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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
          Two

Two

Why bother to leam to read when you can smell meat a mile away? If you

live in Moscow, though, and if you've got an ounce of brain in your head you

can't help learning to read -and without going to night-school either. There

are forty-thousand dogs in Moscow and I'll bet there's not one of them so

stupid he can't spell out the word 'sausage'.

Sharik had begun by learning from colours. When he was just four months

old, blue-green signs started appearing all over Moscow with the letters

MSFS - Moscow State Food Stores - which meant a butcher and delicatessen. I

repeat that he had no need to learn his letters because he could smell the

meat anyway. Once he made a bad mistake: trotting up to a bright blue

shop-sign one day when the smell was drowned by car exhaust, instead of a

butcher's shop he ran into the Polubizner Brothers' electrical goods store

on Myasnitzkaya Street. There the brothers taught him all about insulated

cable, which can be sharper than a cabman's whip. This famous occasion may

be regarded as the beginning of Sharik's education. It was here on the

pavement that Sharik began to realise that 'blue' doesn't always mean

'butcher', and as he squeezed his burningly painful tail between his back

legs and howled, he remembered that on every butcher's shop the first letter

on the left was always gold or brown, bow-legged, and looked like a

toboggan.

After that the lessons were rather easier. 'A' he learned from the

barber on the comer of Mokhovaya Street, followed by 'B' (there was always a

policeman standing in front of the last four letters of the word). Corner

shops faced with tiles always meant 'CHEESE' and the black half-moon at the

beginning of the word stood for the name of their former owners 'Chichkin';

they were full of mountains of red Dutch cheeses, salesmen who hated dogs,

sawdust on the floor and reeking Limburger.

If there was accordion music (which was slightly better than 'Celeste

Aida'), and the place smelted of frankfurters, the first letters on the

white signboards very conveniently

short for 'No obscene language. No tips.' Sometimes at these places fights

would break out, people would start punching each other in the face with

their fists - sometimes even with napkins or boots.

If there were stale bits of ham and mandarin oranges in the window it

meant a grrr . . . grrocery. If there were black bottles full of evil

liquids it was . . . li-li-liquor . . . formerly Eliseyev Bros.

The unknown gentleman had led the dog to the door of his luxurious flat

on the mezzanine floor, and rang the doorbell. The dog at once looked up at

a big, black, gold-lettered nameplate hanging beside a pink frosted-glass

door. He deciphered the first three letters at once: P-R-O- 'Pro . . .', but

after tliat there was a funny tall thing with a cross bar which he did not

know. Surely he's not a proletarian? thought Sharik with amazement... He

can't be. He lifted up his nose, sniffed the fur coat and said firmly to

himself:

No, this doesn't smell proletarian. Some high-falutin' word. God knows

what it means.

Suddenly a light flashed on cheerfully behind the pink glass door,

throwing the nameplate into even deeper shadow. The door opened soundlessly

and a beautiful young woman in a white apron and lace cap stood before the

dog and his master. A wave of delicious warmth flowed over the dog and the

woman's skirt smelled of carnations.

This I like, thought the dog.

'Come in, Mr Sharik,' said the gentleman ironically and Sharik

respectfully obeyed, wagging his tail.

A great multitude of objects filled the richly furnished hall. Beside

him was a mirror stretching right down to the floor, which instantly

reflected a second dirty, exhausted Sharik. High up on the wall was a

terrifying pair of antlers, there were countless fur coats and pairs of

galoshes and an electric tulip made of opal glass hanging from the ceiling.

'Where on earth did you get that from, Philip Philipovich?' enquired

the woman, smiling as she helped to take off the heavy brown, blue-flecked

fox-fur coat.

'God, he looks lousy.'

'Nonsense. He doesn't look lousy to me,' said the gentleman abruptly.

With his fur coat off he was seen to be wearing a black suit of English

material; a gold chain across his stomach shone with a dull glow.

'Hold still, boy, keep still doggy . . . keep still you little fool.

H'm . . . that's not lice . . . Stand still, will you . . . H'mm . . . aha -

yes . . . It's a scald. Who was mean enough to throw boiling water over you,

I wonder? Eh? Keep still, will you . . .!'

It was that miserable cook, said the dog with his pitiful eyes and gave

a little whimper.

'Zina,' ordered the gentleman, 'take him into the consulting-room at

once and get me a white coat.'

The woman whistled, clicked her fingers and the dog followed her

slightly hesitantly. Together they walked down a narrow, dimly-lit corridor,

passed a varnished door, reached the end then turned left and arrived in a

dark little room which the dog instantly disliked for its ominous smell. The

darkness clicked and was transformed into blinding white which flashed and

shone from every angle.

Oh, no, the dog whined to himself, you won't catch me as easily as

that! I see it now - to hell with them and their sausage. They've tricked me

into a dogs' hospital. Now they'll force me to swallow castor oil and

they'll cut up my side with knives - well, I won't let them touch it.

'Hey - where are you trying to go?' shouted the girl called Zina.

The animal dodged, curled up like a spring and suddenly hit the door

with his unharmed side so hard that the noise reverberated through the whole

apartment. Then he jumped back, spun around on the spot like a top and in

doing so knocked over a white bucket, spilling wads of cotton wool. As he

whirled round there flashed past him shelves full of glittering instruments,

a white apron and a furious woman's face.

'You little devil,' cried Zina in desperation, 'where d'you think

you're going?'

Where's the back door? the dog wondered. He swung round, rolled into a

ball and hurled himself bullet-fashion at a glass in the hope that it was

another door. With a crash and a tinkle a shower of splinters fell down and

a pot-bellied glass jar of some reddish-brown filth shot out and poured

itself over the floor, giving off a sickening stench. The real door swung

open.

'Stop it, you little beast,' shouted the gentleman as he rushed in

pulling on one sleeve of his white coat. He seized the dog by the legs.

'Zina, grab him by the scruff of the neck, damn him.' 'Oh - these dogs . .

.!'

The door opened wider still and another person of the male sex dashed

in, also wearing a white coat. Crunching over the broken glass he went past

the dog to a cupboard, opened it and the whole room was filled with a sweet,

nauseating smell. Then the person turned the animal over on his back, at

which the dog enthusiastically bit him just above his shoelaces. The person

groaned but kept his head. The nauseating liquid choked the dog's breathing

and his head began to spin, then his legs collapsed and he seemed to be

moving sideways. This is it, he thought dreamily as he collapsed on to the

sharp slivers of glass. Goodbye, Moscow! I shan't see Chichkin or the

proletarians or Cracow sausages again. I'm going to the heaven for

long-suffering dogs. You butchers - why did you have to do this to me? With

that he finally collapsed on to his back and passed out.

When he awoke he felt slightly dizzy and sick to his stomach. His

injured side did not seem to be there at all, but was blissfully painless.

The dog opened a languid right eye and saw out of its corner that he was

tightly bandaged all around his flanks and belly. So those sons of bitches

did cut me up, he thought dully, but I must admit they've made a neat job of

it.

. . . "from Granada to Seville . . . those soft southern nights" . . .'

a muzzy, falsetto voice sang over his head.

Amazed, the dog opened both eyes wide and saw two yards away a man's

leg propped up on a stool. Trousers and sock had been rolled back and the

yellow, naked ankle was smeared with dried blood and iodine.

Swine! thought the dog. He must be the one I bit, so that's my doing.

Now there'll be trouble.

'. . . "the murmur of sweet serenades, the clink of Spanish blades . .

." Now, you little tramp, why did you bite the doctor? Eh? Why did you break

all that glass? M'm?' Oowow, whined the dig miserably. 'All right, lie back

and relax, naughty boy.' 'However did you manage to entice such a nervous,

excitable dog into following you here, Philip Philipovich?' enquired a

pleasant male voice, and a long knitted underpant lowered itself to the

ground. There was a smell of tobacco, and glass phials tinkled in the

closet.

'By kindness. The only possible method when dealing with a living

creature. You'll get nowhere with an animal if you use terror, no matter

what its level of development may be. That I have maintained, do maintain

and always will maintain. People who think you can use terror are quite

wrong. No, terror's useless, whatever its colour - white, red or even brown!

Terror completely paralyses the nervous system. Zina! I bought this little

scamp some Cracow sausage for 1 rouble 40 kopecks. Please see that he is fed

when he gets over his nausea.'

There was a crunching noise as glass splinters were swept up and a

woman's voice said teasingly: 'Cracower! Goodness, you ought to buy him

twenty kopecks-worth of scraps from the butcher. I'd rather eat the Cracower

myself!'

'You just try! That stuff's poison for human stomachs. A grown woman

and you're ready to poke anything into your mouth like a child. Don't you

dare! I warn you that neither I nor Doctor Bormenthal will lift a finger for

you when your stomach finally gives out . . .'

Just then a bell tinkled all through the flat and from far away in the

hall came the sound of voices. The telephone rang. Zina disappeared.

Philip Philipovich threw his cigar butt into the bucket, buttoned up

his white coat, smoothed his bushy moustache in front of a mirror on the

wall and called the dog.

'Come on, boy, you'll be all right. Let's go and see our visitors.'

The dog stood up on wobbly legs, staggered and shivered but quickly

felt better and set off behind the napping hem of Philip Philipovich's coat.

Again the dog walked down the narrow corridor, but saw that this time it was

brightly lit from above by a round cut-glass lamp in the ceiling. When the

varnished door opened he trotted into Philip Philipovich's study. Its luxury

blinded him. Above all it was blazing with light: there was a light hanging

from the moulded ceiling, a light on the desk, lights on the walls, lights

on the glass-fronted cabinets. The light poured over countless knick-knacks,

of which the most striking was an enormous owl perched on a branch fastened

to the wall.

'Lie down,' ordered Philip Philipovich.

The carved door at the other end of the room opened and in came the

doctor who had been bitten. In the bright light he now looked very young and

handsome, with a pointed beard. He put down a sheet of paper and said: 'The

same as before . . .'

Then he silently vanished and Philip Philipovich, spreading his

coat-tails, sat down behind the huge desk and immediately looked extremely

dignified and important.

No, this can't be a hospital, I've landed up somewhere else, the dog

thought confusedly and stretched out on the patterned carpet beside a

massive leather-covered couch. I wish I knew what that owl was doing here .

. .

The door gently opened and in came a man who looked so extraordinary

that the dog gave a timid yelp . . .

'Shut up! . . . My dear fellow, I hardly recognised you!'

Embarrassed, the visitor bowed politely to Philip Philipovich and

giggled nervously.

'You're a wizard, a magician, professor!' he said bashfully.

'Take down your trousers, old man,' ordered Philip Philip-ovich and

stood up.

Christ, thought the dog, what a sight! The man's hair was completely

green, although at the back it shaded off into a brownish tobacco colour,

wrinkles covered his face yet his complexion was as pink as a boy's. His

left leg would not bend and had to be dragged across the carpet, but his

right leg was as springy as a jack-in-the-box. In the buttonhole of his

superb jacket there shone, like an eye, a precious stone.

The dog was so fascinated that he even forgot his nausea. Oow-ow, he

whined softly.

'Quiet! . . . How have you been sleeping!'

The man giggled. 'Are we alone, professor? It's indescribable,' said

the visitor coyly. 'Parole d'honneur - I haven't known anything like it for

twenty-five years . . .' the creature started struggling with his flybuttons

. . . 'Would you believe it, professor - hordes of naked girls every night.

I am absolutely entranced. You're a magician.'

'H'm,' grunted Philip Philipovich, preoccupied as he stared into the

pupils of his visitor's eyes. The man finally succeeded in mastering his

flybuttons and took off his checked trousers, revealing the most

extraordinary pair of pants. They were cream-coloured, embroidered with

black silk cats and they smelled of perfume.

The dog could not resist the cats and gave such a bark that the man

jumped.

'Oh!'

'Quiet - or I'll beat you! . . . Don't worry, he won't bite.'

Won't I? thought the dog in amazement.

Out of the man's trouser pocket a little envelope fell to the floor. It

was decorated with a picture of a naked girl with flowing hair. He gave a

start, bent down to pick it up and blushed violently.

'Look here,' said Philip Philipovich in a tone of grim warning, wagging

a threatening finger, 'you shouldn't overdo it, you know.'

'I'm not overdo . . .' the creature muttered in embarrassment as he

went on undressing. 'It was just a sort of experiment.'

'Well, what were the results?' asked Philip Philipovich sternly.

The man waved his hand in ecstasy. 'I swear to God, professor, I

haven't known anything like it for twenty-five years. The last time was in

1899 in Paris, in the Rue de la Paix.'

'And why have you turned green?'

The visitor's face clouded over. 'That damned stuff! You'd never

believe, professor, what those rogues palmed off on me instead of dye. Just

take a look,' the man muttered, searching for a mirror. 'I'd like to punch

him on the snout,' he added in a rage. 'What am I to do now, professor?' he

asked tearfully.

'H'm. Shave all your hair off.'

'But, professor,' cried the visitor miserably, 'then it would only grow

grey again. Besides, I daren't show my face at the office like this. I

haven't been there for three days. Ah, professor, if only you had discovered

a way of rejuvenating hair!'

'One thing at a time, old man, one thing at a time,' muttered Philip

Philipovich. Bending down, his glittering eyes examined the patient's naked

abdomen.

'Splendid, everything's in great shape. To tell you the truth I didn't

even expect such results. You can get dressed now.'

' "Ah, she's so lovely . . ." ' sang the patient in a voice that

quavered like the sound of someone hitting an old, cracked saucepan.

Beaming, he started to dress. When he was ready he skipped across the floor

in a cloud of perfume, counted out a heap of white banknotes on the

professor's desk and shook him tenderly by both hands.

'You needn't come back for two weeks,' said Philip Philipovich, 'but I

must beg you - be careful.'

The ecstaticvoice replied from behind thedoor: 'Don't worry,

professor.' The creature gave a delighted giggle and went. The doorbell

tinkled through the apartment and the varnished door opened, admitting the

other doctor, who handed Philip Philipovich a sheet of paper and announced:

'She has lied about her age. It's probably about fifty or fifty-five.

Heart-beats muffled.'

He disappeared, to be succeeded by a rustling lady with a hat planted

gaily on one side of her head and with a glittering necklace on her slack,

crumpled neck. There were black bags under her eyes and her cheeks were as

red as a painted doll. She was extremely nervous.

'How old are you, madam?' enquired Philip Philipovich with great

severity.

Frightened, the lady paled under her coating of rouge. 'Professor, I

swear that if you knew the agony I've been going through . . .!'

'How old are you, madam?' repeated Philip Philipovich even more

sternly.

'Honestly . . . well, forty-five . . .'

'Madam,' groaned Philip Philipovich, I am a busy man. Please don't

waste my time. You're not my only patient, you know.'

The lady's bosom heaved violently. 'I've come to you, a great scientist

... I swear to you - it's terrible . . .'

'How old are you?' Philip Philipovich screeched in fury, his spectacles

glittering.

'Fifty-one!' replied the lady, wincing with terror.

'Take off your underwear, please,' said Philip Philipovich with relief,

and pointed to a high white examination table in the comer.

'I swear, professor,' murmured the lady as with trembling fingers she

unbuttoned the fasteners on her belt, 'this boy Moritz ... I honestly admit

to you . . .'

' "From Granada to Seville . . ." ' Philip Philipovich hummed

absentmindedly and pressed the foot-pedal of his marble washbasin. There was

a sound of running water.

'I swear to God,' said the lady, patches of real colour showing through

the rouge on her cheeks, 'this will be my last affair. Oh, he's such a

brute! Oh, professor! All Moscow knows he's a card-sharper and he can't

resist any little tart of a dressmaker who catches his eye. But he's so

deliciously young . . .'As she talked the lady pulled out a crumpled blob of

lace from under her rustling skirts.

A mist came in front of the dog's eyes and his brain turned a

somersault. To hell with you, he thought vaguely, laying his head on his

paws and closing his eyes with embarrassment. I'm not going to try and guess

what all this is about -it's beyond me, anyway.

He was wakened by a tinkling sound and saw that Philip Philipovich had

tossed some little shining tubes into a basin.

The painted lady, her hands pressed to her bosom, was gazing hopefully

at Philip Philipovich. Frowning impressively he had sat down at his desk and

was writing something.

'I am going to implant some monkey's ovaries into you, madam,' he

announced with a stern look.

'Oh, professor - not monkey's ?'

'Yes,' replied Philip Philipovich inexorably.

'When will you operate?' asked the lady in a weak voice, turning pale.

' ". . . from Granada to Seville . . ." H'm ... on Monday. You must go

into hospital on Monday morning. My assistant will prepare you.'

'Oh, dear. I don't want to go into hospital. Couldn't you operate here,

professor?'

'I only operate here in extreme cases. It would be very expensive - 500

roubles.'

'I'll pay, professor!'

Again came the sound of running water, the feathered hat swayed out, to

be replaced by a head as bald as a dinner-plate which embraced Philip

Philipovich. As his nausea passed, the dog dozed off, luxuriating in the

warmth and the sense of relief as his injury healed. He even snored a little

and managed to enjoy a snatch of a pleasant dream - he dreamed he had torn a

whole tuft of feathers out of the owl's tail . . . until an agitated voice

started yapping above his head.

'I'm too well known in Moscow, professor. What am I to do?'

'Really,' cried Philip Philipovich indignantly, 'you can't behave like

that. You must restrain yourself. How old is she?'

'Fourteen, professor . . . The scandal would ruin me, you see. I'm due

to go abroad on official business any day now.'

'I'm afraid I'm not a lawyer . . . you'd better wait a couple of years

and then marry her.'

'I'm married already, professor.'

'Oh, lord!'

The door opened, faces changed, instruments clattered and Philip

Philipovich worked on unceasingly.

This place is indecent, thought the dog, but I like it! What the hell

can he want me for, though? Is he just going to let me live here? Maybe he's

eccentric. After all, he could get a pedigree dog as easy as winking.

Perhaps I'm good-looking! What luck. As for that stupid owl . . . cheeky

brute.

The dog finally woke up late in the evening when the bells had stopped

ringing and at the very moment when the door admitted some special visitors.

There were four of them at once, all young people and all extremely modestly

dressed.

What's all this? thought the dog in astonishment. Philip Philipovich

treated these visitors with considerable hostility. He stood at his desk,

staring at them like a general confronting the enemy. The nostrils of his

hawk-like nose were dilated. The party shuffled awkwardly across the carpet.

'The reason why we've come to see you, professor . . .' began one of

them, who had a six-inch shock of hair sprouting straight out of his head.

'You ought not to go out in this weather without wearing galoshes,

gentlemen,' Philip Philipovich interrupted in a schoolmasterish voice.

'Firstly you'll catch cold and secondly you've muddied my carpets and all my

carpets are Persian.'

The young man with the shock of hair broke off, and all four stared at

Philip Philipovich in consternation. The silence lasted several minutes and

was only broken by the drumming of Philip Philipovich's fingers on a painted

wooden platter on his desk.

'Firstly, we're not gentlemen,' the youngest of them, with a face like

a peach, said finally.

'Secondly,' Philip Philipovich interrupted him, 'are you a man or a

woman?'

The four were silent again and their mouths dropped open. This time the

shock-haired young man pulled himself together.

'What difference does it make, comrade?' he asked proudly.

'I'm a woman,' confessed the peach-like youth, who was wearing a

leather jerkin, and blushed heavily. For some reason one of the others, a

fair young man in a sheepskin hat, also turned bright red.

'In that case you may leave your cap on, but I must ask you, my dear

sir, to remove your headgear,' said Philip Philipovich imposingly.

'I am not your dear sir,' said the fair youth sharply, pulling off his

sheepskin hat.

'We have come to see you,' the dark shock-headed boy began again.

'First of all - who are 'we'?'

'We are the new management committee of this block of flats,' said the

dark youth with suppressed fury. 'I am Shvonder, her name is Vyazemskaya and

these two are comrades Pestrukhin and Sharovkyan. So we . . .'

'Are you the people who were moved in as extra tenants into Fyodor

Pavlovich Sablin's apartment?' 'Yes, we are,' replied Shvonder.

'God, what is this place coming to!' exclaimed Philip Philipovich in

despair and wrung his hands. 'What are you laughing for, professor?' 'What

do you mean - laughing? I'm in absolute despair,' shouted Philip

Philipovich. 'What's going to become of the central heating now?'

'Are you making fun of us. Professor Preobrazhensky?' 'Why have you

come to see me? Please be as quick as possible. I'm just going in to

supper.'

'We, the house management,' said Shvonder with hatred, 'have come to

see you as a result of a general meeting of the tenants of this block, who

are charged with the problem of increasing the occupancy of this house . .

.' 28

'What d'you mean - charged?' cried Philip Philipovich. 'Please try and

express yourself more clearly.'

'We are charged with increasing the occupancy.'

'All right, I understand! Do you realise that under the regulation of

August 12th this year my apartment is exempt from any increase in

occupancy?'

'We know that,' replied Shvonder, 'but when the general meeting had

examined this question it came to the conclusion that taken all round you

are occupying too much space. Far too much. You are living, alone, in seven

rooms.'

'I live and work in seven rooms,' replied Philip Philipovich, 'and I

could do with eight. I need a room for a library.'

The four were struck dumb.

'Eight! Ha, ha!' said the hatless fair youth. 'That's rich, that is!'

'It's indescribable!' exclaimed the youth who had turned out to be a

woman.

'I have a waiting-room, which you will notice also has to serve as my

library, a dining-room, and my study - that makes three. Consulting-room -

four, operating theatre -five. My bedroom - six, and the servant's room

makes seven. It's not really enough. But that's not the point. My apartment

is exempt, and our conversation is therefore at an end. May I go and have

supper?'

'Excuse me,' said the fourth, who looked like a fat beetle.

'Excuse me,' Shvonder interrupted him, 'but it was just because of your

dining-room and your consulting-room that we came to see you. The general

meeting requests you, as a matter of labour discipline, to give up your

dining-room voluntarily. No one in Moscow has a dining-room.'

'Not even Isadora Duncan,' squeaked the woman. Something happened to

Philip Philipovich which made his face turn gently purple. He said nothing,

waiting to hear what came next.

'And give up your consulting-room too,' Shvonder went on. ' You can

easily combine your consulting-room with your study.'

'Mm'h,' said Philip Philipovich in a strange voice. 'And where am I

supposed to eat?'

'In the bedroom,' answered the four in chorus.

Philip Philipovich's purple complexion took on a faintly grey tinge.

'So I can eat in the bedroom,' he said in a slightly muffled voice,

'read in the consulting-room, dress in the hall, operate in the maid's room

and examine patients in the dining-room. I expect that is what Isadora

Duncan does. Perhaps she eats in her study and dissects rabbits in the

bathroom. Perhaps. But I'm not Isadora Duncan. . . !' he turned yellow. 'I

shall eat in the dining-room and operate in the operating theatre! Tell that

to the general meeting, and meanwhile kindly go and mind your own business

and allow me to have my supper in the place where all normal people eat. I

mean in the dining-room - not in the hall and not in the nursery.'

'In that case, professor, in view of your obstinate refusal,' said the

furious Shvonder, 'we shall lodge a complaint about you with higher

authority.'

'Aha,' said Philip Philipovich, 'so that's your game, is it?' And his

voice took on a suspiciously polite note. 'Please wait one minute.'

What a man, thought the dog with delight, he's just like me. Any minute

now and he'll bite them. I don't know how, but he'll bite them all right ...

Go on! Go for 'em! I could just get that long-legged swine in the tendon

behind his knee . . . ggrrr . . .

Philip Philipovich lifted the telephone receiver, dialled and said into

it: 'Please give me . . . yes . . . thank you. Put me through to Pyotr

Alexandrovich, please. Professor Preobraz-hensky speaking. Pyotr

Alexandrovich? Hello, how are you? I'm so glad I was able to get you.

Thanks, I'm fine. Pyotr Alexandrovich, I'm afraid your operation is

cancelled. What? Cancelled. And so are all my other operations. I'll tell

you why:

I am not going to work in Moscow, in fact I'm not going to work in

Russia any longer . . . I am just having a visit from four people, one of

whom is a woman disguised as a man, and two of whom are armed with

revolvers. They are terrorising me in my own apartment and threatening to

evict me.'

'Hey, now, professor . . .' began Shvonder, his expression changing.

'Excuse me ... I can't repeat all they've been saying. I can't make

sense of it, anyway. Roughly speaking they have told me to give up my

consulting-room, which will oblige me to operate in the room I have used

until now for dissecting rabbits. I not only cannot work under such

conditions - I have no right to. So I am closing down my practice, shutting

up my apartment and going to Sochi. I will give the keys to Shvonder. He can

operate for me.'

The four stood rigid. The snow was melting on their boots. 'Can't be

helped, I'm afraid . . . Of course I'm very upset, but ... What? Oh, no,

Pyotr Alexandrovich! Oh, no. That I must flatly refuse. My patience has

snapped. This is the second time since August . . . What? H'm . . . All

right, if you like. I suppose so. Only this time on one condition: I don't

care who issues it, when they issue it or what they issue, provided it's the

sort of certificate which will mean that neither Shvonder nor anyone else

can so much as knock on my door. The ultimate in certificates. Effective.

Real. Armour-plated! I don't even want my name on it. The end. As far as

they are concerned, I am dead. Yes, yes. Please do. Who? Aha . . . well,

that's another matter. Aha . . . good. I'll just hand him the receiver.

Would you mind,' Philip Philipovich spoke to Shvonder in a voice like a

snake's, 'you're wanted on the telephone.'

'But, professor,' said Shvonder, alternately flaring up and cringing,

'what you've told him is all wrong' -

'Please don't speak to me like that.'

Shvonder nervously picked up the receiver and said:

'Hello. Yes ... I'm the chairman of the house management committee . .

. We were only acting according to the regulations . . . the professor is an

absolutely special case . . . Yes, we know about his work . . . We were

going to leave him five whole rooms . . . Well, OK ... if that's how it is

... OK.'

Very red in the face, he hung up and turned round.

What a fellow! thought the dog rapturously. Does he know how to handle

them! What's his secret, I wonder? He can beat me as much as he likes now -

I'm not leaving this place!'

The three young people stared open-mouthed at the wretched Shvonder.

'This is a disgrace!' he said miserably.

'If that Pyotr Alexandrovich had been here,' began the woman, reddening

with anger, 'I'd have shown him . . .'

'Excuse me, would you like to talk to him now?' enquired Philip

Philipovich politely.

The woman's eyes flashed.

'You can be as sarcastic as you like, professor, but we're going now .

. . Still, as manager of the cultural department of this house . . .'

' Manager,' Philip Philipovich corrected her.

'I want to ask you' - here the woman pulled a number of coloured

magazines wet with snow, from out of the front of her tunic - 'to buy a few

of these magazines in aid of the children of Germany. 50 kopecks a copy.'

'No, I will not,' said Philip Philipovich curtly after a glance at the

magazines.

Total amazement showed on the faces, and the girl turned

cranberry-colour.

'Why not?'

'I don't want to.'

'Don't you feel sorry for the children of Germany?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Can't you spare 50 kopecks?'

'Yes, I can.'

'Well, why won't you, then?'

'I don't want to.'

Silence.

'You know, professor,' said the girl with a deep sigh, 'if you weren't

world-famous and if you weren't being protected by certain people in the

most disgusting way,' (the fair youth tugged at the hem of her jerkin, but

she brushed him away), 'which we propose to investigate, you should be

arrested.'

'What for?' asked Philip Philipovich with curiosity.

'Because you hate the proletariat!' said the woman proudly.

'You're right, I don't like the proletariat,' agreed Philip Philipovich

sadly, and pressed a button. A bell rang in the distance. The door opened on

to the corridor.

'Zina!' shouted Philip Philipovich. 'Serve the supper, please. Do you

mind, ladies and gentlemen?'

Silently the four left the study, silently they trooped down the

passage and through the hall. The front door closed loudly and heavily

behind them.

The dog rose on his hind legs in front of Philip Philipovich and

performed obeisance to him.


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