Mikhail Bulgakov: Heart of a Dog

Swine! thought the dog. He must be the one I bit, so that’s my doing. Now there’ll be trouble.

‘…“the murmur of sweet serenades, the clink of Spanish blades…” Now, you little tramp, why did you bite the doctor? Eh? Why did you break all that glass? M’m?’ Oowow, whined the dig miserably. ‘All right, lie back and relax, naughty boy.’

‘However did you manage to entice such a nervous, excitable dog into following you here, Philip Philipovich?’ enquired a pleasant male voice, and a long knitted underpant lowered itself to the ground. There was a smell of tobacco, and glass phials tinkled in the closet.

‘By kindness. The only possible method when dealing with a living creature. You’ll get nowhere with an animal if you use terror, no matter what its level of development may be. That I have maintained, do maintain and always will maintain. People who think you can use terror are quite wrong. No, terror’s useless, whatever its colour — white, red or even brown! Terror completely paralyses the nervous system. Zina! I bought this little scamp some Cracow sausage for 1 rouble 40 kopecks. Please see that he is fed when he gets over his nausea.’

There was a crunching noise as glass splinters were swept up and a woman’s voice said teasingly: ‘Cracower! Goodness, you ought to buy him twenty kopecks-worth of scraps from the butcher. I’d rather eat the Cracower myself!’

‘You just try! That stuff’s poison for human stomachs. A grown woman and you’re ready to poke anything into your mouth like a child. Don’t you dare! I warn you that neither I nor Doctor Bormenthal will lift a finger for you when your stomach finally gives out…’

Just then a bell tinkled all through the flat and from far away in the hall came the sound of voices. The telephone rang. Zina disappeared.

Philip Philipovich threw his cigar butt into the bucket, buttoned up his white coat, smoothed his bushy moustache in front of a mirror on the wall and called the dog.

‘Come on, boy, you’ll be all right. Let’s go and see our visitors.’

The dog stood up on wobbly legs, staggered and shivered but quickly felt better and set off behind the napping hem of Philip Philipovich’s coat. Again the dog walked down the narrow corridor, but saw that this time it was brightly lit from above by a round cut-glass lamp in the ceiling. When the varnished door opened he trotted into Philip Philipovich’s study. Its luxury blinded him. Above all it was blazing with light: there was a light hanging from the moulded ceiling, a light on the desk, lights on the walls, lights on the glass-fronted cabinets. The light poured over countless knick-knacks, of which the most striking was an enormous owl perched on a branch fastened to the wall.

‘Lie down,’ ordered Philip Philipovich.

The carved door at the other end of the room opened and in came the doctor who had been bitten. In the bright light he now looked very young and handsome, with a pointed beard. He put down a sheet of paper and said: ‘The same as before…’

Then he silently vanished and Philip Philipovich, spreading his coat-tails, sat down behind the huge desk and immediately looked extremely dignified and important.

No, this can’t be a hospital, I’ve landed up somewhere else, the dog thought confusedly and stretched out on the patterned carpet beside a massive leather-covered couch. I wish I knew what that owl was doing here…

The door gently opened and in came a man who looked so extraordinary that the dog gave a timid yelp…

‘Shut up!… My dear fellow, I hardly recognised you!’

Embarrassed, the visitor bowed politely to Philip Philipovich and giggled nervously.

‘You’re a wizard, a magician, professor!’ he said bashfully.

‘Take down your trousers, old man,’ ordered Philip Philip-ovich and stood up.

Christ, thought the dog, what a sight! The man’s hair was completely green, although at the back it shaded off into a brownish tobacco colour, wrinkles covered his face yet his complexion was as pink as a boy’s. His left leg would not bend and had to be dragged across the carpet, but his right leg was as springy as a jack-in-the-box. In the buttonhole of his superb jacket there shone, like an eye, a precious stone.

The dog was so fascinated that he even forgot his nausea. Oow-ow, he whined softly.

‘Quiet!… How have you been sleeping!’

The man giggled. ‘Are we alone, professor? It’s indescribable,’ said the visitor coyly. ‘Parole d’honneur — I haven’t known anything like it for twenty-five years…’ the creature started struggling with his flybuttons… ‘Would you believe it, professor — hordes of naked girls every night. I am absolutely entranced. You’re a magician.’

‘H’m,’ grunted Philip Philipovich, preoccupied as he stared into the pupils of his visitor’s eyes. The man finally succeeded in mastering his flybuttons and took off his checked trousers, revealing the most extraordinary pair of pants. They were cream-coloured, embroidered with black silk cats and they smelled of perfume.

The dog could not resist the cats and gave such a bark that the man jumped.

‘Oh!’

‘Quiet — or I’ll beat you!… Don’t worry, he won’t bite.’

Won’t I? thought the dog in amazement.

Out of the man’s trouser pocket a little envelope fell to the floor. It was decorated with a picture of a naked girl with flowing hair. He gave a start, bent down to pick it up and blushed violently.

‘Look here,’ said Philip Philipovich in a tone of grim warning, wagging a threatening finger, ‘you shouldn’t overdo it, you know.’

‘I’m not overdo…’ the creature muttered in embarrassment as he went on undressing. ‘It was just a sort of experiment.’

‘Well, what were the results?’ asked Philip Philipovich sternly.

The man waved his hand in ecstasy. ‘I swear to God, professor, I haven’t known anything like it for twenty-five years. The last time was in 1899 in Paris, in the Rue de la Paix.’

‘And why have you turned green?’

The visitor’s face clouded over. ‘That damned stuff! You’d never believe, professor, what those rogues palmed off on me instead of dye. Just take a look,’ the man muttered, searching for a mirror. ‘I’d like to punch him on the snout,’ he added in a rage. ‘What am I to do now, professor?’ he asked tearfully.

‘H’m. Shave all your hair off.’

‘But, professor,’ cried the visitor miserably, ‘then it would only grow grey again. Besides, I daren’t show my face at the office like this. I haven’t been there for three days. Ah, professor, if only you had discovered a way of rejuvenating hair!’

‘One thing at a time, old man, one thing at a time,’ muttered Philip Philipovich. Bending down, his glittering eyes examined the patient’s naked abdomen.

‘Splendid, everything’s in great shape. To tell you the truth I didn’t even expect such results. You can get dressed now.’

‘“Ah, she’s so lovely…”’ sang the patient in a voice that quavered like the sound of someone hitting an old, cracked saucepan. Beaming, he started to dress. When he was ready he skipped across the floor in a cloud of perfume, counted out a heap of white banknotes on the professor’s desk and shook him tenderly by both hands.

‘You needn’t come back for two weeks,’ said Philip Philipovich, ‘but I must beg you — be careful.’

The ecstaticvoice replied from behind thedoor: ‘Don’t worry, professor.’ The creature gave a delighted giggle and went. The doorbell tinkled through the apartment and the varnished door opened, admitting the other doctor, who handed Philip Philipovich a sheet of paper and announced:

‘She has lied about her age. It’s probably about fifty or fifty-five. Heart-beats muffled.’