'Fourteen, professor . . . The scandal would ruin me, you see. I'm due to go abroad on official business any day now.'
'I'm afraid I'm not a lawyer . . . you'd better wait a couple of years and then marry her.'
'I'm married already, professor.'
'Oh, lord!'
The door opened, faces changed, instruments clattered and Philip Philipovich worked on
unceasingly.
This place is indecent, thought the dog, but I like it! What the hell can he want me for, though? Is he just going to let me live here? Maybe he's eccentric. After all, he could get a pedigree dog as easy as winking. Perhaps I'm good-looking! What luck. As for that stupid owl . . . cheeky brute.
The dog finally woke up late in the evening when the bells had stopped ringing and at the very moment when the door admitted some special visitors. There were four of them at once, all young people and all extremely modestly dressed.
What's all this? thought the dog in astonishment. Philip Philipovich treated these visitors with considerable hostility. He stood at his desk, staring at them like a general confronting the enemy. The nostrils of his hawk-like nose were dilated. The party shuffled awkwardly across the carpet.
'The reason why we've come to see you, professor . . .' began one of them, who had a six-inch shock of hair sprouting straight out of his head.
'You ought not to go out in this weather without wearing galoshes, gentlemen,' Philip Philipovich interrupted in a schoolmasterish voice. 'Firstly you'll catch cold and secondly you've muddied my carpets and all my carpets are Persian.'
The young man with the shock of hair broke off, and all four stared at Philip Philipovich in consternation. The silence lasted several minutes and was only broken by the drumming of Philip Philipovich's fingers on a painted wooden platter on his desk.
'Firstly, we're not gentlemen,' the youngest of them, with a face like a peach, said finally.
'Secondly,' Philip Philipovich interrupted him, 'are you a man or a woman?'
The four were silent again and their mouths dropped open. This time the shock-haired young man pulled himself together.
'What difference does it make, comrade?' he asked proudly.
'I'm a woman,' confessed the peach-like youth, who was wearing a leather jerkin, and blushed heavily. For some reason one of the others, a fair young man in a sheepskin hat, also turned bright red.
'In that case you may leave your cap on, but I must ask you, my dear sir, to remove your headgear,' said Philip Philipovich imposingly.
'I am not your dear sir,' said the fair youth sharply, pulling off his sheepskin hat.
'We have come to see you,' the dark shock-headed boy began again.
'First of all - who are 'we'?'
'We are the new management committee of this block of flats,' said the dark youth with
suppressed fury. 'I am Shvonder, her name is Vyazemskaya and these two are comrades Pestrukhin and Sharovkyan. So we . . .'
'Are you the people who were moved in as extra tenants into Fyodor Pavlovich Sablin's apartment?' 'Yes, we are,' replied Shvonder.
'God, what is this place coming to!' exclaimed Philip Philipovich in despair and wrung his hands. 'What are you laughing for, professor?' 'What do you mean - laughing? I'm in absolute despair,' shouted Philip Philipovich. 'What's going to become of the central heating now?'
'Are you making fun of us. Professor Preobrazhensky?' 'Why have you come to see me? Please be as quick as possible. I'm just going in to supper.'
'We, the house management,' said Shvonder with hatred, 'have come to see you as a result of a general meeting of the tenants of this block, who are charged with the problem of increasing the occupancy of this house . . .' 28
'What d'you mean - charged?' cried Philip Philipovich. 'Please try and express yourself more clearly.'
'We are charged with increasing the occupancy.'
'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.
'You're right, I don't like the proletariat,' agreed Philip Philipovich sadly, and pressed a button. A bell rang in the distance. The door opened on to the corridor.
'Zina!' shouted Philip Philipovich. 'Serve the supper, please. Do you mind, ladies and gentlemen?'
Silently the four left the study, silently they trooped down the passage and through the hall. The front door closed loudly and heavily behind them.
The dog rose on his hind legs in front of Philip Philipovich and performed obeisance to him.
Three
On gorgeous flowered plates with wide black rims lay thin slices of salmon and soused eel; a slab of over-ripe cheese on a heavy wooden platter, and in a silver bowl packed around with snow - caviare. Beside the plates stood delicate glasses and three crystal decanters of different-coloured vodkas. All these objects were on a small marble table, handily placed beside the huge carved oak sideboard which shone with glass and silver. In the middle of the room was a table, heavy as a gravestone and covered with a white tablecloth set with two places, napkins folded into the shape of papal tiaras, and three dark bottles.
Zina brought in a covered silver dish beneath which something bubbled. The dish gave off such a smell that the dog's mouth immediately filled with saliva. The gardens of Semiramis! he thought as he thumped the floor with his tail.
'Bring it here,' ordered Philip Philipovich greedily. 'I beg you, Doctor Bormenthal, leave the caviare alone. And if you want a piece of good advice, don't touch the English vodka but drink the ordinary Russian stuff.'
The handsome Bormenthal - who had taken off his white coat and was wearing a smart black suit - shrugged his broad shoulders, smirked politely and poured out a glass of clear vodka.
'What make is it?' he enquired.
'Bless you, my dear fellow,' replied his host, 'it's pure alcohol. Darya Petrovna makes the most
excellent homemade vodka.'
'But surely, Philip Philipovich, everybody says that 30-degree vodka is quite good enough.'
'Vodka should be at least 40 degrees, not 30 - that's firstly,' Philip Philipovich interrupted him didactically, 'and secondly - God knows what muck they make into vodka nowadays. What do you think they use?'
'Anything they like,' said the other doctor firmly.
'I quite agree,' said Philip Philipovich and hurled the contents of his glass down his throat in one gulp. 'Ah . . . m'm . . . Doctor Bormenthal - please drink that at once and if you ask me what it is, I'm your enemy for life. "From Granada to Seville . . ." '
With these words he speared something like a little piece of black bread on his silver fish-fork. Bormenthal followed his example. Philip Philipovich's eyes shone.
'Not bad, eh?' asked Philip Philipovich, chewing. 'Is it? Tell me, doctor.'
'It's excellent,' replied the doctor sincerely.
'So I should think . . . Kindly note, Ivan Arnoldovich, that the only people who eat cold hors d'oeuvres nowadays are the few remaining landlords who haven't had their throats cut. Anybody with a spark of self-respect takes his hors d'oeuvres hot. And of all the hot hors d'oeuvres in Moscow this is the best. Once they used to do them magnificently at the Slavyansky Bazaar restaurant. There, you can have some too.'
'If you feed a dog at table,' said a woman's voice, 'you won't get him out of here afterwards for love or money.'
'I don't mind. The poor thing's hungry.' On the point of his fork Pliilip Philipovich handed the dog a tit-bit, which the animal took with the dexterity of a conjuror. The professor then threw the fork with a clatter into the slop-basin.
The dishes now steamed with an odour of lobster; the dog sat in the shadow of the tablecloth with the look of a sentry by a powder magazine as Philip Philipovich, thrusting the end of a thick napkin into his collar, boomed on:
'Food, Ivan Arnoldovich, is a subtle thing. One must know how to eat, yet just think - most people don't know how to eat at all. One must not only know what to eat, but when and how.' (Philip Philipovich waved his fork meaningfully.) 'And what to say while you're eating. Yes, my dear sir. If you care about your digestion, my advice is - don't talk about bolshevism or medicine at table. And, God forbid - never read Soviet newspapers before dinner.'
'M'mm . . . But there are no other newspapers.'
'In that case don't read any at all. Do you know I once made thirty tests in my clinic. And what do you think? The patients who never read newspapers felt excellent. Those whom I specially made read Pravda all lost weight.
'H'm . . .' rejoined Bormenthal with interest, turning gently pink f
rom the soup and the wine.
'And not only did they lose weight. Their knee reflexes were retarded, they lost appetite and exhibited general depression.'
'Good heavens . . .'
'Yes, my dear sir. But listen to me - I'm talking about medicine!'
Leaning back, Philip Philipovich rang the bell and Zina appeared through the cerise portiere. The dog was given a thick, white piece of sturgeon, which he did not like, then immediately afterwards a chunk of underdone roast beef. When he had gulped it down the dog suddenly felt that he wanted to sleep and could not bear the sight of any more food. Strange feeling, he thought, blinking his heavy eyelids, it's as if my eyes won't look at food any longer. As for smoking after they've eaten - that's crazy.
A Dog's Heart Page 3
