Heart of a Dog. Mikhail Bulgakov
With plea . . . Oh, no, if you don’t mind. No. There’s a doorman here. And there’s nothing worse in the world. Much more dangerous than janitors. A thoroughly hateful breed. Even viler than toms. Murderers in gold braid.
“Don’t be afraid, come.”
“How do you do, Philip Philippovich?”
“Hello, Fyodor.”
That’s a man for you! Heavens, to whom has my dog’s fate brought me? What sort of personage is this who can bring dogs from the street past doormen into the house? Look at that scoundrel—not a sound, not a move! True, his eyes are chilly, but on the whole he is indifferent under that gold-braided cap. As if everything’s just as it should be. He respects the gentleman, and how he respects him! Well, and I am with him, and walk in after him. Didn’t dare to touch me, did you? Put that in your craw. Wouldn’t I love to sink my teeth into your calloused proletarian foot! For all we’ve suffered from your kind. How many times did you bloody my nose with a broom, eh?
“Come on, come on.”
I understand, I understand, don’t worry. Wherever you go, I’ll follow. Just show the way, I won’t fall back, despite my miserable side.
From the staircase, calling down: “Were there no letters for me, Fyodor?”
From below, up the stairs, deferentially: “No, Sir, Philip Philippovich.” Then confidentially, intimately, in a lowered voice, “They’ve moved in some more tenants, settled them in Number Three.”
The lordly benefactor of dogs turned sharply on the step, bent over the rail and asked in a horrified voice:
“Real-ly?”
His eyes became round and his mustache bristled.
The doorman turned up his face, put his cupped hand to his lips, and confirmed it:
“Yes, sir, four of them.”
“Good God! I can imagine what bedlam they’ll have in the apartment now. And what do they say?”
“Why, nothing.”
“And Fyodor Pavlovich?”
“He went to get some screens and brick. They’ll build partitions.”
“Damned outrage!”
“They’ll be moving additional tenants into all the apartments, Philip Philippovich, except yours. There’s just been a meeting, they elected a new committee and kicked the old one out.”
“The things that are going on. Ai-ai-ai . . . Whuit, whuit.”
I’m coming, I’m keeping up. My side is bothering me, you know. Allow me to lick your boot.
The doorman’s braid disappeared below. The radiators on the marble landing exuded warmth. Another turn, and we’re on the second floor.
II
There is absolutely no necessity to learn how to read; meat smells a mile off, anyway. Nevertheless, if you live in Moscow and have a brain in your head, you’ll pick up reading willy-nilly, and without attending any courses. Out of the forty thousand or so Moscow dogs, only a total idiot won’t know how to read the word “sausage.”
Sharik first began to learn by color. When he was only four months old, blue-green signs with the letters MSPO—indicating a meat store—appeared all over Moscow. I repeat, there was no need for any of them—you can smell meat anyway. But one day Sharik made a mistake. Tempted by an acid-blue sign, Sharik, whose sense of smell had been knocked out by the exhaust of a passing car, dashed into an electric supplies store instead of a butcher shop. The store was on Myasnitsky Street and was owned by the Polubizner Bros. The brothers gave the dog a taste of insulated wire, and that is even neater than a cabby’s whip. That famous moment may be regarded as the starting point of Sharik’s education. Back on the sidewalk, he began to realize that blue didn’t always mean “meat.” Howling with the fiery pain, his tail pressed down between his legs, he recalled that over all the butcher shops there was a red or golden wiggle—the first one on the left—that looked like a sled.
After that, his learning proceeded by leaps and bounds. He learned the letter “t” from “Fish Trust” on the corner of Mokhovaya, and then the letter “s” (it was handier for him to approach the store from the tail end of the word, because of the militiaman who stood near the beginning of the “Fish”).
Tile squares set into corner houses in Moscow always and inevitably meant “cheese.” A black samovar faucet over the word indicated the former owner of Chichkin’s, piles of red Holland cheese, beastly salesmen who hated dogs, sawdust on the floor, and that most disgusting, evil-smelling Beckstein.
If somebody was playing an accordion, which was not much better than “Celeste Aida,” and there was a smell of frankfurters, the first letters on the white signs very conveniently added up to the words “no inde . . .,” which meant “no indecent language and no tips.” In such places there were occasional messy brawls and people got hit in the face with fists, and sometimes with napkins or boots.
If there were stale hams hanging in a window and tangerines on the sill, it meant . . . Grr . . . grr . . . groceries. And if there were dark bottles with a vile liquid, it meant . . . Wwhi-w-i-wines . . . The former Yeliseyev Brothers.
The unknown gentleman who had brought the dog to the doors of his luxurious apartment on the second floor rang, and the dog immediately raised his eyes to the large black card with gold letters next to the wide door with panes of wavy pink glass. He put together the first three letters right away: Pe-ar-o, “Pro.” After that came a queer little hooked stick, nasty looking, unfamiliar. No telling what it meant. Could it be “proletarian"? Sharik wondered with astonishment . . . No, impossible. He raised his nose, sniffed the coat again, and said to himself with certainty: Oh, no, there’s nothing proletarian in this smell. Some fancy, learned word, who knows what it means.
A sudden, joyous light flared up behind the pink glass, setting off the black card still more clearly. The door swung open silently, and a pretty young woman in a white apron and a lace cap appeared before the dog and his master. The former felt a gust of divine warmth, and the fragrance of lilies of the valley came at him from the woman’s skirt.
That’s something, that’s really something, thought the dog.
“Come in, please, Mr. Sharik,” the gentleman invited him ironically, and Sharik stepped in reverently, wagging his tail.
A multitude of objects crowded the rich foyer. He was most impressed with the mirror from floor to ceiling, which immediately reflected a second bedraggled, lacerated Sharik, the terrifying stag’s horns up above, the numerous overcoats and boots, and the opalescent tulip with an electric light under the ceiling.
“Where did you dig him up, Philip Philippovich?” the woman asked, smiling and helping the gentleman to remove his heavy overcoat lined with silver fox, shimmering with bluish glints. “Heavens! What a mangy cur!”
“Nonsense. Where is he mangy?” the gentleman rapped out sternly.
Having removed the coat, he was now seen wearing a black suit of English cloth, with a gold chain gleaming discreetly and pleasantly across his stomach.
“Wait, stop wriggling, whuit . . . stop wriggling, you silly. Hm ! . . . This isn’t mange . . . wait a minute, you devil . . . Hm ! A-ah. It’s a burn. What scoundrel did it to you? Eh? Be still a moment, will you ! . . .”
A cook, a bastard of a cook! The dog said with his piteous eyes and whimpered a little.
“Zina,” commanded the gentleman, “take him to the examination room at once, and get me a smock.”
The woman whistled, snapped her fingers, and the dog, after a moment’s hesitation, followed her. They came into a narrow, dimly lit hallway, passed one laquered door, walked to the end, turned left, and found themselves in a dark little room which the dog immediately disliked for its ominous smell. The darkness clicked