a teacher… My respect for you is boundless… Allow me to embrace you, dear Philip Philipovich…’
‘Yes, yes, my dear fellow…’ grunted Philip Philipovich in embarrassment and rose to meet him. Bormenthal embraced him and kissed him on his bushy, nicotine-stained moustaches.
‘Honestly, Philip Phili…’
‘Very touching, very touching… Thank you,’ said Philip Philipovich. ‘I’m afraid I sometimes bawl at you during operations. You must forgive an old man’s testiness. The fact is I’m really so lonely… “…from Granada to Seville…”’
‘How can you say that, Philip Philipovich?’ exclaimed Bormenthal with great sincerity. ‘Kindly don’t talk like that again unless you want to offend me…’
‘Thank you, thank you… “…to the banks of the sacred Nile…” …thank you… I liked you because you were such a competent doctor.’
‘I tell you, Philip Philipovich, it’s the only way…’ cried Bormenthal passionately. Leaping up from his place he firmly shut the door leading into the corridor, came back and went on in a whisper: ‘Don’t you see, it’s the only way out? Naturally I wouldn’t dare to offer you advice, but look at yourself, Philip Philipovich — you’re completely worn out, you’re in no fit state to go on working!’
‘You’re quite right,’ agreed Philip Philipovich with a sigh.
‘Very well, then, you agree this can’t go on,’ whispered Bormenthal.
‘Last time you said you were afraid for me and I wish you knew, my dear professor, how that touched me. But I’m not a child either and I can see only too well what a terrible affair this could be. But I am deeply convinced that there is no other solution.’
Philip Philipovich stood up, waved his arms at him and cried:
‘Don’t tempt me. Don’t even mention it.’ The professor walked up and down the room, disturbing the grey swathes. ‘I won’t hear of it. Don’t you realise what would happen if they found us out? Because of our “social origins” you and I would never get away with it, despite the fact of it being our first offence. I don’t suppose your “origins” are any better than mine, are they?’
‘I suppose not. My father was a plain-clothes policeman in Vilno,’ said Bormenthal as he drained his brandy glass.
‘There you are, just as I thought. From the Bolshevik’s point of view you couldn’t have come from a more unsuitable background. Still, mine is even worse. My father was dean of a cathedral. Perfect. “…from Granada to Seville… in the silent shades of night…” So there we are.’
‘But Philip Philipovich, you’re a celebrity, a figure of world-wide importance, and just because of some, forgive the expression, bastard… Surely they can’t touch you!’
‘All the same, I refuse to do it,’ said Philip Philipovich thoughtfully.
He stopped and stared at the glass-fronted cabinet. ‘But why?’
‘Because you are not a figure of world importance.’ ‘But what…’
‘Come now, you don’t think I could let you take the rap while I shelter behind my world-wide reputation, do you? Really… I’m a Moscow University graduate, not a Sharikov.’
Philip Philipovich proudly squared his shoulders and looked like an ancient king of France.
‘Well, then, Philip Philipovich,’ sighed Bormenthal. ‘What’s to be done? Are you just going to wait until that hooligan turns into a human being?’
Philip Philipovich stopped him with a gesture, poured himself a brandy, sipped it, sucked a slice of lemon and said:
‘Ivan Arnoldovich. Do you think I understand a little about the anatomy and physiology of, shall we say, the human brain? What’s your opinion?’
‘Philip Philipovich — what a question!’ replied Bormenthal with deep feeling and spread his hands.
‘Very well. No need, therefore, for any false modesty. I also believe that I am perhaps not entirely unknown in this field in Moscow.’
‘I believe there’s no one to touch you, not only in Moscow but in London and Oxford too!’ Bormenthal interrupted furiously.
‘Good. So be it. Now listen to me, professor-to-be-Bor-menthal: no one could ever pull it off. It’s obvious. No need to ask. If anybody asks you, tell them that Preobrazhensky said so. Finite. Klim!’ — Philip Philipovich suddenly cried triumphantly and the glass cabinet vibrated in response. ‘Klim,’ he repeated. ‘Now, Bormenthal, you are the first pupil of my school and apart from that my friend, as I was able to convince myself today. So I will tell you as a friend, in secret — because of course I know that you wouldn’t expose me — that this old ass Preobrazhensky bungled that operation like a third-year medical student. It’s true that it resulted in a discovery — and you know yourself just what sort of a discovery that was’ — here Philip Philipovich pointed sadly with both hands towards the window-blind, obviously pointing to Moscow — ‘but just remember, Ivan Arnoldovich, that the sole result of that discovery will be that from now on we shall all have that creature Sharik hanging round our necks’ — here Preobrazhensky slapped himself on his bent and slightly sclerotic neck — ‘of that you may be sure! If someone,’ went on Philip Philipovich with relish, ‘were to knock me down and skewer me right now, I’d give him 50 roubles reward! “… from Granada to Seville…” … Dammit, I spent five years doing nothing but extracting cerebral appendages… You know how much work I did on the subject — an unbelievable amount. And now comes the crucial question — what for? So that one fine day a nice litde dog could be transformed into a specimen of so-called humanity so revolting that he makes one’s hair stand on end.’
‘Well, at least it is a unique achievement.’
‘I quite agree with you. This, doctor, is what happens when a researcher, instead of keeping in step with nature, tries to force the pace and lift the veil. Result — Sharikov. We have made our bed and now we must lie on it.’
‘Supposing the brain had been Spinoza’s, Philip Philipovich?’
‘Yes!’ bellowed Philip Philipovich. ‘Yes! Provided the wretched dog didn’t die under the knife — and you saw how tricky the operation was. In short — I, Philip Preobrazhensky would perform the most difficult feat of my whole career by transplanting Spinoza’s, or anyone else’s pituitary and turning a dog into a highly intelligent being. But what in heaven’s name for? That’s the point. Will you kindly tell me why one has to manufacture artificial Spinozas when some peasant woman may produce a real one any day of the week? After all, the great Lomonosov was the son of a peasant woman from Kholmogory. Mankind, doctor, takes care of that. Every year evolution ruthlessly casts aside the mass of dross and creates a few dozen men of genius who become an ornament to the whole world. Now I hope you understand why I condemned the deductions you made from Sharikov’s case history. My discovery, which you are so concerned about, is worth about as much as a bent penny… No, don’t argue, Ivan Arnoldovich, I have given it careful thought. I don’t give my views lightly, as you well know. Theoretically the experiment was interesting. Fine. The physiologists will be delighted. Moscow will go mad… But what is its practical value? What is this creature?’ Preobrazhensky pointed toward the consulting-room where Sharikov was asleep.
‘An unmitigated scoundrel.’
‘But what was Klim… Klim,’ cried the professor. ‘What was Klim Chugunkin?’ (Bormenthal opened his mouth.) ‘I’ll tell you: two convictions, an alcoholic, “take away all property and divide it up”, my beaver hat and 20 roubles gone’ — (At this point Philip Philipovich also remembered his presentation walking-stick and turned purple.) — ‘the swine!… I’ll get that stick back somehow… In short the pituitary is a magic box which determines the individual human image. Yes, individual… “…from Granda to Seville…”’ shouted Philip Philipovich, his eyes rolling furiously, ‘but not the universal human image. It’s the brain itself in miniature. And it’s of no use to me at all — to hell with it. I was concerned about something quite different, about eugenics, about the improvement of the human race. And now I’ve ended up by specialising in rejuvenation. You don’t think I do these rejuvenation operations because of the money, do you? I am a scientist.’
‘And a great scientist!’ said Bormenthal, gulping down his brandy. His eyes grew bloodshot.
‘I wanted to do a little experiment as a follow-up to my success two years ago in extracting sex hormone from the pituitary. Instead of that what has happened? My God! What use were those hormones in the pituitary… Doctor, I am faced by despair. I confess I am utterly perplexed.’
Suddenly Bormenthal rolled up his sleeves and said, squinting at the tip of his nose:
‘Right then, professor, if you don’t want to, I will take the risk of dosing him with arsenic myself. I don’t care if my father was a plain-clothes policeman under the old regime. When all’s said and done this creature is yours — your own experimental creation.’
