‘There is one more thing, Philip Philipovich. I’m sorry, I hardly like to mention it, but it’s the matter of the window-pane in No 7. Citizen Sharikov threw some stones at it, you see…’
‘Did he throw them at a cat?’ asked Philip Philipovich, frowning like a thundercloud.
‘Well, no, he was throwing them at the owner of the flat. He’s threatening to sue.’
‘Oh, lord!’
‘Sharikov tried to kiss their cook and they threw him out. They had a bit of a fight, it seems.’
‘For God’s sake, do you have to tell me all these disasters at once? How much?’
‘One rouble and 50 kopecks.’
Philip Philipovich took out three shining 50-kopeck pieces and handed them to Fyodor.
‘And on top of it all you have to pay 1 rouble and 50 kopecks because of that damned cat,’ grumbled a voice from the doorway. ‘It was all the cat’s fault…’
Philip Philipovich turned round, bit his lip and gripped Sharikov. Without a word he pushed him into the waiting-room and locked the door. Sharik immediately started to hammer on the door with his fists.
‘Shut up!’ shouted Philip Philipovich in a voice that was nearly deranged.
‘This is the limit,’ said Fyodor meaningfully. ‘I’ve never seen such impudence in my life.’
Bormenthal seemed to materialise out of the floor.
‘Please, Philip Philipovich, don’t upset yourself.’
The doctor thrust open the door into the waiting-room.
He could be heard saying: ‘Where d’you think you are? In some dive?’
‘That’s it,’ said Fyodor approvingly. ‘Serve him right…a punch on the ear’s what he needs…’
‘No, not that, Fyodor,’ growled Philip Philipovich sadly. ‘I think you’ve just about had all you can take, Philip Philipovich.’
Six
‘No, no, no!’ insisted Bormenthal. ‘You must tuck in vour napkin.’
‘Why the hell should I,’ grumbled Sharikov.
‘Thank you, doctor,’ said Philip Philipovich gratefully. ‘I simply haven’t the energy to reprimand him any longer.’
‘I shan’t allow you to start eating until you put on your napkin. Zina, take the mayonnaise away from Sharikov.’
‘Hey, don’t do that,’ said Sharikov plaintively. ‘I’ll put it on straight away.’
Pushing away the dish from Zina with his left hand and stuffing a napkin down his collar with the right hand, he looked exactly like a customer in a barber’s shop.
‘And eat with your fork, please,’ added Bormenthal.
Sighing long and heavily Sharikov chased slices of sturgeon around in a thick sauce.
‘Can’t I have some vodka?’ he asked.
‘Will you kindly keep quiet?’ said Bormenthal. ‘You’ve been at the vodka too often lately.’
‘Do you grudge me it?’ asked Sharikov, glowering sullenly across the table.
‘Stop talking such damn nonsense…’ Philip Philipovich broke in harshly, but Bormenthal interrupted him.
‘Don’t worry, Philip Philipovich, leave it to me. You, Sharikov are talking nonsense and the most disturbing thing of all is that you talk it with such complete confidence. Of course I don’t grudge you the vodka, especially as it’s not mine but belongs to Philip Philipovich. It’s simply that it’s harmful. That’s for a start; secondly you behave badly enough without vodka.’ Bormenthal pointed to where the sideboard had been broken and glued together.
‘Zina, dear, give me a little more fish please,’ said the professor.
Meanwhile Sharikov had stretched out his hand towards the decanter and, with a sideways glance at Bormenthal, poured himself out a glassful.
‘You should offer it to the others first,’ said Bormenthal. ‘Like this — first to Philip Philipovich, then to me, then yourself.’
A faint, sarcastic grin nickered across Sharikov’s mouth and he poured out glasses of vodka all round.
‘You act just as if you were on parade here,’ he said. ‘Put your napkin here, your tie there, “please”, “thank you”, “excuse me” — why can’t you behave naturally? Honestly, you stuffed shirts act as if it was still the days oftsarism.’
‘What do you mean by “behave naturally”?’
Sharikov did not answer Philip Philipovich’s question, but raised his glass and said: ‘Here’s how…’
‘And you too,’ echoed Bormenthal with a tinge of irony.
Sharikov tossed the glassful down his throat, blinked, lifted a piece of bread to his nose, sniffed it, then swallowed it as his eyes filled with tears.
‘Phase,’ Philip Philipovich suddenly blurted out, as if preoccupied.
Bormenthal gave him an astonished look. ‘I’m sorry?…’
‘It’s a phase,’ repeated Philip Philipovich and nodded bitterly. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it. Klim.’
Deeply interested, Bormenthal glanced sharply into Philip Philipovich’s eyes: ‘Do you suppose so, Philip Philipovich?’ ‘I don’t suppose; I’m convinced.’
‘Can it be that…’ began Bormenthal, then stopped after a glance at Sharikov, who was frowning suspiciously. ‘Spdter…’ said Philip Philipovich softly. ‘Gut,’ replied his assistant.
Zina brought in the turkey. Bormenthal poured out some red wine for Philip Philipovich, then offered some to Sharikov.
‘Not for me, I prefer vodka.’ His face had grown puffy, sweat was breaking out on his forehead and he was distinctly merrier. Philip Philipovich also cheered up slightly after drinking some wine. His eyes grew clearer and he looked rather more approvingly at Sharikov, whose black head above his white napkin now shone like a fly in a pool of cream.
Bormenthal however, when fortified, seemed to want activity.
‘Well now, what are you and I going to do this evening?’ he asked Sharikov.
Sharikov winked and replied: ‘Let’s go to the circus. I like that best.’
‘Why go to the circus every day?’ remarked Philip Philipovich in a good-humoured voice. ‘It sounds so boring to me. If I were you I’d go to the theatre.’
‘I won’t go to the theatre,’ answered Sharikov nonchalantly and made the sign of the cross over his mouth.
‘Hiccuping at table takes other people’s appetites away,’ said Bormenthal automatically. ‘If you don’t mind my mentioning it… Incidentally, why don’t you like the theatre?’ Sharikov held his empty glass up to his eye and looked through it as though it were an opera glass. After some thought he pouted and said:
‘Hell, it’s just rot… talk, talk. Pure counter-revolution.’
Philip Philipovich leaned against his high, carved gothic chairback and laughed so hard that he displayed what looked like two rows of gold fence-posts. Bormenthal merely shook his head.
‘You should do some reading,’ he suggested, ‘and then, perhaps…’
‘But I read a lot…’ answered Sharikov, quickly and surreptitiously pouring himself half a glass of vodka.
‘Zina!’ cried Philip Philipovich anxiously. ‘Clear away the vodka, my dear. We don’t need it any more… What have you been reading?’
He suddenly had a mental picture of a desert island, palm trees, and a man dressed in goatskins. ‘I’ll bet he says Robinson Crusoe…’he thought.
‘That guy… what’s his name… Engels’ correspondence with… hell, what d’you call him… oh — Kautsky.’
Bormenthal’s forkful of turkey meat stopped in mid-air and Philip Philipovich choked on his wine. Sharikov seized this moment to gulp down his vodka.
Philip Philipovich put his elbows on the table, stared at Sharikov and asked:
‘What comment can you make on what you’ve read?’
Sharikov shrugged. ‘I don’t agree.’
‘With whom — Engels or Kautsky?’
