A Dog's Heart

by Mikhail Bulgakov

  There's no doubt that it is his illegitimate (as they used to say in rotten bourgeois society) son. This is how the pseudo-learned members of our bourgeoisie amuse themselves. He will only keep his seven rooms until the glittering sword ofjustice fi'ashes over him like a red ray. Sh . . . r.

  Someone was hard at work playing a rousing tune on the balalaika two rooms away and the sound of a series of intricate variations on 'The Moon is Shining' mingled in Philip Philipovich's head with the words of the sickening newspaper article. When he had read it he pretended to spit over his shoulder and hummed absentmindedly through his teeth: ' "The moo-oon is shining . . . shining bright . . . the moon is shining . . ." God, that damned tune's on my brain!'

  He rang. Zina's face appeared in the doorway.

  'Tell him it's five o'clock and he's to shut up. Then tell him to come here, please.'

  Philip Philipovich sat down in an armchair beside his desk, a brown cigar butt between the

  fingers of his left hand. Leaning against the doorpost there stood, legs crossed, a short man of unpleasant appearance. His hair grew in clumps of bristles like a stubble field and on his face was a meadow of unsliaven fluff. His brow was strikingly low. A thick brush of hair began almost immediately above his spreading eyebrows.

  His jacket, torn under the left armpit, was covered with bits of straw, his checked trousers had a hole on the right knee and the left leg was stained with violet paint. Round the man's neck was a poisonously bright blue tie with a gilt tiepin. The colour of the tie was so garish that whenever Philip Philipovich covered his tired eyes and gazed at the complete darkness of the ceiling or the wall, he imagined he saw a flaming torch with a blue halo. As soon as he opened them he was blinded again, dazzled by a pair of patent-leather boots with white spats.

  'Like galoshes,' thought Philip Philipovich with disgust. He sighed, sniffed and busied himself with relighting his dead cigar. The man in the doorway stared at the professor with lacklustre eyes and smoked a cigarette, dropping the ash down his shirtfront.

  The clock on the wall beside a carved wooden grouse struck five o'clock. The inside of the clock was still wheezing as Philip Philipovich spoke.

  'I think I have asked you twice not to sleep by the stove in the kitchen - particularly in the daytime.'

  The man gave a hoarse cough as though he were choking on a bone and replied:

  'It's nicer in the kitchen.'

  His voice had an odd quality, at once muffled yet resonant, as if he were far away and talking

  into a small barrel.

  Philip Philipovich shook his head and asked:

  'Where on earth did you get that disgusting thing from? I mean your tie.'

  Following the direction of the pointing finger, the man's eyes squinted as he gazed lovingly

  down at his tie.

  'What's disgusting about it?' he said. 'It's a very smart tie. Darya Petrovna gave it to me.'

  'In that case Darya Petrovna has very poor taste. Those boots are almost as bad. Why did you get such horrible shiny ones? Where did you buy them? What did I tell you? I told you to find yourself a pair of decent boots. Just look at them. You don't mean to tell me that Doctor Bormenthal chose them, do you?'

  'I told him to get patent leather ones. Why shouldn't I wear them? Everybody else does. If you go down Kuznetzky Street you'll see nearly everybody wearing patent leather boots.'

  Philip Philipovich shook his head and pronounced weightily:

  'No more sleeping in the kitchen. Understand? I've never heard of such behaviour. You're a

  nuisance there and the women don't like it.'

  The man scowled and his lips began to pout.

  'So what? Those women act as though they owned the place. They're just maids, but you'd

  think they were commissars. It's Zina - she's always bellyaching about me.'

  Philip Philipovich gave him a stern look.

  'Don't you dare talk about Zina in that tone of voice! Understand?'

  Silence.

  'I'm asking you - do you understand?'

  'Yes, I understand.'

  'Take that trash off your neck. Sha . . . if you saw yourself in a mirror you'd realise what a

  fright it makes you look. You look like a clown. For the hundredth time - don't throw cigarette ends on to the floor. And I don't want to hear any more swearing in this flat! And don't spit everywhere! The spittoon's over there. Kindly take better aim when you pee. Cease all further conversation with Zina. She complains that you lurk round her room at night. And don't be rude to my patients! Where do'you think you are - in some dive?'

  'Don't be so hard on me. Dad,' the man suddenly said in a tearful whine.

  Philip Philipovich turned red and his spectacles flashed.

  'Who are you calling "Dad"? What impertinent familiarity! I never want to hear that word

  again! You will address me by my name and patronymic!'

  The man flared up impudently: 'Oh, why can't you lay off? Don't spit . . . don't smoke . . . don't go there, don't do this, don't do that . . . sounds like the rules in a tram. Why don't you leave me alone, for God's sake? And why shouldn't I call you "Dad", anyway? I didn't ask you to do the operation, did I?' - the man barked indignantly - 'A nice business -you get an animal, slice his head open and now you're sick of him. Perhaps I wouldn't have given permission for the operation. Nor would . . . (the man stared up at the ceiling as though trying to remember a phrase he had been taught) . . . nor would my relatives. I bet I could sue you if I wanted to.'

  Philip Philipovich's eyes grew quite round and his cigar fell out of his fingers. 'Well, I'll be . . .' he thought to himself.

  'So you object to having been turned into a human being, do you?' he asked, frowning slightly. 'Perhaps you'd prefer to be sniffing around dustbins again? Or freezing in doorways? Well, if I'd known that I wouldn't . . .'

  'So what if I had to eat out of dustbins? At least it was an honest living. And supposing I'd died on your operating table? What d'you say to that, comrade?'

  'My name is Philip Philipovich!' exclaimed the professor irritably. 'I'm not your comrade! This is monstrous!' ('I can't stand it much longer,' he thought to himself.)

  'Oh, yes!' said the man sarcastically, triumphantly uncrossing his legs. 'I know! Of course we're not comrades! How could we be? I didn't go to college, I don't own a flat with fifteen rooms and a bathroom. Only all that's changed now - now everybody has the right to . . .'

  Growing rapidly paler, Philip Philipovich listened to the man's argument. Then the creature stopped and swaggered demonstratively over to an ashtray with a chewed butt-end in his fingers. He spent a long time stubbing it out, with a look on his face which clearly said: 'Drop dead!' Having put out his cigarette he suddenly clicked his teeth and poked his nose under his armpit.

  'You're supposed to catch fleas with your fingersV shouted Philip Philipovich in fury. 'Anyhow, how is it that you still have any fleas?'

  'You don't think I breed them on purpose, do you?' said the man, offended. 'I suppose fleas just like me, that's all.' With this he poked his fingers through the lining of his jacket, scratched around and produced a tuft of downy red hair.

  Philip Philipovich turned his gaze upwards to the plaster rosette on the ceiling and started drumming his fingers on the desk. Having caught his flea, the man sat down in a chair, sticking his thumbs behind the lapels of his jacket. Squinting down at the parquet, he inspected his boots, which gave him great pleasure. Philip Philipovich also looked down at the highlights glinting on the man's blunt-toed boots, frowned and enquired:

  'What else were you going to say?'

  'Oh, nothing, really. I need some papers, Philip Philipovich.'

  Philip Philipovich winced. 'H'm . . . papers, eh? Really, well . . . H'm . . . Perhaps we might . . .' His voice sounded vague and unhappy.

  'Now, look,' said the man firmly. 'I can't manage without papers. After all you know damn well that people who don't have any papers aren't allowed to exist no
wadays. To begin with, there's the house committee.'

  'What does the house committee have to do with it?'

  'A lot. Every time I meet one of them they ask me when I'm going to get registered.'

  'Oh, God,' moaned Philip Philipovich. ' "Every time you meet one of them ..." I can just imagine what you tell them. I thought I told you not to hang about the staircases, anyway.'

  'What am I - a convict?' said the man in amazement. His glow of righteous indignation made even his fake ruby tiepin light up. "Hang about" indeed! That's an insult. I walk about just like everybody else.'

  So saying he wriggled his patent-leather feet.

  Philip Philipovich said nothing, but looked away. 'One must restrain oneself,' he thought, as he walked over to the sideboard and drank a glassful of water at one gulp.

  'I see,' he said rather more calmly. 'All right, I'll overlook your tone of voice for the moment. What does your precious house committee say, then?'

  'Hell, I don't know exactly. Anyway, you needn't be sarcastic about the house committee. It protects people's interests.'

  'Whose interest, may I ask?'

  'The workers', of course.'

  Philip Philipovich opened his eyes wide. 'What makes you think that you're a worker?'

  'I must be - I'm not a capitalist.'

  'Very well. How does the house committee propose to stand up for your revolutionary rights?'

  'Easy. Put me on the register. They say they've never heard of anybody being allowed to live in Moscow without being registered. That's for a start. But the most important thing is an identity card. I don't want to be arrested for being a deserter.'

  'And where, pray, am I supposed to register you? On that tablecloth or on my own passport? One must, after all, be realistic. Don't forget that you are . . . h'm, well. . . you are what you might call a ... an unnatural phenomenon, an artefact . . .' Philip Philipovich sounded less and less convincing.

  Triumphant, the man said nothing.

  'Very well. Let's assume that in the end we shall have to register you, if only to please this

  house committee of yours. The trouble is - you have no name.'

  'So what? I can easily choose one. Just put it in the newspapers and there you are.'

  'What do you propose to call yourself?'

  The man straightened his tie and replied: Toligraph Poligraphovich.'

  'Stop playing the fool,' groaned Philip Philipovich. 'I meant it seriously.'

  The man's face twitched sarcastically.

  'I don't get it,' he said ingenuously. 'I mustn't swear. I mustn't spit. Yet all you ever do is call me names. I suppose only professors are allowed to swear in the RSFSR.'

  Blood rushed to Philip Philipovich's face. He filled a glass, breaking it as he did so. Having drunk from another one, he thought: 'Much more of this, and he'll start teaching me how to behave, and he'll be right. I must control myself.'

  He turned round, made an exaggeratedly polite bow and said with iron self-control: 'I beg your pardon. My nerves are slightly upset. Your name struck me as a little odd, that is all. Where, as a matter of interest, did you dig it up?'

  'The house committee helped me. We looked in the calendar. And I chose a name.'

  'That name cannot possibly exist on any calendar.'

  'Can't it?' The man grinned. 'Then how was it I found it on the calendar in your consulting

  room?'

  Without getting up Philip Philipovich leaned over to the knob on the wall and Zina appeared in answer to the bell.

  'Bring me the calendar from the consulting-room.'

  There was a pause. When Zina returned with the calendar, Philip Philipovich asked: 'Where is it?'

  'The name-day is March 4th.'

  'Show me . . . h'm . . . dammit, throw the thing into the stove at once.' Zina, blinking with

  fright, removed the calendar. The man shook his head reprovingly.

  'And what surname will you take?'

  'I'll use my real name.'

  'You're real name? What is it?'

  'Sharikov.*

  Shvonder the house committee chairman was standing in his leather tunic in front of the

  professor's desk. Doctor Bormen-thal was seated in an armchair. The doctor's glowing face (he had just come in from the cold) wore an expression whose perplexity was only equalled by that of Philip Philipovich.

  'Write it?' he asked impatiently.

  'Yes,' said Shvonder, 'it's not very difficult. Write a certificate, professor. You know the sort of thing - 'This is to certify that the bearer is really Poligraph Poligraphovich Sharikov . . . h'm, born in, h'm . . . this flat.'

  Bormenthal wriggled uneasily in his armchair. Philip Philipovich tugged at his moustache.

  'God dammit, I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. He wasn't born at all, he

  simply . . . well, he sort of..'

  'That's your problem,' said Shvonder with quiet malice. 'It's up to you to decide whether he was born or not ... It was your experiment, professor, and you brought citizen Sharikov into the world.'

  'It's all quite simple,' barked Sharikov from the glass-fronted cabinet, where he was admiring the reflection of his tie.

  'Kindly keep out of this conversation,' growled Philip Philipovich. 'It's not at all simple.'

  'Why shouldn't I join in?' spluttered Sharikov in an offended voice, and Shvonder instantly

  supported him.

  'I'm sorry, professor, but citizen Sharikov is absolutely correct. He has a right to take part in a discussion about his affairs, especially as it's about his identity documents. An identity document is the most important thing in the world.'

  At that moment a deafening ring from the telephone cut into the conversation. Philip Philipovich said into the receiver:

  'Yes . . .', then reddened and shouted: 'Will you please not distract me with trivialities. What's it to do with you?' And he hurled the receiver back on to the hook.

  Delight spread over Shvonder's face.

  Purpling, Philip Philipovich roared: 'Right, let's get this finished.'

  He tore a sheet of paper from a notepad and scribbled a few words, then read it aloud in a

  voice of exasperation:

  ' "I hereby certify . . ." God, what am I supposed to certify? . . . let's see . . . "That the bearer is a man created during a laboratory experiment by means of an operation on the brain and that he requires identity papers" . . .'I object in principle to his having these idiotic documents, but still . . . Signed:

  "Professor Preobrazhensky!" '

  'Really, professor,' said Shvonder in an offended voice. 'What do you mean by calling these

  documents idiotic? I can't allow an undocumented tenant to go on living in this house, especially one who hasn't been registered with the police for military service. Supposing war suddenly breaks out with the imperialist aggressors?'

  'I'm not going to fight!' yapped Sharikov.

  Shvonder was dumbfounded, but quickly recovered himself and said politely to Sharikov: 'I'm afraid you seem to be completely lacking in political consciousness, citizen Sharikov. You must register for military service at once.'

  'I'll register, but I'm dammed if I'm going to fight,' answered Sharikov nonchalantly, straightening his tie.

  Now it was Shvonder's turn to be embarrassed. Preobraz-hensky exchanged a look of grim complicity with Bormenthal, who nodded meaningly.

  'I was badly wounded during the operation,' whined Sharikov. 'Look - they cut me right open.' He pointed to his head. The scar of a fresh surgical wound bisected his forehead.

  'Are you an anarchist-individualist?' asked Shvonder, raising his eyebrows.

  'I ought to be exempt on medical grounds,' said Sharikov.

  'Well, there's no hurry about it,' said the disconcerted Shvonder. 'Meanwhile we'll send the

  professor's certificate to the police and they'll issue your papers.'

  'Er, look here . . .' Philip Philipovich suddenly interrupted him, obvious
ly struck by an idea. 'I suppose you don't liave a room to spare in the house, do you? I'd be prepared to buy it.'

  Yellowish sparks flashed in Shvonder's brown eyes.

  'No, professor, I very much regret to say that we don't have a room. And aren't likely to,

  either.'

  Philip Philipovich clenched his teeth and said nothing. Again the telephone rang as though to order. Without a word Philip Philipovich flicked the receiver off the rest so that it hung down, spinning slightly, on its blue cord. Everybody jumped. 'The old man's getting rattled,' thought