .'
'How do you find time for it, Philip Philipovich?' asked the doctor
with 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 meetings
and carolling like a nightingale all day long, I'd never find time to go
anywhere' - the repeater in Philip Philipovich's pocket struck its celestial
chimes as he pressed the button - 'It starts at nine. I'll go in time for
the second act. I believe in the division of labour. The Bolshoi's job is to
sing, mine's to operate. That's how things should be. Then there'd be none
of this "ruin" . . . Look, Ivan Arnoldovich, you must go and take a careful
look: as soon as he's properly dead, take him off the table, put him
straight 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 ours
and stitch him up. I want his flank to heal . . .'
He's worrying about me, thought the dog, good for him. Now I know what
he is. He's the wizard, the magician, the sorcerer out of those dogs' fairy
tales ... I can't have dreamed it all. Or have I? (The dog shuddered in his
sleep.) Any minute now I'll wake up and there'll be nothing here. No
silk-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 vanished
like a bad dream and never came back.
Clearly the country was not yet in a total state of ruin. In spite of
it the grey accordion-shaped radiators under the windows filled with heat
twice a day and warmth flowed in waves through the whole apartment. The dog
had obviously drawn the winning ticket in the dogs' lottery. Never less than
twice a day his eyes filled with tears of gratitude towards the sage of
Prechistenka. Every mirror in the living-room or the hall reflected a
good-looking, successful dog.
I am handsome. Perhaps I'm really a dog prince, living incognito, mused
the dog as he watched the shaggy, coffee-coloured dog with the smug
expression strolling about in the mirrored distance. I wouldn't be surprised
if my grandmother didn't have an affair with a labrador. Now that I look at
my 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 any
stray mongrel.
In two weeks the dog ate as much as in his previous six weeks on the
street. Only by weight, of course. In quality the food at the professor's
apartment was incomparable. Apart from the fact that Darya Petrovna bought a
heap of meat-scraps for 18 kopecks every day at the Smolensk market, there
was dinner every evening in the dining-room at seven o'clock, at which the
dog was always present despite protests from the elegant Zina. It was during
these meals that Philip Philipovich acquired his final title to divinity.
The dog stood on his hind legs and nibbled his jacket, the dog learned to
recognise Philip Philipovich's ring at the door - two loud, abrupt
proprietorial 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 with
millions 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 any
harm? Was it, now? Why did you smash the portrait of Professor Mechnikov?'
'He needs at least one good whipping, Philip Philipovich,' said Zina
indignantly, 'or he'll become completely spoiled. Just look what he's done
to your galoshes.'
'No one is to be beaten,' said Philip Philipovich heatedly, 'remember
that once and for all. Animals and people can only be influenced by
persuasion. Have you given him his meat today?'
'Lord, he's eaten us out of house and home. What a question, Philip
Philipovich. 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 little
ruffian?'
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 the
hall and into the study. He whined, snapped, clawed at the carpet and slid
along on his rump as if he were doing a circus act. In the middle of the
study floor lay the glass-eyed owl. From its disembowelled stomach flowed a
stream of red rags that smelled of mothballs. Scattered on the desk were the
fragments 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 little
brute, and then - bang! - he had the owl by the tail. Before I knew what was
happening he had torn it to pieces. Rub his nose in the owl, Philip
Philipovich, so that he learns not to spoil things.'
Then the howling began. Clawing at the carpet, the dog was dragged over
to have his nose rubbed in the owl. He wept bitter tears and thought: Beat
me, do what you like, but don't throw me out.
'Send the owl to the taxidermist at once. There's 8 roubles, and 16
kopecks for the tram-fare, go down to Murat's and buy him a good collar and
a lead.'
Next day the dog was given a wide, shiny collar. As soon as he saw
himself in the mirror he was very upset, put his tail between his legs and
disappeared into the bathroom, where he planned to pull the collar off
against a box or a basket. Soon, however, the dog realised that he was
simply a fool. Zina took him walking on the lead along Obukhov Street. The
dog trotted along like a prisoner under arrest, burning with shame, but as
he walked along Prechistenka Street as far as the church of Christ the
Saviour he soon realised exactly what a collar means in life. Mad envy
burned in the eyes of every dog he met and at Myortvy Street a shaggy
mongrel 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 collar
with approval and respect. When they returned home the most amazing thing of
all happened - with his own hands Fyodor the porter opened the front door to
admit Sharik and Zina, remarking to Zina as he did so: 'What a sight he was
when 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. Wagging
his tail, he climbed up to the mezzanine like a gentleman.
Once having appreciated the proper value of a collar, the dog made his
first visit to the supreme paradise from which hitherto he had been
categorically barred - the realm of the cook, Darya Petrovna. Two square
inches 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 heat
and 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 on
the back of her head flashed twenty-two imitation diamonds. Golden saucepans
hung on hooks round the walls, the whole kitchen seethed with smells, while
covered 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 backed
towards the door, his muzzle raised appealingly towards her.
The dog Sharik possessed some secret which enabled him to win people's
hearts. Two days later he was stretched out beside the coal-scuttle watching
Darya Petrovna at work. With a thin sharp knife she cut off the heads and
claws of a flock of helpless grouse, then like a merciless executioner
scooped the guts out of the fowls, stripped the flesh from the bones and put
it into the mincer. Sharik meanwhile gnawed a grouse's head. Darya Petrovna
fished lumps of soaking bread out of a bowl of milk, mixed them on a board
with the minced meat, poured cream over the whole mixture, sprinkled it with
salt and kneaded it into cutlets. The stove was roaring like a furnace, the
frying pan sizzled, popped and bubbled. The oven door swung open with a
roar, revealing a terrifying inferno of heaving, crackling flame.
In the evening the fiery furnace subsided and above the curtain
half-way up the kitchen window hung the dense, ominous night sky of
Prechistenka Street with its single star. The kitchen floor was damp, the
saucepans shone with a dull, mysterious glow and on the table was a
fireman's cap. Sharik lay on the warm stove, stretched out like a lion above
a gateway, and with one ear cocked in curiosity he watched through the
half-open door of Zina's and Darya Petrovna's room as an excited,
black-moustached man in a broad leather belt embraced Darya Petrovna. All
her face, except her powdered nose, glowed with agony and passion. A streak
of 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. 'Stop
it! Zina will be back soon. What's the matter with you - have you been
rejuvenated too?'
'I don't need rejuvenating,' croaked the black-moustached fireman
hoarsely, scarcely able to control himself. 'You're so passionate!'
In the evenings the sage of Prechistenka Street retired behind his
thick blinds and if there was no A'ida at the Bolshoi Theatre and no meeting
of the All-Russian Surgical Society, then the great man would settle down in
a deep armchair in his study. There were no ceiling lights; the only light
came from a green-shaded lamp on the desk. Sharik lay on the carpet in the
shadows, unable to take his eyes off the horrors that lined the room.
Human brains floated in a disgustingly acrid, murky liquid in glass
jars. On his forearms, bared to the elbow, the great man wore red rubber
globes as his blunt, slippery fingers delved into the convoluted grey
matter. Now and again he would pick up a small glistening knife and calmly
slice 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 Bolshoi
Theatre.
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 over
the room. In the dog's fur the warmth wakened the last flea, which had
somehow managed to escape Philip Philipovich's comb. The carpets deadened
all sound in the flat. Then, from far away, came the sound of the front door
bell.
Zina's gone out to the cinema, thought the dog, and I suppose we'll
have supper when she gets home. Something tells me that it's veal chops
tonight!
On the morning of that terrible day Sharik had felt a sense of
foreboding, which had made him suddenly break into a howl and he had eaten
his 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 taken
him for his walk along the avenue, passed normally. There were no patients
that day as it was Tuesday - a day when as we all know there are no
consulting hours. The master was in his study, several large books with
coloured pictures spread out in front of him on the desk. It was nearly
supper-time. The dog was slightly cheered by the news from the kitchen that
the second course tonight was turkey. As he was walking down the passage the
dog heard the startling, unexpected noise of Philip Philipovich's telephone
bell ringing. Philip Philipovich picked up the receiver, listened and
suddenly 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 served
immediately: 'Supper! Supper!'
Immediately there was a clatter of plates in the dining-room and Zina
ran in, pursued by the voice of Darya Petrovna grumbling that the turkey was
not 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 an
even more disagreeable nature. This was largely due to the appearance of
Doctor Bormenthal, who brought with him an evil-smelling trunk and without
waiting to remove his coat started heaving it down the corridor into the
consulting-room. Philip Philipovich put down his unfinished cup of coffee,
which normally he would never do, and ran out to meet Bormenthal, another
quite untypical thing for him to do.
'When did he die?' he cried.
'Three hours ago,' replied Bormenthal, his snow-covered hat still on
his head as he unstrapped the trunk.
Who's died? wondered the dog sullenly and disagreeably as he slunk
under 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 not
to let anybody in. I need you here. Doctor Bormenthal - please hurry!'
I don't like this, scowled the dog, offended, and wandered off round
the apartment. All the bustle, it seemed, was confined to the
consulting-room. Zina suddenly appeared in a white coat like a shroud and
began 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 the
consulting-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 and
uneasy.
Right. This means the end of your galoshes tomorrow, Philip
Philipovich, he thought. You've already had to buy two new pairs. Now you're
going to have to buy another. That'll teach you to lock up dogs.
Suddenly a violent thought crossed his mind. Instantly and clearly he
remembered a scene from his earliest youth -a huge sunny courtyard near the
Preobrazhensky 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? mused
the dog, with a sniff. I've got used to this life. I'm a gentleman's dog
now, an intelligent being, I've tasted better things. Anyhow, what is
freedom? 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 shouting
into a barrel.
I'll tear that owl to pieces again, thought the dog, furious but
impotent. Then he felt weak and lay down. When he got up his coat suddenly
stood up on end, as he had an eerie feeling that a horrible, wolfish pair of
eyes was staring at him from the bath.
In the midst of his agony the door opened. The dog went out, shook
himself, and made gloomily for the kitchen, but Zina firmly dragged him by
the collar into the consulting-room. The dog felt a sudden chill around his
heart.
What do they want me for? he wondered suspiciously. My side has healed
up - I don't get it. Sliding along on his paws over the slippery parquet, he
was pulled into the consulting-room. There he was immediately shocked by the
unusually brilliant lighting. A white globe on the ceiling shone so brightly
that it hurt his eyes. In the white glare stood the high priest, humming
through his teeth something about the sacred Nile. The only way of
recognising him as Philip Philipovich was a vague smell. His smoothed-back
grey hair was hidden under a white cap, making him look as if he were
dressed up as a patriarch; the divine figure was all in white and over the
white, like a stole, he wore a narrow rubber apron. His hands were in black
gloves.
The other doctor was also there. The long table was fully unfolded, a
small square box placed beside it on a shining stand.
The dog hated the other doctor more than anyone else and more than ever
because of the look in his eyes. Usually frank and bold, they now flickered
in all directions to avoid the dog's eyes. They were watchful, treacherous
and in their depths lurked something mean and nasty, even criminal. Scowling
at him, the dog slunk into a comer.