intoxication.'
'Intoxication . . .'
'I shall never do it again . . .'
'Do it again . . .'
'Let him go, Ivan Arnoldovich,' begged both women at once. 'You're
throttling him. '
Bormenthal released Sharikov and said:
'Is that lorry waiting for you?'
'It just brought me here,' replied Poligraph submissively.
'Zina, tell the driver he can go. Now tell me - have you come back to
Philip Philipovich's flat to stay?'
'Where else can I go?' asked Sharikov timidly, his eyes nickering
around the room.
'Very well. You will be as good as gold and as quiet as a mouse.
Otherwise you will have to reckon with me each time you misbehave.
Understand?'
'I understand,' replied Sharikov.
Throughout Bormenthal's attack on Sharikov Philip Philipovich had kept
silent. He had leaned against the doorpost with a miserable look, chewed his
nails and stared at the floor. Then he suddenly looked up at Sharikov and
asked in a toneless, husky voice:
'What do you do with them ... the dead cats, I mean?' 'They go to a
laboratory,' replied Sharikov, 'where they make them into protein for the
workers.'
After this silence fell on the flat and lasted for two days. Poligraph
Poligraphovich went to work in the morning by truck, returned in the evening
and dined quietly with Philip Philipovich and Bormenthal.
Although Bormenthal and Sharikov slept in the same room - the
waiting-room - they did not talk to each other, which Bormenthal soon found
boring.
Two days later, however, there appeared a thin girl wearing eye shadow
and pale fawn stockings, very embarrassed by the magnificence of the flat.
In her shabby little coat she trotted in behind Sharikov and met the
professor in the hall.
Dumbfounded, the professor frowned and asked:
'Who is this?'
'Me and her's getting married. She's our typist. She's coming to live
with me. Bormenthal will have to move out of the waiting-room. He's got his
own flat,' said Sharikov in a sullen and very off-hand voice.
Philip Philipovich blinked, reflected for a moment as he watched the
girl turn crimson, then invited her with great courtesy to step into his
study for a moment.
'And I'm going with her,' put in Sharikov quickly and suspiciously.
At that moment Bormenthal materialised from the floor.
'I'm sorry,' he said, 'the professor wants to talk to the lady and you
and I are going to stay here.'
'I won't,' retorted Sharikov angrily, trying to follow Philip
Philipovich and the girl. Her face burned with shame.
'No, I'm sorry,' Bormenthal took Sharikov by the wrist and led him into
the consulting-room.
For about five minutes nothing was heard from the study, then suddenly
came the sound of the girl's muffled sobbing.
Philip Philipovich stood beside his desk as the girl wept into a dirty
little lace handkerchief.
'He told me he'd been wounded in the war,' sobbed the girl. 'He's
lying,' replied Philip Philipovich inexorably. He shook his head and went
on. 'I'm genuinely sorry for you, but you can't just go off and live with
the first person you happen to meet at work . . . my dear child, it's
scandalous. Here . . .' He opened a desk drawer and took out three 10-rouble
notes.
'I'd kill myself,' wept the girl. 'Nothing but salt beef every day in
the canteen . . . and he threatened me . . . then he said he'd been a Red
Army officer and he'd take me to live in a posh flat . . . kept making
passes at me . . . says he's kind-hearted really, he only hates cats ... He
took my ring as a memento . . .'
'Well, well... so he's kind-hearted ..."... from Granada to Seville . .
.".' muttered Philip Philipovich. 'You'll get over it, my dear. You're still
young.'
'Did you really find him in a doorway?'
'Look, I'm offering to lend you this money - take it,' grunted Philip
Philipovich.
The door was then solemnly thrown open and at Philip Philipovich's
request Bormenthal led in Sharikov, who glanced shiftily around. The hair on
his head stood up like a scrubbing-brush.
'You beast,' said the girl, her eyes flashing, her mascara running past
her streakily powdered nose.
'Where did you get that scar on your forehead? Try and explain to the
lady,' said Philip Philipovich softly.
Sharikov staked his all on one preposterous card:
'I was wounded at the front fighting against Kolchak,' he barked.
The girl stood up and went out, weeping noisily.
'Stop crying!' Philip Philipovich shouted after her. 'Just a minute -
the ring, please,' he said, turning to Sharikov, who obediently removed a
large emerald ring from his finger.
'I'll get you,' he suddenly said with malice. 'You'll remember me.
Tomorrow I'll make sure they cut your salary.'
'Don't be afraid of him,' Bormenthal shouted after the girl. *I won't
let him do you any harm.' He turned round and gave Sharikov such a look that
he stumbled backwards and hit his head on the glass cabinet.
'What's her surname?' asked Bormenthal. 'Her surname!' he roared,
suddenly terrible.
'Basnetsova,' replied Sharikov, looking round for a way of escape.
'Every day,' said Bormenthal, grasping the lapels of Sharikov's tunic,
'I shall personally make enquiries at the City Cleansing Department to make
sure that you haven't been interfering with citizeness Basnetsova's salary.
And if I find out that you have . . . then I will shoot you down with my own
hands. Take care, Sharikov - I mean what I say.' Transfixed, Sharikov stared
at Bormenthal's nose. 'You're not the only one with a revolver . . .'
muttered Poligraph quietly.
Suddenly he dodged and spurted for the door. 'Take care!' Bormenthal's
shout pursued him as he fled. That night and the following morning were as
tense as the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Nobody spoke. The next day
Poligraph Poligraphovich went gloomily off to work by lorry, after waking up
with an uneasy presentiment, while Professor Preobrazhensky saw a former
patient, a tall, strapping man in uniform, at a quite abnormal hour. The man
insisted on a consultation and was admitted. As he walked into the study he
politely clicked his heels to the professor.
'Have your pains come back?' asked Philip Philipovich pursing his lips.
'Please sit down.'
'Thank you. No, professor,' replied his visitor, putting down his cap
on the edge of the desk. 'I'm very grateful to you ... No ... I've come,
h'm, on another matter, Philip Philipovich ... in view of the great respect
I feel . . . I've come to ... er, warn you. It's obviously nonsense, of
course. He's simply a scoundrel.' The patient searched in his briefcase and
took out a piece of paper. 'It's a good thing I was told about this right
away . . .'
Philip Philipovich slipped a pince-nez over his spectacles and began to
read. For a long time he mumbled half-aloud, his expression changing every
moment. '. . . also threatening to murder the chairman of the house
committee, comrade Shvonder, which shows that he must be keeping a firearm.
And he makes counter-revolutionary speeches, and even ordered his domestic
worker, Zinaida Prokofievna Bunina, to burn Engels in the stove. He is an
obvious Menshevik and so is his assistant Ivan Arnoldovich Bormenthal who is
living secretly in his flat without being registered. Signed: P. P. Sharikov
Sub-Dept. Controller City Cleansing Dept. Countersigned: Shvonder
Chairman, House Committee. Pestrukhin Secretary, House Committee.
'May I keep this?' asked Philip Philipovich, his face blotchy. 'Or
perhaps you need it so that legal proceedings can be made?'
'Really, professor.' The patient was most offended and blew out his
nostrils. 'You seem to regard us with contempt. I . . .' And he began to
puff himself up like a turkeycock.
'Please forgive me, my dear fellow!' mumbled Philip Philipovich. 'I
really didn't mean to offend you. Please don't be angry. You can't believe
what this creature has done to my nerves . . .'
'So I can imagine,' said the patient, quite mollified. 'But what a
swine! I'd be curious to have a look at him. Moscow is full of stories about
you . . .'
Philip Philipovich could only gesture in despair. It was then that the
patient noticed how hunched the professor was looking and that he seemed to
have recently grown much greyer.
The crime ripened, then fell like a stone, as usually happens. With an
uncomfortable feeling round his heart Poligraph Poligraphovich returned that
evening by lorry. Philip Philipovich's voice invited him into the
consulting-room. Surprised, Sharikov entered and looked first, vaguely
frightened, at Bormenthal's steely face, then at Philip Philipovich. A cloud
of smoke surrounded the doctor's head and his left hand, trembling very
slightly, held a cigarette and rested on the shiny handle of the obstetrical
chair.
With ominous calm Philip Philipovich said:
'Go and collect your things at once - trousers, coat, everything you
need - then get out of this flat!'
'What is all this?' Sharikov was genuinely astonished. 'Get out of this
flat - and today,' repeated Philip Philipovich, frowning down at his
fingernails.
An evil spirit was at work inside Poligraph Poligraphovich. It was
obvious that his end was in sight and his time nearly up, but he hurled
himself towards the inevitable and barked in an angry staccato:
'Like hell I will! You got to give me my rights. I've a right to
thirty-seven square feet and I'm staying right here.'
'Get out of this flat,' whispered Philip Philipovich in a strangled
voice.
It was Sharikov himself who invited his own death. He raised his left
hand, which stank most horribly of cats, and cocked a snook at Philip
Philipovich. Then with his right hand he drew a revolver on Bormenthal.
Bormenthal's cigarette fell like a shooting star. A few seconds later Philip
Philipovich was hopping about on broken glass and running from the cabinet
to the couch. On it, spreadeagled and croaking, lay a sub-department
controller of the City Cleansing Department; Bormenthal the surgeon was
sitting astride his chest and suffocating him with a small white pad.
After some minutes Bormenthal, with a most unfamiliar look, walked out
on to the landing and stuck a notice beside the doorbell:
The Professor regrets that owing to indisposition he will be unable to
hold consulting hours today. Please do not disturb the Professor by ringing
the bell.
With a gleaming penknife he then cut the bell-cable, inspected his
scratched and bleeding face in the mirror and his lacerated, slightly
trembling hands. Then he went into the kitchen and said to the anxious Zina
and Darya Petrovna:
'The professor says you mustn't leave the fiat on any account.'
'No, we won't,' they replied timidly.
'Now I must lock the back door and keep the key,' said Bormenthal,
sidling round the room and covering his face with his hand. 'It's only
temporary, not because we don't trust you. But if anybody came you might not
be able to keep them out and we mustn't be disturbed. We're busy.'
'All right,' replied the two women, turning pale. Bormenthal locked the
back door, locked the front door, locked the door from the corridor into the
hall and his footsteps faded away into the consulting-room.
Silence filled the flat, flooding into every comer. Twilight crept in,
dank and sinister and gloomy. Afterwards the neighbours across the courtyard
said that every light burned that evening in the windows of Preobrazhensky's
consulting-room and that they even saw the professor's white skullcap ... It
is hard to be sure. When it was all over Zina did say, though, that when
Bormenthal and the professor emerged from the consulting-room, there, by the
study fireplace, Ivan Amoldovich had frightened her to death. It seems he
was squatting down in front of the fire and burning one of the blue-bound
notebooks which contained the medical notes on the professor's patients. The
doctor's face, apparently, was quite green and completely - yes, completely
- scratched to pieces. And that evening Philip Philipovich had been most
peculiar. And then there was another thing - but maybe that innocent girl
from the flat in Prechistenka Street was talking rubbish . . .
One thing, though, was certain: there was silence in the flat that
evening - total, frightening silence.
One night, exactly ten days to the day after the struggle in Professor
Preobrazhensky's consulting-room in his flat on Obukhov Street, there was a
sharp ring of the doorbell.
'Criminal police. Open up, please.'
Footsteps approached, people knocked and entered until a considerable
crowd filled the brightly-lit waiting-room with its newly-glazed cabinet.
There were two in police uniform, one in a black overcoat and carrying a
brief-case; there was chairman Shvonder, pale and gloating, and the youth
who had turned out to be a woman; there was Fyodor the porter, Zina, Darya
Petrovna and Bormenthal, half dressed and embarrassed as he tried to cover
up his tieless neck.
The door from the study opened to admit Philip Philipovich. He appeared
in his familiar blue dressing gown and everybody could tell at once that
over the past week Philip Philipovich had begun to look very much better.
The old Philip Philipovich, masterful, energetic and dignified, now faced
his nocturnal visitors and apologised for appearing in his dressing gown.
'It doesn't matter, professor,' said the man in civilian clothes, in
great embarrassment. He faltered and then said:
'I'm sorry to say we have a warrant to search your flat and' -the men
stared uneasily at Philip Philipovich's moustaches and ended: 'to arrest
you, depending on the results of our search.'
Philip Philipovich frowned and asked:
'What, may I ask, is the charge, and who is being charged?'
The man scratched his cheek and began reading from a piece of paper
from his briefcase.
'Preobrazhensky, Bormenthal, Zinaida Bunina and Darya Ivanova are
charged with the murder of Poligraph Poligraph-ovich Sharikov,
sub-department controller. City of Moscow Cleansing Department.'
The end of his speech was drowned by Zina's sobs. There was general
movement.
'I don't understand,' replied Philip Philipovich with a regal shrug.
'Who is this Sharikov? Oh, of course, you mean my dog . . . the one I
operated on?'
'I'm sorry, professor, not a dog. This happened when he was a man.
That's the trouble.'
'Because he talked?' asked Philip Philipovich. 'That doesn't mean he
was a man. Anyhow, it's irrelevant. Sharik is alive at this moment and no
one has killed him.'
'Really, professor?' said the man in black, deeply astonished and
raised his eyebrows. 'In that case you must produce him. It's ten days now
since he disappeared and the evidence, if you'll forgive my saying so, is
most disquieting.'
'Doctor Bormenthal, will you please produce Sharik for the detective,'
ordered Philip Philipovich, pocketing the charge-sheet. Bormenthal went out,
smiling enigmatically.
As he returned he gave a whistle and from the door into the study
appeared a dog of the most extraordinary appearance. In patches he was bald,
while in other patches his coat had grown. He entered like a trained circus
dog walking on his hind legs, then dropped on to all fours and looked round.
The waiting-room froze into a sepulchral silence as tangible as jelly. The
nightmarish-looking dog with the crimson scar on the forehead stood up again
on his hind legs, grinned and sat down in an armchair.
The second policeman suddenly crossed himself with a sweeping gesture
and in stepping back knocked Zina's legs from under her.
The man in black, his mouth still wide open, said:
'What's been going on? ... He worked in the City Cleansing Department .
. .'
'I didn't send him there,' answered Philip Philipovich. 'He was
recommended for the job by Mr Shvonder, if I'm not mistaken.'
'I don't get it,' said the man in black, obviously confused, and turned
to the first policeman. 'Is that him?'
'Yes,' whispered the policeman, 'it's him all right.'
'That's him,' came Fyodor's voice, 'except the little devil's got a bit
fatter.'
'But he talked . . .' the man in black giggled nervously.
'And he still talks, though less and less, so if you want to hear him
talk now's the time, before he stops altogether'.
'But why?' asked the man in black quietly.
Philip Philipovich shrugged his shoulders.
'Science has not yet found the means of turning animals into people. I
tried, but unsuccessfully, as you can see. He talked and then he began to
revert back to his primitive state. Atavism.'
'Don't swear at me,' the dog suddenly barked from his chair and stood
up.
The man in black turned instantly pale, dropped his briefcase and began
to fall sideways. A policeman caught him on one side and Fyodor supported
him from behind. There was a sudden turmoil, clearly pierced by three
sentences:
Philip Philipovich: 'Give him valerian. He's fainted.'
Doctor Bormenthal: 'I shall personally throw Shvonder downstairs if he
ever appears in Professor Preobrazhensky's flat again.'
And Shvonder said: 'Please enter that remark in the report.'
The grey accordion-shaped radiators hissed gently. The blinds shut out
the thick Prechistenka Street night sky with its lone star. The great, the
powerful benefactor of dogs sat in his chair while Sharik lay stretched out
on the carpet beside the leather couch. In the mornings the March fog made
the dog's head ache, especially around the circular scar on his skull, but
by evening the warmth banished the pain. Now it was easing all the time and
warm, comfortable thoughts flowed through the dog's mind.
I've been very, very lucky, he thought sleepily. Incredibly lucky. I'm
really settled in this flat. Though I'm not so sure now about my pedigree.
Not a drop of labrador blood. She was just a tart, my old grandmother. God
rest her soul. Certainly they cut my head around a bit, but who cares. None
of my business, really.
From the distance came a tinkle of glass. Bormenthal was tidying the
shelves of the cabinet in the consulting-room.
The grey-haired magician sat and hummed: ' ". . . to the banks of the
sacred Nile . . ." '
That evening the dog saw terrible things. He saw the great roan plunge
his slippery, rubber-gloved hands into a jar to fish out a brain; then
relentlessly, persistently the great man pursued his search. Slicing,
examining, he frowned and sang:
' "To the banks of the sacred Nile . . ." '
'Intoxication . . .'
'I shall never do it again . . .'
'Do it again . . .'
'Let him go, Ivan Arnoldovich,' begged both women at once. 'You're
throttling him. '
Bormenthal released Sharikov and said:
'Is that lorry waiting for you?'
'It just brought me here,' replied Poligraph submissively.
'Zina, tell the driver he can go. Now tell me - have you come back to
Philip Philipovich's flat to stay?'
'Where else can I go?' asked Sharikov timidly, his eyes nickering
around the room.
'Very well. You will be as good as gold and as quiet as a mouse.
Otherwise you will have to reckon with me each time you misbehave.
Understand?'
'I understand,' replied Sharikov.
Throughout Bormenthal's attack on Sharikov Philip Philipovich had kept
silent. He had leaned against the doorpost with a miserable look, chewed his
nails and stared at the floor. Then he suddenly looked up at Sharikov and
asked in a toneless, husky voice:
'What do you do with them ... the dead cats, I mean?' 'They go to a
laboratory,' replied Sharikov, 'where they make them into protein for the
workers.'
After this silence fell on the flat and lasted for two days. Poligraph
Poligraphovich went to work in the morning by truck, returned in the evening
and dined quietly with Philip Philipovich and Bormenthal.
Although Bormenthal and Sharikov slept in the same room - the
waiting-room - they did not talk to each other, which Bormenthal soon found
boring.
Two days later, however, there appeared a thin girl wearing eye shadow
and pale fawn stockings, very embarrassed by the magnificence of the flat.
In her shabby little coat she trotted in behind Sharikov and met the
professor in the hall.
Dumbfounded, the professor frowned and asked:
'Who is this?'
'Me and her's getting married. She's our typist. She's coming to live
with me. Bormenthal will have to move out of the waiting-room. He's got his
own flat,' said Sharikov in a sullen and very off-hand voice.
Philip Philipovich blinked, reflected for a moment as he watched the
girl turn crimson, then invited her with great courtesy to step into his
study for a moment.
'And I'm going with her,' put in Sharikov quickly and suspiciously.
At that moment Bormenthal materialised from the floor.
'I'm sorry,' he said, 'the professor wants to talk to the lady and you
and I are going to stay here.'
'I won't,' retorted Sharikov angrily, trying to follow Philip
Philipovich and the girl. Her face burned with shame.
'No, I'm sorry,' Bormenthal took Sharikov by the wrist and led him into
the consulting-room.
For about five minutes nothing was heard from the study, then suddenly
came the sound of the girl's muffled sobbing.
Philip Philipovich stood beside his desk as the girl wept into a dirty
little lace handkerchief.
'He told me he'd been wounded in the war,' sobbed the girl. 'He's
lying,' replied Philip Philipovich inexorably. He shook his head and went
on. 'I'm genuinely sorry for you, but you can't just go off and live with
the first person you happen to meet at work . . . my dear child, it's
scandalous. Here . . .' He opened a desk drawer and took out three 10-rouble
notes.
'I'd kill myself,' wept the girl. 'Nothing but salt beef every day in
the canteen . . . and he threatened me . . . then he said he'd been a Red
Army officer and he'd take me to live in a posh flat . . . kept making
passes at me . . . says he's kind-hearted really, he only hates cats ... He
took my ring as a memento . . .'
'Well, well... so he's kind-hearted ..."... from Granada to Seville . .
.".' muttered Philip Philipovich. 'You'll get over it, my dear. You're still
young.'
'Did you really find him in a doorway?'
'Look, I'm offering to lend you this money - take it,' grunted Philip
Philipovich.
The door was then solemnly thrown open and at Philip Philipovich's
request Bormenthal led in Sharikov, who glanced shiftily around. The hair on
his head stood up like a scrubbing-brush.
'You beast,' said the girl, her eyes flashing, her mascara running past
her streakily powdered nose.
'Where did you get that scar on your forehead? Try and explain to the
lady,' said Philip Philipovich softly.
Sharikov staked his all on one preposterous card:
'I was wounded at the front fighting against Kolchak,' he barked.
The girl stood up and went out, weeping noisily.
'Stop crying!' Philip Philipovich shouted after her. 'Just a minute -
the ring, please,' he said, turning to Sharikov, who obediently removed a
large emerald ring from his finger.
'I'll get you,' he suddenly said with malice. 'You'll remember me.
Tomorrow I'll make sure they cut your salary.'
'Don't be afraid of him,' Bormenthal shouted after the girl. *I won't
let him do you any harm.' He turned round and gave Sharikov such a look that
he stumbled backwards and hit his head on the glass cabinet.
'What's her surname?' asked Bormenthal. 'Her surname!' he roared,
suddenly terrible.
'Basnetsova,' replied Sharikov, looking round for a way of escape.
'Every day,' said Bormenthal, grasping the lapels of Sharikov's tunic,
'I shall personally make enquiries at the City Cleansing Department to make
sure that you haven't been interfering with citizeness Basnetsova's salary.
And if I find out that you have . . . then I will shoot you down with my own
hands. Take care, Sharikov - I mean what I say.' Transfixed, Sharikov stared
at Bormenthal's nose. 'You're not the only one with a revolver . . .'
muttered Poligraph quietly.
Suddenly he dodged and spurted for the door. 'Take care!' Bormenthal's
shout pursued him as he fled. That night and the following morning were as
tense as the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Nobody spoke. The next day
Poligraph Poligraphovich went gloomily off to work by lorry, after waking up
with an uneasy presentiment, while Professor Preobrazhensky saw a former
patient, a tall, strapping man in uniform, at a quite abnormal hour. The man
insisted on a consultation and was admitted. As he walked into the study he
politely clicked his heels to the professor.
'Have your pains come back?' asked Philip Philipovich pursing his lips.
'Please sit down.'
'Thank you. No, professor,' replied his visitor, putting down his cap
on the edge of the desk. 'I'm very grateful to you ... No ... I've come,
h'm, on another matter, Philip Philipovich ... in view of the great respect
I feel . . . I've come to ... er, warn you. It's obviously nonsense, of
course. He's simply a scoundrel.' The patient searched in his briefcase and
took out a piece of paper. 'It's a good thing I was told about this right
away . . .'
Philip Philipovich slipped a pince-nez over his spectacles and began to
read. For a long time he mumbled half-aloud, his expression changing every
moment. '. . . also threatening to murder the chairman of the house
committee, comrade Shvonder, which shows that he must be keeping a firearm.
And he makes counter-revolutionary speeches, and even ordered his domestic
worker, Zinaida Prokofievna Bunina, to burn Engels in the stove. He is an
obvious Menshevik and so is his assistant Ivan Arnoldovich Bormenthal who is
living secretly in his flat without being registered. Signed: P. P. Sharikov
Sub-Dept. Controller City Cleansing Dept. Countersigned: Shvonder
Chairman, House Committee. Pestrukhin Secretary, House Committee.
'May I keep this?' asked Philip Philipovich, his face blotchy. 'Or
perhaps you need it so that legal proceedings can be made?'
'Really, professor.' The patient was most offended and blew out his
nostrils. 'You seem to regard us with contempt. I . . .' And he began to
puff himself up like a turkeycock.
'Please forgive me, my dear fellow!' mumbled Philip Philipovich. 'I
really didn't mean to offend you. Please don't be angry. You can't believe
what this creature has done to my nerves . . .'
'So I can imagine,' said the patient, quite mollified. 'But what a
swine! I'd be curious to have a look at him. Moscow is full of stories about
you . . .'
Philip Philipovich could only gesture in despair. It was then that the
patient noticed how hunched the professor was looking and that he seemed to
have recently grown much greyer.
The crime ripened, then fell like a stone, as usually happens. With an
uncomfortable feeling round his heart Poligraph Poligraphovich returned that
evening by lorry. Philip Philipovich's voice invited him into the
consulting-room. Surprised, Sharikov entered and looked first, vaguely
frightened, at Bormenthal's steely face, then at Philip Philipovich. A cloud
of smoke surrounded the doctor's head and his left hand, trembling very
slightly, held a cigarette and rested on the shiny handle of the obstetrical
chair.
With ominous calm Philip Philipovich said:
'Go and collect your things at once - trousers, coat, everything you
need - then get out of this flat!'
'What is all this?' Sharikov was genuinely astonished. 'Get out of this
flat - and today,' repeated Philip Philipovich, frowning down at his
fingernails.
An evil spirit was at work inside Poligraph Poligraphovich. It was
obvious that his end was in sight and his time nearly up, but he hurled
himself towards the inevitable and barked in an angry staccato:
'Like hell I will! You got to give me my rights. I've a right to
thirty-seven square feet and I'm staying right here.'
'Get out of this flat,' whispered Philip Philipovich in a strangled
voice.
It was Sharikov himself who invited his own death. He raised his left
hand, which stank most horribly of cats, and cocked a snook at Philip
Philipovich. Then with his right hand he drew a revolver on Bormenthal.
Bormenthal's cigarette fell like a shooting star. A few seconds later Philip
Philipovich was hopping about on broken glass and running from the cabinet
to the couch. On it, spreadeagled and croaking, lay a sub-department
controller of the City Cleansing Department; Bormenthal the surgeon was
sitting astride his chest and suffocating him with a small white pad.
After some minutes Bormenthal, with a most unfamiliar look, walked out
on to the landing and stuck a notice beside the doorbell:
The Professor regrets that owing to indisposition he will be unable to
hold consulting hours today. Please do not disturb the Professor by ringing
the bell.
With a gleaming penknife he then cut the bell-cable, inspected his
scratched and bleeding face in the mirror and his lacerated, slightly
trembling hands. Then he went into the kitchen and said to the anxious Zina
and Darya Petrovna:
'The professor says you mustn't leave the fiat on any account.'
'No, we won't,' they replied timidly.
'Now I must lock the back door and keep the key,' said Bormenthal,
sidling round the room and covering his face with his hand. 'It's only
temporary, not because we don't trust you. But if anybody came you might not
be able to keep them out and we mustn't be disturbed. We're busy.'
'All right,' replied the two women, turning pale. Bormenthal locked the
back door, locked the front door, locked the door from the corridor into the
hall and his footsteps faded away into the consulting-room.
Silence filled the flat, flooding into every comer. Twilight crept in,
dank and sinister and gloomy. Afterwards the neighbours across the courtyard
said that every light burned that evening in the windows of Preobrazhensky's
consulting-room and that they even saw the professor's white skullcap ... It
is hard to be sure. When it was all over Zina did say, though, that when
Bormenthal and the professor emerged from the consulting-room, there, by the
study fireplace, Ivan Amoldovich had frightened her to death. It seems he
was squatting down in front of the fire and burning one of the blue-bound
notebooks which contained the medical notes on the professor's patients. The
doctor's face, apparently, was quite green and completely - yes, completely
- scratched to pieces. And that evening Philip Philipovich had been most
peculiar. And then there was another thing - but maybe that innocent girl
from the flat in Prechistenka Street was talking rubbish . . .
One thing, though, was certain: there was silence in the flat that
evening - total, frightening silence.
One night, exactly ten days to the day after the struggle in Professor
Preobrazhensky's consulting-room in his flat on Obukhov Street, there was a
sharp ring of the doorbell.
'Criminal police. Open up, please.'
Footsteps approached, people knocked and entered until a considerable
crowd filled the brightly-lit waiting-room with its newly-glazed cabinet.
There were two in police uniform, one in a black overcoat and carrying a
brief-case; there was chairman Shvonder, pale and gloating, and the youth
who had turned out to be a woman; there was Fyodor the porter, Zina, Darya
Petrovna and Bormenthal, half dressed and embarrassed as he tried to cover
up his tieless neck.
The door from the study opened to admit Philip Philipovich. He appeared
in his familiar blue dressing gown and everybody could tell at once that
over the past week Philip Philipovich had begun to look very much better.
The old Philip Philipovich, masterful, energetic and dignified, now faced
his nocturnal visitors and apologised for appearing in his dressing gown.
'It doesn't matter, professor,' said the man in civilian clothes, in
great embarrassment. He faltered and then said:
'I'm sorry to say we have a warrant to search your flat and' -the men
stared uneasily at Philip Philipovich's moustaches and ended: 'to arrest
you, depending on the results of our search.'
Philip Philipovich frowned and asked:
'What, may I ask, is the charge, and who is being charged?'
The man scratched his cheek and began reading from a piece of paper
from his briefcase.
'Preobrazhensky, Bormenthal, Zinaida Bunina and Darya Ivanova are
charged with the murder of Poligraph Poligraph-ovich Sharikov,
sub-department controller. City of Moscow Cleansing Department.'
The end of his speech was drowned by Zina's sobs. There was general
movement.
'I don't understand,' replied Philip Philipovich with a regal shrug.
'Who is this Sharikov? Oh, of course, you mean my dog . . . the one I
operated on?'
'I'm sorry, professor, not a dog. This happened when he was a man.
That's the trouble.'
'Because he talked?' asked Philip Philipovich. 'That doesn't mean he
was a man. Anyhow, it's irrelevant. Sharik is alive at this moment and no
one has killed him.'
'Really, professor?' said the man in black, deeply astonished and
raised his eyebrows. 'In that case you must produce him. It's ten days now
since he disappeared and the evidence, if you'll forgive my saying so, is
most disquieting.'
'Doctor Bormenthal, will you please produce Sharik for the detective,'
ordered Philip Philipovich, pocketing the charge-sheet. Bormenthal went out,
smiling enigmatically.
As he returned he gave a whistle and from the door into the study
appeared a dog of the most extraordinary appearance. In patches he was bald,
while in other patches his coat had grown. He entered like a trained circus
dog walking on his hind legs, then dropped on to all fours and looked round.
The waiting-room froze into a sepulchral silence as tangible as jelly. The
nightmarish-looking dog with the crimson scar on the forehead stood up again
on his hind legs, grinned and sat down in an armchair.
The second policeman suddenly crossed himself with a sweeping gesture
and in stepping back knocked Zina's legs from under her.
The man in black, his mouth still wide open, said:
'What's been going on? ... He worked in the City Cleansing Department .
. .'
'I didn't send him there,' answered Philip Philipovich. 'He was
recommended for the job by Mr Shvonder, if I'm not mistaken.'
'I don't get it,' said the man in black, obviously confused, and turned
to the first policeman. 'Is that him?'
'Yes,' whispered the policeman, 'it's him all right.'
'That's him,' came Fyodor's voice, 'except the little devil's got a bit
fatter.'
'But he talked . . .' the man in black giggled nervously.
'And he still talks, though less and less, so if you want to hear him
talk now's the time, before he stops altogether'.
'But why?' asked the man in black quietly.
Philip Philipovich shrugged his shoulders.
'Science has not yet found the means of turning animals into people. I
tried, but unsuccessfully, as you can see. He talked and then he began to
revert back to his primitive state. Atavism.'
'Don't swear at me,' the dog suddenly barked from his chair and stood
up.
The man in black turned instantly pale, dropped his briefcase and began
to fall sideways. A policeman caught him on one side and Fyodor supported
him from behind. There was a sudden turmoil, clearly pierced by three
sentences:
Philip Philipovich: 'Give him valerian. He's fainted.'
Doctor Bormenthal: 'I shall personally throw Shvonder downstairs if he
ever appears in Professor Preobrazhensky's flat again.'
And Shvonder said: 'Please enter that remark in the report.'
The grey accordion-shaped radiators hissed gently. The blinds shut out
the thick Prechistenka Street night sky with its lone star. The great, the
powerful benefactor of dogs sat in his chair while Sharik lay stretched out
on the carpet beside the leather couch. In the mornings the March fog made
the dog's head ache, especially around the circular scar on his skull, but
by evening the warmth banished the pain. Now it was easing all the time and
warm, comfortable thoughts flowed through the dog's mind.
I've been very, very lucky, he thought sleepily. Incredibly lucky. I'm
really settled in this flat. Though I'm not so sure now about my pedigree.
Not a drop of labrador blood. She was just a tart, my old grandmother. God
rest her soul. Certainly they cut my head around a bit, but who cares. None
of my business, really.
From the distance came a tinkle of glass. Bormenthal was tidying the
shelves of the cabinet in the consulting-room.
The grey-haired magician sat and hummed: ' ". . . to the banks of the
sacred Nile . . ." '
That evening the dog saw terrible things. He saw the great roan plunge
his slippery, rubber-gloved hands into a jar to fish out a brain; then
relentlessly, persistently the great man pursued his search. Slicing,
examining, he frowned and sang:
' "To the banks of the sacred Nile . . ." '