Heart of a Dog. Mikhail Bulgakov

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СКАЧАТЬ office with Philip Philippovich and was dazzled by its interior. To begin with, it blazed with lights: lights burning under the molded ceiling, on the table, on the walls, lights flashing from the glass doors of the cabinets. The lights illuminated a multitude of objects, the most intriguing of which was the huge owl perched on a twig projecting from the wall.

      “Lie down,” ordered Philip Philippovich.

      The carved door across the room opened, and the man Sharik had nipped on the leg came in. In the bright light he turned out to be young and extremely handsome, with a small, pointed beard. He handed Philip Philippovich a sheet of paper and said :

      “The same one . . .”

      He disappeared, and Philip Philippovich spread the tails of his smock, sat down at a huge desk, and immediately became extraordinarily dignified and important.

      No, this is not a clinic, it’s something else, the dog thought in confusion, stretching himself on the patterned rug near the heavy leather sofa. As for that owl, we’ll have to find out about it. . . .

      The door opened softly, and the man who entered was so disconcerting to the dog, that he gave a short, timid bark.

      “Quiet! Well, well, but you’re unrecognizable, my friend.”

      The visitor bowed with great respect and some embarrassment.

      “He-he! You are a wizard, a miracle worker, Professor,” he mumbled with confusion.

      “Take off your trousers, my friend,” commanded Philip Philippovich, getting up.

      Jesus Christ, thought the dog, what a queer bird !

      The hair on the visitor’s head was completely green, and at the nape it had a rusty, tobacco-brown tinge. His face was covered with wrinkles, but its color was baby-pink. His left knee did not bend, and he had to drag his leg over the carpet, but his right foot jumped like a jumping jack’s. In the lapel of his magnificent coat a precious stone gleamed like an eye.

      The dog was so excited and curious that he forgot his nausea.

      Tiaw, tiaw ! . . . he yipped tentatively.

      “Quiet! How do you sleep, my dear?”

      “He-he. Are we alone, Professor? It’s indescribable,” the visitor spoke with embarrassment. “Parole d’honneur, I remember nothing like it for twenty-five years,” the queer individual pulled at his trouser button. “Will you believe me, Professor, every night it’s flocks of naked girls. I am positively enchanted. You are a magician.”

      “Hm,” Philip Philippovich grunted thoughtfully, peering into the guest’s pupils.

      The latter had finally mastered his buttons and removed the striped trousers. Under them the dog beheld a pair of the most unique underpants. They were cream colored, embroidered with black cats, and they smelled of perfume.

      The cats proved too much, and the dog gave such a bark that the individual jumped.

      “Ai !”

      “I’ll thrash you ! Don’t be afraid, he doesn’t bite.”

      I don’t bite? the dog thought with astonishment.

      A little envelope dropped out of the visitor’s trouser pocket, with a picture of a beauty with loose, flowing hair. He jumped up, bent down, picked it up and flushed darkly.

      “Look out, though,” Philip Philippovich warned gloomily, shaking a finger at him. “After all, don’t overdo it!”

      “I don’t over . . .” the visitor mumbled in confusion, continuing to undress. “It was only as a sort of experiment, my dear Professor.”

      “And? How did it go?” Philip Philippovich asked sternly.

      The odd visitor only raised his hands in ecstasy.

      “I swear, nothing like it for twenty-five years, Professor. The last time was in 1899 in Paris, on Rue de la Paix.”

      “And what made you turn green?”

      The visitor’s face clouded over.

      “That damned liquid! You can’t imagine, Professor, what those good-for-nothings stuck me with instead of dye. Just look at it,” he muttered, searching for a mirror with his eyes. “They ought to get their teeth bashed in!” he added, suddenly furious. “What am I to do now, Professor?” he asked tearfully.

      “Hm, shave it off.”

      “Professor,” the visitor exclaimed piteously, “but it’ll grow back gray again. Besides, I won’t be able to show my face at the office. I haven’t gone in for three days as it is. Ah, Professor, if you would only discover a method of rejuvenating the hair as well!”

      “Not all at once, my friend, not all at once,” mumbled Philip Philippovich.

      He bent down and examined the patient’s naked stomach with glittering eyes.

      “Well—charming, everything is in perfect order. To tell the truth, I really didn’t expect such results. New blood, new songs. Get dressed, my friend!”

      “My love is the most beautiful of all! . . .” the patient sang out in a voice that quavered like a frying pan struck with a fork, and began to dress, his face beaming. Then, bobbing up and down and spreading the odor of perfume, he counted out a bundle of large bills, handed them to Philip Philippovich, and tenderly pressed both his hands.

      “You need not report for two weeks,” said Philip Philippovich, “but I must repeat, be careful.”

      “Professor!” the man’s voice exclaimed ecstastically from behind the door, “you may be quite, quite sure,” and he vanished with a sugary giggle.

      The tinkling of the bell spread throughout the apartment, the laquered door opened, the bitten one entered and gave Philip Philippovich another sheet of paper, saying:

      “The age is entered incorrectly. Must be fifty or fifty-five. The heart tone is somewhat flat.”

      He disappeared, to be replaced by a rustling lady in a hat set at a jaunty angle and with a gleaming necklace on her flabby, wrinkled neck. She had peculiar dark bags under her eyes, and her cheeks were as red as a doll’s. She was very nervous.

      “My dear lady! How old are you?” Philip Philippovich asked very sternly.

      The lady became frightened and even turned pale under the coat of rouge.

      “I . . . Professor, I swear, if you only knew my tragedy!. . .”

      “How old are you, madam?” Philip Philippovich repeated still more sternly.

      “Honestly. . . Well, forty-five. . .”

      “Madam,” roared Philip Philippovich, “people are waiting to see me. Don’t waste my time, please. You’re not the only one!”

      The lady’s breast heaved stormily.

      “I’ll tell it СКАЧАТЬ