Michail Bulgakov. The heart of a dog --------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright 1968 in the English translation by Michael Glenny Collins and Harvill Press London, and Harcourt, Brace & World Inc, New York. OCR:Scout --------------------------------------------------------------- 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