Philip Philipovich, limp and exhausted, collapsed into his chair and said:
‘No, my dear boy, I won’t let you do it. I’m sixty, old enough to give you advice. Never do anything criminal, no matter for what reason. Keep your hands clean all your life.’
‘But just think, Philip Philipovich, what he may turn into if that character Shvonder keeps on at him! I’m only just beginning to realise what Sharikov may become, by God!’
‘Aha, so you realise now, do you? Well I realised it ten days after the operation. My only comfort is that Shvonder is the biggest fool of all. He doesn’t realise that Sharikov is much more of a threat to him than he is to me. At the moment he’s doing all he can to turn Sharikov against me, not realising that if someone in their turn sets Sharikov against Shvonder himself, there’ll soon be nothing left of Shvonder but the bones and the beak.’
‘You’re right. Just think of the way he goes for cats. He’s a man with the heart of a dog.’
‘Oh, no, no,’ drawled Philip Philipovich in reply. ‘You’re making a big mistake, doctor. For heaven’s sake don’t insult the dog. His reaction to cats is purely temporary… It’s a question of discipline, which could be dealt with in two or three weeks, I assure you. Another month or so and he’ll stop chasing them.’
‘But why hasn’t he stopped by now?’ ‘Elementary, Ivan Arnoldovich… think what you’re saying. After all, the pituitary is not suspended in a vacuum. It is, after all, grafted on to a canine brain, you must allow time for it to take root. Sharikov now only shows traces of canine behaviour and you must remember this — chasing after cats is the least objectionable thing he does! The whole horror of the situation is that he now has a human heart, not a dog’s heart. And about the rottenest heart in all creation!’
Bormenthal, wrought to a state of extreme anxiety, clenched his powerful sinewy hands, shrugged and said firmly:
‘Very well, I shall kill him!’
‘I forbid it!’ answered Philip Philipovich categorically.
‘But…’
Philip Philipovich was suddenly on the alert. He raised his finger.
‘Wait… I heard footsteps.’
Both listened intently, but there was silence in the corridor.
‘I thought…’ said Philip Philipovich and began speaking German, several times using the Russian word ‘crime’.
‘Just a minute,’ Bormenthal suddenly warned him and strode over to the door.
Footsteps could be clearly heard approaching the study, and there was a mumble of voices. Bormenthal flung open the door and started back in amazement. Appalled, Philip Philipovich froze in his armchair. In the bright rectangle of the doorway stood Darya Petrovna in nothing but her nightdress, her face hot and furious. Both doctor and professor were dazzled by the amplitude of her powerful body, which their shock caused them to see as naked. Darya Petrovna was dragging something along in her enormous hands and as that ‘something’ came to a halt it slid down and sat on its bottom. Its short legs, covered in black down, folded up on the parquet floor. The ‘something’, of course, was Sharikov, confused, still slightly drunk, dishevelled and wearing only a shirt.
Darya Petrovna, naked and magnificent, shook Sharikov like a sack of potatoes and said:
‘Just look at our precious lodger Telegraph Telegraphovich. I’ve been married, but Zina’s an innocent girl. It was a good thing I woke up.’
Having said her piece, Darya Petrovna was overcome by shame, gave a scream, covered her bosom with her arms and vanished.
‘Darya Petrovna, please forgive us,’ the red-faced Philip Philipovich shouted after her as soon as he had regained his senses.
Bormenthal rolled up his shirtsleeves higher still and bore down on Sharikov. Philip Philipovich caught the look in his eye and said in horror: ‘Doctor! I forbid you…’
With his right hand Bormenthal picked up Sharikov by the scruff of his neck and shook him so violently that the material of his shirt tore.
Philip Philipovich threw himself between them and began to drag the puny Sharikov free from Bormenthal’s powerful surgeon’s hands.
‘You haven’t any right to beat me,’ said Sharikov in a stifled moan, rapidly sobering as he slumped to the ground. ‘Doctor!’ shrieked Philip Philipovich. Bormenthal pulled himself together slightly and let Sharikov go. He at once began to whimper.
‘Right,’ hissed Bormenthal, ‘just wait till tomorrow. I’ll fix a little demonstration for him when he sobers up.’ With this he grabbed Sharikov under the armpit and dragged him to his bed in the waiting-room. Sharikov tried to kick, but his legs refused to obey him.
Philip Philipovich spread his legs wide, sending the skirts of his robe flapping, raised his arms and his eyes towards the lamp in the corridor ceiling and sighed.
Eight
The ‘little demonstration’ which Bormenthal had promised to lay on for Sharikov did not, however, take place the following morning, because Poligraph Poligraphovich had disappeared from the house. Bormenthal gave way to despair, cursing himself for a fool for not having hidden the key of the front door. Shouting that this was unforgivable, he ended by wishing Sharikov would fall under a bus. Philip Philipovich, who was sitting in his study running his fingers through his hair, said:
‘I can just imagine what he must be up to on the street… I can just imagine …“from Granada to Seville…” My God.’
‘He may be with the house committee,’ said Bormenthal furiously, and dashed off.
At the house committee he swore at the chairman, Shvonder, so violently that Shvonder sat down and wrote a complaint to the local People’s Court, shouting as he did so that he wasn’t Sharikov’s bodyguard. Poligraph Poligraphovich was not very popular at the house committee either, as only yesterday he had taken 7 roubles from the funds, with the excuse that he was going to buy text books at the co-operative store.
For a reward of 3 roubles Fyodor searched the whole house from top to bottom. Nowhere was there a trace to be found of Sharikov.
Only one thing was clear — that Poligraph had left at dawn wearing cap, scarf and overcoat, taking with him a bottle of rowanberry brandy from the sideboard. Doctor Bormenthal’s gloves, and all his own documents. Darya Petrovna and Zina openly expressed their delight and hoped that Sharikov would never come back again. Sharikov had borrowed 50 roubles from Darya Petrovna only the day before.
‘Serve you right!’ roared Philip Philipovich, shaking his fists. The telephone rang all that day and all the next day. The doctors saw an unusual number of patients and by the third day the two men were faced with the question of what to tell the police, who would have to start looking for Sharikov in the Moscow underworld.
Hardly had the word ‘police’ been mentioned than the reverent hush of Obukhov Street was broken by the roar of a lorry and all the windows in the house shook. Then with a confident ring at the bell Poligraph Poligraphovich appeared and entered with an air of unusual dignity. In absolute silence he took off his cap and hung his coat on the hook. He looked completely different. He had on a second-hand leather tunic, worn leather breeches and long English riding-boots laced up to the knee. An incredible odour of cat immediately permeated the whole hall. As though at an unspoken word of command Preobrazhensky and Bormenthal simultaneously crossed their arms, leaned against the doorpost and waited for Poligraph Poligraphovich to make his first remark. He smoothed down his rough hair and cleared his throat, obviously wanting to hide his embarrassment by a nonchalant air.
At last he spoke. ‘I’ve taken a job, Philip Philipovich.’
Both doctors uttered a vague dry noise in the throat and stirred slightly. Preobrazhensky was the first to collect his wits. Stretching out his hand he said: ‘Papers.’
The typewritten sheet read: ‘It is hereby certified that the bearer, comrade Poligraph Poligraphovich Sharikov, is appointed in charge of the sub-department of the Moscow Cleansing Department responsible for eliminating vagrant quadrupeds (cats, etc.)’
‘I see,’ said Philip Philipovich gravely. ‘Who fixed this for you? No, don’t tell me — I can guess.’
‘Yes, well, it was Shvonder.’
