Mikhail Bulgakov: Heart of a Dog

‘All right, I understand! Do you realise that under the regulation of August 12th this year my apartment is exempt from any increase in occupancy?’

‘We know that,’ replied Shvonder, ‘but when the general meeting had examined this question it came to the conclusion that taken all round you are occupying too much space. Far too much. You are living, alone, in seven rooms.’

‘I live and work in seven rooms,’ replied Philip Philipovich, ‘and I could do with eight. I need a room for a library.’

The four were struck dumb.

‘Eight! Ha, ha!’ said the hatless fair youth. ‘That’s rich, that is!’

‘It’s indescribable!’ exclaimed the youth who had turned out to be a woman.

‘I have a waiting-room, which you will notice also has to serve as my library, a dining-room, and my study — that makes three. Consulting-room — four, operating theatre -five. My bedroom — six, and the servant’s room makes seven. It’s not really enough. But that’s not the point. My apartment is exempt, and our conversation is therefore at an end. May I go and have supper?’

‘Excuse me,’ said the fourth, who looked like a fat beetle.

‘Excuse me,’ Shvonder interrupted him, ‘but it was just because of your dining-room and your consulting-room that we came to see you. The general meeting requests you, as a matter of labour discipline, to give up your dining-room voluntarily. No one in Moscow has a dining-room.’

‘Not even Isadora Duncan,’ squeaked the woman. Something happened to Philip Philipovich which made his face turn gently purple. He said nothing, waiting to hear what came next.

‘And give up your consulting-room too,’ Shvonder went on. ‘ You can easily combine your consulting-room with your study.’

‘Mm’h,’ said Philip Philipovich in a strange voice. ‘And where am I supposed to eat?’

‘In the bedroom,’ answered the four in chorus.

Philip Philipovich’s purple complexion took on a faintly grey tinge.

‘So I can eat in the bedroom,’ he said in a slightly muffled voice, ‘read in the consulting-room, dress in the hall, operate in the maid’s room and examine patients in the dining-room. I expect that is what Isadora Duncan does. Perhaps she eats in her study and dissects rabbits in the bathroom. Perhaps. But I’m not Isadora Duncan… !’ he turned yellow. ‘I shall eat in the diningroom and operate in the operating theatre! Tell that to the general meeting, and meanwhile kindly go and mind your own business and allow me to have my supper in the place where all normal people eat. I mean in the dining-room — not in the hall and not in the nursery.’

‘In that case, professor, in view of your obstinate refusal,’ said the furious Shvonder, ‘we shall lodge a complaint about you with higher authority.’

‘Aha,’ said Philip Philipovich, ‘so that’s your game, is it?’ And his voice took on a suspiciously polite note. ‘Please wait one minute.’

What a man, thought the dog with delight, he’s just like me. Any minute now and he’ll bite them. I don’t know how, but he’ll bite them all right… Go on! Go for ‘em! I could just get that long-legged swine in the tendon behind his knee… ggrrr…

Philip Philipovich lifted the telephone receiver, dialled and said into it: ‘Please give me… yes… thank you. Put me through to Pyotr Alexandrovich, please. Professor Preobraz-hensky speaking. Pyotr Alexandrovich? Hello, how are you? I’m so glad I was able to get you. Thanks, I’m fine. Pyotr Alexandrovich, I’m afraid your operation is cancelled. What? Cancelled. And so are all my other operations. I’ll tell you why:

I am not going to work in Moscow, in fact I’m not going to work in Russia any longer… I am just having a visit from four people, one of whom is a woman disguised as a man, and two of whom are armed with revolvers. They are terrorising me in my own apartment and threatening to evict me.’

‘Hey, now, professor…’ began Shvonder, his expression changing.

‘Excuse me… I can’t repeat all they’ve been saying. I can’t make sense of it, anyway. Roughly speaking they have told me to give up my consulting-room, which will oblige me to operate in the room I have used until now for dissecting rabbits. I not only cannot work under such conditions — I have no right to. So I am closing down my practice, shutting up my apartment and going to Sochi. I will give the keys to Shvonder. He can operate for me.’

The four stood rigid. The snow was melting on their boots. ‘Can’t be helped, I’m afraid… Of course I’m very upset, but… What? Oh, no, Pyotr Alexandrovich! Oh, no. That I must flatly refuse. My patience has snapped. This is the second time since August… What? H’m… All right, if you like. I suppose so. Only this time on one condition: I don’t care who issues it, when they issue it or what they issue, provided it’s the sort of certificate which will mean that neither Shvonder nor anyone else can so much as knock on my door. The ultimate in certificates. Effective. Real. Armour-plated! I don’t even want my name on it. The end. As far as they are concerned, I am dead. Yes, yes. Please do. Who? Aha… well, that’s another matter. Aha… good. I’ll just hand him the receiver. Would you mind,’ Philip Philipovich spoke to Shvonder in a voice like a snake’s, ‘you’re wanted on the telephone.’

‘But, professor,’ said Shvonder, alternately flaring up and cringing, ‘what you’ve told him is all wrong’ -

‘Please don’t speak to me like that.’

Shvonder nervously picked up the receiver and said:

‘Hello. Yes… I’m the chairman of the house management committee… We were only acting according to the regulations… the professor is an absolutely special case… Yes, we know about his work… We were going to leave him five whole rooms… Well, OK… if that’s how it is… OK.’

Very red in the face, he hung up and turned round.

What a fellow! thought the dog rapturously. Does he know how to handle them! What’s his secret, I wonder? He can beat me as much as he likes now — I’m not leaving this place!’

The three young people stared open-mouthed at the wretched Shvonder.

‘This is a disgrace!’ he said miserably.

‘If that Pyotr Alexandrovich had been here,’ began the woman, reddening with anger, ‘I’d have shown him…’

‘Excuse me, would you like to talk to him now?’ enquired Philip Philipovich politely.

The woman’s eyes flashed.

‘You can be as sarcastic as you like, professor, but we’re going now… Still, as manager of the cultural department of this house…’

‘ Manager,’ Philip Philipovich corrected her.

‘I want to ask you’ — here the woman pulled a number of coloured magazines wet with snow, from out of the front of her tunic — ‘to buy a few of these magazines in aid of the children of Germany. 50 kopecks a copy.’

‘No, I will not,’ said Philip Philipovich curtly after a glance at the magazines.

Total amazement showed on the faces, and the girl turned cranberry-colour.

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Don’t you feel sorry for the children of Germany?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Can’t you spare 50 kopecks?’

‘Yes, I can.’

‘Well, why won’t you, then?’

‘I don’t want to.’

Silence.

‘You know, professor,’ said the girl with a deep sigh, ‘if you weren’t world-famous and if you weren’t being protected by certain people in the most disgusting way,’ (the fair youth tugged at the hem of her jerkin, but she brushed him away), ‘which we propose to investigate, you should be arrested.’

‘What for?’ asked Philip Philipovich with curiosity.

‘Because you hate the proletariat!’ said the woman proudly.