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away to avoid seeing the blood-spattered dog. With chalky hands the great
man pulled off his skull-cap and cried:
"Give me a cigarette, Zina. And then some clean clothes and a bath.'
Layino- his chin on the edge of the table he parted the dog's right
eyelids, peered into the obviously moribund eye and said:
'Well, I'll be ... He's not dead yet. Still, he'll die. I feel sorry
for the dog, Bormenthal. He was naughty but I couldn't help liking him.'
Subject of experiment: Male dog aged approx. 2 years.
Breed: Mongrel.
Name: 'Sharik'.
Coat sparse, in tufts, brownish with traces of singeing. Tail the
colour of baked milk. On right flank traces of healed second-degree burn.
Previous nutritional state -poor. After a week's stay with Prof.
Preobrazhensky -extremely well nourished. Weight: 8 kilograms (!). Heart: .
. . Lungs: . . . Stomach: . . . Temperature: . . .
December 23rd At 8.05pm Prof. Preobrazhensky commenced the first
operation of its kind to be performed in Europe: removal under anaesthesia
of the dog's testicles and their replacement by implanted human testes, with
appendages and seminal ducts, taken from a 28-year-old human male, dead 4
hours and 4 minutes before the operation and kept by Prof. Preobrazhensky in
sterilised physiological fluid.
Immediately thereafter, following a trepanning operation on the cranial
roof, the pituitary gland was removed and replaced by a human pituitary
originating from the above-mentioned human male. Drugs used: Chloroform - 8
cc.
Camphor - 1 syringe.
Adrenalin - 2 syringes (by cardiac injection ).
Purpose of operation: Experimental observation by Prof. Preobrazhensky
of the effect of combined transplantation of the pituitary and testes in
order to study both the functional viability in a host-organism and its role
in cellular etc. rejuvenation.
Operation performed by; Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky. Assisted by: Dr I.
A. Bormenthal. During the night following the operation, frequent and grave
weakening of the pulse. Dog apparently in terminal state.
Preobrazhensky prescribes camphor injections in massive dosage.
December 24th am Improvement. Respiration rate doubled. Temperature:
42C. Camphor and caffeine injected subcutaneously.
December 25th Deterioration.
Pulse barely detectable, cooling of the extremities, no pupillary
reaction. Preobrazhensky orders cardiac injection of adrenalin and camphor,
intravenous injections of physiological solution.
December 26th Slight improvement. Pulse: 180.
Respiration: 92. Temperature: 41C. Camphor. Alimentation per rectum.
December 27th Pulse: 152. Respiration: 50. Temperature: 39.8C.
Pupillary reaction. Camphor - subcutaneous.
December 28th Significant improvement. At noon sudden heavy
perspiration. Temperature: 37C.
Condition of surgical wounds unchanged. Re-bandaged. Signs of appetite.
Liquid alimentation.
December 29th Sudden moulting of hair on forehead and torso. The
following were summoned for consultation:
1. Professor of Dermatology - Vasily Vasilievich Bundaryov.
2. Director, Moscow Veterinary Institute.
Both stated the case to be without precedent in medical literature.
No diagnosis established.
Temperature: (entered in pencil).
8.15pm. First bark.
Distinct alteration of timbre and lowering of pitch
noticeable. Instead of diphthong 'aow-aow', bark now enunciated on
vowels 'ah-oh', in intonation reminiscent
of a groan.
December 30th Moulting process has progressed to almost total baldness.
Weighing produced the unexpected result of 80 kg., due to growth
(lengthening of the bones). Dog still lying prone.
December 31st Subject exhibits colossal appetite.
(Ink-blot. After the blot the following entry in scrawled
hand-writing): At 12.12pm the dog distinctly pronounced the sounds
'Nes-set-a'.
(Gap in entries. The following entries show errors due to excitement):
December 1st (deleted; corrected to): January 1st 1925. Dog
photographed a.m.
Cheerfully barks 'Nes-set-a', repeating loudly and with apparent
pleasure.
3.0pm (in heavy lettering): Dog laughed, causing maid Zina to faint.
Later, pronounced the following 8 times in succession: 'Nesseta-ciled'.
(Sloping characters, written in pencil):
The professor has deciphered the word 'Nesseta-ciled' by reversal: it
is 'delicatessen' . . . Quite extraord . . .
January 2nd Dog photographed by magnesium flash while smiling. Got up
and remained confidently on hind legs for a half-hour. Now nearly my height.
(Loose page inserted into notebook): Russian science almost suffered a most
serious blow. History of Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky's illness:
1.13pm Prof. Preobrazhensky falls into deep faint. On falling, strikes
head on edge of table.
Temp.: . . .
The dog in the presence of Zina and myself, had called Prof.
Preobrazhensky a 'bloody bastard'.
January 6th (entries made partly in pencil, partly in violet ink):
Today, after the dog's tail had fallen out, he quite clearly pronounced
the word 'liquor'.
Recording apparatus switched on. God knows what's happening.
(Total confusion.)
Professor has ceased to see patients. From 5pm this evening sounds of
vulgar abuse issuing from the consulting-room, where the creature is still
confined. Heard to ask for 'another one, and make it a double.'
January 7th Creature can now pronounce several words: 'taxi', 'full
up', 'evening paper', 'take one home for the kiddies' and every known
Russian swear-word. His appearance is strange. He now only has hair on his
head, chin and chest. Elsewhere he is bald, with flabby skin. His genital
region now has the appearance of an immature human male. His skull has
enlarged considerably. Brow low and receding.
My God, I must be going mad. . . .
Philip Philipovich still feels unwell. Most of the observations
(pictures and recordings) are being carried out by myself.
Rumours are spreading round the town . . . Consequences may be
incalculable. All day today the whole street was full of loafing rubbernecks
and old women . . . Dogs still crowding round beneath the windows. Amazing
report in the morning papers: The rumours of a Martian in Obukhov Street are
totally unfounded. They have been spread by black-market traders and their
repetition will be severely punished. What Martian, for God's sake? This is
turning into a nightmare.
Reports in today's evening paper even worse - they say that a child has
been born who could play the violin from birth. Beside it is a photograph of
myself with the caption: 'Prof. Preobrazhensky performing a Caesarian
operation on the mother.' The situation is getting out of hand ... He can
now say a new word - 'policeman' . . .
Apparently Darya Petrovna was in love with me and pinched the snapshot
of me out of Philip Philipovich's photograph album. After I had kicked out
all the reporters one of them sneaked back into the kitchen, and so ...
Consulting hours are now impossible. Eighty-two telephone calls today.
The telephone has been cut off. We are besieged by child-less women . . .
House committee appeared in full strength, headed by Shvonder - they
could not explain why they had come.
January 8th Late this evening diagnosis finally agreed. With the
impartiality of a true scholar Philip Philipovich has acknowledged his
error: transplantation of the pituitary induces not rejuvenation but total
humanisation (underlined three times). This does not, however, lessen the
value of his stupendous discovery.
The creature walked round the flat today for the first time. Laughed in
the corridor after looking at the electric light. Then, accompanied by
Philip Philipovich and myself, he went into the study. Stands firmly on his
hind (deleted) ... his legs and gives the impression of a short, ill-knit
human male.
Laughed in the study. His smile is disagreeable and somehow artificial.
Then he scratched the back of his head, looked round and registered a
further, clearly-pronounced word: 'Bourgeois'. Swore. His swearing is
methodical, uninterrupted and apparently totally meaningless. There is
something mechanical about it - it is as if this creature had heard all this
bad language at an earlier phase, automatically recorded it in his
subconscious and now regurgitates it wholesale. However, I am no
psychiatrist.
The swearing somehow has a very depressing effect on Philip
Philipovich. There are moments when he abandons his cool, unemotional
observation of new phenomena and appears to lose patience. Once when the
creature was swearing, for instance, he suddenly burst out impulsively:
'Shut up!' This had no effect.
After his visit to the study Sharik was shut up in the consulting-room
by our joint efforts. Philip Philipovich and I then held a conference. I
confess that this was the first time I had seen this self-assured and highly
intelligent man at a loss. He hummed a little, as he is in the habit of
doing, then asked: 'What are we going to do now?' He answered himself
literally as follows:
'Moscow State Clothing Stores, yes . . . "from Granada to Seville" . .
. M.S.C.S., my dear doctor . . .' I could not understand him, then he
explained: 'Ivan Arnold-ovich, please go and buy him some underwear, shirt,
jacket and trousers.'
January 9th The creature's vocabulary is being enriched by a new word
every five minutes (on average) and, since this morning, by sentences. It is
as if they had been lying frozen in his mind, are melting and emerging. Once
out, the word remains in use. Since yesterday evening the machine has
recorded the following: 'Stop pushing', 'You swine', 'Get off the bus - full
up', 'I'll show you', 'American recognition', 'kerosene stove'.
January10th The creature was dressed. He took to a vest quite readily,
even laughing cheerfully. He refused underpants, though, protesting with
hoarse shrieks:
'Stop queue-barging, you bastards!' Finally we dressed him. The sizes
of his clothes were too big for him.
(Here the notebook contains a number of schematised drawings,
apparently depicting the transformation of a canine into a human leg.) The
rear lialf of the skeleton of the foot is lengthening. Elongation of the
toes. Nails. (With appropriate sketches.)
Repeated systematic toilet training. The servants are angry and
depressed.
However, the creature is undoubtedly intelligent. The experiment is
proceeding satisfactorily.
January llth Quite reconciled to wearing clothes, although was heard to
say, 'Christ, I've got ants in my pants.'
Fur on head now thin and silky; almost indistinguishable from hair,
though scars still visible in parietal region. Today last traces of fur
dropped from his ears. Colossal appetite. Enjoys salted herring. At 5pm
occurred a significant event: for the first time the words spoken by the
creature were not disconnected from surrounding phenomena but were a
reaction to them. Thus when the professor said to him, 'Don't throw
food-scraps on the floor,' he unexpectedly replied: 'Get stuffed.' Philip
Philipovich was appalled, but recovered and said: 'If you swear at me or the
doctor again, you're in trouble.' I photographed Sharik at that moment and I
swear that he understood what the professor said. His face clouded over and
he gave a sullen look, but said nothing. Hurrah - he understands!
January 12th. Put hands in pockets. We are teaching him not to swear.
Whistled, 'Hey, little apple'. Sustained conversation. I cannot resist
certain hypotheses: we must forget rejuvenation for the time being. The
other aspect is immeasurably more important. Prof. Preobrazhensky's
astounding experiment has revealed one of the secrets of the human brain.
The mysterious function of the pituitary as an adjunct to the brain has now
been clarified. It determines human appearance. Its hormones may now be
regarded as the most important in the whole organism - the hormones of man's
image. A new field has been opened up to science; without the aid of any
Faustian retorts a homunculus has been created. The surgeon's scalpel has
brought to life a new human entity. Prof. Preobrazhensky-you are a creator.
(ink blot)
But I digress ... As stated, he can now sustain a conversation. As I
see it, the situation is as follows: the implanted pituitary has activated
the speech-centre in the canine brain and words have poured out in a stream.
I do not think that we have before us a newly-created brain but a brain
which has been stimulated to develop. Oh, what a glorious confirmation of
the theory of evolution! Oh, the sublime chain leading from a dog to
Mendeleyev the great chemist! A further hypothesis of mine is that during
its canine stage Sharik's brain had accumulated a massive quantity of
sense-data. All the words which he used initially were the language of the
streets which he had picked up and stored in his brain. Now as I walk along
the streets I look at every dog I meet with secret horror. God knows what is
lurking in their minds.
Sharik can read. He can read (three exclamation marks). I guessed it
from his early use of the word 'delicatessen'. He could read from the
beginning. And I even know the solution to this puzzle - it lies in the
structure of the canine optic nerve. God alone knows what is now going on in
Moscow. Seven black-market traders are already behind bars for spreading
rumours that the end of the world is imminent and has been caused by the
Bolsheviks. Darya Petrovna told me about this and even named the date -
November 28th, 1925, the day of St Stephen the Martyr, when the earth will
spiral off into infinity. . . . Some charlatans are already giving lectures
about it. We have started such a rumpus with this pituitary experiment that
I have had to leave my flat. I have moved in with Preobrazhensky and sleep
in the waiting-room with Sharik. The consulting-room has been turned into a
new waiting-room. Shvender was right. Trouble is brewing with the house
committee. There is not a single glass left, as he will jump on to the
shelves. Great difficulty in teaching him not to do this.
Something odd is happening to Philip. When I told him about my
hypotheses and my hopes of developing Sharik into an intellectually advanced
personality, he hummed and hahed, then said: 'Do you really think so?' His
tone was ominous. Have I made a mistake? Then he had an idea. While I wrote
up these case-notes, Preobrazhensky made a careful study of the life-story
of the man from whom we took the pituitary.
(Loose page inserted into the notebook.)
Name: Elim Grigorievich Chugunkin. Age: 25.
Marital status: Unmarried.
Not a Party member, but sympathetic to the Party. Three times charged
with theft and acquitted - on the first occasion for lack of evidence, in
the second case saved by his social origin, the third time put on probation
with a conditional sentence of 15 years hard labour.
Profession: plays the balalaika in bars. Short, poor physical shape.
Enlarged liver (alcohol). Cause of death: knife-wound in the heart,
sustained in the Red Light Bar at Preobrazhensky Gate.
The old man continues to study Chugunkin's case exhaustively, although
I cannot understand why. He grunted something about the pathologist having
failed to make a complete examination of Chugunkin's body. What does he
mean? Does it matter whose pituitary it is?
January 17th Unable to make notes for several days, as I have had an
attack of influenza. Meanwhile the creature's appearance has assumed
definitive form:
(a) physically a complete human being.
(b) weight about 108 Ibs.
(c) below medium height.
(d) small head.
(e) eats human food.
(f) dresses himself.
(g) capable of normal conversation.
So much for the pituitary (ink blot).
This concludes the notes on this case. We now have a new organism which
must be studied as such. appendices: Verbatim reports of speech, recordings,
photographs. Signed: I. A. Bormenthal, M.D.
Asst. to Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky.
A winter afternoon in late January, the time before supper, the time
before the start of evening consulting hours. On the drawing-room doorpost
hung a sheet of paper, on which was written in Philip Philipovich's hand:
I forbid the consumption of sunflower seeds in this flat.
P. Preobrazhensky
Below this in big, thick letters Bormenthal had written in blue pencil:
Musical instruments may not be played between 7pm and 6am.
Then from Zina:
When you come back tell Philip Philipovich that he's gone out and I
don't know where to. Fyodor says he's with Shvonder.
Preobrazhensky's hand:
How much longer do I have to wait before the glazier comes?
Darya Petrovna (in block letters):
Zina has, gone out to the store, says she'll bring him back.
In the dining-room there was a cosy evening feeling, generated by the
lamp on the sideboard shining beneath its dark cerise shade. Its light was
reflected in random shafts all over the room, as the mirror was cracked from
side to side and had been stuck in place with a criss-cross of tape. Bending
over the table, Philip Philipovich was absorbed in the large double page of
an open newspaper. His face was working with fury and through his teeth
issued a jerky stream of abuse. This is what he was reading:
There's no doubt that it is his illegitimate (as they used to say in
rotten bourgeois society) son. This is how the pseudo-learned members of our
bourgeoisie amuse themselves. He will only keep his seven rooms until the
glittering sword ofjustice fi'ashes over him like a red ray. Sh . . . r.
Someone was hard at work playing a rousing tune on the balalaika two
rooms away and the sound of a series of intricate variations on 'The Moon is
Shining' mingled in Philip Philipovich's head with the words of the
sickening newspaper article. When he had read it he pretended to spit over
his shoulder and hummed absentmindedly through his teeth: ' "The moo-oon is
shining . . . shining bright . . . the moon is shining . . ." God, that
damned tune's on my brain!'
He rang. Zina's face appeared in the doorway.
'Tell him it's five o'clock and he's to shut up. Then tell him to come
here, please.'
Philip Philipovich sat down in an armchair beside his desk, a brown
cigar butt between the fingers of his left hand. Leaning against the
doorpost there stood, legs crossed, a short man of unpleasant appearance.
His hair grew in clumps of bristles like a stubble field and on his face was
a meadow of unsliaven fluff. His brow was strikingly low. A thick brush of
hair began almost immediately above his spreading eyebrows.
His jacket, torn under the left armpit, was covered with bits of straw,
his checked trousers had a hole on the right knee and the left leg was
stained with violet paint. Round the man's neck was a poisonously bright
blue tie with a gilt tiepin. The colour of the tie was so garish that
whenever Philip Philipovich covered his tired eyes and gazed at the complete
darkness of the ceiling or the wall, he imagined he saw a flaming torch with
a blue halo. As soon as he opened them he was blinded again, dazzled by a
pair of patent-leather boots with white spats.
'Like galoshes,' thought Philip Philipovich with disgust. He sighed,
sniffed and busied himself with relighting his dead cigar. The man in the
doorway stared at the professor with lacklustre eyes and smoked a cigarette,
dropping the ash down his shirtfront.
The clock on the wall beside a carved wooden grouse struck five
o'clock. The inside of the clock was still wheezing as Philip Philipovich
spoke.
'I think I have asked you twice not to sleep by the stove in the
kitchen - particularly in the daytime.'
The man gave a hoarse cough as though he were choking on a bone and
replied:
'It's nicer in the kitchen.'
His voice had an odd quality, at once muffled yet resonant, as if he
were far away and talking into a small barrel.
Philip Philipovich shook his head and asked:
'Where on earth did you get that disgusting thing from? I mean your
tie.'
Following the direction of the pointing finger, the man's eyes squinted
as he gazed lovingly down at his tie.
'What's disgusting about it?' he said. 'It's a very smart tie. Darya
Petrovna gave it to me.'
'In that case Darya Petrovna has very poor taste. Those boots are
almost as bad. Why did you get such horrible shiny ones? Where did you buy
them? What did I tell you? I told you to find yourself a pair of decent
boots. Just look at them. You don't mean to tell me that Doctor Bormenthal
chose them, do you?'
'I told him to get patent leather ones. Why shouldn't I wear them?
Everybody else does. If you go down Kuznetzky Street you'll see nearly
everybody wearing patent leather boots.'
Philip Philipovich shook his head and pronounced weightily:
'No more sleeping in the kitchen. Understand? I've never heard of such
behaviour. You're a nuisance there and the women don't like it.'
The man scowled and his lips began to pout.
'So what? Those women act as though they owned the place. They're just
maids, but you'd think they were commissars. It's Zina - she's always
bellyaching about me.'
Philip Philipovich gave him a stern look.
'Don't you dare talk about Zina in that tone of voice! Understand?'
Silence.
'I'm asking you - do you understand?'
'Yes, I understand.'
'Take that trash off your neck. Sha . . . if you saw yourself in a
mirror you'd realise what a fright it makes you look. You look like a clown.
For the hundredth time - don't throw cigarette ends on to the floor. And I
don't want to hear any more swearing in this flat! And don't spit
everywhere! The spittoon's over there. Kindly take better aim when you pee.
Cease all further conversation with Zina. She complains that you lurk round
her room at night. And don't be rude to my patients! Where do'you think you
are - in some dive?'
'Don't be so hard on me. Dad,' the man suddenly said in a tearful
whine.
Philip Philipovich turned red and his spectacles flashed.
'Who are you calling "Dad"? What impertinent familiarity! I never want
to hear that word again! You will address me by my name and patronymic!'
The man flared up impudently: 'Oh, why can't you lay off? Don't spit .
. . don't smoke . . . don't go there, don't do this, don't do that . . .
sounds like the rules in a tram. Why don't you leave me alone, for God's
sake? And why shouldn't I call you "Dad", anyway? I didn't ask you to do the
operation, did I?' - the man barked indignantly - 'A nice business -you get
an animal, slice his head open and now you're sick of him. Perhaps I
wouldn't have given permission for the operation. Nor would . . . (the man
stared up at the ceiling as though trying to remember a phrase he had been
taught) . . . nor would my relatives. I bet I could sue you if I wanted to.'
Philip Philipovich's eyes grew quite round and his cigar fell out of
his fingers. 'Well, I'll be . . .' he thought to himself.
'So you object to having been turned into a human being, do you?' he
asked, frowning slightly. 'Perhaps you'd prefer to be sniffing around
dustbins again? Or freezing in doorways? Well, if I'd known that I wouldn't
. . .'
'So what if I had to eat out of dustbins? At least it was an honest
living. And supposing I'd died on your operating table? What d'you say to
that, comrade?'
'My name is Philip Philipovich!' exclaimed the professor irritably.
'I'm not your comrade! This is monstrous!' ('I can't stand it much longer,'
he thought to himself.)
'Oh, yes!' said the man sarcastically, triumphantly uncrossing his
legs. 'I know! Of course we're not comrades! How could we be? I didn't go to
college, I don't own a flat with fifteen rooms and a bathroom. Only all
that's changed now - now everybody has the right to . . .'
Growing rapidly paler, Philip Philipovich listened to the man's
argument. Then the creature stopped and swaggered demonstratively over to an
ashtray with a chewed butt-end in his fingers. He spent a long time stubbing
it out, with a look on his face which clearly said: 'Drop dead!' Having put
out his cigarette he suddenly clicked his teeth and poked his nose under his
armpit.
'You're supposed to catch fleas with your fingersV shouted Philip
Philipovich in fury. 'Anyhow, how is it that you still have any fleas?'
'You don't think I breed them on purpose, do you?' said the man,
offended. 'I suppose fleas just like me, that's all.' With this he poked his
fingers through the lining of his jacket, scratched around and produced a
tuft of downy red hair.
Philip Philipovich turned his gaze upwards to the plaster rosette on
the ceiling and started drumming his fingers on the desk. Having caught his
flea, the man sat down in a chair, sticking his thumbs behind the lapels of
his jacket. Squinting down at the parquet, he inspected his boots, which
gave him great pleasure. Philip Philipovich also looked down at the
highlights glinting on the man's blunt-toed boots, frowned and enquired:
'What else were you going to say?'
'Oh, nothing, really. I need some papers, Philip Philipovich.'
Philip Philipovich winced. 'H'm . . . papers, eh? Really, well . . .
H'm . . . Perhaps we might . . .' His voice sounded vague and unhappy.
'Now, look,' said the man firmly. 'I can't manage without papers. After
all you know damn well that people who don't have any papers aren't allowed
to exist nowadays. To begin with, there's the house committee.'
'What does the house committee have to do with it?'
'A lot. Every time I meet one of them they ask me when I'm going to get
registered.'
'Oh, God,' moaned Philip Philipovich. ' "Every time you meet one of
them ..." I can just imagine what you tell them. I thought I told you not to
hang about the staircases, anyway.'
'What am I - a convict?' said the man in amazement. His glow of
righteous indignation made even his fake ruby tiepin light up. "Hang about"
indeed! That's an insult. I walk about just like everybody else.'
So saying he wriggled his patent-leather feet.
Philip Philipovich said nothing, but looked away. 'One must restrain
oneself,' he thought, as he walked over to the sideboard and drank a
glassful of water at one gulp.
'I see,' he said rather more calmly. 'All right, I'll overlook your
tone of voice for the moment. What does your precious house committee say,
then?'
'Hell, I don't know exactly. Anyway, you needn't be sarcastic about the
house committee. It protects people's interests.'
'Whose interest, may I ask?'
'The workers', of course.'
Philip Philipovich opened his eyes wide. 'What makes you think that
you're a worker?'
'I must be - I'm not a capitalist.'
'Very well. How does the house committee propose to stand up for your
revolutionary rights?'
'Easy. Put me on the register. They say they've never heard of anybody
being allowed to live in Moscow without being registered. That's for a
start. But the most important thing is an identity card. I don't want to be
arrested for being a deserter.'
'And where, pray, am I supposed to register you? On that tablecloth or
on my own passport? One must, after all, be realistic. Don't forget that you
are . . . h'm, well. . . you are what you might call a ... an unnatural
phenomenon, an artefact . . .' Philip Philipovich sounded less and less
convincing.
Triumphant, the man said nothing.
'Very well. Let's assume that in the end we shall have to register you,
if only to please this house committee of yours. The trouble is - you have
no name.'
'So what? I can easily choose one. Just put it in the newspapers and
there you are.'
'What do you propose to call yourself?'
The man straightened his tie and replied: Toligraph Poligraphovich.'
'Stop playing the fool,' groaned Philip Philipovich. 'I meant it
seriously.'
The man's face twitched sarcastically.
'I don't get it,' he said ingenuously. 'I mustn't swear. I mustn't
spit. Yet all you ever do is call me names. I suppose only professors are
allowed to swear in the RSFSR.'
Blood rushed to Philip Philipovich's face. He filled a glass, breaking
it as he did so. Having drunk from another one, he thought: 'Much more of
this, and he'll start teaching me how to behave, and he'll be right. I must
control myself.'
He turned round, made an exaggeratedly polite bow and said with iron
self-control: 'I beg your pardon. My nerves are slightly upset. Your name
struck me as a little odd, that is all. Where, as a matter of interest, did
you dig it up?'
'The house committee helped me. We looked in the calendar. And I chose
a name.'
'That name cannot possibly exist on any calendar.'
'Can't it?' The man grinned. 'Then how was it I found it on the
calendar in your consulting-room?'
Without getting up Philip Philipovich leaned over to the knob on the
wall and Zina appeared in answer to the bell.
'Bring me the calendar from the consulting-room.'
There was a pause. When Zina returned with the calendar, Philip
Philipovich asked: 'Where is it?'
'The name-day is March 4th.'
'Show me . . . h'm . . . dammit, throw the thing into the stove at
once.' Zina, blinking with fright, removed the calendar. The man shook his
head reprovingly.
'And what surname will you take?'
'I'll use my real name.'
'You're real name? What is it?'
'Sharikov.*
Shvonder the house committee chairman was standing in his leather tunic
in front of the professor's desk. Doctor Bormen-thal was seated in an
armchair. The doctor's glowing face (he had just come in from the cold) wore
an expression whose perplexity was only equalled by that of Philip
Philipovich.
'Write it?' he asked impatiently.
'Yes,' said Shvonder, 'it's not very difficult. Write a certificate,
professor. You know the sort of thing - 'This is to certify that the bearer
is really Poligraph Poligraphovich Sharikov . . . h'm, born in, h'm . . .
this flat.'
Bormenthal wriggled uneasily in his armchair. Philip Philipovich tugged
at his moustache.
'God dammit, I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. He
wasn't born at all, he simply . . . well, he sort of..'
'That's your problem,' said Shvonder with quiet malice. 'It's up to you
to decide whether he was born or not ... It was your experiment, professor,
and you brought citizen Sharikov into the world.'
'It's all quite simple,' barked Sharikov from the glass-fronted
cabinet, where he was admiring the reflection of his tie.
'Kindly keep out of this conversation,' growled Philip Philipovich.
'It's not at all simple.'
'Why shouldn't I join in?' spluttered Sharikov in an offended voice,
and Shvonder instantly supported him.
'I'm sorry, professor, but citizen Sharikov is absolutely correct. He
has a right to take part in a discussion about his affairs, especially as
it's about his identity documents. An identity document is the most
important thing in the world.'
At that moment a deafening ring from the telephone cut into the
conversation. Philip Philipovich said into the receiver:
'Yes . . .', then reddened and shouted: 'Will you please not distract
me with trivialities. What's it to do with you?' And he hurled the receiver
back on to the hook.
Delight spread over Shvonder's face.
Purpling, Philip Philipovich roared: 'Right, let's get this finished.'
He tore a sheet of paper from a notepad and scribbled a few words, then
read it aloud in a voice of exasperation:
' "I hereby certify . . ." God, what am I supposed to certify? . . .
let's see . . . "That the bearer is a man created during a laboratory
experiment by means of an operation on the brain and that he requires
identity papers" . . .'I object in principle to his having these idiotic
documents, but still . . . Signed:
"Professor Preobrazhensky!" '
'Really, professor,' said Shvonder in an offended voice. 'What do you
mean by calling these documents idiotic? I can't allow an undocumented
tenant to go on living in this house, especially one who hasn't been
registered with the police for military service. Supposing war suddenly
breaks out with the imperialist aggressors?'
'I'm not going to fight!' yapped Sharikov.
Shvonder was dumbfounded, but quickly recovered himself and said
politely to Sharikov: 'I'm afraid you seem to be completely lacking in
political consciousness, citizen Sharikov. You must register for military
service at once.'
'I'll register, but I'm dammed if I'm going to fight,' answered
Sharikov nonchalantly, straightening his tie.
Now it was Shvonder's turn to be embarrassed. Preobraz-hensky exchanged
a look of grim complicity with Bormenthal, who nodded meaningly.
'I was badly wounded during the operation,' whined Sharikov. 'Look -
they cut me right open.' He pointed to his head. The scar of a fresh
surgical wound bisected his forehead.
'Are you an anarchist-individualist?' asked Shvonder, raising his
eyebrows.
'I ought to be exempt on medical grounds,' said Sharikov.
'Well, there's no hurry about it,' said the disconcerted Shvonder.
'Meanwhile we'll send the professor's certificate to the police and they'll
issue your papers.'
'Er, look here . . .' Philip Philipovich suddenly interrupted him,
obviously struck by an idea. 'I suppose you don't liave a room to spare in
the house, do you? I'd be prepared to buy it.'
Yellowish sparks flashed in Shvonder's brown eyes.
'No, professor, I very much regret to say that we don't have a room.
And aren't likely to, either.'
Philip Philipovich clenched his teeth and said nothing. Again the
telephone rang as though to order. Without a word Philip Philipovich flicked
the receiver off the rest so that it hung down, spinning slightly, on its
blue cord. Everybody jumped. 'The old man's getting rattled,' thought
Bormenthal. With a glint in his eyes Shvonder bowed and went out.
Sharikov disappeared after him, his boots creaking.
The professor and Bormenthal were left alone. After a short silence,
Philip Philipovich shook his head gently and said:
'On my word of honour, this is becoming an absolute nightmare. Don't
you see? I swear, doctor, that I've suffered more these last fourteen days
than in the past fourteen years! I tell you, he's a scoundrel . . .'
From a distance came the faint tinkle of breaking glass, followed by a
stifled woman's scream, then silence. An evil spirit dashed down the
corridor, turned into the consulting-room where it produced another crash
and immediately turned back. Doors slammed and Darya Petrovna's low cry was
heard from the kitchen. There was a howl from Sharikov.
'Oh, God, what now!' cried Philip Philipovich, rushing for the door.
'A cat,' guessed Bormenthal and leaped after him. They ran down the
corridor into the hall, burst in, then turned into the passage leading to
the bathroom and the kitchen. Zina came dashing out of the kitchen and ran
full tilt into Philip Philipovich.
'How many times have I told you not to let cats into the flat,' shouted
Philip Philipovich in fury. 'Where is he? Ivan Amoldovich, for God's sake go
and calm the patients in the waiting-room!'
'He's in the bathroom, the devil,' cried Zina, panting. Philip
Philipovich hurled himself at the bathroom door, but it would not give way.
'Open up this minute!'
The only answer from the locked bathroom was the sound of something
leaping up at the walls, smashing glasses, and Sharikov's voice roaring
through the door: 'I'll kill you . . .'
Water could be heard gurgling through the pipes and pouring into the
bathtub. Philip Philipovich leaned against the door and tried to break it
open. Darya Petrovna, clothes torn and face distorted with anger, appeared
in the kitchen doorway. Then the glass transom window, high up in the wall
between the bathroom and the kitchen, shattered with a multiple crack. Two
large fragments crashed into the kitchen followed by a tabby cat of gigantic
proportions with a face like a policeman and a blue bow round its neck. It
fell on to the middle of the table, right into a long platter, which it
broke in half. From there it fell to the floor, turned round on three legs
as it waved the fourth in the air as though executing a dance-step, and
instantly streaked out through the back door, which was slightly ajar.The
door opened wider and the cat was replaced by the face of an old woman in a
headscarf, followed by her polka-dotted skirt. The old woman wiped her mouth
with her index and second fingers, stared round the kitchen with protruding
eyes that burned with curiosity and she said:
'Oh, my lord!'
Pale, Philip Philipovich crossed the kitchen and asked threateningly:
'What do you want?'
'I wanted to have a look at the talking dog,' replied the old woman
ingratiatingly and crossed herself. Philip Philipovich went even paler,
strode up to her and hissed: 'Get out of my kitchen this instant!'
The old woman tottered back toward the door and said plaintively:
'You needn't be so sharp, professor.'
'Get out, I say!' repeated Philip Philipovich and his eyes went as
round as the owl's. He personally slammed the door behind the old woman.
'Darya Petrovna, I've asked you before . . .'
'But Philip Philipovich,' replied Darya Petrovna in desperation,
clenching her hands, 'what can I do? People keep coming in all day long,
however often I throw them out.'
A dull, threatening roar of water was still coming from the bathroom,
although Sharikov was now silent. Doctor Bormenthal came in.
'Please, Ivan Amoldovich ... er... how many patients are there in the
waiting-room?'
'Eleven,' replied Bormenthal.
'Send them all away, please. I can't see any patients today.'
With a bony finger Philip Philipovich knocked on the bathroom door and
shouted: 'Come out at once! Why have you locked yourself in?'
'Oh . . . oh . . .!' replied Sharikov in tones of misery.
'What on earth ... I can't hear you - turn off the water.'
'Ow-wow! . . .'
'Turn off the water! What has he done? I don't understand . . .' cried
Philip Philipovich, working himself into a frenzy. Zina and Darya Petrovna
opened the kitchen door and peeped out. Once again Philip Philipovich
thundered on the bathroom door with his fist.
'There he is!' screamed Darya Petrovna from the kitchen. Philip
Philipovich rushed in. The distorted features of Poligraph Poligraphovich
appeared through the broken transom and leaned out into the kitchen .His
eyes were tear-stained and there was a long scratch down his nose, red with
fresh blood.
'Have you gone out of your mind?' asked Philip Philipovich. 'Why don't
you come out of there?'
Terrified and miserable, Sharikov stared around and replied:
'I've shut myself in.'
'Unlock the door, then. Haven't you ever seen a lock before?'
'The blasted thing won't open!' replied Poligraph, terrified.
'Oh, my God, he's shut the safety-catch too!' screamed Zina, wringing
her hands.
'There's a sort of button on the lock,' shouted Philip Philipovich,
trying to out-roar the water. 'Press it downwards . . . press it down!
Downwards!'
Sharikov vanished, to reappear over the transom a minute later.
'I can't see a thing!' he barked in terror.
'Well, turn the light on then! He's gone crazy!'
'That damned cat smashed the bulb,' replied Sharikov, 'and when I tried
to catch the bastard by the leg I turned on the tap and now I can't find
it.'
Appalled, all three wrung their hands in horror.
Five minutes later Bormenthal, Zina and Darya Petrovna were sitting in
a row on a damp carpet that had been rolled up against the foot of the
bathroom door, pressing it hard with their bottoms. Fyodor the porter was
climbing up a ladder into the transom window, with the lighted candle from
Darya Petrovna's ikon in his hand. His posterior, clad in broad grey checks,
hovered in the air, then vanished through the opening.
'Ooh! . . . ow!' came Sharikov's strangled shriek above the roar of
water.
Fyodor's voice was heard: 'There's nothing for it, Philip Philipovich,
we'll have to open the door and let the water out. We can mop it up from the
kitchen.'
'Open it then!' shouted Philip Philipovich angrily.
The three got up from the carpet and pushed the bathroom door open.
Immediately a tidal wave gushed out into the passage, where it divided into
three streams - one straight into the lavatory opposite, one to the right
into the kitchen and one to the left into the hall. Splashing and prancing,
Zina shut the door into the hall. Fyodor emerged, up to his ankles in water,
and for some reason grinning. He was soaking wet and looked as if he were
wearing oilskins.
'The water-pressure was so strong, I only just managed to turn it off,'
he explained.
'Where is he?' asked Philip Philipovich, cursing as he lifted one wet
foot.
'He's afraid to come out,' said Fyodor, giggling stupidly.
'Will you beat me. Dad' came Sharikov's tearful voice from the
bathroom.
'You idiot!' was Philip Philipovich's terse reply.
Zina and Darya Petrovna, with bare legs and skirts tucked up to their
knees, and Sharikov and the porter barefoot with rolled-up trousers were
hard at work mopping up the kitchen floor with wet cloths, squeezing them
out into dirty buckets and into the sink. The abandoned stove roared away.
The water swirled out of the back door, down the well of the back staircase
and into the cellar.
On tiptoe, Bormenthal was standing in a deep puddle on the parquet
floor of the hall and talking through the crack of the front door, opened
only as far as the chain would allow.
'No consulting hours today, I'm afraid, the professor's not well.
Please keep away from the door, we have a burst pipe.
'But when can the professor see me?' a voice came through the door. 'It
wouldn't take a minute . . .'
'I'm sorry.' Bormenthal rocked back from his toes to his heels. 'The
professor's in bed and a pipe has burst. Come tomorrow. Zina dear, quickly
mop up the hall or it will start running down the front staircase.'
'There's too much - the cloths won't do it.'
'Never mind,' said Fyodor. 'We'll scoop it up with jugs.'
While the doorbell rang ceaselessly, Bormenthal stood up to his ankles
in water.
'When is the operation?' said an insistent voice as it tried to force
its way through the crack of the door.
'A pipe's burst . . .'
'But I've come in galoshes . . .'
Bluish silhouettes appeared outside the door.
'I'm sorry, it's impossible, please come tomorrow.'
'But I have an appointment.'
'Tomorrow. There's been a disaster in the water supply.'
Fyodor splashed about in the lake, scooping it up with a jug, but the
battle-scared Sharikov had thought up a new method. He rolled up an enormous
cloth, lay on his stomach in the water and pushed it backwards from the hall
towards the lavatory.
'What d'you think you're doing, you fool, slopping it all round the
flat?' fumed Darya Petrovna. 'Pour it into the sink.'
'How can I?' replied Sharikov, scooping up the murky water with his
hands. 'If I don't push it back into the flat it'll run out of the front
door.'
A bench was pushed creaking out of the corridor, with Philip
Philipovich riding unsteadily on it in his blue striped socks.
'Stop answering the door, Ivan Amoldovich. Go into the bedroom, you can
borrow a pair of my slippers.'
'Don't bother, Philip Philipovich, I'm all right.'
'You're wearing nothing but a pair of galoshes.'
'I don't mind. My feet are wet anyway.'
'Oh, my God!' Philip Philipovich was exhausted and depressed.
'Destructive animal!' Sharikov suddenly burst out as he squatted on the
floor, clutching a soup tureen.
Bormenthal slammed the door, unable to contain himself any longer and
burst into laughter. Philip Philipovich blew out his nostrils and his
spectacles glittered.
'What are you talking about?' he asked Sharikov from the eminence of
man pulled off his skull-cap and cried:
"Give me a cigarette, Zina. And then some clean clothes and a bath.'
Layino- his chin on the edge of the table he parted the dog's right
eyelids, peered into the obviously moribund eye and said:
'Well, I'll be ... He's not dead yet. Still, he'll die. I feel sorry
for the dog, Bormenthal. He was naughty but I couldn't help liking him.'
Subject of experiment: Male dog aged approx. 2 years.
Breed: Mongrel.
Name: 'Sharik'.
Coat sparse, in tufts, brownish with traces of singeing. Tail the
colour of baked milk. On right flank traces of healed second-degree burn.
Previous nutritional state -poor. After a week's stay with Prof.
Preobrazhensky -extremely well nourished. Weight: 8 kilograms (!). Heart: .
. . Lungs: . . . Stomach: . . . Temperature: . . .
December 23rd At 8.05pm Prof. Preobrazhensky commenced the first
operation of its kind to be performed in Europe: removal under anaesthesia
of the dog's testicles and their replacement by implanted human testes, with
appendages and seminal ducts, taken from a 28-year-old human male, dead 4
hours and 4 minutes before the operation and kept by Prof. Preobrazhensky in
sterilised physiological fluid.
Immediately thereafter, following a trepanning operation on the cranial
roof, the pituitary gland was removed and replaced by a human pituitary
originating from the above-mentioned human male. Drugs used: Chloroform - 8
cc.
Camphor - 1 syringe.
Adrenalin - 2 syringes (by cardiac injection ).
Purpose of operation: Experimental observation by Prof. Preobrazhensky
of the effect of combined transplantation of the pituitary and testes in
order to study both the functional viability in a host-organism and its role
in cellular etc. rejuvenation.
Operation performed by; Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky. Assisted by: Dr I.
A. Bormenthal. During the night following the operation, frequent and grave
weakening of the pulse. Dog apparently in terminal state.
Preobrazhensky prescribes camphor injections in massive dosage.
December 24th am Improvement. Respiration rate doubled. Temperature:
42C. Camphor and caffeine injected subcutaneously.
December 25th Deterioration.
Pulse barely detectable, cooling of the extremities, no pupillary
reaction. Preobrazhensky orders cardiac injection of adrenalin and camphor,
intravenous injections of physiological solution.
December 26th Slight improvement. Pulse: 180.
Respiration: 92. Temperature: 41C. Camphor. Alimentation per rectum.
December 27th Pulse: 152. Respiration: 50. Temperature: 39.8C.
Pupillary reaction. Camphor - subcutaneous.
December 28th Significant improvement. At noon sudden heavy
perspiration. Temperature: 37C.
Condition of surgical wounds unchanged. Re-bandaged. Signs of appetite.
Liquid alimentation.
December 29th Sudden moulting of hair on forehead and torso. The
following were summoned for consultation:
1. Professor of Dermatology - Vasily Vasilievich Bundaryov.
2. Director, Moscow Veterinary Institute.
Both stated the case to be without precedent in medical literature.
No diagnosis established.
Temperature: (entered in pencil).
8.15pm. First bark.
Distinct alteration of timbre and lowering of pitch
noticeable. Instead of diphthong 'aow-aow', bark now enunciated on
vowels 'ah-oh', in intonation reminiscent
of a groan.
December 30th Moulting process has progressed to almost total baldness.
Weighing produced the unexpected result of 80 kg., due to growth
(lengthening of the bones). Dog still lying prone.
December 31st Subject exhibits colossal appetite.
(Ink-blot. After the blot the following entry in scrawled
hand-writing): At 12.12pm the dog distinctly pronounced the sounds
'Nes-set-a'.
(Gap in entries. The following entries show errors due to excitement):
December 1st (deleted; corrected to): January 1st 1925. Dog
photographed a.m.
Cheerfully barks 'Nes-set-a', repeating loudly and with apparent
pleasure.
3.0pm (in heavy lettering): Dog laughed, causing maid Zina to faint.
Later, pronounced the following 8 times in succession: 'Nesseta-ciled'.
(Sloping characters, written in pencil):
The professor has deciphered the word 'Nesseta-ciled' by reversal: it
is 'delicatessen' . . . Quite extraord . . .
January 2nd Dog photographed by magnesium flash while smiling. Got up
and remained confidently on hind legs for a half-hour. Now nearly my height.
(Loose page inserted into notebook): Russian science almost suffered a most
serious blow. History of Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky's illness:
1.13pm Prof. Preobrazhensky falls into deep faint. On falling, strikes
head on edge of table.
Temp.: . . .
The dog in the presence of Zina and myself, had called Prof.
Preobrazhensky a 'bloody bastard'.
January 6th (entries made partly in pencil, partly in violet ink):
Today, after the dog's tail had fallen out, he quite clearly pronounced
the word 'liquor'.
Recording apparatus switched on. God knows what's happening.
(Total confusion.)
Professor has ceased to see patients. From 5pm this evening sounds of
vulgar abuse issuing from the consulting-room, where the creature is still
confined. Heard to ask for 'another one, and make it a double.'
January 7th Creature can now pronounce several words: 'taxi', 'full
up', 'evening paper', 'take one home for the kiddies' and every known
Russian swear-word. His appearance is strange. He now only has hair on his
head, chin and chest. Elsewhere he is bald, with flabby skin. His genital
region now has the appearance of an immature human male. His skull has
enlarged considerably. Brow low and receding.
My God, I must be going mad. . . .
Philip Philipovich still feels unwell. Most of the observations
(pictures and recordings) are being carried out by myself.
Rumours are spreading round the town . . . Consequences may be
incalculable. All day today the whole street was full of loafing rubbernecks
and old women . . . Dogs still crowding round beneath the windows. Amazing
report in the morning papers: The rumours of a Martian in Obukhov Street are
totally unfounded. They have been spread by black-market traders and their
repetition will be severely punished. What Martian, for God's sake? This is
turning into a nightmare.
Reports in today's evening paper even worse - they say that a child has
been born who could play the violin from birth. Beside it is a photograph of
myself with the caption: 'Prof. Preobrazhensky performing a Caesarian
operation on the mother.' The situation is getting out of hand ... He can
now say a new word - 'policeman' . . .
Apparently Darya Petrovna was in love with me and pinched the snapshot
of me out of Philip Philipovich's photograph album. After I had kicked out
all the reporters one of them sneaked back into the kitchen, and so ...
Consulting hours are now impossible. Eighty-two telephone calls today.
The telephone has been cut off. We are besieged by child-less women . . .
House committee appeared in full strength, headed by Shvonder - they
could not explain why they had come.
January 8th Late this evening diagnosis finally agreed. With the
impartiality of a true scholar Philip Philipovich has acknowledged his
error: transplantation of the pituitary induces not rejuvenation but total
humanisation (underlined three times). This does not, however, lessen the
value of his stupendous discovery.
The creature walked round the flat today for the first time. Laughed in
the corridor after looking at the electric light. Then, accompanied by
Philip Philipovich and myself, he went into the study. Stands firmly on his
hind (deleted) ... his legs and gives the impression of a short, ill-knit
human male.
Laughed in the study. His smile is disagreeable and somehow artificial.
Then he scratched the back of his head, looked round and registered a
further, clearly-pronounced word: 'Bourgeois'. Swore. His swearing is
methodical, uninterrupted and apparently totally meaningless. There is
something mechanical about it - it is as if this creature had heard all this
bad language at an earlier phase, automatically recorded it in his
subconscious and now regurgitates it wholesale. However, I am no
psychiatrist.
The swearing somehow has a very depressing effect on Philip
Philipovich. There are moments when he abandons his cool, unemotional
observation of new phenomena and appears to lose patience. Once when the
creature was swearing, for instance, he suddenly burst out impulsively:
'Shut up!' This had no effect.
After his visit to the study Sharik was shut up in the consulting-room
by our joint efforts. Philip Philipovich and I then held a conference. I
confess that this was the first time I had seen this self-assured and highly
intelligent man at a loss. He hummed a little, as he is in the habit of
doing, then asked: 'What are we going to do now?' He answered himself
literally as follows:
'Moscow State Clothing Stores, yes . . . "from Granada to Seville" . .
. M.S.C.S., my dear doctor . . .' I could not understand him, then he
explained: 'Ivan Arnold-ovich, please go and buy him some underwear, shirt,
jacket and trousers.'
January 9th The creature's vocabulary is being enriched by a new word
every five minutes (on average) and, since this morning, by sentences. It is
as if they had been lying frozen in his mind, are melting and emerging. Once
out, the word remains in use. Since yesterday evening the machine has
recorded the following: 'Stop pushing', 'You swine', 'Get off the bus - full
up', 'I'll show you', 'American recognition', 'kerosene stove'.
January10th The creature was dressed. He took to a vest quite readily,
even laughing cheerfully. He refused underpants, though, protesting with
hoarse shrieks:
'Stop queue-barging, you bastards!' Finally we dressed him. The sizes
of his clothes were too big for him.
(Here the notebook contains a number of schematised drawings,
apparently depicting the transformation of a canine into a human leg.) The
rear lialf of the skeleton of the foot is lengthening. Elongation of the
toes. Nails. (With appropriate sketches.)
Repeated systematic toilet training. The servants are angry and
depressed.
However, the creature is undoubtedly intelligent. The experiment is
proceeding satisfactorily.
January llth Quite reconciled to wearing clothes, although was heard to
say, 'Christ, I've got ants in my pants.'
Fur on head now thin and silky; almost indistinguishable from hair,
though scars still visible in parietal region. Today last traces of fur
dropped from his ears. Colossal appetite. Enjoys salted herring. At 5pm
occurred a significant event: for the first time the words spoken by the
creature were not disconnected from surrounding phenomena but were a
reaction to them. Thus when the professor said to him, 'Don't throw
food-scraps on the floor,' he unexpectedly replied: 'Get stuffed.' Philip
Philipovich was appalled, but recovered and said: 'If you swear at me or the
doctor again, you're in trouble.' I photographed Sharik at that moment and I
swear that he understood what the professor said. His face clouded over and
he gave a sullen look, but said nothing. Hurrah - he understands!
January 12th. Put hands in pockets. We are teaching him not to swear.
Whistled, 'Hey, little apple'. Sustained conversation. I cannot resist
certain hypotheses: we must forget rejuvenation for the time being. The
other aspect is immeasurably more important. Prof. Preobrazhensky's
astounding experiment has revealed one of the secrets of the human brain.
The mysterious function of the pituitary as an adjunct to the brain has now
been clarified. It determines human appearance. Its hormones may now be
regarded as the most important in the whole organism - the hormones of man's
image. A new field has been opened up to science; without the aid of any
Faustian retorts a homunculus has been created. The surgeon's scalpel has
brought to life a new human entity. Prof. Preobrazhensky-you are a creator.
(ink blot)
But I digress ... As stated, he can now sustain a conversation. As I
see it, the situation is as follows: the implanted pituitary has activated
the speech-centre in the canine brain and words have poured out in a stream.
I do not think that we have before us a newly-created brain but a brain
which has been stimulated to develop. Oh, what a glorious confirmation of
the theory of evolution! Oh, the sublime chain leading from a dog to
Mendeleyev the great chemist! A further hypothesis of mine is that during
its canine stage Sharik's brain had accumulated a massive quantity of
sense-data. All the words which he used initially were the language of the
streets which he had picked up and stored in his brain. Now as I walk along
the streets I look at every dog I meet with secret horror. God knows what is
lurking in their minds.
Sharik can read. He can read (three exclamation marks). I guessed it
from his early use of the word 'delicatessen'. He could read from the
beginning. And I even know the solution to this puzzle - it lies in the
structure of the canine optic nerve. God alone knows what is now going on in
Moscow. Seven black-market traders are already behind bars for spreading
rumours that the end of the world is imminent and has been caused by the
Bolsheviks. Darya Petrovna told me about this and even named the date -
November 28th, 1925, the day of St Stephen the Martyr, when the earth will
spiral off into infinity. . . . Some charlatans are already giving lectures
about it. We have started such a rumpus with this pituitary experiment that
I have had to leave my flat. I have moved in with Preobrazhensky and sleep
in the waiting-room with Sharik. The consulting-room has been turned into a
new waiting-room. Shvender was right. Trouble is brewing with the house
committee. There is not a single glass left, as he will jump on to the
shelves. Great difficulty in teaching him not to do this.
Something odd is happening to Philip. When I told him about my
hypotheses and my hopes of developing Sharik into an intellectually advanced
personality, he hummed and hahed, then said: 'Do you really think so?' His
tone was ominous. Have I made a mistake? Then he had an idea. While I wrote
up these case-notes, Preobrazhensky made a careful study of the life-story
of the man from whom we took the pituitary.
(Loose page inserted into the notebook.)
Name: Elim Grigorievich Chugunkin. Age: 25.
Marital status: Unmarried.
Not a Party member, but sympathetic to the Party. Three times charged
with theft and acquitted - on the first occasion for lack of evidence, in
the second case saved by his social origin, the third time put on probation
with a conditional sentence of 15 years hard labour.
Profession: plays the balalaika in bars. Short, poor physical shape.
Enlarged liver (alcohol). Cause of death: knife-wound in the heart,
sustained in the Red Light Bar at Preobrazhensky Gate.
The old man continues to study Chugunkin's case exhaustively, although
I cannot understand why. He grunted something about the pathologist having
failed to make a complete examination of Chugunkin's body. What does he
mean? Does it matter whose pituitary it is?
January 17th Unable to make notes for several days, as I have had an
attack of influenza. Meanwhile the creature's appearance has assumed
definitive form:
(a) physically a complete human being.
(b) weight about 108 Ibs.
(c) below medium height.
(d) small head.
(e) eats human food.
(f) dresses himself.
(g) capable of normal conversation.
So much for the pituitary (ink blot).
This concludes the notes on this case. We now have a new organism which
must be studied as such. appendices: Verbatim reports of speech, recordings,
photographs. Signed: I. A. Bormenthal, M.D.
Asst. to Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky.
A winter afternoon in late January, the time before supper, the time
before the start of evening consulting hours. On the drawing-room doorpost
hung a sheet of paper, on which was written in Philip Philipovich's hand:
I forbid the consumption of sunflower seeds in this flat.
P. Preobrazhensky
Below this in big, thick letters Bormenthal had written in blue pencil:
Musical instruments may not be played between 7pm and 6am.
Then from Zina:
When you come back tell Philip Philipovich that he's gone out and I
don't know where to. Fyodor says he's with Shvonder.
Preobrazhensky's hand:
How much longer do I have to wait before the glazier comes?
Darya Petrovna (in block letters):
Zina has, gone out to the store, says she'll bring him back.
In the dining-room there was a cosy evening feeling, generated by the
lamp on the sideboard shining beneath its dark cerise shade. Its light was
reflected in random shafts all over the room, as the mirror was cracked from
side to side and had been stuck in place with a criss-cross of tape. Bending
over the table, Philip Philipovich was absorbed in the large double page of
an open newspaper. His face was working with fury and through his teeth
issued a jerky stream of abuse. This is what he was reading:
There's no doubt that it is his illegitimate (as they used to say in
rotten bourgeois society) son. This is how the pseudo-learned members of our
bourgeoisie amuse themselves. He will only keep his seven rooms until the
glittering sword ofjustice fi'ashes over him like a red ray. Sh . . . r.
Someone was hard at work playing a rousing tune on the balalaika two
rooms away and the sound of a series of intricate variations on 'The Moon is
Shining' mingled in Philip Philipovich's head with the words of the
sickening newspaper article. When he had read it he pretended to spit over
his shoulder and hummed absentmindedly through his teeth: ' "The moo-oon is
shining . . . shining bright . . . the moon is shining . . ." God, that
damned tune's on my brain!'
He rang. Zina's face appeared in the doorway.
'Tell him it's five o'clock and he's to shut up. Then tell him to come
here, please.'
Philip Philipovich sat down in an armchair beside his desk, a brown
cigar butt between the fingers of his left hand. Leaning against the
doorpost there stood, legs crossed, a short man of unpleasant appearance.
His hair grew in clumps of bristles like a stubble field and on his face was
a meadow of unsliaven fluff. His brow was strikingly low. A thick brush of
hair began almost immediately above his spreading eyebrows.
His jacket, torn under the left armpit, was covered with bits of straw,
his checked trousers had a hole on the right knee and the left leg was
stained with violet paint. Round the man's neck was a poisonously bright
blue tie with a gilt tiepin. The colour of the tie was so garish that
whenever Philip Philipovich covered his tired eyes and gazed at the complete
darkness of the ceiling or the wall, he imagined he saw a flaming torch with
a blue halo. As soon as he opened them he was blinded again, dazzled by a
pair of patent-leather boots with white spats.
'Like galoshes,' thought Philip Philipovich with disgust. He sighed,
sniffed and busied himself with relighting his dead cigar. The man in the
doorway stared at the professor with lacklustre eyes and smoked a cigarette,
dropping the ash down his shirtfront.
The clock on the wall beside a carved wooden grouse struck five
o'clock. The inside of the clock was still wheezing as Philip Philipovich
spoke.
'I think I have asked you twice not to sleep by the stove in the
kitchen - particularly in the daytime.'
The man gave a hoarse cough as though he were choking on a bone and
replied:
'It's nicer in the kitchen.'
His voice had an odd quality, at once muffled yet resonant, as if he
were far away and talking into a small barrel.
Philip Philipovich shook his head and asked:
'Where on earth did you get that disgusting thing from? I mean your
tie.'
Following the direction of the pointing finger, the man's eyes squinted
as he gazed lovingly down at his tie.
'What's disgusting about it?' he said. 'It's a very smart tie. Darya
Petrovna gave it to me.'
'In that case Darya Petrovna has very poor taste. Those boots are
almost as bad. Why did you get such horrible shiny ones? Where did you buy
them? What did I tell you? I told you to find yourself a pair of decent
boots. Just look at them. You don't mean to tell me that Doctor Bormenthal
chose them, do you?'
'I told him to get patent leather ones. Why shouldn't I wear them?
Everybody else does. If you go down Kuznetzky Street you'll see nearly
everybody wearing patent leather boots.'
Philip Philipovich shook his head and pronounced weightily:
'No more sleeping in the kitchen. Understand? I've never heard of such
behaviour. You're a nuisance there and the women don't like it.'
The man scowled and his lips began to pout.
'So what? Those women act as though they owned the place. They're just
maids, but you'd think they were commissars. It's Zina - she's always
bellyaching about me.'
Philip Philipovich gave him a stern look.
'Don't you dare talk about Zina in that tone of voice! Understand?'
Silence.
'I'm asking you - do you understand?'
'Yes, I understand.'
'Take that trash off your neck. Sha . . . if you saw yourself in a
mirror you'd realise what a fright it makes you look. You look like a clown.
For the hundredth time - don't throw cigarette ends on to the floor. And I
don't want to hear any more swearing in this flat! And don't spit
everywhere! The spittoon's over there. Kindly take better aim when you pee.
Cease all further conversation with Zina. She complains that you lurk round
her room at night. And don't be rude to my patients! Where do'you think you
are - in some dive?'
'Don't be so hard on me. Dad,' the man suddenly said in a tearful
whine.
Philip Philipovich turned red and his spectacles flashed.
'Who are you calling "Dad"? What impertinent familiarity! I never want
to hear that word again! You will address me by my name and patronymic!'
The man flared up impudently: 'Oh, why can't you lay off? Don't spit .
. . don't smoke . . . don't go there, don't do this, don't do that . . .
sounds like the rules in a tram. Why don't you leave me alone, for God's
sake? And why shouldn't I call you "Dad", anyway? I didn't ask you to do the
operation, did I?' - the man barked indignantly - 'A nice business -you get
an animal, slice his head open and now you're sick of him. Perhaps I
wouldn't have given permission for the operation. Nor would . . . (the man
stared up at the ceiling as though trying to remember a phrase he had been
taught) . . . nor would my relatives. I bet I could sue you if I wanted to.'
Philip Philipovich's eyes grew quite round and his cigar fell out of
his fingers. 'Well, I'll be . . .' he thought to himself.
'So you object to having been turned into a human being, do you?' he
asked, frowning slightly. 'Perhaps you'd prefer to be sniffing around
dustbins again? Or freezing in doorways? Well, if I'd known that I wouldn't
. . .'
'So what if I had to eat out of dustbins? At least it was an honest
living. And supposing I'd died on your operating table? What d'you say to
that, comrade?'
'My name is Philip Philipovich!' exclaimed the professor irritably.
'I'm not your comrade! This is monstrous!' ('I can't stand it much longer,'
he thought to himself.)
'Oh, yes!' said the man sarcastically, triumphantly uncrossing his
legs. 'I know! Of course we're not comrades! How could we be? I didn't go to
college, I don't own a flat with fifteen rooms and a bathroom. Only all
that's changed now - now everybody has the right to . . .'
Growing rapidly paler, Philip Philipovich listened to the man's
argument. Then the creature stopped and swaggered demonstratively over to an
ashtray with a chewed butt-end in his fingers. He spent a long time stubbing
it out, with a look on his face which clearly said: 'Drop dead!' Having put
out his cigarette he suddenly clicked his teeth and poked his nose under his
armpit.
'You're supposed to catch fleas with your fingersV shouted Philip
Philipovich in fury. 'Anyhow, how is it that you still have any fleas?'
'You don't think I breed them on purpose, do you?' said the man,
offended. 'I suppose fleas just like me, that's all.' With this he poked his
fingers through the lining of his jacket, scratched around and produced a
tuft of downy red hair.
Philip Philipovich turned his gaze upwards to the plaster rosette on
the ceiling and started drumming his fingers on the desk. Having caught his
flea, the man sat down in a chair, sticking his thumbs behind the lapels of
his jacket. Squinting down at the parquet, he inspected his boots, which
gave him great pleasure. Philip Philipovich also looked down at the
highlights glinting on the man's blunt-toed boots, frowned and enquired:
'What else were you going to say?'
'Oh, nothing, really. I need some papers, Philip Philipovich.'
Philip Philipovich winced. 'H'm . . . papers, eh? Really, well . . .
H'm . . . Perhaps we might . . .' His voice sounded vague and unhappy.
'Now, look,' said the man firmly. 'I can't manage without papers. After
all you know damn well that people who don't have any papers aren't allowed
to exist nowadays. To begin with, there's the house committee.'
'What does the house committee have to do with it?'
'A lot. Every time I meet one of them they ask me when I'm going to get
registered.'
'Oh, God,' moaned Philip Philipovich. ' "Every time you meet one of
them ..." I can just imagine what you tell them. I thought I told you not to
hang about the staircases, anyway.'
'What am I - a convict?' said the man in amazement. His glow of
righteous indignation made even his fake ruby tiepin light up. "Hang about"
indeed! That's an insult. I walk about just like everybody else.'
So saying he wriggled his patent-leather feet.
Philip Philipovich said nothing, but looked away. 'One must restrain
oneself,' he thought, as he walked over to the sideboard and drank a
glassful of water at one gulp.
'I see,' he said rather more calmly. 'All right, I'll overlook your
tone of voice for the moment. What does your precious house committee say,
then?'
'Hell, I don't know exactly. Anyway, you needn't be sarcastic about the
house committee. It protects people's interests.'
'Whose interest, may I ask?'
'The workers', of course.'
Philip Philipovich opened his eyes wide. 'What makes you think that
you're a worker?'
'I must be - I'm not a capitalist.'
'Very well. How does the house committee propose to stand up for your
revolutionary rights?'
'Easy. Put me on the register. They say they've never heard of anybody
being allowed to live in Moscow without being registered. That's for a
start. But the most important thing is an identity card. I don't want to be
arrested for being a deserter.'
'And where, pray, am I supposed to register you? On that tablecloth or
on my own passport? One must, after all, be realistic. Don't forget that you
are . . . h'm, well. . . you are what you might call a ... an unnatural
phenomenon, an artefact . . .' Philip Philipovich sounded less and less
convincing.
Triumphant, the man said nothing.
'Very well. Let's assume that in the end we shall have to register you,
if only to please this house committee of yours. The trouble is - you have
no name.'
'So what? I can easily choose one. Just put it in the newspapers and
there you are.'
'What do you propose to call yourself?'
The man straightened his tie and replied: Toligraph Poligraphovich.'
'Stop playing the fool,' groaned Philip Philipovich. 'I meant it
seriously.'
The man's face twitched sarcastically.
'I don't get it,' he said ingenuously. 'I mustn't swear. I mustn't
spit. Yet all you ever do is call me names. I suppose only professors are
allowed to swear in the RSFSR.'
Blood rushed to Philip Philipovich's face. He filled a glass, breaking
it as he did so. Having drunk from another one, he thought: 'Much more of
this, and he'll start teaching me how to behave, and he'll be right. I must
control myself.'
He turned round, made an exaggeratedly polite bow and said with iron
self-control: 'I beg your pardon. My nerves are slightly upset. Your name
struck me as a little odd, that is all. Where, as a matter of interest, did
you dig it up?'
'The house committee helped me. We looked in the calendar. And I chose
a name.'
'That name cannot possibly exist on any calendar.'
'Can't it?' The man grinned. 'Then how was it I found it on the
calendar in your consulting-room?'
Without getting up Philip Philipovich leaned over to the knob on the
wall and Zina appeared in answer to the bell.
'Bring me the calendar from the consulting-room.'
There was a pause. When Zina returned with the calendar, Philip
Philipovich asked: 'Where is it?'
'The name-day is March 4th.'
'Show me . . . h'm . . . dammit, throw the thing into the stove at
once.' Zina, blinking with fright, removed the calendar. The man shook his
head reprovingly.
'And what surname will you take?'
'I'll use my real name.'
'You're real name? What is it?'
'Sharikov.*
Shvonder the house committee chairman was standing in his leather tunic
in front of the professor's desk. Doctor Bormen-thal was seated in an
armchair. The doctor's glowing face (he had just come in from the cold) wore
an expression whose perplexity was only equalled by that of Philip
Philipovich.
'Write it?' he asked impatiently.
'Yes,' said Shvonder, 'it's not very difficult. Write a certificate,
professor. You know the sort of thing - 'This is to certify that the bearer
is really Poligraph Poligraphovich Sharikov . . . h'm, born in, h'm . . .
this flat.'
Bormenthal wriggled uneasily in his armchair. Philip Philipovich tugged
at his moustache.
'God dammit, I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. He
wasn't born at all, he simply . . . well, he sort of..'
'That's your problem,' said Shvonder with quiet malice. 'It's up to you
to decide whether he was born or not ... It was your experiment, professor,
and you brought citizen Sharikov into the world.'
'It's all quite simple,' barked Sharikov from the glass-fronted
cabinet, where he was admiring the reflection of his tie.
'Kindly keep out of this conversation,' growled Philip Philipovich.
'It's not at all simple.'
'Why shouldn't I join in?' spluttered Sharikov in an offended voice,
and Shvonder instantly supported him.
'I'm sorry, professor, but citizen Sharikov is absolutely correct. He
has a right to take part in a discussion about his affairs, especially as
it's about his identity documents. An identity document is the most
important thing in the world.'
At that moment a deafening ring from the telephone cut into the
conversation. Philip Philipovich said into the receiver:
'Yes . . .', then reddened and shouted: 'Will you please not distract
me with trivialities. What's it to do with you?' And he hurled the receiver
back on to the hook.
Delight spread over Shvonder's face.
Purpling, Philip Philipovich roared: 'Right, let's get this finished.'
He tore a sheet of paper from a notepad and scribbled a few words, then
read it aloud in a voice of exasperation:
' "I hereby certify . . ." God, what am I supposed to certify? . . .
let's see . . . "That the bearer is a man created during a laboratory
experiment by means of an operation on the brain and that he requires
identity papers" . . .'I object in principle to his having these idiotic
documents, but still . . . Signed:
"Professor Preobrazhensky!" '
'Really, professor,' said Shvonder in an offended voice. 'What do you
mean by calling these documents idiotic? I can't allow an undocumented
tenant to go on living in this house, especially one who hasn't been
registered with the police for military service. Supposing war suddenly
breaks out with the imperialist aggressors?'
'I'm not going to fight!' yapped Sharikov.
Shvonder was dumbfounded, but quickly recovered himself and said
politely to Sharikov: 'I'm afraid you seem to be completely lacking in
political consciousness, citizen Sharikov. You must register for military
service at once.'
'I'll register, but I'm dammed if I'm going to fight,' answered
Sharikov nonchalantly, straightening his tie.
Now it was Shvonder's turn to be embarrassed. Preobraz-hensky exchanged
a look of grim complicity with Bormenthal, who nodded meaningly.
'I was badly wounded during the operation,' whined Sharikov. 'Look -
they cut me right open.' He pointed to his head. The scar of a fresh
surgical wound bisected his forehead.
'Are you an anarchist-individualist?' asked Shvonder, raising his
eyebrows.
'I ought to be exempt on medical grounds,' said Sharikov.
'Well, there's no hurry about it,' said the disconcerted Shvonder.
'Meanwhile we'll send the professor's certificate to the police and they'll
issue your papers.'
'Er, look here . . .' Philip Philipovich suddenly interrupted him,
obviously struck by an idea. 'I suppose you don't liave a room to spare in
the house, do you? I'd be prepared to buy it.'
Yellowish sparks flashed in Shvonder's brown eyes.
'No, professor, I very much regret to say that we don't have a room.
And aren't likely to, either.'
Philip Philipovich clenched his teeth and said nothing. Again the
telephone rang as though to order. Without a word Philip Philipovich flicked
the receiver off the rest so that it hung down, spinning slightly, on its
blue cord. Everybody jumped. 'The old man's getting rattled,' thought
Bormenthal. With a glint in his eyes Shvonder bowed and went out.
Sharikov disappeared after him, his boots creaking.
The professor and Bormenthal were left alone. After a short silence,
Philip Philipovich shook his head gently and said:
'On my word of honour, this is becoming an absolute nightmare. Don't
you see? I swear, doctor, that I've suffered more these last fourteen days
than in the past fourteen years! I tell you, he's a scoundrel . . .'
From a distance came the faint tinkle of breaking glass, followed by a
stifled woman's scream, then silence. An evil spirit dashed down the
corridor, turned into the consulting-room where it produced another crash
and immediately turned back. Doors slammed and Darya Petrovna's low cry was
heard from the kitchen. There was a howl from Sharikov.
'Oh, God, what now!' cried Philip Philipovich, rushing for the door.
'A cat,' guessed Bormenthal and leaped after him. They ran down the
corridor into the hall, burst in, then turned into the passage leading to
the bathroom and the kitchen. Zina came dashing out of the kitchen and ran
full tilt into Philip Philipovich.
'How many times have I told you not to let cats into the flat,' shouted
Philip Philipovich in fury. 'Where is he? Ivan Amoldovich, for God's sake go
and calm the patients in the waiting-room!'
'He's in the bathroom, the devil,' cried Zina, panting. Philip
Philipovich hurled himself at the bathroom door, but it would not give way.
'Open up this minute!'
The only answer from the locked bathroom was the sound of something
leaping up at the walls, smashing glasses, and Sharikov's voice roaring
through the door: 'I'll kill you . . .'
Water could be heard gurgling through the pipes and pouring into the
bathtub. Philip Philipovich leaned against the door and tried to break it
open. Darya Petrovna, clothes torn and face distorted with anger, appeared
in the kitchen doorway. Then the glass transom window, high up in the wall
between the bathroom and the kitchen, shattered with a multiple crack. Two
large fragments crashed into the kitchen followed by a tabby cat of gigantic
proportions with a face like a policeman and a blue bow round its neck. It
fell on to the middle of the table, right into a long platter, which it
broke in half. From there it fell to the floor, turned round on three legs
as it waved the fourth in the air as though executing a dance-step, and
instantly streaked out through the back door, which was slightly ajar.The
door opened wider and the cat was replaced by the face of an old woman in a
headscarf, followed by her polka-dotted skirt. The old woman wiped her mouth
with her index and second fingers, stared round the kitchen with protruding
eyes that burned with curiosity and she said:
'Oh, my lord!'
Pale, Philip Philipovich crossed the kitchen and asked threateningly:
'What do you want?'
'I wanted to have a look at the talking dog,' replied the old woman
ingratiatingly and crossed herself. Philip Philipovich went even paler,
strode up to her and hissed: 'Get out of my kitchen this instant!'
The old woman tottered back toward the door and said plaintively:
'You needn't be so sharp, professor.'
'Get out, I say!' repeated Philip Philipovich and his eyes went as
round as the owl's. He personally slammed the door behind the old woman.
'Darya Petrovna, I've asked you before . . .'
'But Philip Philipovich,' replied Darya Petrovna in desperation,
clenching her hands, 'what can I do? People keep coming in all day long,
however often I throw them out.'
A dull, threatening roar of water was still coming from the bathroom,
although Sharikov was now silent. Doctor Bormenthal came in.
'Please, Ivan Amoldovich ... er... how many patients are there in the
waiting-room?'
'Eleven,' replied Bormenthal.
'Send them all away, please. I can't see any patients today.'
With a bony finger Philip Philipovich knocked on the bathroom door and
shouted: 'Come out at once! Why have you locked yourself in?'
'Oh . . . oh . . .!' replied Sharikov in tones of misery.
'What on earth ... I can't hear you - turn off the water.'
'Ow-wow! . . .'
'Turn off the water! What has he done? I don't understand . . .' cried
Philip Philipovich, working himself into a frenzy. Zina and Darya Petrovna
opened the kitchen door and peeped out. Once again Philip Philipovich
thundered on the bathroom door with his fist.
'There he is!' screamed Darya Petrovna from the kitchen. Philip
Philipovich rushed in. The distorted features of Poligraph Poligraphovich
appeared through the broken transom and leaned out into the kitchen .His
eyes were tear-stained and there was a long scratch down his nose, red with
fresh blood.
'Have you gone out of your mind?' asked Philip Philipovich. 'Why don't
you come out of there?'
Terrified and miserable, Sharikov stared around and replied:
'I've shut myself in.'
'Unlock the door, then. Haven't you ever seen a lock before?'
'The blasted thing won't open!' replied Poligraph, terrified.
'Oh, my God, he's shut the safety-catch too!' screamed Zina, wringing
her hands.
'There's a sort of button on the lock,' shouted Philip Philipovich,
trying to out-roar the water. 'Press it downwards . . . press it down!
Downwards!'
Sharikov vanished, to reappear over the transom a minute later.
'I can't see a thing!' he barked in terror.
'Well, turn the light on then! He's gone crazy!'
'That damned cat smashed the bulb,' replied Sharikov, 'and when I tried
to catch the bastard by the leg I turned on the tap and now I can't find
it.'
Appalled, all three wrung their hands in horror.
Five minutes later Bormenthal, Zina and Darya Petrovna were sitting in
a row on a damp carpet that had been rolled up against the foot of the
bathroom door, pressing it hard with their bottoms. Fyodor the porter was
climbing up a ladder into the transom window, with the lighted candle from
Darya Petrovna's ikon in his hand. His posterior, clad in broad grey checks,
hovered in the air, then vanished through the opening.
'Ooh! . . . ow!' came Sharikov's strangled shriek above the roar of
water.
Fyodor's voice was heard: 'There's nothing for it, Philip Philipovich,
we'll have to open the door and let the water out. We can mop it up from the
kitchen.'
'Open it then!' shouted Philip Philipovich angrily.
The three got up from the carpet and pushed the bathroom door open.
Immediately a tidal wave gushed out into the passage, where it divided into
three streams - one straight into the lavatory opposite, one to the right
into the kitchen and one to the left into the hall. Splashing and prancing,
Zina shut the door into the hall. Fyodor emerged, up to his ankles in water,
and for some reason grinning. He was soaking wet and looked as if he were
wearing oilskins.
'The water-pressure was so strong, I only just managed to turn it off,'
he explained.
'Where is he?' asked Philip Philipovich, cursing as he lifted one wet
foot.
'He's afraid to come out,' said Fyodor, giggling stupidly.
'Will you beat me. Dad' came Sharikov's tearful voice from the
bathroom.
'You idiot!' was Philip Philipovich's terse reply.
Zina and Darya Petrovna, with bare legs and skirts tucked up to their
knees, and Sharikov and the porter barefoot with rolled-up trousers were
hard at work mopping up the kitchen floor with wet cloths, squeezing them
out into dirty buckets and into the sink. The abandoned stove roared away.
The water swirled out of the back door, down the well of the back staircase
and into the cellar.
On tiptoe, Bormenthal was standing in a deep puddle on the parquet
floor of the hall and talking through the crack of the front door, opened
only as far as the chain would allow.
'No consulting hours today, I'm afraid, the professor's not well.
Please keep away from the door, we have a burst pipe.
'But when can the professor see me?' a voice came through the door. 'It
wouldn't take a minute . . .'
'I'm sorry.' Bormenthal rocked back from his toes to his heels. 'The
professor's in bed and a pipe has burst. Come tomorrow. Zina dear, quickly
mop up the hall or it will start running down the front staircase.'
'There's too much - the cloths won't do it.'
'Never mind,' said Fyodor. 'We'll scoop it up with jugs.'
While the doorbell rang ceaselessly, Bormenthal stood up to his ankles
in water.
'When is the operation?' said an insistent voice as it tried to force
its way through the crack of the door.
'A pipe's burst . . .'
'But I've come in galoshes . . .'
Bluish silhouettes appeared outside the door.
'I'm sorry, it's impossible, please come tomorrow.'
'But I have an appointment.'
'Tomorrow. There's been a disaster in the water supply.'
Fyodor splashed about in the lake, scooping it up with a jug, but the
battle-scared Sharikov had thought up a new method. He rolled up an enormous
cloth, lay on his stomach in the water and pushed it backwards from the hall
towards the lavatory.
'What d'you think you're doing, you fool, slopping it all round the
flat?' fumed Darya Petrovna. 'Pour it into the sink.'
'How can I?' replied Sharikov, scooping up the murky water with his
hands. 'If I don't push it back into the flat it'll run out of the front
door.'
A bench was pushed creaking out of the corridor, with Philip
Philipovich riding unsteadily on it in his blue striped socks.
'Stop answering the door, Ivan Amoldovich. Go into the bedroom, you can
borrow a pair of my slippers.'
'Don't bother, Philip Philipovich, I'm all right.'
'You're wearing nothing but a pair of galoshes.'
'I don't mind. My feet are wet anyway.'
'Oh, my God!' Philip Philipovich was exhausted and depressed.
'Destructive animal!' Sharikov suddenly burst out as he squatted on the
floor, clutching a soup tureen.
Bormenthal slammed the door, unable to contain himself any longer and
burst into laughter. Philip Philipovich blew out his nostrils and his
spectacles glittered.
'What are you talking about?' he asked Sharikov from the eminence of