Heart of a Dog. Mikhail Bulgakov
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HEART OF A DOG
MIKHAIL BULGAKOV (1891–1940) was born in Kiev. After studying and practicing medicine, he gave up his career for writing. Short story writer, playwright, and novelist, Bulgakov was among the group of writers who did not emigrate after the revolution. He was under constant attack by party-line critics, and by 1930 was completely barred from publication. It was not until the sixties that he was “rehabilitated” and published again in Russia.
MIRRA GINSBURG was born in Russia. She is the translator of Bulgakov’s great novel The Master and Margarita, his Life of Monsieur de Molière, and his plays Flight and Bliss. Among other works, she has translated and edited The Fatal Eggs and Other Soviet Satire; Yevgeny Zamyatin’s novel WE; a collection of his stories, The Dragon, and a collection of his essays, A Soviet Heretic; and stories and novels by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Alexey Remizov, Isaac Babel, Mikhail Zoshchenko, and Andrey Platonov. She is also the editor of many collections of folklore and the author of more than twenty books for children.
ALSO BY MIKHAIL BULGAKOV
Published by Grove Press
The Master and Margarita
HEART
OF A
DOG
MIKHAIL BULGAKOV
Translated by Mirra Ginsburg
GROVE PRESS
New York
Copyright © 1968 by Grove Press
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Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bulgakov, Mikhail Afanasévich, 1891–1940.
Heart of a dog.
Translation of: Sobaché serdtse.
ISBN 978-0-8021-5059-2
eISBN 978-0-8021-9003-1
I. Ginsburg, Mirra. II. Title.
PG3476.B78S6131987891.73’4287-8545
Grove Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
154 West 14th Street
New York, NY 10011
Distributed by Publishers Group West
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I
Whoo-oo-oo-oo-hooh-hoo-oo! Oh, look at me, I am perishing in this gateway. The blizzard roars a prayer for the dying, and I howl with it. I am finished, finished. That bastard in the dirty cap—the cook of the Normal Diet Cafeteria for employees of the People’s Central Economic Soviet—threw boiling water at me and scalded my left side. The scum, and he calls himself a proletarian! Lord, oh lord, how it hurts! My side is cooked to the bone. And now I howl and howl, but what’s the good of howling?
What harm did I do him? Would the People’s Economic Soviet get any poorer if I rooted in the garbage heap? The greedy brute! Take a look at that mug of his sometimes—it’s wider than it’s long. A crook with a brass jowl. Ah, people, people! It was at noontime that Dirty Cap gave me a taste of boiling water, and now it’s getting dark, it must be about four in the afternoon, judging from the smell of onions from the Prechistenka firehouse. The firemen get kasha for supper, as you know. But kasha is the last thing I’d eat, like mushrooms. However, some mutts of my acquaintance, from the Prechistenka, have told me that at the Bar-Restaurant on Neglinny people gobble a fancy dish—mushrooms en sauce piquant—at three rubles and
seventy-five kopeks a portion. To each his own—to me it is like licking galoshes! Ooh-oo-oo-oo-oo . . .
My side hurts dreadfully, and I can see my future quite clearly: tomorrow I’ll have sores, and, I ask you, what am I going to cure them with? In summertime, you can run down to Sokolniki Park. There is a special kind of grass there, excellent grass. Besides, you can gorge yourself on free sausage ends. And there’s the greasy paper left all over by the citizens—lick it to your heart’s content! And if it weren’t for that nuisance who sings “Celeste Aida” in the field under the moon so that your heart sinks, it would be altogether perfect. But where can you go now? Were you kicked with a boot? You were. Were you hit with a brick in the ribs? Time and again. I’ve tasted everything, but I’ve made peace with my fate, and if I’m whining now, it’s only because of the pain and the cold—because my spirit hasn’t yet gone out of my body. . . . A dog is hard to kill, his spirit clings to life.
But my body is broken and battered, it’s taken its share of punishment from people. And the worst of it is that the boiling water he slopped over me ate right through the fur, and now my left side is without protection of any kind. I can very easily contract pneumonia, and once I do, my dear citizens, I’ll die of hunger. With pneumonia, you’re supposed to lie under the stairs in a front hallway. But who will run around for me, a sick bachelor dog, and look for sustenance in garbage heaps? Once my lung is affected, I’ll be crawling on my belly, feeble as a pup, and anyone can knock the daylight out of me with a stick. And then the janitors with their badges will grab me by the feet and throw me on the garbage collector’s cart.
Of all the proletarians, janitors are the worst trash. Human dregs—the lowest category. Cooks can be of all sorts. For example, the late Vlas from Prechistenka.
How many lives he saved! Because the main thing is to get a bite to eat when you’re sick. All the old dogs still talk of how Vlas would throw them a bone, and with a solid chunk of meat on it. May he be blessed for it in the Heavenly Kingdom—a real personality he was, the gentry’s cook for the Counts Tolstoy, not one of those nobodies from the Soviet of Normal Diet. The things they do in that Normal Diet, it’s more than a dog’s brain can comprehend. Those scoundrels make soup of stinking corned beef, and the poor wretches don’t know what they’re eating. They come running, gobbling it down, lapping it up.
Take that little typist, ninth grade, getting four and a half chervontsy. True enough, her lover will give her a pair of Persian cotton stockings once in a while. But what won’t she have to put up with for that Persian cotton? You may be sure he will not take her in some ordinary way, no, he’ll insist on French love. They’re scum, those Frenchmen, between you and me. Although they know how to eat, and everything with red wine. Yes . . . So she’ll come running, this little typist. On four and a half chervontsy, after all, you can’t afford to eat at the Bar-Restaurant. She doesn’t even have enough for a movie, and a movie is the only solace in a woman’s life. She shudders and makes faces, but she puts away the stinking soup. . . . Just to think of it: a two-course meal for forty kopeks; and both courses together aren’t worth fifteen kopeks, because the manager has pocketed the other twenty-five. And is that the kind of nourishment she needs? The tip of her right lung isn’t quite right, and she has female trouble from that French love of his, and they’ve deducted from her wages at work, and fed her putrid meat at the cafeteria. But there she is, there she is . . . running toward the gateway in her lover’s stockings. Her feet are cold, her stomach’s cold because her