Mikhail Bulgakov - Heart of a Dog

‘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.

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.