Mikhail Bulgakov - Heart of a Dog

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 17thUnable 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.

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.’