his bench.
'I was talking about the cat. Filthy swine,' answered Sharikov, his
eyes swivelling guiltily.
'Look here, Sharikov,' retorted Philip Philipovich, taking a deep
breath. 'I swear I have never seen a more impudent creature than you.'
Bormenthal giggled.
'You,' went on Philip Philipovich, 'are nothing but a lout. How dare
you say that? You caused the whole thing and you have the gall . . . No,
really! It's too much!'
'Tell me, Sharikov,' said Bormenthal, 'how much longer are you going to
chase cats? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. It's disgraceful! You're a
savage!'
'Me - a savage?' snarled Sharikov. 'I'm no savage. I won't stand for
that cat in this flat. It only comes here to find what it can pinch. It
stole Darya's mincemeat. I wanted to teach it a lesson.'
'You should teach yourself a lesson!' replied Philip Philipovich. 'Just
take a look at your face in the mirror.'
'Nearly scratched my eyes out,' said Sharikov gloomily, wiping a dirty
hand across his eyes.
By the time that the water-blackened parquet had dried out a little,
all the mirrors were covered in a veil of condensed vapour and the doorbell
had stopped ringing. Philip Philipovich in red morocco slippers was standing
in the hall.
'There you are, Fyodor. Thank you.'
'Thank you very much, sir.'
'Mind you change your clothes straight away. No, wait -have a glass of
Darya Petrovna's vodka before you go.'
'Thank you, sir,' Fyodor squirmed awkwardly, then said:
'There is one more thing, Philip Philipovich. I'm sorry, I hardly like
to mention it, but it's the matter of the window-pane in No 7. Citizen
Sharikov threw some stones at it, you see . . .'
'Did he throw them at a cat?' asked Philip Philipovich, frowning like a
thundercloud.
'Well, no, he was throwing them at the owner of the flat. He's
threatening to sue.'
'Oh, lord!'
'Sharikov tried to kiss their cook and they threw him out. They had a
bit of a fight, it seems.'
'For God's sake, do you have to tell me all these disasters at once?
How much?'
'One rouble and 50 kopecks.'
Philip Philipovich took out three shining 50-kopeck pieces and handed
them to Fyodor.
'And on top of it all you have to pay 1 rouble and 50 kopecks because
of that damned cat,' grumbled a voice from the doorway. 'It was all the
cat's fault . . .'
Philip Philipovich turned round, bit his lip and gripped Sharikov.
Without a word he pushed him into the waiting-room and locked the door.
Sharik immediately started to hammer on the door with his fists.
'Shut up!' shouted Philip Philipovich in a voice that was nearly
deranged.
'This is the limit,' said Fyodor meaningfully. 'I've never seen such
impudence in my life.'
Bormenthal seemed to materialise out of the floor.
'Please, Philip Philipovich, don't upset yourself.'
The doctor thrust open the door into the waiting-room.
He could be heard saying: 'Where d'you think you are? In some dive?'
'That's it,' said Fyodor approvingly. 'Serve him right . . .a punch on
the ear's what he needs . . .'
'No, not that, Fyodor,' growled Philip Philipovich sadly. 'I think
you've just about had all you can take, Philip Philipovich.'


    Six




'No, no, no!' insisted Bormenthal. 'You must tuck in vour napkin.'
'Why the hell should I,' grumbled Sharikov.
'Thank you, doctor,' said Philip Philipovich gratefully. 'I simply
haven't the energy to reprimand him any longer.'
'I shan't allow you to start eating until you put on your napkin. Zina,
take the mayonnaise away from Sharikov.'
'Hey, don't do that,' said Sharikov plaintively. 'I'll put it on
straight away.'
Pushing away the dish from Zina with his left hand and stuffing a
napkin down his collar with the right hand, he looked exactly like a
customer in a barber's shop.
'And eat with your fork, please,' added Bormenthal.
Sighing long and heavily Sharikov chased slices of sturgeon around in a
thick sauce.
'Can't I have some vodka?' he asked.
'Will you kindly keep quiet?' said Bormenthal. 'You've been at the
vodka too often lately.'
'Do you grudge me it?' asked Sharikov, glowering sullenly across the
table.
'Stop talking such damn nonsense . . .' Philip Philipovich broke in
harshly, but Bormenthal interrupted him.
'Don't worry, Philip Philipovich, leave it to me. You, Sharikov are
talking nonsense and the most disturbing thing of all is that you talk it
with such complete confidence. Of course I don't grudge you the vodka,
especially as it's not mine but belongs to Philip Philipovich. It's simply
that it's harmful. That's for a start; secondly you behave badly enough
without vodka.' Bormenthal pointed to where the sideboard had been broken
and glued together.
'Zina, dear, give me a little more fish please,' said the professor.
Meanwhile Sharikov had stretched out his hand towards the decanter and,
with a sideways glance at Bormenthal, poured himself out a glassful.
'You should offer it to the others first,' said Bormenthal. 'Like this
- first to Philip Philipovich, then to me, then yourself.'
A faint, sarcastic grin nickered across Sharikov's mouth and he poured
out glasses of vodka all round.
'You act just as if you were on parade here,' he said. 'Put your napkin
here, your tie there, "please", "thank you", "excuse me" -why can't you
behave naturally? Honestly, you stuffed shirts act as if it was still the
days oftsarism.'
'What do you mean by "behave naturally"?'
Sharikov did not answer Philip Philipovich's question, but raised his
glass and said: 'Here's how . . .'
'And you too,' echoed Bormenthal with a tinge of irony.
Sharikov tossed the glassful down his throat, blinked, lifted a piece
of bread to his nose, sniffed it, then swallowed it as his eyes filled with
tears.
'Phase,' Philip Philipovich suddenly blurted out, as if preoccupied.
Bormenthal gave him an astonished look. 'I'm sorry? . . .'
'It's a phase,' repeated Philip Philipovich and nodded bitterly.
'There's nothing we can do about it. Klim.'
Deeply interested, Bormenthal glanced sharply into Philip Philipovich's
eyes: 'Do you suppose so, Philip Philipovich?' 'I don't suppose; I'm
convinced.'
'Can it be that . . .' began Bormenthal, then stopped after a glance at
Sharikov, who was frowning suspiciously. 'Spdter . . .' said Philip
Philipovich softly. 'Gut,' replied his assistant.
Zina brought in the turkey. Bormenthal poured out some red wine for
Philip Philipovich, then offered some to Sharikov.
'Not for me, I prefer vodka.' His face had grown puffy, sweat was
breaking out on his forehead and he was distinctly merrier. Philip
Philipovich also cheered up slightly after drinking some wine. His eyes grew
clearer and he looked rather more approvingly at Sharikov, whose black head
above his white napkin now shone like a fly in a pool of cream.
Bormenthal however, when fortified, seemed to want activity.
'Well now, what are you and I going to do this evening?' he asked
Sharikov.
Sharikov winked and replied: 'Let's go to the circus. I like that
best.'
'Why go to the circus every day?' remarked Philip Philipovich in a
good-humoured voice. 'It sounds so boring to me. If I were you I'd go to the
theatre.'
'I won't go to the theatre,' answered Sharikov nonchalantly and made
the sign of the cross over his mouth.
'Hiccuping at table takes other people's appetites away,' said
Bormenthal automatically. 'If you don't mind my mentioning it...
Incidentally, why don't you like the theatre?' Sharikov held his empty glass
up to his eye and looked through it as though it were an opera glass. After
some thought he pouted and said:
'Hell, it's just rot . . . talk, talk. Pure counter-revolution.'
Philip Philipovich leaned against his high, carved gothic chairback and
laughed so hard that he displayed what looked like two rows of gold
fence-posts. Bormenthal merely shook his head.
'You should do some reading,' he suggested, 'and then, perhaps . . .'
'But I read a lot . . .' answered Sharikov, quickly and surreptitiously
pouring himself half a glass of vodka.
'Zina!' cried Philip Philipovich anxiously. 'Clear away the vodka, my
dear. We don't need it any more . . . What have you been reading?'
He suddenly had a mental picture of a desert island, palm trees, and a
man dressed in goatskins. 'I'll bet he says Robinson Crusoe . . .'he
thought.
'That guy . . . what's his name . . . Engels' correspondence with . . .
hell, what d'you call him ... oh - Kautsky.'
Bormenthal's forkful of turkey meat stopped in mid-air and Philip
Philipovich choked on his wine. Sharikov seized this moment to gulp down his
vodka.
Philip Philipovich put his elbows on the table, stared at Sharikov and
asked:
'What comment can you make on what you've read?'
Sharikov shrugged. 'I don't agree.'
'With whom - Engels or Kautsky?'
'With neither of 'em,' replied Sharikov.
'That is most remarkable. Anybody who says that . . . Well, what would
you suggest instead?'
'Suggest? I dunno . . . They just write and write all that rot ... all
about some congress and some Germans . . . makes my head reel. Take
everything away from the bosses, then divide it up . . .'
'Just as I thought!' exclaimed Philip Philipovich, slapping the
tablecloth with his palm. 'Just as I thought.'
'And how is this to be done?' asked Bormenthal with interest.
'How to do it?' Sharikov, grown loquacious with wine, explained
garrulously:
'Easy. Fr'instance - here's one guy with seven rooms and forty pairs of
trousers and there's another guy who has to eat out of dustbins.'
'I suppose that remark about the seven rooms is a hint about me?' asked
Philip Philipovich with a haughty raise of the eyebrows.
Sharikov hunched his shoulders and said no more. 'All right, I've
nothing against fair shares. How many patients did you turn away yesterday,
doctor?' 'Thirty-nine,' was Bormenthal's immediate reply. 'H'm . . . 390
roubles, shared between us three. I won't count Zina and Darya Petrovna.
Right, Sharikov - that means your share is 130 roubles. Kindly hand it
over.'
'Hey, wait a minute,' said Sharikov, beginning to be scared. 'What's
the idea? What d'you mean?'
'I mean the cat and the tap,' Philip Philipovich suddenly roared,
dropping his mask of ironic imperturbability. 'Philip Philipovich!'
exclaimed Bormenthal anxiously. 'Don't interrupt. The scene you created
yesterday was intolerable, and thanks to you I had to turn away all my
patients. You were leaping around in the bathroom like a savage, smashing
everything and jamming the taps. Who killed Madame Polasukher's cat? Who . .
.'
'The day before yesterday, Sharikov, you bit a lady you met on the
staircase,' put in Bormenthal.
'You ought to be . . .' roared Philip Philipovich.
'But she slapped me across the mouth,' whined Sharikov 'She can't go
doing that to me!'
'She slapped you because you pinched her on the bosom,' shouted
Bormenthal, knocking over a glass. 'You stand there and . . .'
'You belong to the lowest possible stage of development,' Philip
Philipovich shouted him down. 'You are still in the formative stage. You are
intellectually weak, all your actions are purely bestial. Yet you allow
yourself in the presence of two university-educated men to offer advice,
with quite intolerable familiarity, on a cosmic scale and of quite cosmic
stupidity, on the redistribution of wealth . . . and at the same time you
eat toothpaste . . .'
'The day before yesterday,' added Bormenthal.
'And now,' thundered Philip Philipovich, 'that you have nearly got your
nose scratched off - incidentally, why have you wiped the zinc ointment off
it? - you can just shut up and listen to what you're told. You are going to
leam to behave and try to become a marginally acceptable member of society.
By the way, who was fool enough to lend you that book?'
'There you go again - calling everybody fools,' replied Sharikov
nervously, deafened by the attack on him from both sides.
'Let me guess,' exclaimed Philip Philipovich, turning red with fury.
'Well, Shvonder gave it to me ... so what? He's not a fool ... it was
so I could get educated.'
'I can see which way your education is going after reading Kautsky,'
shouted Philip Philipovich, hoarse and turning faintly yellow. With this he
gave the bell a furious jab. 'Today's incident shows it better than anything
else. Zina!'
'Zina!' shouted Bormenthal.
'Zina!' cried the terrified Sharikov.
Looking pale, Zina ran into the room.
'Zina, there's a book in the waiting-room ... It is in the
waiting-room, isn't it?'
'Yes, it is,' said Sharikov obediently. 'Green, the colour of copper
sulphate.'
'A green book . . .'
'Bum it if you like,' cried Sharikov in desperation. 'It's only a
public library book.'
'It's called Correspondence . . . between, er, Engels and that other
man, what's his name . . . Anyway, throw it into the stove!'
Zina flew out.
'I'd like to hang that Shvonder, on my word of honour, on the first
tree,' said Philip Philipovich, with a furious lunge at a turkey-wing.
'There's a gang of poisonous people in this house - it's just like an
abscess. To say nothing of his idiotic newspapers . . .'
Sharikov gave the professor a look of malicious sarcasm. Philip
Philipovich in his turn shot him a sideways glance and said no more.
'Oh, dear, it looks as if nothing's going to go right,' came
Bormenthal's sudden and prophetic thought.
Zina brought in a layer cake on a dish and a coffee pot.
'I'm not eating any of that,' Sharikov growled threateningly.
'No one has offered you any. Behave yourself. Please have some,
doctor.'
Dinner ended in silence.
Sharikov pulled a crumpled cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.
Having drunk his coffee, Philip Philipovich looked at the clock. He pressed
his repeater and it gently struck a quarter past eight. As was his habit
Philip Philipovich leaned against his gothic chairback and turned to the
newspaper on a side-table.
'Would you like to go to the circus with him tonight, doctor? Only do
check the programme in advance and make sure there are no cats in it.'
'I don't know how they let such filthy beasts into the circus at all,'
said Sharikov sullenly, shaking his head.
'Well never mind what filthy beasts they let into the circus for the
moment,' said Philip Philipovich ambiguously. 'What's on tonight?'
'At Solomon's,' Bormenthal began to read out, 'there's something called
the Four. . . . the Four Yooshems and the Human Ball-Bearing.'
'What are Yooshems?' enquired Philip Philipovich suspiciously.
'God knows. First time I've ever come across the word.'
'Well in that case you'd better look at Nikita's. We must be absolutely
sure about what we're going to see.'
'Nikita's . . . Nikita's . . . h'm . . . elephants and the Ultimate in
Human Dexterity.'
'I see. What is your attitude to elephants, my dear Sharikov?' enquired
Philip Philipovich mistrustfully. Sharikov was immediately offended.
'Hell - I don't know. Cats are a special case. Elephants are useful
animals,' replied Sharikov.
'Excellent. As long as you think they're useful you can go and watch
them. Do as Ivan Arnoldovich tells you. And don't get talking to anyone in
the bar! I beg you, Ivan Arnoldovich, not to offer Sharikov beer to drink.'
Ten minutes later Ivan Arnoldovich and Sharikov, dressed in a peaked
cap and a raglan overcoat with turned-up collar, set off for the circus.
Silence descended on the flat. Philip Philipovich went into his study. He
switched on the lamp under its heavy green shade, which gave the study a
great sense of calm, and began to pace the room. The tip of his cigar glowed
long and hard with its pale green fire. The professor put his hands into his
pockets and deep thoughts racked his balding, learned brow. Now and again he
smacked his lips, hummed 'to the banks of the sacred Nile . . .' and
muttered something. Finally he put his cigar into the ashtray, went over to
the glass cabinet and lit up the entire study with the three powerful lamps
in the ceiling. From the third glass shelf Philip Philipovich took out a
narrow jar and began, frowning, to examine it by the lamplight. Suspended in
a transparent, viscous liquid there swam a little white blob that had been
extracted from the depths of Sharik's brain. With a shrug of his shoulders,
twisting his lips and murmuring to himself, Philip Philipovich devoured it
with his eyes as though the floating white blob might unravel the secret of
the curious events which had turned life upside down in that flat on
Prechistenka.
It could be that this most learned man did succeed in divining the
secret. At any rate, having gazed his full at this cerebral appendage he
returned the jar to the cabinet, locked it, put the key into his waistcoat
pocket and collapsed, head pressed down between his shoulders and hands
thrust deep into his jacket pockets, on to the leather-covered couch. He
puffed long and hard at another cigar, chewing its end to fragments.
Finally, looking like a greying Faust in the green-tinged lamplight, he
exclaimed aloud:
'Yes, by God, I will.'
There was no one to reply. Every sound in the flat was hushed. By
eleven o'clock the traffic in Obukhov Street always died down. The rare
footfall of a belated walker echoed in the distance, ringing out somewhere
beyond the lowered blinds, then dying away. In Philip Philipovich's study
his repeater chimed gently beneath his fingers in his waistcoat pocket . . .
Impatiently the professor waited for Doctor Bormenthal and Sharikov to
return from the circus.

    Seven




We do not know what Philip Philipovich had decided to do. He did
nothing in particular during the subsequent week and perhaps as a result of
this things began happening fast.
About six days after the affair with the bath-water and the cat, the
young person from the house committee who had turned out to be a woman came
to Sharikov and handed him some papers. Sharikov put them into his pocket
and immediately called Doctor Bormenthal.
'Bormenthal!'
'Kindly address me by my name and patronymic!' retorted Bormenthal, his
expression clouding. I should mention that in the past six days the great
surgeon had managed to quarrel eight times with his ward Sharikov and the
atmosphere in the flat was tense.
'All right, then you can call me by my name and patronymic too!'
replied Sharikov with complete justification.
'No!' thundered Philip Philipovich from the doorway. 'I forbid you to
utter such an idiotic name in my flat. If you want us to stop calling you
Sharikov, Doctor Bormenthal and I will call you "Mister Sharikov".'
'I'm not mister - all the "misters" are in Paris!' barked Sharikov.
'I see Shvonder's been at work on you!' shouted Philip Philipovich.
'Well, I'll fix that rascal. There will only be "misters" in my flat as long
as I'm living in it! Otherwise either I or you will get out, and it's more
likely to be you. I'm putting a "room wanted" advertisement in the papers
today and believe me I intend to find you a room.'
'You don't think I'm such a fool as to leave here, do you?' was
Sharikov's crisp retort.
'What?' cried Philip Philipovich. Such a change came over his
expression that Bormenthal rushed anxiously to his side and gently took him
by the sleeve.
'Don't you be so impertinent, Monsieur Sharikov!' said Bormenthal,
raising his voice. Sharikov stepped back and pulled three pieces of paper
out of his pocket - one green, one yellow and one white, and said as he
tapped them with his fingers:
'There. I'm now a member of this residential association and the tenant
in charge of flat No. 5, Preobrazhensky, has got to give me my entitlement
of thirty-seven square feet . . .' Sharikov thought for a moment and then
added a word which Bormenthal's mind automatically recorded as new -
'please'.
Philip Philipovich bit his lip and said rashly:
'I swear I'll shoot that Shvonder one of these days.'
It was obvious from the look in Sharikov's eyes that he had taken
careful note of the remark.
'Vorsicht, Philip Philipovich . . .' warned Bormenthal.
'Well, what do you expect? The gall of it . . .!' shouted Philip
Philipovich in Russian.
'Look here, Sharikov ... Mister Sharikov ... If you commit one more
piece of impudence I shall deprive you of your dinner, in fact of all your
food. Thirty-seven square feet may be all very well, but there's nothing on
that stinking little bit of paper which says that I have to feed you!'
Frightened, Sharikov opened his mouth.
'I can't go without food,' he mumbled. 'Where would I eat?'
'Then behave yourself!' cried both doctors in chorus. Sharikov relapsed
into meaningful silence and did no harm to anybody that day with the
exception of himself - taking advantage of Bormenthal's brief absence he got
hold of the doctor's razor and cut his cheek-bone so badly that Philip
Philipovich and Doctor Bormenthal had to bandage the cut with much wailing
and weeping on Sharikov's part.
Next evening two men sat in the green twilight of the professor's study
- Philip Philipovich and the faithful, devoted Bormenthal. The house was
asleep. Philip Philipovich was wearing his sky-blue dressing gown and red
slippers, while Bormenthal was in his shirt and blue braces. On the round
table between the doctors, beside a thick album, stood a bottle of brandy, a
plate of sliced lemon and a box of cigars. Through the smoke-laden air the
two scientists were heatedly discussing the latest event: that evening
Sharikov had stolen two 10-rouble notes which had been lying under a
paperweight in Philip Philipovich's study, had disappeared from the flat and
then returned later completely drunk. But that was not all. With him had
come two unknown characters who had created a great deal of noise on the
front staircase and expressed a desire to spend the night with Sharikov. The
individuals in question were only removed after Fyodor, appearing on the
scene with a coat thrown over his underwear, had telephoned the 45th
Precinct police station. The individuals vanished instantly as soon as
Fyodor had replaced the receiver. After they had gone it was found that a
malachite ashtray had mysteriously vanished from a console in the hall, also
Philip Philipovich's beaver hat and his walking-stick with a gold band
inscribed: 'From the grateful hospital staff to Philip Philipovich in memory
of "X"-day with affection and respect/
'Who were they?' said Philip Philipovich aggressively, clenching his
fists. Staggering and clutching the fur-coats, Sharikov muttered something
about not knowing who they were, that they were a couple of bastards but
good chaps.
'The strangest thing of all was that they were both drunk . . . How did
they manage to lay their hands on the stuff?' said Philip Philipovich in
astonishment, glancing at the place where his presentation walking-stick had
stood until recently.
'They're experts,' explained Fyodor as he returned home to bed with a
rouble in his pocket.
Sharikov categorically denied having stolen the 20 roubles, mumbling
something indistinct about himself not being the only person in the flat.
'Aha, I see - I suppose Doctor Bormenthal stole the money?' enquired
Philip Philipovich in a voice that was quiet but terrifying in its
intonation.
Sharikov staggered, opened his bleary eyes and offered the suggestion:
'Maybe Zina took it . . .*
'What?' screamed Zina, appearing in the doorway like a spectre,
clutching an unbuttoned cardigan across her bosom.
'How could he . . .'
Philip Philipovich's neck flushed red.
'Calm down, Zina,' he said, stretching out his arm to her, 'don't get
upset, we'll fix this.'
Zina immediately burst into tears, her mouth fell wide open and her
hand dropped from her bosom.
'Zina - aren't you ashamed? Who could imagine you taking it? What a
disgraceful exhibition!' said Bormenthal in deep embarrassment.
'You silly girl, Zina, God forgive you . . .' began Philip Philipovich.
But at that moment Zina stopped crying and the others froze in horror -
Sharikov was feeling unwell. Banging his head against the wall, he was
emitting a moan that was pitched somewhere between the vowels 'i' and 'o' -
a sort of 'eeuuhh'. His face turned pale and his jaw twitched convulsively.
'Look out - get the swine that bucket from the consulting-room!'
Everybody rushed to help the ailing Sharikov. As he staggered off to
bed supported by Bormenthal he swore gently and melodiously, despite a
certain difficulty in enunciation.
The whole affair had occurred around 1 am and now it was Sam, but the
two men in the study talked on, fortified by brandy and lemon. The tobacco
smoke in the room was so dense that it moved about in slow, flat, unruffled
swathes.
Doctor Bormenthal, pale but determined, raised his thin-stemmed glass.
'Philip Philipovich,' he exclaimed with great feeling, 'I shall never
forget how as a half-starved student I came to you and you took me under
your wing. Believe me, Philip Philipovich, you are much more to me than a
professor, a teacher . . . My respect for you is boundless . . . Allow me to
embrace you, dear Philip Philipovich . . .'
'Yes, yes, my dear fellow . . .' grunted Philip Philipovich in
embarrassment and rose to meet him. Bormenthal embraced him and kissed him
on his bushy, nicotine-stained moustaches.
'Honestly, Philip Phili . . .'
'Very touching, very touching . . . Thank you,' said Philip
Philipovich. 'I'm afraid I sometimes bawl at you during operations. You must
forgive an old man's testiness. The fact is I'm really so lonely ..."...
from Granada to Seville . . ." '
'How can you say that, Philip Philipovich?' exclaimed Bormenthal with
great sincerity. 'Kindly don't talk like that again unless you want to
offend me . . .'
'Thank you, thank you ..."... to the banks of the sacred Nile ..."...
thank you ... I liked you because you were such a competent doctor.'
'I tell you, Philip Philipovich, it's the only way . . .' cried
Bormenthal passionately. Leaping up from his place he firmly shut the door
leading into the corridor, came back and went on in a whisper: 'Don't you
see, it's the only way out? Naturally I wouldn't dare to offer you advice,
but look at yourself, Philip Philipovich - you're completely worn out,
you're in no fit state to go on working!'
'You're quite right,' agreed Philip Philipovich with a sigh.
'Very well, then, you agree this can't go on,' whispered Bormenthal.
'Last time you said you were afraid for me and I wish you knew, my dear
professor, how that touched me. But I'm not a child either and I can see
only too well what a terrible affair this could be. But I am deeply
convinced that there is no other solution.'
Philip Philipovich stood up, waved his arms at him and cried:
'Don't tempt me. Don't even mention it.' The professor walked up and
down the room, disturbing the grey swathes. 'I won't hear of it. Don't you
realise what would happen if they found us out? Because of our "social
origins" you and I would never get away with it, despite the fact of it
being our first offence. I don't suppose your "origins" are any better than
mine, are they?'
'I suppose not. My father was a plain-clothes policeman in Vilno,' said
Bormenthal as he drained his brandy glass.
'There you are, just as I thought. From the Bolshevik's point of view
you couldn't have come from a more unsuitable background. Still, mine is
even worse. My father was dean of a cathedral. Perfect. ". . . from Granada
to Seville ... in the silent shades of night. . ." So there we are.'
'But Philip Philipovich, you're a celebrity, a figure of world-wide
importance, and just because of some, forgive the expression, bastard . . .
Surely they can't touch you!'
'All the same, I refuse to do it,' said Philip Philipovich
thoughtfully.
He stopped and stared at the glass-fronted cabinet. 'But why?'
'Because you are not a figure of world importance.' 'But what . . .'
'Come now, you don't think I could let you take the rap while I shelter
behind my world-wide reputation, do you? Really . . . I'm a Moscow
University graduate, not a Sharikov.'
Philip Philipovich proudly squared his shoulders and looked like an
ancient king of France.
'Well, then, Philip Philipovich,' sighed Bormenthal. 'What's to be
done? Are you just going to wait until that hooligan turns into a human
being?'
Philip Philipovich stopped him with a gesture, poured himself a brandy,
sipped it, sucked a slice of lemon and said:
'Ivan Arnoldovich. Do you think I understand a little about the anatomy
and physiology of, shall we say, the human brain? What's your opinion?'
'Philip Philipovich - what a question!' replied Bormenthal with deep
feeling and spread his hands.
'Very well. No need, therefore, for any false modesty. I also believe
that I am perhaps not entirely unknown in this field in Moscow.'
'I believe there's no one to touch you, not only in Moscow but in
London and Oxford too!' Bormenthal interrupted furiously.
'Good. So be it. Now listen to me, professor-to-be-Bor-menthal: no one
could ever pull it off. It's obvious. No need to ask. If anybody asks you,
tell them that Preobrazhensky said so. Finite. Klim!' - Philip Philipovich
suddenly cried triumphantly and the glass cabinet vibrated in response.
'Klim,' he repeated. 'Now, Bormenthal, you are the first pupil of my school
and apart from that my friend, as I was able to convince myself today. So I
will tell you as a friend, in secret - because of course I know that you
wouldn't expose me - that this old ass Preobrazhensky bungled that operation
like a third-year medical student. It's true that it resulted in a discovery
- and you know yourself just what sort of a discovery that was' - here
Philip Philipovich pointed sadly with both hands towards the window-blind,
obviously pointing to Moscow - 'but just remember, Ivan Arnoldovich, that
the sole result of that discovery will be that from now on we shall all have
that creature Sharik hanging round our necks' - here Preobrazhensky slapped
himself on his bent and slightly sclerotic neck - 'of that you may be sure!
If someone,' went on Philip Philipovich with relish, 'were to knock me down
and skewer me right now, I'd give him 50 roubles reward! ". . . from Granada
to Seville ..."... Dammit, I spent five years doing nothing but extracting
cerebral appendages . . . You know how much work I did on the subject - an
unbelievable amount. And now comes the crucial question - what for? So that
one fine day a nice litde dog could be transformed into a specimen of
so-called humanity so revolting that he makes one's hair stand on end.'
'Well, at least it is a unique achievement.'
'I quite agree with you. This, doctor, is what happens when a
researcher, instead of keeping in step with nature, tries to force the pace
and lift the veil. Result - Sharikov. We have made our bed and now we must
lie on it.'
'Supposing the brain had been Spinoza's, Philip Philipovich?'
'Yes!' bellowed Philip Philipovich. 'Yes! Provided the wretched dog
didn't die under the knife - and you saw how tricky the operation was. In
short - I, Philip Preobrazhensky would perform the most difficult feat of my
whole career by transplanting Spinoza's, or anyone else's pituitary and
turning a dog into a highly intelligent being. But what in heaven's name
for? That's the point. Will you kindly tell me why one has to manufacture
artificial Spinozas when some peasant woman may produce a real one any day
of the week? After all, the great Lomonosov was the son of a peasant woman
from Kholmogory. Mankind, doctor, takes care of that. Every year evolution
ruthlessly casts aside the mass of dross and creates a few dozen men of
genius who become an ornament to the whole world. Now I hope you understand
why I condemned the deductions you made from Sharikov's case history. My
discovery, which you are so concerned about, is worth about as much as a
bent penny . . . No, don't argue, Ivan Arnoldovich, I have given it careful
thought. I don't give my views lightly, as you well know. Theoretically the
experiment was interesting. Fine. The physiologists will be delighted.
Moscow will go mad ... But what is its practical value? What is this
creature?' Preobrazhensky pointed toward the consulting-room where Sharikov
was asleep.
'An unmitigated scoundrel.'
'But what was Klim . . . Klim,' cried the professor. 'What was Klim
Chugunkin?' (Bormenthal opened his mouth.) 'I'll tell you: two convictions,
an alcoholic, "take away all property and divide it up", my beaver hat and
20 roubles gone' - (At this point Philip Philipovich also remembered his
presentation walking-stick and turned purple.) - 'the swine! ... I'll get
that stick back somehow ... In short the pituitary is a magic box which
determines the individual human image. Yes, individual ..."... from Granda
to Seville . . ." ' shouted Philip Philipovich, his eyes rolling furiously,
'but not the universal human image. It's the brain itself in miniature. And
it's of no use to me at all - to hell with it. I was concerned about
something quite different, about eugenics, about the improvement of the
human race. And now I've ended up by specialising in rejuvenation. You don't
think I do these rejuvenation operations because of the money, do you? I am
a scientist.'
'And a great scientist!' said Bormenthal, gulping down his brandy. His
eyes grew bloodshot.
'I wanted to do a little experiment as a follow-up to my success two
years ago in extracting sex hormone from the pituitary. Instead of that what
has happened? My God! What use were those hormones in the pituitary . . .
Doctor, I am faced by despair. I confess I am utterly perplexed.'
Suddenly Bormenthal rolled up his sleeves and said, squinting at the
tip of his nose:
'Right then, professor, if you don't want to, I will take the risk of
dosing him with arsenic myself. I don't care if my father was a
plain-clothes policeman under the old regime. When all's said and done this
creature is yours - your own experimental creation.'
Philip Philipovich, limp and exhausted, collapsed into his chair and
said:
'No, my dear boy, I won't let you do it. I'm sixty, old enough to give
you advice. Never do anything criminal, no matter for what reason. Keep your
hands clean all your life.'
'But just think, Philip Philipovich, what he may turn into if that
character Shvonder keeps on at him! I'm only just beginning to realise what
Sharikov may become, by God!'
'Aha, so you realise now, do you? Well I realised it ten days after the
operation. My only comfort is that Shvonder is the biggest fool of all. He
doesn't realise that Sharikov is much more of a threat to him than he is to
me. At the moment he's doing all he can to turn Sharikov against me, not
realising that if someone in their turn sets Sharikov against Shvonder
himself, there'll soon be nothing left of Shvonder but the bones and the
beak.'
'You're right. Just think of the way he goes for cats. He's a man with
the heart of a dog.'
'Oh, no, no,' drawled Philip Philipovich in reply. 'You're making a big
mistake, doctor. For heaven's sake don't insult the dog. His reaction to
cats is purely temporary . . . It's a question of discipline, which could be
dealt with in two or three weeks, I assure you. Another month or so and
he'll stop chasing them.'
'But why hasn't he stopped by now?' 'Elementary, Ivan Arnoldovich . . .
think what you're saying. After all, the pituitary is not suspended in a
vacuum. It is, after all, grafted on to a canine brain, you must allow time
for it to take root. Sharikov now only shows traces of canine behaviour and
you must remember this - chasing after cats is the least objectionable thing
he does! The whole horror of the situation is that he now has a human heart,
not a dog's heart. And about the rottenest heart in all creation!'
Bormenthal, wrought to a state of extreme anxiety, clenched his
powerful sinewy hands, shrugged and said firmly:
'Very well, I shall kill him!'
'I forbid it!' answered Philip Philipovich categorically.
'But...'
Philip Philipovich was suddenly on the alert. He raised his finger.
'Wait ... I heard footsteps.'
Both listened intently, but there was silence in the corridor.
'I thought. . .' said Philip Philipovich and began speaking German,
several times using the Russian word 'crime'.
'Just a minute,' Bormenthal suddenly warned him and strode over to the
door.
Footsteps could be clearly heard approaching the study, and there was a
mumble of voices. Bormenthal flung open the door and started back in
amazement. Appalled, Philip Philipovich froze in his armchair. In the bright
rectangle of the doorway stood Darya Petrovna in nothing but her nightdress,
her face hot and furious. Both doctor and professor were dazzled by the
amplitude of her powerful body, which their shock caused them to see as
naked. Darya Petrovna was dragging something along in her enormous hands and
as that 'something' came to a halt it slid down and sat on its bottom. Its
short legs, covered in black down, folded up on the parquet floor. The
'something', of course, was Sharikov, confused, still slightly drunk,
dishevelled and wearing only a shirt.
Darya Petrovna, naked and magnificent, shook Sharikov like a sack of
potatoes and said:
'Just look at our precious lodger Telegraph Telegraphovich. I've been
married, but Zina's an innocent girl. It was a good thing I woke up.'
Having said her piece, Darya Petrovna was overcome by shame, gave a
scream, covered her bosom with her arms and vanished.
'Darya Petrovna, please forgive us,' the red-faced Philip Philipovich
shouted after her as soon as he had regained his senses.
Bormenthal rolled up his shirtsleeves higher still and bore down on
Sharikov. Philip Philipovich caught the look in his eye and said in horror:
'Doctor! I forbid you . . .'
With his right hand Bormenthal picked up Sharikov by the scruff of his
neck and shook him so violently that the material of his shirt tore.
Philip Philipovich threw himself between them and began to drag the
puny Sharikov free from Bormenthal's powerful surgeon's hands.
'You haven't any right to beat me,' said Sharikov in a stifled moan,
rapidly sobering as he slumped to the ground. 'Doctor!' shrieked Philip
Philipovich. Bormenthal pulled himself together slightly and let Sharikov
go. He at once began to whimper.
'Right,' hissed Bormenthal, 'just wait till tomorrow. I'll fix a little
demonstration for him when he sobers up.' With this he grabbed Sharikov
under the armpit and dragged him to his bed in the waiting-room. Sharikov
tried to kick, but his legs refused to obey him.
Philip Philipovich spread his legs wide, sending the skirts of his robe
flapping, raised his arms and his eyes towards the lamp in the corridor
ceiling and sighed.

    Eight



The 'little demonstration' which Bormenthal had promised to lay on for
Sharikov did not, however, take place the following morning, because
Poligraph Poligraphovich had disappeared from the house. Bormenthal gave way
to despair, cursing himself for a fool for not having hidden the key of the
front door. Shouting that this was unforgivable, he ended by wishing
Sharikov would fall under a bus. Philip Philipovich, who was sitting in his
study running his fingers through his hair, said:
'I can just imagine what he must be up to on the street. . . I can just
imagine .. . "from Granada to Seville .. ." My God.'
'He may be with the house committee,' said Bormenthal furiously, and
dashed off.
At the house committee he swore at the chairman, Shvonder, so violently
that Shvonder sat down and wrote a complaint to the local People's Court,
shouting as he did so that he wasn't Sharikov's bodyguard. Poligraph
Poligraphovich was not very popular at the house committee either, as only
yesterday he had taken 7 roubles from the funds, with the excuse that he was
going to buy text books at the co-operative store.
For a reward of 3 roubles Fyodor searched the whole house from top to
bottom. Nowhere was there a trace to be found of Sharikov.
Only one thing was clear - that Poligraph had left at dawn wearing cap,
scarf and overcoat, taking with him a bottle of rowanberry brandy from the
sideboard. Doctor Bormenthal's gloves, and all his own documents. Darya
Petrovna and Zina openly expressed their delight and hoped that Sharikov
would never come back again. Sharikov had borrowed 50 roubles from Darya
Petrovna only the day before.
'Serve you right!' roared Philip Philipovich, shaking his fists. The
telephone rang all that day and all the next day. The doctors saw an unusual
number of patients and by the third day the two men were faced with the
question of what to tell the police, who would have to start looking for
Sharikov in the Moscow underworld.
Hardly had the word 'police' been mentioned than the reverent hush of
Obukhov Street was broken by the roar of a lorry and all the windows in the
house shook. Then with a confident ring at the bell Poligraph Poligraphovich
appeared and entered with an air of unusual dignity. In absolute silence he
took off his cap and hung his coat on the hook. He looked completely
different. He had on a second-hand leather tunic, worn leather breeches and
long English riding-boots laced up to the knee. An incredible odour of cat
immediately permeated the whole hall. As though at an unspoken word of
command Preobrazhensky and Bormenthal simultaneously crossed their arms,
leaned against the doorpost and waited for Poligraph Poligraphovich to make
his first remark. He smoothed down his rough hair and cleared his throat,
obviously wanting to hide his embarrassment by a nonchalant air.
At last he spoke. 'I've taken a job, Philip Philipovich.'
Both doctors uttered a vague dry noise in the throat and stirred
slightly. Preobrazhensky was the first to collect his wits. Stretching out
his hand he said: 'Papers.'
The typewritten sheet read: 'It is hereby certified that the bearer,
comrade Poligraph Poligraphovich Sharikov, is appointed in charge of the
sub-department of the Moscow Cleansing Department responsible for
eliminating vagrant quadrupeds (cats, etc.)'
'I see,' said Philip Philipovich gravely. 'Who fixed this for you? No,
don't tell me - I can guess.'
'Yes, well, it was Shvonder.'
'Forgive my asking, but why are you giving off such a revolting smell?'
Sharikov anxiously sniffed at his tunic.
'Well, it may smell a bit - that's because of my job. I spent all
yesterday strangling cats . . .'
Philip Philipovich shuddered and looked at Bormenthal, whose eyes
reminded him of two black gun-barrels aimed straight at Sharikov. Without
the slightest warning he stepped up to Sharikov and took him in a light,
practised grip around the throat.
'Help!' squeaked Sharikov, turning pale.
'Doctor!'
'Don't worry, Philip Philipovich, I shan't do anything violent,'
answered Bormenthal in an iron voice and roared:
'Zina and Darya Petrovna!'
The two women appeared in the lobby.
'Now,' said Bormenthal, giving Sharikov's throat a very slight push
toward the fur-coat hanging up on a nearby hook, 'repeat after me: "I
apologise . . ." ' 'All right, I'll repeat it . . .' replied the defeated
Sharikov in a husky
voice.
Suddenly he took a deep breath, twisted, and tried to shout 'help', but
no sound came out and his head was pushed right into the fur-coat.
'Doctor, please . . .' Sharikov nodded as a sign that he submitted and
would
repeat what he had to do.
'. . . I apologise, dear Darya Petrovna and Zinaida? . . .'
"Prokofievna,' whispered Zina nervously.
'Ow . . . Prokofievna . . . that I allowed myself. . .'
'. . .to behave so disgustingly the other night in a state of