The dining-room was filling with unpleasant blue smoke. The animal dozed, its head on its forepaws. 'Saint Julien is a very decent wine,' the dog heard sleepily, 'but there's none of it to be had any more.'
A dull mutter of voices in chorus, muffled by the ceiling and carpets, was heard coming from above and to one side.
Philip Philipovich rang for Zina. 'Zina my dear, what's that noise?'
'They're having another general meeting, Philip Philipovich,' replied Zina.
'What, again?' exclaimed Philip Philipovich mournfully. 'Well, this is the end of this house. I'll have to go away -but where to? I can see exactly what'll happen. First of all there'll be community singing in the evening, then the pipes will freeze in the lavatories, then the central heating boiler will blow up and so on. This is the end.'
'Philip Philipovich worries himself to death,' said Zina with a smile as she cleared away a pile of plates.
'How can I help it?' exploded Philip Philipovich. 'Don't you know what this house used to be like?'
'You take too black a view of things, Philip Philipovich,' objected the handsome Bormenthal. 'There is a considerable change for the better now.'
'My dear fellow, you know me, don't you? I am a man of facts, a man who observes. I'm the enemy of unsupported hypotheses. And I'm known as such not only in Russia but in Europe too. If I say something, that means that it is based on some fact from which I draw my conclusions. Now there's a fact for you: there is a hat-stand and a rack for boots and galoshes in this house.'
'Interesting . . .'
Galoshes - hell. Who cares about galoshes, thought the dog, but he's a great fellow all the
same.
'Yes, a rack for galoshes. I have been living in this house since 1903. And from then until March 1917 there was not one case - let me underline in red pencil not one case - of a single pair of galoshes disappearing from that rack even when the front door was open. There are, kindly note, twelve flats in this house and a constant stream of people coming to my consulting-rooms. One fine day in March 1917 all the galoshes disappeared, including two pairs of mine, three walking sticks, an overcoat and the porter's samovar. And since then the rack has ceased to exist. And I won't mention the boiler. The rule apparently is - once a social revolution takes place there's no need to stoke the boiler. But I ask you: why, when this whole business started, should everybody suddenly start clumping up and down the marble staircase in dirty galoshes and felt boots? Why must we now keep our galoshes under lock and key? And put a soldier on guard over them to prevent them from being stolen? Why has the carpet been removed from the front staircase? Did Marx forbid people to keep their staircases carpeted? Did Karl Marx say anywhere that the front door of No. 2 Kalabukhov House in Prechistenka Street must be boarded up so that people have to go round and come in by the back door? WTiat good does it do anybody? Why can't the proletarians leave their galoshes downstairs instead of dirtying the staircase?'
'But the proletarians don't have any galoshes, Philip Philipovich,' stammered the doctor.
'Nothing of the sort!' replied Philip Philipovich in a voice of thunder, and poured himself a glass of wine. 'H'mm ... I don't approve of liqueurs after dinner. They weigh on the digestion and are bad for the liver . . . Nothing of the sort! The proletarians do have galoshes now and those galoshes are - mine! The very ones that vanished in the spring of 1917. Who removed them, you may ask? Did I remove them? Impossible. The bourgeois Sablin?' (Philip Philipovich pointed upwards to the ceiling.) 'The very idea's laughable. Polozov, the sugar manufacturer?' (Philip Philipovich pointed to one side.) 'Never! You see? But if they'd only take them off when they come up the staircase!' (Philip Philipovich started to turn purple.) 'Why on earth do they have to remove the flowers from the landing? Why does the electricity, which to the best of my recollection has only failed twice in the past twenty years, now go out regularly once a month? Statistics, Doctor Bormenthal, are terrible things. You who know my latest work must realise that better than anybody.' 'The place is going to ruin, Philip Philipovich.'
'No,' countered Philip Philipovich quite firmly. 'No. You must first of all refrain, my dear Ivan Arnoldovich, from using that word. It's a mirage, a vapour, a fiction,' Philip Philipovich spread out his short fingers, producing a double shadow like two skulls on the tablecloth. 'What do you mean by ruin? An old woman with a broomstick? A witch who smashes all the windows and puts out all the lights? No such thing. What do you mean by that word?' Philip Philipovich angrily enquired of an unfortunate cardboard duck hanging upside down by the sideboard, then answered the question himself. 'I'll tell you what it is: if instead of operating every evening I were to start a glee club in my apartment, that would mean that I was on the road to ruin. If when I go to the lavatory I don't pee, if you'll excuse the expression, into the bowl but on to the floor instead and if Zina and Darya Petrovna were to do the same thing, the lavatory would be ruined. Ruin, therefore, is not caused by lavatories but it's something that starts in people's heads. So when these clowns start shouting "Stop the ruin!" - I laugh!' (Philip Philipovich's face became so distorted that the doctor's mouth fell open.) 'I swear to you, I find it laughable! Every one of them needs to hit himself on the back of the head and then when he has knocked all the hallucinations out of himself and gets on with sweeping out backyards - which is his real job - all this "ruin" will automatically disappear. You can't serve two gods! You can't sweep the dirt out of the tram tracks and settle the fate of the Spanish beggars at the same time! No one can ever manage it, doctor - and above all it can't be done by people who are two hundred years behind the rest of Europe and who so far can't even manage to do up their own fly-buttons properly!'
Philip Philipovich had worked himself up into a frenzy. His hawk-like nostrils were dilated. Fortified by his ample dinner he thundered like an ancient prophet and his hair shone like a silver halo.
His words sounded to the sleepy dog like a dull subterranean rumble. At first he dreamed uneasily that the owl with its stupid yellow eyes had hopped off its branch, then he dreamed about the vile face of that cook in his dirty white cap, then of Philip Philipovich's dashing moustaches sharply lit by electric light from the lampshade. The dreamy sleigh-ride came to an end as the mangled piece of roast beef, floating in gravy, stewed away in the dog's stomach.
He could earn plenty of money by talking at political meetings, the dog thought sleepily. That was a great speech. Still, he's rolling in money anyway.
'A policeman!' shouted Philip Philipovich. 'A policeman!'
Policeman? Ggrrr ... - something snapped inside the dog's brain.
'Yes, a policeman! Nothing else will do. Doesn't matter whether he wears a number or a red
cap. A policeman should be posted alongside every person in the country with the job of moderating the vocal outbursts of our honest citizenry. You talk about ruin. I tell you, doctor, that nothing will change for the better in this house, or in any other house for that matter, until you can make these people stop talking claptrap! As soon as they put an end to this mad chorus the situation will automatically change for the better.'
'You sound like a counter-revolutionary, Philip Philipovich,' said the doctor jokingly. 'I hope to God nobody hears you.'
'I'm doing no harm,' Philip Philipovich objected heatedly. 'Nothing counter-revolutionary in all that. Incidentally, that's a word I simply can't tolerate. What the devil is it supposed to mean, anyway? Nobody knows. That's why I say there's nothing counter-revolutionary in what I say. It's full of sound sense and a lifetime of experience.'
At this point Philip Philipovich pulled the end of his luxurious napkin out of his collar. Crumpling it up he laid it beside his unfinished glass of wine. Bormenthal at once rose and thanked his host.
'Just a minute, doctor,' Philip Philipovich stopped him and took a wallet out of his hip pocket. He frowned, counted out some white 10-rouble notes and handed them to the doctor, saying, 'You are due for 40 roubles today, Ivan Arnoldovich. There you are.'
>
Still in slight pain from his dog-bite, the doctor thanked him and blushed as he stuffed the money into his coat pocket.
'Do you need me this evening, Philip Philipovich?' he enquired.
'No thanks, my dear fellow. We shan't be doing anything this evening. For one thing the rabbit has died and for another Aida is on at the Bolshoi this evening. It's a long time since I heard it. I love it ... Do you remember that duet? Pom-pom-ti-pom . . .'
'How do you find time for it, Philip Philipovich?' asked the doctor with awe.
'One can find time for everything if one is never in a hurry,' explained his host didactically. 'Of course if I started going to meetings and carolling like a nightingale all day long, I'd never find time to go anywhere' - the repeater in Philip Philipovich's pocket struck its celestial chimes as he pressed the button - 'It starts at nine. I'll go in time for the second act. I believe in the division of labour. The Bolshoi's job is to sing, mine's to operate. That's how things should be. Then there'd be none of this "ruin" . . . Look, Ivan Arnoldovich, you must go and take a careful look: as soon as he's properly dead, take him off the table, put him straight into nutritive fluid and bring him to me!'
'Don't worry, Philip Philipovich, the pathologist has promised me.'
'Excellent. Meanwhile, we'll examine this neurotic street arab of ours and stitch him up. I want his flank to heal . . .'
He's worrying about me, thought the dog, good for him. Now I know what he is. He's the wizard, the magician, the sorcerer out of those dogs' fairy tales ... I can't have dreamed it all. Or have I? (The dog shuddered in his sleep.) Any minute now I'll wake up and there'll be nothing here. No silk-shaded lamp, no warmth, no food. Back on the streets, back in the cold, the frozen asphalt, hunger, evil-minded humans . . . the factory canteen, the snow . . . God, it will be unbearable . . .!
But none of that happened. It was the freezing doorway which vanished like a bad dream and never came back.
Clearly the country was not yet in a total state of ruin. In spite of it the grey accordion-shaped radiators under the windows filled with heat twice a day and warmth flowed in waves through the whole apartment. The dog had obviously drawn the winning ticket in the dogs' lottery. Never less than twice a day his eyes filled with tears of gratitude towards the sage of Prechistenka. Every mirror in the living-room or the hall reflected a good-looking, successful dog.
I am handsome. Perhaps I'm really a dog prince, living incognito, mused the dog as he watched the shaggy, coffee-coloured dog with the smug expression strolling about in the mirrored distance. I wouldn't be surprised if my grandmother didn't have an affair with a labrador. Now that I look at my muzzle, I see there's a white patch on it. I wonder how it got there. Philip Philipovich is a man of great taste -he wouldn't just pick up any stray mongrel.
In two weeks the dog ate as much as in his previous six weeks on the street. Only by weight, of course. In quality the food at the professor's apartment was incomparable. Apart from the fact that Darya Petrovna bought a heap of meat-scraps for 18 kopecks every day at the Smolensk market, there was dinner every evening in the dining-room at seven o'clock, at which the dog was always present despite protests from the elegant Zina. It was during these meals that Philip Philipovich acquired his final title to divinity. The dog stood on his hind legs and nibbled his jacket, the dog learned to recognise Philip Philipovich's ring at the door - two loud, abrupt proprietorial pushes on the bell - and would run barking out into the hall. The master was enveloped in a dark brown fox-fur coat, which glittered with millions of snowflakes and smelled of mandarin oranges, cigars, perfume, lemons, petrol, eau de cologne and cloth, and his voice, like a megaphone, boomed all through the apartment.
'Why did you ruin the owl, you little monkey? Was the owl doing you any harm? Was it, now? Why did you smash the portrait of Professor Mechnikov?'
'He needs at least one good whipping, Philip Philipovich,' said Zina indignantly, 'or he'll become completely spoiled. Just look what he's done to your galoshes.'
'No one is to be beaten,' said Philip Philipovich heatedly, 'remember that once and for all. Animals and people can only be influenced by persuasion. Have you given him his meat today?'
'Lord, he's eaten us out of house and home. What a question, Philip Philipovich. He eats so
much I'm surprised he doesn't burst.'
'Fine. It's good for him . . . what harm did the owl do you, you little ruffian?'
Ow-ow, whined the dog, crawling on his belly and splaying out his paws.
The dog was forcefully dragged by the scruff of his neck through the hall and into the study. He whined, snapped, clawed at the carpet and slid along on his rump as if he were doing a circus act. In the middle of the study floor lay the glass-eyed owl. From its disembowelled stomach flowed a stream of red rags that smelled of mothballs. Scattered on the desk were the fragments of a portrait.
'I purposely didn't clear it up so that you could take a good look,' said Zina distractedly. 'Look - he jumped up on to the table, the little brute, and then - bang! - he had the owl by the tail. Before I knew what was happening he had torn it to pieces. Rub his nose in the owl, Philip Philipovich, so that he learns not to spoil things.'
Then the howling began. Clawing at the carpet, the dog was dragged over to have his nose rubbed in the owl. He wept bitter tears and thought: Beat me, do what you like, but don't throw me out.
'Send the owl to the taxidermist at once. There's 8 roubles, and 16 kopecks for the tram-fare, go down to Murat's and buy him a good collar and a lead.'
Next day the dog was given a wide, shiny collar. As soon as he saw himself in the mirror he was very upset, put his tail between his legs and disappeared into the bathroom, where he planned to pull the collar off against a box or a basket. Soon, however, the dog realised that he was simply a fool. Zina took him walking on the lead along Obukhov Street. The dog trotted along like a prisoner under arrest, burning with shame, but as he walked along Prechistenka Street as far as the church of Christ the Saviour he soon realised exactly what a collar means in life. Mad envy burned in the eyes of every dog he met and at Myortvy Street a shaggy mongrel with a docked tail barked at him that he was a 'master's pet' and a 'lackey'. As they crossed the tram tracks a policeman looked at the collar with approval and respect. When they returned home the most amazing thing of all happened - with his own hands Fyodor the porter opened the front door to admit Sharik and Zina, remarking to Zina as he did so: 'What a sight he was when Philip Philipovich brought him in. And now look how fat he is.'
'So he should be - he eats enough for six,' said the beautiful Zina, rosy-cheeked from the cold.
A collar's just like a briefcase, the dog smiled to himself. Wagging his tail, he climbed up to the mezzanine like a gentleman.
Once having appreciated the proper value of a collar, the dog made his first visit to the supreme paradise from which hitherto he had been categorically barred - the realm of the cook, Darya Petrovna. Two square inches of Darya's kitchen was worth more than all the rest of the flat. Every day flames roared and flashed in the tiled, black-leaded stove. Delicious crackling sounds came from the oven. Tortured by perpetual heat and unquenchable passion, Darya Petrovna's face was a constant livid purple, slimy and greasy. In the neat coils over her ears and in the blonde bun on the back of her head flashed twenty-two imitation diamonds. Golden saucepans hung on hooks round the walls, the whole kitchen seethed with smells, while covered pans bubbled and hissed . . .
'Get out!' screamed Darya Petrovna. 'Get out, you no-good little thief! Get out of here at once or I'll be after you with the poker!'
Hey, why all the barking? signalled the dog pathetically with his eyes. What d'you mean - thief? Haven't you noticed my new collar? He backed towards the door, his muzzle raised appealingly towards her.
The dog Sharik possessed some secret which enabled him to win people's hearts. Two days later he was stretched out beside the coal-scuttle watching Darya Petrovna at work. With a thin sharp knife she cut
off the heads and claws of a flock of helpless grouse, then like a merciless executioner scooped the guts out of the fowls, stripped the flesh from the bones and put it into the mincer. Sharik meanwhile gnawed a grouse's head. Darya Petrovna fished lumps of soaking bread out of a bowl of milk, mixed them on a board with the minced meat, poured cream over the whole mixture, sprinkled it with salt and kneaded it into cutlets. The stove was roaring like a furnace, the frying pan sizzled, popped and bubbled. The oven door swung open with a roar, revealing a terrifying inferno of heaving, crackling flame.
In the evening the fiery furnace subsided and above the curtain half-way up the kitchen window hung the dense, ominous night sky of Prechistenka Street with its single star. The kitchen floor was damp, the saucepans shone with a dull, mysterious glow and on the table was a fireman's cap. Sharik lay on the warm stove, stretched out like a lion above a gateway, and with one ear cocked in curiosity he watched through the half-open door of Zina's and Darya Petrovna's room as an excited, black-moustached man in a broad leather belt embraced Darya Petrovna. All her face, except her powdered nose, glowed with agony and passion. A streak of light lay across a picture of a man with a black moustache and beard, from which hung a little Easter loaf.
A Dog's Heart Page 4
