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Magazine for tourists

Table of contents


Kinds of tourism

Excursion (author BV Emelyanov)

introduction

1. Fundamentals Excursion

2. guided technique

3. Professional skills guide

Tunisia (author Danielle shetar Friedrich chum)

In the Sikhote-Alin (author VK Arseniev)

Michail bulgakov. the heart of a dog

 One
 Two
 Three
 Five
 Six
 Seven
 Eight
 Nine
 Epilogue
Mikhail bulgakov. the master and margarita

Charlotte bronte. jane eyre

F. scott fitzgerald / the great gatsby

Jerome klapka jerome / three men in a boat


 Home
     Michail bulgakov. the heart of a dog
          One

One

Ooow-ow-ooow-owow! Oh, look at me, I'm dying. There's a snowstorm

moaning a requiem for me in this doorway and I'm howling with it. I'm

finished. Some bastard in a dirty white cap - the cook in the office canteen

at the National Economic Council - spilled some boiling water and scalded my

left side. Filthy swine - and a proletarian, too. Christ, it hurts! That

boiling water scalded me right through to the bone. I can howl and howl, but

what's the use?

What harm was I doing him, anyway? I'm not robbing the National

Economic Council's food supply if I go foraging in their dustbins, am I?

Greedy pig! Just take a look at his ugly mug - it's almost fatter than he

is. Hard-faced crook. Oh people, people. It was midday when that fool doused

me with boiling water, now it's getting dark, must be about four o'clock in

the afternoon judging by the smell of onion coming from the Prechistenka

fire station. Firemen have soup for supper, you know. Not that I care for it

myself. I can manage without soup - don't like mushrooms either. The dogs I

know in Prechistenka Street, by the way, tell me there's a restaurant in

Neglinny Street where they get the chef's special every day - mushroom stew

with relish at 3 roubles and 75 kopecks the portion. All right for

connoisseurs, I suppose. I think eating mushrooms is about as tasty as

licking a pair of galoshes . . . Oow-owowow . . .

My side hurts like hell and I can see just what's going to become of

me. Tomorrow it will break out in ulcers and then how can I make them heal?

In summer you can go and roll in Sokolniki Park where there's a special

grass that does you good. Besides, you can get a free meal of sausage-ends

and there's plenty of greasy bits of food-wrappings to lick. And if it

wasn't for some old groaner singing '0 celeste Aida' out in the moonlight

till it makes you sick, the place would be perfect. But where can I go now?

Haven't I been kicked around enough? Sure I have. Haven't I had enough

bricks thrown at me? Plenty . . . Still, after what I've been through, I can

take a lot. I'm only whining now because of the pain and cold - though I'm

not licked yet ... it takes a lot to keep a good dog down.

But my poor old body's been knocked about by people once too often. The

trouble is that when that cook doused me with boiling water it scalded

through right under my fur and now there's nothing to keep the cold out on

my left side. I could easily get pneumonia - and if I get that, citizens,

I'll die of hunger. When you get pneumonia the only thing to do is to lie up

under someone's front doorstep, and then who's going to run round the

dustbins looking for food for a sick bachelor dog? I shall get a chill on my

lungs, crawl on my belly till I'm so weak that it'll only need one poke of

someone's stick to finish me off. And the dustmen will pick me up by the

legs and sling me on to their cart . . .

Dustmen are the lowest form of proletarian life. Humans' rubbish is the

filthiest stuff there is. Cooks vary - for instance, there was Vlas from

Prechistenka, who's dead now. He saved I don't know how many dogs' lives,

because when you're sick you've simply got to be able to eat and keep your

strength up. And when Vlas used to throw you a bone there was always a good

eighth of an inch of meat on it. He was a great character. God rest his

soul, a gentleman's cook who worked for Count Tolstoy's family and not for

your stinking Food Rationing Board. As for the muck they dish out there as

rations, well it makes even a dog wonder. They make soup out of salt beef

that's gone rotten, the cheats. The poor fools who eat there can't tell the

difference. It's just grab, gobble and gulp.

A typist on salary scale 9 gets 60 roubles a month. Of course her lover

keeps her in silk stockings, but think what she has to put up with in

exchange for silk. He won't just want to make the usual sort of love to her,

he'll make her do it the French way. They're a lot of bastards, those

Frenchmen, if you ask me - though they know how to stuff their guts all

right, and red wine with everything. Well, along comes this little typist

and wants a meal. She can't afford to go into the restaurant on 60 roubles a

month and go to the cinema as well. And the cinema is a woman's one

consolation in life. It's agony for her to have to choose a meal . . . just

think:40 kopecks for two courses, and neither of them is worth more than 15

because the manager has pocketed the other 25 kopecks-worth. Anyhow, is it

the right sort of food for her? She's got a patch on the top of her right

lung, she's having her period, she's had her pay docked at work and they

feed her with any old muck at the canteen, poor girl . . . There she goes

now, running into the doorway in her lover's stockings. Cold legs, and the

wind blows up her belly because even though she has some hair on it like

mine she wears such cold, thin, lacy little pants - just to please her

lover. If she tried to wear flannel ones he'd soon bawl her out for looking

a frump. 'My girl bores me', he'll say, 'I'm fed up with those flannel

knickers of hers, to hell with her. I've made good now and all I make in

graft goes on women, lobsters and champagne. I went hungry often enough as a

kid. So what - you can't take it with you.'

I feel sorry for her, poor thing. But I feel a lot sorrier for myself.

I'm not saying it out of selfishness, not a bit, but because you can't

compare us. She at least has a warm home to go to, but what about me? . . .

Where can I go? Oowow-owow!

'Here, doggy, here, boy! Here, Sharik . . . What are you whining for,

poor little fellow? Did somebody hurt you, then?'

The terrible snowstorm howled around the doorway, buffeting the girl's

ears. It blew her skirt up to her knees, showing her fawn stockings and a

little strip of badly washed lace underwear, drowned her words and covered

the dog in snow.

'My God . . . what weather . . . ugh . . . And my stomach aches. It's

that awful salt beef. When is all this going to end?'

Lowering her head the girl launched into the attack and rushed out of

the doorway. On the street the violent storm spun her like a top, then a

whirlwind of snow spiralled around her and she vanished.

But the dog stayed in the doorway. His scalded flank was so painful

that he pressed himself against the cold wall, gasping for breath, and

decided not to move from the spot. He would die in the doorway. Despair

overcame him. He was so bitter and sick at heart, so lonely and terrified

that little dog's tears, like pimples, trickled down from his eyes, and at

once dried up. His injured side was covered with frozen, dried blood-clots

and between them peeped the angry red patches of the scald. All the fault of

that vicious, thickheaded, stupid cook. 'Sharik' she had called him . . .

What a name to choose! Sharik is the sort of name for a round, fat, stupid

dog that's fed on porridge, a dog with a pedigree, and he was a tattered,

scraggy, filthy stray mongrel with a scalded side.

Across the street the door of a brightly lit store slammed and a

citizen came through it. Not a comrade, but a citizen, or even more likely -

a gentleman. As he came closer it was obvious that he was a gentleman. I

suppose you thought I recognised him by his overcoat? Nonsense. Lots of

proletarians even wear overcoats nowadays. I admit they don't usually have

collars like this one, of course, but even so you can sometimes be mistaken

at a distance. No, it's the eyes: you can't go wrong with those, near or

far. Eyes mean a lot. Like a barometer. They tell you everything - they tell

you who has a heart of stone, who would poke the toe of his boot in your

ribs as soon as look at you - and who's afraid of you. The cowards - they're

the ones whose ankles I like to snap at. If they're scared, I go for them.

Serve them right . . . grrr . . . bow-wow . . .

The gentleman boldly crossed the street in a pillar of whirling snow

and headed for the doorway. Yes, you can tell his sort all right. He

wouldn't eat rotten salt beef, and if anyone did happen to give him any he'd

make a fuss and write to the newspapers - someone has been trying to poison

me - me, Philip Philipovich.

He came nearer and nearer. He's the kind who always eats well and never

steals, he wouldn't kick you, but he's not afraid of anyone either. And he's

never afraid because he always has enough to eat. This man's a brain worker,

with a carefully trimmed, sharp-pointed beard and grey moustaches, bold and

bushy ones like the knights of old. But the smell of him, that came floating

on the wind, was a bad, hospital smell. And cigars.

I wonder why the hell he wants to go into that Co-op? Here he is beside

me . . . What does he want? Oowow, owow . . . What would he want to buy in

that filthy store, surely he can afford to go to the Okhotny Ryad? What's

that he's holding? Sausage. Look sir, if you knew what they put into that

sausage you'd never go near that store. Better give it to me.

The dog gathered the last of his strength and crawled fainting out of

the doorway on to the pavement. The blizzard boomed like gunfire over his

head, flapping a great canvas billboard marked in huge letters, 'Is

Rejuvenation Possible?'

Of course it's possible. The mere smell has rejuvenated me, got me up

off my belly, sent scorching waves through my stomach that's been empty for

two days. The smell that overpowered the hospital smell was the heavenly

aroma of minced horsemeat with garlic and pepper. I feel it, I know -there's

a sausage in his right-hand coat pocket. He's standing over me. Oh, master!

Look at me. I'm dying. I'm so wretched, I'll be your slave for ever!

The dog crawled tearfully forward on his stomach. Look what that cook

did to me. You'll never give me anything, though. I know these rich people.

What good is it to you? What do you want with a bit of rotten old horsemeat?

The Moscow State Food Store only sells muck like that. But you've a good

lunch under your belt, haven't you, you're a world-famous figure thanks to

male sex glands. Oowow-owow . . . What can I do? I'm too young to die yet

and despair's a sin. There's nothing for it, I shall have to lick his hand.

The mysterious gentleman bent down towards the dog, his gold

spectacle-rims flashing, and pulled a long white package out of his

right-hand coat pocket. Without taking off his tan gloves he broke off a

piece of the sausage, which was labelled 'Special Cracower'. And gave it to

the dog. Oh, immaculate personage! Oowow-oowow!

'Here, doggy,' the gentleman whistled, and added sternly, 'Come on!

Take it, Sharik!'

He's christened me Sharik too. Call me what you like. For this you can

do anything you like to me,

In a moment the dog had ripped off the sausage-skin. Mouth watering, he

bit into the Cracower and gobbled it down in two swallows. Tears started to

his eyes as he nearly choked on the string, which in his greed he almost

swallowed. Let me lick your hand again, I'll kiss your boots - you've saved

my life.

'That's enough . . .' The gentleman barked as though giving an order.

He bent over Sharik, stared with a searching look into his eyes and

unexpectedly stroked the dog gently and intimately along the stomach with

his gloved hand.

'Aha,' he pronounced meaningly. 'No collar. Excellent. You're just what

I want. Follow me.' He clicked his fingers. 'Good dog!'

Follow you? To the end of the earth. Kick me with your felt boots and I

won't say a word.

The street lamps were alight all along Prechistenka Street. His flank

hurt unbearably, but for the moment Sharik forgot about it, absorbed by a

single thought: how to avoid losing sight of this miraculous fur-coated

vision in the hurly-burly of the storm and how to show him his love and

devotion. Seven times along the whole length of Prechistenka Street as far

as the cross-roads at Obukhov Street he showed it. At Myortvy Street he

kissed his boot, he cleared the way by barking at a lady and frightened her

into falling flat on the pavement, and twice he gave a howl to make sure the

gentleman still felt sorry for him.

A filthy, thieving stray torn cat slunk out from behind a drainpipe and

despite the snowstorm, sniffed the Cracower. Sharik went blind with rage at

the thought that this rich eccentric who picked up injured dogs in doorways

might take pity on this robber and make him share the sausage. So he bared

his teeth so fiercely that the cat, with a hiss like a leaky hosepipe,

shinned back up the drainpipe right to the second floor. Grrrr! Woof! Gone!

We can't go handing out Moscow State groceries to all the strays loafing

about Prechistenka Street.

The gentleman noticed the dog's devotion as they passed the fire

station window, out of which came the pleasant sound of a French horn, and

rewarded him with a second piece that was an ounce or two smaller.

Queer chap. He's beckoning to me. Don't worry, I'm not going to run

away. I'll follow you wherever you like. 'Here, doggy, here, boy!'

Obukhov Street? OK by me. I know the place - I've been around.

'Here, doggy!'

Here? Sure . . . Hey, no, wait a minute. No. There's a porters on that

block of flats. My worst enemies, porters, much worse than dustmen. Horrible

lot. Worse than cats. Butchers in gold braid.

'Don't be frightened, come on.' 'Good evening, Philip Philipovich.'

'Good evening, Fyodor.'

What a character. I'm in luck, by God. Who is this genius, who can even

bring stray dogs off the street past a porter? Look at the bastard - not a

move, not a word! He looks grim enough, but he doesn't seem to mind, for all

the gold braid on his cap. That's how it should be, too. Knows his place.

Yes, I'm with this gentleman, so you can keep your hands to yourself. What's

that - did he make a move? Bite him. I wouldn't mind a mouthful of homy

proletarian leg. In exchange for the trouble I've had from all the other

porters and all the times they've poked a broom in my face.

'Come on, come on.'

OK, OK, don't worry. I'll go wherever you go. Just show me the way.

I'll be right behind you. Even if my side does hurt like hell.

From hallway up the staircase: 'Were there any letters for me, Fyodor?'

From below, respectfully: 'No sir, Philip Philipovich' (dropping his

voice and adding intimately), 'but they've just moved some more tenants into

No. 3.'

The dog's dignified benefactor turned sharply round on the step, leaned

over the railing and asked in horror: 'Wh-at?'

His eyes went quite round and his moustache bristled.

The porter looked upwards, put his hand to his lips, nodded and said:

'That's right, four of them.'

'My God! I can just imagine what it must be like in that apartment now.

What sort of people are they?'

'Nobody special, sir.'

'And what's Fyodor Pavolovich doing?'

'He's gone to get some screens and a load of bricks. They're going to

build some partitions in the apartment.'

'God - what is the place coming to?'

'Extra tenants are being moved into every apartment, except yours,

Philip Philipovich. There was a meeting the other day; they elected a new

house committee and kicked out the old one.'

'What will happen next? Oh, God . . .

'Come on, doggy.'

I'm coming as fast as I can. My side is giving me trouble, though. Let

me lick your boot.

The porter's gold braid disappeared from the lobby.

Past warm radiators on a marble landing, another flight of stairs and

then - a mezzanine.


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