Reports in today's evening paper even worse - they say that a child has been born who could play the violin from birth. Beside it is a photograph of myself with the caption: 'Prof. Preobrazhensky performing a Caesarian operation on the mother.' The situation is getting out of hand ... He can now say a new word - 'policeman' ...
Apparently Darya Petrovna was in love with me and pinched the snapshot of me out of Philip Philipovich's photograph album. After I had kicked out all the reporters one of them sneaked back into the kitchen, and so ...
Consulting hours are now impossible. Eighty-two telephone calls today. The telephone has been cut off. We are besieged by child-less women ...
House committee appeared in full strength, headed by Shvonder - they could not explain why they had come.
January 8th. Late this evening diagnosis finally agreed. With the impartiality of a true scholar Philip Philipovich has acknowledged his error: transplantation of the pituitary induces not rejuvenation but total humanisation (underlined three times). This does not, however, lessen the value of his stupendous discovery.
The creature walked round the flat today for the first time. Laughed in the corridor after looking at the electric light. Then, accompanied by Philip Philipovich and myself, he went into the study. Stands firmly on his hind (deleted) ... his legs and gives the impression of a short, ill-knit human male.
Laughed in the study. His smile is disagreeable and somehow artificial. Then he scratched the back of his head, looked round and registered a further, clearly-pronounced word: 'Bourgeois'. Swore. His swearing is methodical, uninterrupted and apparently totally meaningless. There is something mechanical about it - it is as if this creature had heard all this bad language at an earlier phase, automatically recorded it in his subconscious and now regurgitates it wholesale. However, I am no psychiatrist.
The swearing somehow has a very depressing effect on Philip Philipovich. There are moments when he abandons his cool, unemotional observation of new phenomena and appears to lose patience. Once when the creature was swearing, for instance, he suddenly burst out impulsively: 'Shut up!' This had no effect.
After his visit to the study Sharik was shut up in the consulting-room by our joint efforts. Philip Philipovich and I then held a conference. I confess that this was the first time I had seen this self-assured and highly intelligent man at a loss. He hummed a little, as he is in the habit of doing, then asked: 'What are we going to do now?' He answered himself literally as follows:
'Moscow State Clothing Stores, yes ... "from Granada to Seville" ... M.S.C.S., my dear doctor ...' I could not understand him, then he explained: 'Ivan Arnoldovich, please go and buy him some underwear, shirt, jacket and trousers.'
January 9th. The creature's vocabulary is being enriched by a new word every five minutes (on average) and, since this morning, by sentences. It is as if they had been lying frozen in his mind, are melting and emerging. Once out, the word remains in use. Since yesterday evening the machine has recorded the following: 'Stop pushing', 'You swine', 'Get off the bus - full up', 'I'll show you', 'American recognition', 'kerosene stove'.
January 10th. The creature was dressed. He took to a vest quite readily, even laughing cheerfully. He refused underpants, though, protesting with hoarse shrieks:
'Stop queue-barging, you bastards!' Finally we dressed him. The sizes of his clothes were too big for him.
(Here the notebook contains a number of schematised drawings, apparently depicting the transformation of a canine into a human leg.) The rear lialf of the skeleton of the foot is lengthening. Elongation of the toes. Nails. (With appropriate sketches.)
Repeated systematic toilet training. The servants are angry and depressed.
However, the creature is undoubtedly intelligent. The experiment is proceeding satisfactorily.
January 11th. Quite reconciled to wearing clothes, although was heard to say, 'Christ, I've got ants in my pants.'
Fur on head now thin and silky; almost indistinguishable from hair, though scars still visible in parietal region. Today last traces of fur dropped from his ears. Colossal appetite. Enjoys salted herring. At 5pm occurred a significant event: for the first time the words spoken by the creature were not disconnected from surrounding phenomena but were a reaction to them. Thus when the professor said to him, 'Don't throw food-scraps on the floor,' he unexpectedly replied: 'Get stuffed.' Philip Philipovich was appalled, but recovered and said: 'If you swear at me or the doctor again, you're in trouble.' I photographed Sharik at that moment and I swear that he understood what the professor said. His face clouded over and he gave a sullen look, but said nothing. Hurrah - he understands!
January 12th. Puts hands in pockets. We are teaching him not to swear. Whistled, 'Hey, little apple'. Sustained conversation. I cannot resist certain hypotheses: we must forget rejuvenation for the time being. The other aspect is immeasurably more important. Prof. Preobrazhensky's astounding experiment has revealed one of the secrets of the human brain. The mysterious function of the pituitary as an adjunct to the brain has now been clarified. It determines human appearance. Its hormones may now be regarded as the most important in the whole organism - the hormones of man's image. A new field has been opened up to science; without the aid of any Faustian retorts a homunculus has been created. The surgeon's scalpel has brought to life a new human entity. Prof. Preobrazhensky-you are a creator. (ink blot)
But I digress ... As stated, he can now sustain a conversation. As I see it, the situation is as follows: the implanted pituitary has activated the speech-centre in the canine brain and words have poured out in a stream. I do not think that we have before us a newly-created brain but a brain which has been stimulated to develop. Oh, what a glorious confirmation of the theory of evolution! Oh, the sublime chain leading from a dog to Mendeleyev the great chemist! A further hypothesis of mine is that during its canine stage Sharik's brain had accumulated a massive quantity of sense-data. All the words which he used initially were the language of the streets which he had picked up and stored in his brain. Now as I walk along the streets I look at every dog I meet with secret horror. God knows what is lurking in their minds.
Sharik can read. He can read (three exclamation marks). I guessed it from his early use of the word 'delicatessen'. He could read from the beginning. And I even know the solution to this puzzle - it lies in the structure of the canine optic nerve. God alone knows what is now going on in Moscow. Seven black-market traders are already behind bars for spreading rumours that the end of the world is imminent and has been caused by the Bolsheviks. Darya Petrovna told me about this and even named the date - November 28th, 1925, the day of St Stephen the Martyr, when the earth will spiral off into infinity... Some charlatans are already giving lectures about it. We have started such a rumpus with this pituitary experiment that I have had to leave my flat. I have moved in with Preobrazhensky and sleep in the waiting-room with Sharik. The consulting-room has been turned into a new waiting-room. Shvender was right. Trouble is brewing with the house committee. There is not a single glass left, as he will jump on to the shelves. Great difficulty in teaching him not to do this.
Something odd is happening to Philip. When I told him about my hypotheses and my hopes of developing Sharik into an intellectually advanced personality, he hummed and hahed, then said: 'Do you really think so?' His tone was ominous. Have I made a mistake? Then he had an idea. While I wrote up these case-notes, Preobrazhensky made a careful study of the life-story of the man from whom we took the pituitary.
(Loose page inserted into the notebook.)
Name: Klim Grigorievich Chugunkin. Age: 25.
Marital status: Unmarried.
Not a Party member, but sympathetic to the Party. Three times charged with theft and acquitted - on the first occasion for lack of evidence, in the second case saved by his social origin, the third time put on probation with a conditional sentence of 15 years hard labour.
Profession: plays the balalaika in bars. Short, poor physical shape. Enlarged
liver (alcohol). Cause of death: knife-wound in the heart, sustained in the Red Light Bar at Preobrazhensky Gate.
The old man continues to study Chugunkin's case exhaustively, although I cannot understand why. He grunted something about the pathologist having failed to make a complete examination of Chugunkin's body. What does he mean? Does it matter whose pituitary it is?
January 17th Unable to make notes for several days, as I have had an attack of influenza. Meanwhile the creature's appearance has assumed definitive form:
(a) physically a complete human being.
(b) weight about 108 Ibs.
(c) below medium height.
(d) small head.
(e) eats human food.
(f) dresses himself.
(g) capable of normal conversation.
So much for the pituitary (ink blot).
This concludes the notes on this case. We now have a new organism which must be studied as such. appendices: Verbatim reports of speech, recordings, photographs. Signed: I. A. Bormenthal, M.D.
Asst. to Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky.
Five
A winter afternoon in late January, the time before supper, the time before the start of evening consulting hours. On the drawing-room doorpost hung a sheet of paper, on which was written in Philip Philipovich's hand:
I forbid the consumption of sunflower seeds in this flat.
P. Preobrazhensky
Below this in big, thick letters Bormenthal had written in blue pencil:
Musical instruments may not be played between 7pm and 6am.
Then from Zina:
When you come back tell Philip Philipovich that he's gone out and I don't know where to. Fyodor says he's with Shvonder.
Preobrazhensky's hand:
How much longer do I have to wait before the glazier comes?
Darya Petrovna (in block letters):
Zina has gone out to the store, says she'll bring him back.
In the dining-room there was a cosy evening feeling, generated by the lamp on the sideboard shining beneath its dark cerise shade. Its light was reflected in random shafts all over the room, as the mirror was cracked from side to side and had been stuck in place with a criss-cross of tape. Bending over the table, Philip Philipovich was absorbed in the large double page of an open newspaper. His face was working with fury and through his teeth issued a jerky stream of abuse. This is what he was reading:
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:
Heart of a Dog Page 6
