Magazine for tourists

Table of contents

Kinds of tourism

Excursion (author BV Emelyanov)


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

Mikhail bulgakov. the master and margarita

Charlotte bronte. jane eyre

F. scott fitzgerald / the great gatsby

Jerome klapka jerome / three men in a boat

     Michail bulgakov. the heart of a dog


On gorgeous flowered plates with wide black rims lay thin slices of

salmon and soused eel; a slab of over-ripe cheese on a heavy wooden platter,

and in a silver bowl packed around with snow - caviare. Beside the plates

stood delicate glasses and three crystal decanters of different-coloured

vodkas. All these objects were on a small marble table, handily placed

beside the huge carved oak sideboard which shone with glass and silver. In

the middle of the room was a table, heavy as a gravestone and covered with a

white tablecloth set with two places, napkins folded into the shape of papal

tiaras, and three dark bottles.

Zina brought in a covered silver dish beneath which something bubbled.

The dish gave off such a smell that the dog's mouth immediately filled with

saliva. The gardens of Semiramis! he thought as he thumped the floor with

his tail.

'Bring it here,' ordered Philip Philipovich greedily. 'I beg you,

Doctor Bormenthal, leave the caviare alone. And if you want a piece of good

advice, don't touch the English vodka but drink the ordinary Russian stuff.'

The handsome Bormenthal - who had taken off his white coat and was

wearing a smart black suit - shrugged his broad shoulders, smirked politely

and poured out a glass of clear vodka.

'What make is it?' he enquired.

'Bless you, my dear fellow,' replied his host, 'it's pure alcohol.

Darya Petrovna makes the most excellent homemade vodka.'

'But surely, Philip Philipovich, everybody says that 30-degree vodka is

quite good enough.'

'Vodka should be at least 40 degrees, not 30 - that's firstly,' Philip

Philipovich interrupted him didactically, 'and secondly - God knows what

muck they make into vodka nowadays. What do you think they use?'

'Anything they like,' said the other doctor firmly.

'I quite agree,' said Philip Philipovich and hurled the contents of his

glass down his throat in one gulp. 'Ah . . . m'm . . . Doctor Bormenthal -

please drink that at once and if you ask me what it is, I'm your enemy for

life. "From Granada to Seville . . ." '

With these words he speared something like a little piece of black

bread on his silver fish-fork. Bormenthal followed his example. Philip

Philipovich's eyes shone.

'Not bad, eh?' asked Philip Philipovich, chewing. 'Is it? Tell me,


'It's excellent,' replied the doctor sincerely.

'So I should think . . . Kindly note, Ivan Arnoldovich, that the only

people who eat cold hors d'oeuvres nowadays are the few remaining landlords

who haven't had their throats cut. Anybody with a spark of self-respect

takes his hors d'oeuvres hot. And of all the hot hors d'oeuvres in Moscow

this is the best. Once they used to do them magnificently at the Slavyansky

Bazaar restaurant. There, you can have some too.'

'If you feed a dog at table,' said a woman's voice, 'you won't get him

out of here afterwards for love or money.'

'I don't mind. The poor thing's hungry.' On the point of his fork

Pliilip Philipovich handed the dog a tit-bit, which the animal took with the

dexterity of a conjuror. The professor then threw the fork with a clatter

into the slop-basin.

The dishes now steamed with an odour of lobster; the dog sat in the

shadow of the tablecloth with the look of a sentry by a powder magazine as

Philip Philipovich, thrusting the end of a thick napkin into his collar,

boomed on:

'Food, Ivan Arnoldovich, is a subtle thing. One must know how to eat,

yet just think - most people don't know how to eat at all. One must not only

know what to eat, but when and how.' (Philip Philipovich waved his fork

meaningfully.) 'And what to say while you're eating. Yes, my dear sir. If

you care about your digestion, my advice is - don't talk about bolshevism or

medicine at table. And, God forbid - never read Soviet newspapers before


'M'mm . . . But there are no other newspapers.'

'In that case don't read any at all. Do you know I once made thirty

tests in my clinic. And what do you think? The patients who never read

newspapers felt excellent. Those whom I specially made read Pravda all lost


'H'm . . .' rejoined Bormenthal with interest, turning gently pink from

the soup and the wine.

'And not only did they lose weight. Their knee reflexes were retarded,

they lost appetite and exhibited general depression.'

'Good heavens . . .'

'Yes, my dear sir. But listen to me - I'm talking about medicine!'

Leaning back, Philip Philipovich rang the bell and Zina appeared

through the cerise portiere. The dog was given a thick, white piece of

sturgeon, which he did not like, then immediately afterwards a chunk of

underdone roast beef. When he had gulped it down the dog suddenly felt that

he wanted to sleep and could not bear the sight of any more food. Strange

feeling, he thought, blinking his heavy eyelids, it's as if my eyes won't

look at food any longer. As for smoking after they've eaten - that's crazy.

The dining-room was filling with unpleasant blue smoke. The animal

dozed, its head on its forepaws. 'Saint Julien is a very decent wine,' the

dog heard sleepily, 'but there's none of it to be had any more.'

A dull mutter of voices in chorus, muffled by the ceiling and carpets,

was heard coming from above and to one side.

Philip Philipovich rang for Zina. 'Zina my dear, what's that noise?'

'They're having another general meeting, Philip Philipovich,' replied


'What, again?' exclaimed Philip Philipovich mournfully. 'Well, this is

the end of this house. I'll have to go away -but where to? I can see exactly

what'll happen. First of all there'll be community singing in the evening,

then the pipes will freeze in the lavatories, then the central heating

boiler will blow up and so on. This is the end.'

'Philip Philipovich worries himself to death,' said Zina with a smile

as she cleared away a pile of plates.

'How can I help it?' exploded Philip Philipovich. 'Don't you know what

this house used to be like?'

'You take too black a view of things, Philip Philipovich,' objected the

handsome Bormenthal. 'There is a considerable change for the better now.'

'My dear fellow, you know me, don't you? I am a man of facts, a man who

observes. I'm the enemy of unsupported hypotheses. And I'm known as such not

only in Russia but in Europe too. If I say something, that means that it is

based on some fact from which I draw my conclusions. Now there's a fact for

you: there is a hat-stand and a rack for boots and galoshes in this house.'

'Interesting . . .'

Galoshes - hell. Who cares about galoshes, thought the dog, but he's a

great fellow all the same.

'Yes, a rack for galoshes. I have been living in this house since 1903.

And from then until March 1917 there was not one case - let me underline in

red pencil not one case - of a single pair of galoshes disappearing from

that rack even when the front door was open. There are, kindly note, twelve

flats in this house and a constant stream of people coming to my

consulting-rooms. One fine day in March 1917 all the galoshes disappeared,

including two pairs of mine, three walking sticks, an overcoat and the

porter's samovar. And since then the rack has ceased to exist. And I won't

mention the boiler. The rule apparently is - once a social revolution takes

place there's no need to stoke the boiler. But I ask you: why, when this

whole business started, should everybody suddenly start clumping up and down

the marble staircase in dirty galoshes and felt boots? Why must we now keep

our galoshes under lock and key? And put a soldier on guard over them to

prevent them from being stolen? Why has the carpet been removed from the

front staircase? Did Marx forbid people to keep their staircases carpeted?

Did Karl Marx say anywhere that the front door of No. 2 Kalabukhov House in

Prechistenka Street must be boarded up so that people have to go round and

come in by the back door? WTiat good does it do anybody? Why can't the

proletarians leave their galoshes downstairs instead of dirtying the


'But the proletarians don't have any galoshes, Philip Philipovich,'

stammered the doctor.

'Nothing of the sort!' replied Philip Philipovich in a voice of

thunder, and poured himself a glass of wine. 'H'mm ... I don't approve of

liqueurs after dinner. They weigh on the digestion and are bad for the liver

. . . Nothing of the sort! The proletarians do have galoshes now and those

galoshes are - mine! The very ones that vanished in the spring of 1917. Who

removed them, you may ask? Did I remove them? Impossible. The bourgeois

Sablin?' (Philip Philipovich pointed upwards to the ceiling.) 'The very

idea's laughable. Polozov, the sugar manufacturer?' (Philip Philipovich

pointed to one side.) 'Never! You see? But if they'd only take them off when

they come up the staircase!' (Philip Philipovich started to turn purple.)

'Why on earth do they have to remove the flowers from the landing? Why does

the electricity, which to the best of my recollection has only failed twice

in the past twenty years, now go out regularly once a month? Statistics,

Doctor Bormenthal, are terrible things. You who know my latest work must

realise that better than anybody.' 'The place is going to ruin, Philip


'No,' countered Philip Philipovich quite firmly. 'No. You must first of

all refrain, my dear Ivan Arnoldovich, from using that word. It's a mirage,

a vapour, a fiction,' Philip Philipovich spread out his short fingers,

producing a double shadow like two skulls on the tablecloth. 'What do you

mean by ruin? An old woman with a broomstick? A witch who smashes all the

windows and puts out all the lights? No such thing. What do you mean by that

word?' Philip Philipovich angrily enquired of an unfortunate cardboard duck

hanging upside down by the sideboard, then answered the question himself.

'I'll tell you what it is: if instead of operating every evening I were to

start a glee club in my apartment, that would mean that I was on the road to

ruin. If when I go to the lavatory I don't pee, if you'll excuse the

expression, into the bowl but on to the floor instead and if Zina and Darya

Petrovna were to do the same thing, the lavatory would be ruined. Ruin,

therefore, is not caused by lavatories but it's something that starts in

people's heads. So when these clowns start shouting "Stop the ruin!" - I

laugh!' (Philip Philipovich's face became so distorted that the doctor's

mouth fell open.) 'I swear to you, I find it laughable! Every one of them

needs to hit himself on the back of the head and then when he has knocked

all the hallucinations out of himself and gets on with sweeping out

backyards - which is his real job - all this "ruin" will automatically

disappear. You can't serve two gods! You can't sweep the dirt out of the

tram tracks and settle the fate of the Spanish beggars at the same time! No

one can ever manage it, doctor - and above all it can't be done by people

who are two hundred years behind the rest of Europe and who so far can't

even manage to do up their own fly-buttons properly!'

Philip Philipovich had worked himself up into a frenzy. His hawk-like

nostrils were dilated. Fortified by his ample dinner he thundered like an

ancient prophet and his hair shone like a silver halo.

His words sounded to the sleepy dog like a dull subterranean rumble. At

first he dreamed uneasily that the owl with its stupid yellow eyes had

hopped off its branch, then he dreamed about the vile face of that cook in

his dirty white cap, then of Philip Philipovich's dashing moustaches sharply

lit by electric light from the lampshade. The dreamy sleigh-ride came to an

end as the mangled piece of roast beef, floating in gravy, stewed away in

the dog's stomach.

He could earn plenty of money by talking at political meetings, the dog

thought sleepily. That was a great speech. Still, he's rolling in money


'A policeman!' shouted Philip Philipovich. 'A policeman!'

Policeman? Ggrrr ... - something snapped inside the dog's brain.

'Yes, a policeman! Nothing else will do. Doesn't matter whether he

wears a number or a red cap. A policeman should be posted alongside every

person in the country with the job of moderating the vocal outbursts of our

honest citizenry. You talk about ruin. I tell you, doctor, that nothing will

change for the better in this house, or in any other house for that matter,

until you can make these people stop talking claptrap! As soon as they put

an end to this mad chorus the situation will automatically change for the


'You sound like a counter-revolutionary, Philip Philipovich,' said the

doctor jokingly. 'I hope to God nobody hears you.'

'I'm doing no harm,' Philip Philipovich objected heatedly. 'Nothing

counter-revolutionary in all that. Incidentally, that's a word I simply

can't tolerate. What the devil is it supposed to mean, anyway? Nobody knows.

That's why I say there's nothing counter-revolutionary in what I say. It's

full of sound sense and a lifetime of experience.'

At this point Philip Philipovich pulled the end of his luxurious napkin

out of his collar. Crumpling it up he laid it beside his unfinished glass of

wine. Bormenthal at once rose and thanked his host.

'Just a minute, doctor,' Philip Philipovich stopped him and took a

wallet out of his hip pocket. He frowned, counted out some white 10-rouble

notes and handed them to the doctor, saying, 'You are due for 40 roubles

today, Ivan Arnoldovich. There you are.'

Still in slight pain from his dog-bite, the doctor thanked him and

blushed as he stuffed the money into his coat pocket.

'Do you need me this evening, Philip Philipovich?' he enquired.

'No thanks, my dear fellow. We shan't be doing anything this evening.

For one thing the rabbit has died and for another Aida is on at the Bolshoi

this evening. It's a long time since I heard it. I love it ... Do you

remember that duet? Pom-pom-ti-pom . . .'

'How do you find time for it, Philip Philipovich?' asked the doctor

with awe.

'One can find time for everything if one is never in a hurry,'

explained his host didactically. 'Of course if I started going to meetings

and carolling like a nightingale all day long, I'd never find time to go

anywhere' - the repeater in Philip Philipovich's pocket struck its celestial

chimes as he pressed the button - 'It starts at nine. I'll go in time for

the second act. I believe in the division of labour. The Bolshoi's job is to

sing, mine's to operate. That's how things should be. Then there'd be none

of this "ruin" . . . Look, Ivan Arnoldovich, you must go and take a careful

look: as soon as he's properly dead, take him off the table, put him

straight into nutritive fluid and bring him to me!'

'Don't worry, Philip Philipovich, the pathologist has promised me.'

'Excellent. Meanwhile, we'll examine this neurotic street arab of ours

and stitch him up. I want his flank to heal . . .'

He's worrying about me, thought the dog, good for him. Now I know what

he is. He's the wizard, the magician, the sorcerer out of those dogs' fairy

tales ... I can't have dreamed it all. Or have I? (The dog shuddered in his

sleep.) Any minute now I'll wake up and there'll be nothing here. No

silk-shaded lamp, no warmth, no food. Back on the streets, back in the cold,

the frozen asphalt, hunger, evil-minded humans . . . the factory canteen,

the snow . . . God, it will be unbearable . . .!

But none of that happened. It was the freezing doorway which vanished

like a bad dream and never came back.

Clearly the country was not yet in a total state of ruin. In spite of

it the grey accordion-shaped radiators under the windows filled with heat

twice a day and warmth flowed in waves through the whole apartment. The dog

had obviously drawn the winning ticket in the dogs' lottery. Never less than

twice a day his eyes filled with tears of gratitude towards the sage of

Prechistenka. Every mirror in the living-room or the hall reflected a

good-looking, successful dog.

I am handsome. Perhaps I'm really a dog prince, living incognito, mused

the dog as he watched the shaggy, coffee-coloured dog with the smug

expression strolling about in the mirrored distance. I wouldn't be surprised

if my grandmother didn't have an affair with a labrador. Now that I look at

my muzzle, I see there's a white patch on it. I wonder how it got there.

Philip Philipovich is a man of great taste -he wouldn't just pick up any

stray mongrel.

In two weeks the dog ate as much as in his previous six weeks on the

street. Only by weight, of course. In quality the food at the professor's

apartment was incomparable. Apart from the fact that Darya Petrovna bought a

heap of meat-scraps for 18 kopecks every day at the Smolensk market, there

was dinner every evening in the dining-room at seven o'clock, at which the

dog was always present despite protests from the elegant Zina. It was during

these meals that Philip Philipovich acquired his final title to divinity.

The dog stood on his hind legs and nibbled his jacket, the dog learned to

recognise Philip Philipovich's ring at the door - two loud, abrupt

proprietorial pushes on the bell - and would run barking out into the hall.

The master was enveloped in a dark brown fox-fur coat, which glittered with

millions of snowflakes and smelled of mandarin oranges, cigars, perfume,

lemons, petrol, eau de cologne and cloth, and his voice, like a megaphone,

boomed all through the apartment.

'Why did you ruin the owl, you little monkey? Was the owl doing you any

harm? Was it, now? Why did you smash the portrait of Professor Mechnikov?'

'He needs at least one good whipping, Philip Philipovich,' said Zina

indignantly, 'or he'll become completely spoiled. Just look what he's done

to your galoshes.'

'No one is to be beaten,' said Philip Philipovich heatedly, 'remember

that once and for all. Animals and people can only be influenced by

persuasion. Have you given him his meat today?'

'Lord, he's eaten us out of house and home. What a question, Philip

Philipovich. He eats so much I'm surprised he doesn't burst.'

'Fine. It's good for him . . . what harm did the owl do you, you little


Ow-ow, whined the dog, crawling on his belly and splaying out his paws.

The dog was forcefully dragged by the scruff of his neck through the

hall and into the study. He whined, snapped, clawed at the carpet and slid

along on his rump as if he were doing a circus act. In the middle of the

study floor lay the glass-eyed owl. From its disembowelled stomach flowed a

stream of red rags that smelled of mothballs. Scattered on the desk were the

fragments of a portrait.

'I purposely didn't clear it up so that you could take a good look,'

said Zina distractedly. 'Look - he jumped up on to the table, the little

brute, and then - bang! - he had the owl by the tail. Before I knew what was

happening he had torn it to pieces. Rub his nose in the owl, Philip

Philipovich, so that he learns not to spoil things.'

Then the howling began. Clawing at the carpet, the dog was dragged over

to have his nose rubbed in the owl. He wept bitter tears and thought: Beat

me, do what you like, but don't throw me out.

'Send the owl to the taxidermist at once. There's 8 roubles, and 16

kopecks for the tram-fare, go down to Murat's and buy him a good collar and

a lead.'

Next day the dog was given a wide, shiny collar. As soon as he saw

himself in the mirror he was very upset, put his tail between his legs and

disappeared into the bathroom, where he planned to pull the collar off

against a box or a basket. Soon, however, the dog realised that he was

simply a fool. Zina took him walking on the lead along Obukhov Street. The

dog trotted along like a prisoner under arrest, burning with shame, but as

he walked along Prechistenka Street as far as the church of Christ the

Saviour he soon realised exactly what a collar means in life. Mad envy

burned in the eyes of every dog he met and at Myortvy Street a shaggy

mongrel with a docked tail barked at him that he was a 'master's pet' and a

'lackey'. As they crossed the tram tracks a policeman looked at the collar

with approval and respect. When they returned home the most amazing thing of

all happened - with his own hands Fyodor the porter opened the front door to

admit Sharik and Zina, remarking to Zina as he did so: 'What a sight he was

when Philip Philipovich brought him in. And now look how fat he is.'

'So he should be - he eats enough for six,' said the beautiful Zina,

rosy-cheeked from the cold.

A collar's just like a briefcase, the dog smiled to himself. Wagging

his tail, he climbed up to the mezzanine like a gentleman.

Once having appreciated the proper value of a collar, the dog made his

first visit to the supreme paradise from which hitherto he had been

categorically barred - the realm of the cook, Darya Petrovna. Two square

inches of Darya's kitchen was worth more than all the rest of the flat.

Every day flames roared and flashed in the tiled, black-leaded stove.

Delicious crackling sounds came from the oven. Tortured by perpetual heat

and unquenchable passion, Darya Petrovna's face was a constant livid purple,

slimy and greasy. In the neat coils over her ears and in the blonde bun on

the back of her head flashed twenty-two imitation diamonds. Golden saucepans

hung on hooks round the walls, the whole kitchen seethed with smells, while

covered pans bubbled and hissed . . .

'Get out!' screamed Darya Petrovna. 'Get out, you no-good little thief!

Get out of here at once or I'll be after you with the poker!'

Hey, why all the barking? signalled the dog pathetically with his eyes.

What d'you mean - thief? Haven't you noticed my new collar? He backed

towards the door, his muzzle raised appealingly towards her.

The dog Sharik possessed some secret which enabled him to win people's

hearts. Two days later he was stretched out beside the coal-scuttle watching

Darya Petrovna at work. With a thin sharp knife she cut off the heads and

claws of a flock of helpless grouse, then like a merciless executioner

scooped the guts out of the fowls, stripped the flesh from the bones and put

it into the mincer. Sharik meanwhile gnawed a grouse's head. Darya Petrovna

fished lumps of soaking bread out of a bowl of milk, mixed them on a board

with the minced meat, poured cream over the whole mixture, sprinkled it with

salt and kneaded it into cutlets. The stove was roaring like a furnace, the

frying pan sizzled, popped and bubbled. The oven door swung open with a

roar, revealing a terrifying inferno of heaving, crackling flame.

In the evening the fiery furnace subsided and above the curtain

half-way up the kitchen window hung the dense, ominous night sky of

Prechistenka Street with its single star. The kitchen floor was damp, the

saucepans shone with a dull, mysterious glow and on the table was a

fireman's cap. Sharik lay on the warm stove, stretched out like a lion above

a gateway, and with one ear cocked in curiosity he watched through the

half-open door of Zina's and Darya Petrovna's room as an excited,

black-moustached man in a broad leather belt embraced Darya Petrovna. All

her face, except her powdered nose, glowed with agony and passion. A streak

of light lay across a picture of a man with a black moustache and beard,

from which hung a little Easter loaf.

'Don't go too far,' muttered Darya Petrovna in the half-darkness. 'Stop

it! Zina will be back soon. What's the matter with you - have you been

rejuvenated too?'

'I don't need rejuvenating,' croaked the black-moustached fireman

hoarsely, scarcely able to control himself. 'You're so passionate!'

In the evenings the sage of Prechistenka Street retired behind his

thick blinds and if there was no A'ida at the Bolshoi Theatre and no meeting

of the All-Russian Surgical Society, then the great man would settle down in

a deep armchair in his study. There were no ceiling lights; the only light

came from a green-shaded lamp on the desk. Sharik lay on the carpet in the

shadows, unable to take his eyes off the horrors that lined the room.

Human brains floated in a disgustingly acrid, murky liquid in glass

jars. On his forearms, bared to the elbow, the great man wore red rubber

globes as his blunt, slippery fingers delved into the convoluted grey

matter. Now and again he would pick up a small glistening knife and calmly

slice off a spongey yellow chunk of brain.

'. . . "to the banks of the sa-acred Nile . . .," ' he hummed quietly,

licking his lips as he remembered the gilded auditorium of the Bolshoi


It was the time of evening when the central heating was at its warmest.

The heat from it floated up to the ceiling, from there dispersing all over

the room. In the dog's fur the warmth wakened the last flea, which had

somehow managed to escape Philip Philipovich's comb. The carpets deadened

all sound in the flat. Then, from far away, came the sound of the front door


Zina's gone out to the cinema, thought the dog, and I suppose we'll

have supper when she gets home. Something tells me that it's veal chops


On the morning of that terrible day Sharik had felt a sense of

foreboding, which had made him suddenly break into a howl and he had eaten

his breakfast - half a bowl of porridge and yesterday's mutton-bone -

without the least relish. Bored, he went padding up and down the hall,

whining at his own reflection. The rest of the morning, after Zina had taken

him for his walk along the avenue, passed normally. There were no patients

that day as it was Tuesday - a day when as we all know there are no

consulting hours. The master was in his study, several large books with

coloured pictures spread out in front of him on the desk. It was nearly

supper-time. The dog was slightly cheered by the news from the kitchen that

the second course tonight was turkey. As he was walking down the passage the

dog heard the startling, unexpected noise of Philip Philipovich's telephone

bell ringing. Philip Philipovich picked up the receiver, listened and

suddenly became very excited.

'Excellent,' he was heard saying, 'bring it round at once, at once!'

Bustling about, he rang for Zina and ordered supper to be served

immediately: 'Supper! Supper!'

Immediately there was a clatter of plates in the dining-room and Zina

ran in, pursued by the voice of Darya Petrovna grumbling that the turkey was

not ready yet. Again the dog felt a tremor of anxiety.

I don't like it when there's a commotion in the house, he mused . . .

and no sooner had the thought entered his head than the commotion took on an

even more disagreeable nature. This was largely due to the appearance of

Doctor Bormenthal, who brought with him an evil-smelling trunk and without

waiting to remove his coat started heaving it down the corridor into the

consulting-room. Philip Philipovich put down his unfinished cup of coffee,

which normally he would never do, and ran out to meet Bormenthal, another

quite untypical thing for him to do.

'When did he die?' he cried.

'Three hours ago,' replied Bormenthal, his snow-covered hat still on

his head as he unstrapped the trunk.

Who's died? wondered the dog sullenly and disagreeably as he slunk

under the table. I can't bear it when they dash about the room like that.

'Out of my way, animal! Hurry, hurry, hurry!' cried Philip Philipovich.

It seemed to the dog that the master was ringing every bell at once.

Zina ran in. 'Zina! Tell Darya Petrovna to take over the telephone and not

to let anybody in. I need you here. Doctor Bormenthal - please hurry!'

I don't like this, scowled the dog, offended, and wandered off round

the apartment. All the bustle, it seemed, was confined to the

consulting-room. Zina suddenly appeared in a white coat like a shroud and

began running back and forth between the consulting-room and the kitchen.

Isn't it time I had my supper? They seem to have forgotten about me,

thought the dog. He at once received an unpleasant surprise.

'Don't give Sharik anything to eat,' boomed the order from the


'How am I to keep an eye on him?'

'Lock him up!'

Sharik was enticed into the bathroom and locked in.

Beasts, thought Sharik as he sat in the semi-darkness of the bathroom.

What an outrage ... In an odd frame of mind, half resentful, half depressed,

he spent about a quarter of an hour in the bathroom. He felt irritated and


Right. This means the end of your galoshes tomorrow, Philip

Philipovich, he thought. You've already had to buy two new pairs. Now you're

going to have to buy another. That'll teach you to lock up dogs.

Suddenly a violent thought crossed his mind. Instantly and clearly he

remembered a scene from his earliest youth -a huge sunny courtyard near the

Preobrazhensky Gate, slivers of sunlight reflected in broken bottles,

brick-rubble, and a free world of stray dogs.

No, it's no use. I could never leave this place now. Why pretend? mused

the dog, with a sniff. I've got used to this life. I'm a gentleman's dog

now, an intelligent being, I've tasted better things. Anyhow, what is

freedom? Vapour, mirage, fiction . . . democratic rubbish . . .

Then the gloom of the bathroom began to frighten him and he howled.

Hurling himself at the door, he started scratching it.

Ow-ow . . ., the noise echoed round the apartment like someone shouting

into a barrel.

I'll tear that owl to pieces again, thought the dog, furious but

impotent. Then he felt weak and lay down. When he got up his coat suddenly

stood up on end, as he had an eerie feeling that a horrible, wolfish pair of

eyes was staring at him from the bath.

In the midst of his agony the door opened. The dog went out, shook

himself, and made gloomily for the kitchen, but Zina firmly dragged him by

the collar into the consulting-room. The dog felt a sudden chill around his


What do they want me for? he wondered suspiciously. My side has healed

up - I don't get it. Sliding along on his paws over the slippery parquet, he

was pulled into the consulting-room. There he was immediately shocked by the

unusually brilliant lighting. A white globe on the ceiling shone so brightly

that it hurt his eyes. In the white glare stood the high priest, humming

through his teeth something about the sacred Nile. The only way of

recognising him as Philip Philipovich was a vague smell. His smoothed-back

grey hair was hidden under a white cap, making him look as if he were

dressed up as a patriarch; the divine figure was all in white and over the

white, like a stole, he wore a narrow rubber apron. His hands were in black


The other doctor was also there. The long table was fully unfolded, a

small square box placed beside it on a shining stand.

The dog hated the other doctor more than anyone else and more than ever

because of the look in his eyes. Usually frank and bold, they now flickered

in all directions to avoid the dog's eyes. They were watchful, treacherous

and in their depths lurked something mean and nasty, even criminal. Scowling

at him, the dog slunk into a comer.

'Collar, Zina,' said Philip Philipovich softly, 'only don't excite


For a moment Zina's eyes had the same vile look as Bormenthal's. She

walked up to the dog and with obvious treachery, stroked him.

What're you doing ... all three of you? OK, take me if you want me. You

ought to be ashamed ... If only I knew what you're going to do to me . . .

Zina unfastened his collar, the dog shook his head and snorted.

Bormenthal rose up in front of him, reeking of that foul, sickening smell.

Ugh, disgusting . . . wonder why I feel so queer . . ., thought the dog

as he dodged away.

'Hurry, doctor,' said Philip Philipovich impatiently. There was a

sharp, sweet smell in the air. The doctor, without taking his horrible

watchful eyes off the dog slipped his right hand out from behind his back

and quickly clamped a pad of damp cotton wool over the dog's nose. Sharik

went dumb, his head spinning a little, but he still managed to jump back.

The doctor jumped after him and rapidly smothered his whole muzzle in cotton

wool. His breathing stopped, but again the dog jerked himself away. You

bastard . . ., flashed through his mind. Why? And down came the pad again.

Then a lake suddenly materialised in the middle of the consulting-room

floor. On it was a boat, rowed by a crew of extraordinary pink dogs. The

bones in his legs gave way and collapsed.

'On to the table!' Philip Philipovich boomed from somewhere in a

cheerful voice and the sound disintegrated into orange-coloured streaks.

Fear vanished and gave way to joy. For two seconds the dog loved the man he

had bitten. Then the whole world turned upside down and he felt a cold but

soothing hand on his belly. Then - nothing.

The dog Sharik lay stretched out on the narrow operating table, his

head lolling helplessly against a white oilcloth pillow. His stomach was

shaven and now Doctor Bormenthal, breathing heavily, was hurriedly shaving

Sharik's head with clippers that ate through his fur. Philip Philipovich,

leaning on the edge of the table, watched the process through his shiny,

gold-rimmed spectacles. He spoke urgently:

'Ivan Arnoldovich, the most vital moment is when I enter the turkish

saddle. You must then instantly pass me the gland and start suturing at

once. If we have a haemorrhage then we shall lose time and lose the dog. In

any case, he hasn't a chance . . .' He was silent, frowning, and gave an

ironic look at the dog's half-closed eye, then added: 'Do you know, I feel

sorry for him. I've actually got used to having him around.'

So saying he raised his hands as though calling down a blessing on the

unfortunate Sharik's great sacrificial venture. Bormenthal laid aside the

clippers and picked up a razor. He lathered the defenceless little head and

started to shave it. The blade scraped across the skin, nicked it and drew

blood. Having shaved the head the doctor wiped it with an alcohol swab, then

stretched out the dog's bare stomach and said with a sigh of relief:


Zina turned on the tap over the washbasin and Bormenthal hurriedly

washed his hands. From a phial Zina poured alcohol over them.

'May I go, Philip Philipovich?' she asked, glancing nervously at the

dog's shaven head.

'You may.'

Zina disappeared. Bormenthal busied himself further. He surrounded

Shank's head with tight gauze wadding, which framed the odd sight of a naked

canine scalp and a muzzle that by comparison seemed heavily bearded.

The priest stirred. He straightened up, looked at the dog's head and

said: 'God bless us. Scalpel.'

Bormenthal took a short, broad-bladed knife from the glittering pile on

the small table and handed it to the great man. He too then donned a pair of

black gloves.

'Is he asleep?' asked Philip Philipovich.

'He's sleeping nicely.'

Philip Philipovich clenched his teeth, his eyes took on a sharp,

piercing glint and with a flourish of his scalpel he made a long, neat

incision down the length of Sharik's belly. The skin parted instantly,

spurting blood in several directions. Bormenthal swooped like a vulture,

began dabbing Sharik's wound with swabs of gauze, then gripped its edges

with a row of little clamps like sugar-tongs, and the bleeding stopped.

Droplets of sweat oozed from Bormenthal's forehead. Philip Philipovich made

a second incision and again Sharik's body was pulled apart by hooks,

scissors and little clamps. Pink and yellow tissues emerged, oozing with

blood. Philip Philipovich turned the scalpel in the wound, then barked:


Like a conjuring trick the instrument materialised in Bormenthal's

hand. Philip Philipovich delved deep and with a few twists he removed the

testicles and some dangling attachments from Sharik's body. Dripping with

exertion and excitement Bormenthal leapt to a glass jar and removed from it

two more wet, dangling testicles, their short, moist, stringy vesicles

dangling like elastic in the hands of the professor and his assistant. The

bent needles clicked faintly 54

against the clamps as the new testicles were sewn in place of Sharik's.

The priest drew back from the incision, swabbed it and gave the order:

'Suture, doctor. At once.' He turned around and looked at the white

clock on the wall.

'Fourteen minutes,' grunted Bormenthal through clenched teeth as he

pierced the flabby skin with his crooked needle. Both grew as tense as two

murderers working against the clock.

'Scalpel!' cried Philip Philipovich.

The scalpel seemed to leap into his hand as though of its own accord,

at which point Philip Philipovich's expression grew quite fearsome. Grinding

his gold and porcelain bridge-work, in a single stroke he incised a red

fillet around Sharik's head. The scalp, with its shaven hairs, was removed,

the skull bone laid bare. Philip Philipovich shouted: 'Trepan!'

Bormenthal handed him a shining auger. Biting his lips Philip

Philipovich began to insert the auger and drill a complete circle of little

holes, a centimetre apart, around the top of Sharik's skull. Each hole took

no more than five seconds to drill. Then with a saw of the most curious

design he put its point into the first hole and began sawing through the

skull as though he were making a lady's fretwork sewing-basket. The skull

shook and squeaked faintly. After three minutes the roof of the dog's skull

was removed.

The dome of Sharik's brain was now laid bare - grey, threaded with

bluish veins and spots of red. Philip Philipovich plunged his scissors

between the membranes and eased them apart. Once a thin stream of blood

spurted up, almost hitting the professor in the eye and spattering his white

cap. Like a tiger Bormenthal pounced in with a tourniquet and squeezed.

Sweat streamed down his face, which was growing puffy and mottled. His eyes

flicked to and fro from the professor's hand to the instrument-table. Philip

Philipovich was positively awe-inspiring. A hoarse snoring noise came from

his nose, his teeth were bared to the gums. He peeled aside layers of

cerebral membrane and penetrated deep between the hemispheres of the brain.

It was then that Bor-menthal went pale, and seizing Sharik's breast with one

hand he said hoarsely: 'Pulse falling sharply . . .'

Philip Philipovich flashed him a savage look, grunted something and

delved further still. Bormenthal snapped open a glass ampoule, filled a

syringe with the liquid and treacherously injected the dog near his heart.

'I'm coming to the turkish saddle,' growled Philip Philipovich. With

his slippery, bloodstained gloves he removed Sharik's greyish-yellow brain

from his head. For a second he glanced at Sharik's muzzle and Bormenthal

snapped open a second ampoule of yellow liquid and sucked it into the long


'Shall I do it straight into the heart?' he enquired cautiously.

'Don't waste time asking questions!' roared the professor angrily. 'He

could die five times over while you're making up your mind. Inject, man!

What are you waiting for?' His face had the look of an inspired robber


With a flourish the doctor plunged the needle into the dog's heart.

'He's alive, but only just,' he whispered timidly.

'No time to argue whether he's alive or not,' hissed the terrible

Philip Philipovich. 'I'm at the saddle. So what if he does die ... hell

..."... the banks of the sa-acred Nile" . . . give me the gland.'

Bormenthal handed him a beaker containing a white blob suspended on a

thread in some fluid. With one hand ('God, there's no one like him in all

Europe,' thought Bormenthal) he fished out the dangling blob and with the

other hand, using the scissors, he excised a similar blob from deep within

the separated cerebral hemispheres. Sharik's blob he threw on to a plate,

the new one he inserted into the brain with a piece of thread. Then his

stumpy fingers, now miraculously delicate and sensitive, sewed the

amber-coloured thread cunningly into place. After that he removed various

stretchers and clamps from the skull, replaced the brain in its bony

container, leaned back and said in a much calmer voice:

'I suppose he's died?'

'There's just a flicker of pulse,' replied Bormenthal.

'Give him another shot of adrenalin.'

The professor replaced the membranes over the brain, restored the

sawn-off lid to its exact place, pushed the scalp back into position and

roared: 'Suture!'

Five minutes later Bormenthal had sewn up the dog's head, breaking

three needles.

There on the bloodstained pillow lay Sharik's slack, lifeless muzzle, a

circular wound on his tonsured head. Like a satisfied vampire Philip

Philipovich finally stepped back, ripped off one glove, shook out of it a

cloud of sweat-drenched powder, tore off the other one, threw it on the

ground and rang the bell in the wall. Zina appeared in the doorway, looking

away to avoid seeing the blood-spattered dog. With chalky hands the great

man pulled off his skull-cap and cried:

Give me a cigarette, Zina. And then some clean clothes and a bath.'

Layino- his chin on the edge of the table he parted the dog's right

eyelids, peered into the obviously moribund eye and said:

'Well, I'll be ... He's not dead yet. Still, he'll die. I feel sorry

for the dog, Bormenthal. He was naughty but I couldn't help liking him.'



Subject of experiment: Male dog aged approx. 2 years.

Breed: Mongrel.

Name: 'Sharik'.

Coat sparse, in tufts, brownish with traces of singeing. Tail the

colour of baked milk. On right flank traces of healed second-degree burn.

Previous nutritional state -poor. After a week's stay with Prof.

Preobrazhensky -extremely well nourished. Weight: 8 kilograms (!). Heart: .

. . Lungs: . . . Stomach: . . . Temperature: . . .

December 23rd At 8.05pm Prof. Preobrazhensky commenced the first

operation of its kind to be performed in Europe: removal under anaesthesia

of the dog's testicles and their replacement by implanted human testes, with

appendages and seminal ducts, taken from a 28-year-old human male, dead 4

hours and 4 minutes before the operation and kept by Prof. Preobrazhensky in

sterilised physiological fluid.

Immediately thereafter, following a trepanning operation on the cranial

roof, the pituitary gland was removed and replaced by a human pituitary

originating from the above-mentioned human male. Drugs used: Chloroform - 8


Camphor - 1 syringe.

Adrenalin - 2 syringes (by cardiac injection ).

Purpose of operation: Experimental observation by Prof. Preobrazhensky

of the effect of combined transplantation of the pituitary and testes in

order to study both the functional viability in a host-organism and its role

in cellular etc. rejuvenation.

Operation performed by; Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky. Assisted by: Dr I.

A. Bormenthal. During the night following the operation, frequent and grave

weakening of the pulse. Dog apparently in terminal state.

Preobrazhensky prescribes camphor injections in massive dosage.

December 24th am Improvement. Respiration rate doubled. Temperature:

42C. Camphor and caffeine injected subcutaneously.

December 25th Deterioration.

Pulse barely detectable, cooling of the extremities, no pupillary

reaction. Preobrazhensky orders cardiac injection of adrenalin and camphor,

intravenous injections of physiological solution.

December 26th Slight improvement. Pulse: 180.

Respiration: 92. Temperature: 41C. Camphor. Alimentation per rectum.

December 27th Pulse: 152. Respiration: 50. Temperature: 39.8C.

Pupillary reaction. Camphor - subcutaneous.

December 28th Significant improvement. At noon sudden heavy

perspiration. Temperature: 37C.

Condition of surgical wounds unchanged. Re-bandaged. Signs of appetite.

Liquid alimentation.

December 29th Sudden moulting of hair on forehead and torso. The

following were summoned for consultation:

1. Professor of Dermatology - Vasily Vasilievich Bundaryov.

2. Director, Moscow Veterinary Institute.

Both stated the case to be without precedent in medical literature.

No diagnosis established.

Temperature: (entered in pencil).

8.15pm. First bark.

Distinct alteration of timbre and lowering of pitch

noticeable. Instead of diphthong 'aow-aow', bark now enunciated on

vowels 'ah-oh', in intonation reminiscent

of a groan.

December 30th Moulting process has progressed to almost total baldness.

Weighing produced the unexpected result of 80 kg., due to growth

(lengthening of the bones). Dog still lying prone.

December 31st Subject exhibits colossal appetite.

(Ink-blot. After the blot the following entry in scrawled

hand-writing): At 12.12pm the dog distinctly pronounced the sounds


(Gap in entries. The following entries show errors due to excitement):

December 1st (deleted; corrected to): January 1st 1925. Dog

photographed a.m.

Cheerfully barks 'Nes-set-a', repeating loudly and with apparent


3.0pm (in heavy lettering): Dog laughed, causing maid Zina to faint.

Later, pronounced the following 8 times in succession: 'Nesseta-ciled'.

(Sloping characters, written in pencil):

The professor has deciphered the word 'Nesseta-ciled' by reversal: it

is 'delicatessen' . . . Quite extraord . . .

January 2nd Dog photographed by magnesium flash while smiling. Got up

and remained confidently on hind legs for a half-hour. Now nearly my height.

(Loose page inserted into notebook): Russian science almost suffered a most

serious blow. History of Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky's illness:

1.13pm Prof. Preobrazhensky falls into deep faint. On falling, strikes

head on edge of table.

Temp.: . . .

The dog in the presence of Zina and myself, had called Prof.

Preobrazhensky a 'bloody bastard'.

January 6th (entries made partly in pencil, partly in violet ink):

Today, after the dog's tail had fallen out, he quite clearly pronounced

the word 'liquor'.

Recording apparatus switched on. God knows what's happening.

(Total confusion.)

Professor has ceased to see patients. From 5pm this evening sounds of

vulgar abuse issuing from the consulting-room, where the creature is still

confined. Heard to ask for 'another one, and make it a double.'

January 7th Creature can now pronounce several words: 'taxi', 'full

up', 'evening paper', 'take one home for the kiddies' and every known

Russian swear-word. His appearance is strange. He now only has hair on his

head, chin and chest. Elsewhere he is bald, with flabby skin. His genital

region now has the appearance of an immature human male. His skull has

enlarged considerably. Brow low and receding.

My God, I must be going mad. . . .

Philip Philipovich still feels unwell. Most of the observations

(pictures and recordings) are being carried out by myself.

Rumours are spreading round the town . . . Consequences may be

incalculable. All day today the whole street was full of loafing rubbernecks

and old women . . . Dogs still crowding round beneath the windows. Amazing

report in the morning papers: The rumours of a Martian in Obukhov Street are

totally unfounded. They have been spread by black-market traders and their

repetition will be severely punished. What Martian, for God's sake? This is

turning into a nightmare.

Reports in today's evening paper even worse - they say that a child has

been born who could play the violin from birth. Beside it is a photograph of

myself with the caption: 'Prof. Preobrazhensky performing a Caesarian

operation on the mother.' The situation is getting out of hand ... He can

now say a new word - 'policeman' . . .

Apparently Darya Petrovna was in love with me and pinched the snapshot

of me out of Philip Philipovich's photograph album. After I had kicked out

all the reporters one of them sneaked back into the kitchen, and so ...

Consulting hours are now impossible. Eighty-two telephone calls today.

The telephone has been cut off. We are besieged by child-less women . . .

House committee appeared in full strength, headed by Shvonder - they

could not explain why they had come.

January 8th Late this evening diagnosis finally agreed. With the

impartiality of a true scholar Philip Philipovich has acknowledged his

error: transplantation of the pituitary induces not rejuvenation but total

humanisation (underlined three times). This does not, however, lessen the

value of his stupendous discovery.

The creature walked round the flat today for the first time. Laughed in

the corridor after looking at the electric light. Then, accompanied by

Philip Philipovich and myself, he went into the study. Stands firmly on his

hind (deleted) ... his legs and gives the impression of a short, ill-knit

human male.

Laughed in the study. His smile is disagreeable and somehow artificial.

Then he scratched the back of his head, looked round and registered a

further, clearly-pronounced word: 'Bourgeois'. Swore. His swearing is

methodical, uninterrupted and apparently totally meaningless. There is

something mechanical about it - it is as if this creature had heard all this

bad language at an earlier phase, automatically recorded it in his

subconscious and now regurgitates it wholesale. However, I am no


The swearing somehow has a very depressing effect on Philip

Philipovich. There are moments when he abandons his cool, unemotional

observation of new phenomena and appears to lose patience. Once when the

creature was swearing, for instance, he suddenly burst out impulsively:

'Shut up!' This had no effect.

After his visit to the study Sharik was shut up in the consulting-room

by our joint efforts. Philip Philipovich and I then held a conference. I

confess that this was the first time I had seen this self-assured and highly

intelligent man at a loss. He hummed a little, as he is in the habit of

doing, then asked: 'What are we going to do now?' He answered himself

literally as follows:

'Moscow State Clothing Stores, yes . . . from Granada to Seville" . .

. M.S.C.S., my dear doctor . . .' I could not understand him, then he

explained: 'Ivan Arnold-ovich, please go and buy him some underwear, shirt,

jacket and trousers.'

January 9th The creature's vocabulary is being enriched by a new word

every five minutes (on average) and, since this morning, by sentences. It is

as if they had been lying frozen in his mind, are melting and emerging. Once

out, the word remains in use. Since yesterday evening the machine has

recorded the following: 'Stop pushing', 'You swine', 'Get off the bus - full

up', 'I'll show you', 'American recognition', 'kerosene stove'.

January10th The creature was dressed. He took to a vest quite readily,

even laughing cheerfully. He refused underpants, though, protesting with

hoarse shrieks:

'Stop queue-barging, you bastards!' Finally we dressed him. The sizes

of his clothes were too big for him.

(Here the notebook contains a number of schematised drawings,

apparently depicting the transformation of a canine into a human leg.) The

rear lialf of the skeleton of the foot is lengthening. Elongation of the

toes. Nails. (With appropriate sketches.)

Repeated systematic toilet training. The servants are angry and


However, the creature is undoubtedly intelligent. The experiment is

proceeding satisfactorily.

January llth Quite reconciled to wearing clothes, although was heard to

say, 'Christ, I've got ants in my pants.'

Fur on head now thin and silky; almost indistinguishable from hair,

though scars still visible in parietal region. Today last traces of fur

dropped from his ears. Colossal appetite. Enjoys salted herring. At 5pm

occurred a significant event: for the first time the words spoken by the

creature were not disconnected from surrounding phenomena but were a

reaction to them. Thus when the professor said to him, 'Don't throw

food-scraps on the floor,' he unexpectedly replied: 'Get stuffed.' Philip

Philipovich was appalled, but recovered and said: 'If you swear at me or the

doctor again, you're in trouble.' I photographed Sharik at that moment and I

swear that he understood what the professor said. His face clouded over and

he gave a sullen look, but said nothing. Hurrah - he understands!

January 12th. Put hands in pockets. We are teaching him not to swear.

Whistled, 'Hey, little apple'. Sustained conversation. I cannot resist

certain hypotheses: we must forget rejuvenation for the time being. The

other aspect is immeasurably more important. Prof. Preobrazhensky's

astounding experiment has revealed one of the secrets of the human brain.

The mysterious function of the pituitary as an adjunct to the brain has now

been clarified. It determines human appearance. Its hormones may now be

regarded as the most important in the whole organism - the hormones of man's

image. A new field has been opened up to science; without the aid of any

Faustian retorts a homunculus has been created. The surgeon's scalpel has

brought to life a new human entity. Prof. Preobrazhensky-you are a creator.

(ink blot)

But I digress ... As stated, he can now sustain a conversation. As I

see it, the situation is as follows: the implanted pituitary has activated

the speech-centre in the canine brain and words have poured out in a stream.

I do not think that we have before us a newly-created brain but a brain

which has been stimulated to develop. Oh, what a glorious confirmation of

the theory of evolution! Oh, the sublime chain leading from a dog to

Mendeleyev the great chemist! A further hypothesis of mine is that during

its canine stage Sharik's brain had accumulated a massive quantity of

sense-data. All the words which he used initially were the language of the

streets which he had picked up and stored in his brain. Now as I walk along

the streets I look at every dog I meet with secret horror. God knows what is

lurking in their minds.

Sharik can read. He can read (three exclamation marks). I guessed it

from his early use of the word 'delicatessen'. He could read from the

beginning. And I even know the solution to this puzzle - it lies in the

structure of the canine optic nerve. God alone knows what is now going on in

Moscow. Seven black-market traders are already behind bars for spreading

rumours that the end of the world is imminent and has been caused by the

Bolsheviks. Darya Petrovna told me about this and even named the date -

November 28th, 1925, the day of St Stephen the Martyr, when the earth will

spiral off into infinity. . . . Some charlatans are already giving lectures

about it. We have started such a rumpus with this pituitary experiment that

I have had to leave my flat. I have moved in with Preobrazhensky and sleep

in the waiting-room with Sharik. The consulting-room has been turned into a

new waiting-room. Shvender was right. Trouble is brewing with the house

committee. There is not a single glass left, as he will jump on to the

shelves. Great difficulty in teaching him not to do this.

Something odd is happening to Philip. When I told him about my

hypotheses and my hopes of developing Sharik into an intellectually advanced

personality, he hummed and hahed, then said: 'Do you really think so?' His

tone was ominous. Have I made a mistake? Then he had an idea. While I wrote

up these case-notes, Preobrazhensky made a careful study of the life-story

of the man from whom we took the pituitary.

(Loose page inserted into the notebook.)

Name: Elim Grigorievich Chugunkin. Age: 25.

Marital status: Unmarried.

Not a Party member, but sympathetic to the Party. Three times charged

with theft and acquitted - on the first occasion for lack of evidence, in

the second case saved by his social origin, the third time put on probation

with a conditional sentence of 15 years hard labour.

Profession: plays the balalaika in bars. Short, poor physical shape.

Enlarged liver (alcohol). Cause of death: knife-wound in the heart,

sustained in the Red Light Bar at Preobrazhensky Gate.

The old man continues to study Chugunkin's case exhaustively, although

I cannot understand why. He grunted something about the pathologist having

failed to make a complete examination of Chugunkin's body. What does he

mean? Does it matter whose pituitary it is?

January 17th Unable to make notes for several days, as I have had an

attack of influenza. Meanwhile the creature's appearance has assumed

definitive form:

(a) physically a complete human being.

(b) weight about 108 Ibs.

(c) below medium height.

(d) small head.

(e) eats human food.

(f) dresses himself.

(g) capable of normal conversation.

So much for the pituitary (ink blot).

This concludes the notes on this case. We now have a new organism which

must be studied as such. appendices: Verbatim reports of speech, recordings,

photographs. Signed: I. A. Bormenthal, M.D.

Asst. to Prof. P. P. Preobrazhensky.

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