I photographed Sharik at that moment. I am ready to go bail he understood what the Professor said. A gloomy shadow fell on his face. He glowered from beneath his brows with considerable irritation but fell silent.
Hoorah, he understands!
12 January. Puts his hands in his trouser pockets. We are teaching him not to swear. Whistled the popular tune Oho, the apple-oh! Can sustain a conversation.
I cannot restrain myself from venturing a few hypotheses: to hell with rejuvenation for the moment. This other thing is infinitely more important: Professor Preobrazhensky’s amazing experiment has opened up one of the secrets of the human brain. From now on the mysterious function of the hypophysis, or brain-appendage, has become clear. It predetermines the human image. We may say that the hormones it contains are the most important in the whole organism — image-defining hormones. A whole new sphere of science is being opened up. Homunculus has been created without the help of so much as Faust’s retort! The surgeon’s scalpel has called into being a new human entity. Professor Preobrazhensky, you are a creator. (Blot.)
But I wander from my theme… So, he can maintain a conversation. What I suggest happened is this: the hypophysis, having been accepted by the organism after the operation, opened up the speech-centres in the dog’s brain, and words came flooding out in a rush. In my opinion, we are dealing with a revived and developing, not with a newly-created brain. Oh, what a divine confirmation of the theory of evolution! Oh, great chain of life from a stray dog to Mendeleyev the chemist! (4) Another hypothesis: Sharik’s brain, during his period as a dog, collected a mass of information. All the words with which he first began to operate are street words, he had heard them and they had been conserved in his mind. Now as I walk along the street I look with secret horror upon every dog I meet. God knows what is stored away in their brains.
Sharik knew how to read. To read (3 exclamation marks). It was I who guessed this. From “Glavryba”. He had read it backwards. And I even knew where to look for the solution to this riddle: in the interruption in a dog’s optic nerves.
What is going on in Moscow is inconceivable to the mind of man. Seven traders from the Sukharevka Market have already been arrested for spreading rumours about the end of the world to be brought upon us by the Bolsheviks. Darya Petrovna said so and even named the day: the 28 November 1925, on the day of the Holy Martyr Steven, the world will crash into a heavenly axis … some knaves are already giving lectures. We’ve created such chaos with this hypophysis that the flat is becoming uninhabitable. I have moved in to live here at Professor Preobrazhensky’s request and sleep in the reception room with Sharik. The consulting room now serves as a reception room. Shvonder was quite right. The house committee is delighted at our discomfort. There is not one single whole pane of glass left in the cupboards because at first he would jump at them. It was all we could do to teach him not to.
Something odd is happening to Philip. When I told him of my hypotheses and of my hope of turning Sharik into a highly developed psychic individual, he laughed ironically and replied: “You think so?” His tone was dire. Could I be mistaken? The old boy is on to something. While I write up this case-history he pores over the story of the man from whom we took the hypophysis.
(A loose leaf inserted in the exercise book.)
Klim Grigoryevich Chugunkin, 25 years old, [The inconsistency (cf. p. 242) appears in the original text.-Ed] single. Non-Party member, sympathiser. Brought before the court 3 times and found not guilty the first time for lack of proof; the second time saved by his social origins; the third given a suspended sentence of 15 years forced labour. Thefts. Profession—playing the balalaika in pubs.
Small, ill-made. Enlarged liver (alcohol). Cause of death—struck in the heart by a knife in a pub (The Stop Signal at the Preobrazhensky Gate).
The old man is totally absorbed in the case of Klim Chugunkin. He muttered something about not having had the wit to examine Chugunkin’s whole body in the pathology laboratory. What it is all about I do not understand. Is it not all the same whose hypophysis?
17 January. Have not made any entries for several days: went down with flu. In the course of this time the image has taken on final form.
(a) the body has become completely human
(b) weight is about 108 Ibs
(c) height — short
(d) head — small
(e) has begun to smoke
(f) eats human food
(g) can dress himself
(h) can converse smoothly
There’s the hypophysis for you! (Blot.)
With this I end this case history. Before us is a new organism; it must be observed from the beginning.
Supplement: stenograms of speech; phonograph recordings; photographs.
Signed by Professor Preobrazhensky’s assistant Doctor Bormental.
Part VI
It was a winter evening. The end of January. The time before dinner, before reception. On the lintel of the door into the reception room hung a white sheet of paper on which was written in the hand of Professor Preobrazhensky:
“I forbid the eating of sunflower seeds in the flat.
P. Preobrazhensky.”
and in blue pencil, in letters large as cream cakes, in the hand of Bormental:
“Playing musical instruments between 5 in the evening and 7 in the morning is forbidden.”
Then, in the hand of Zina:
“When you get back, tell Philip Philipovich: I don’t know where he’s gone. Fyodor said he was with Shvonder.”
In the hand of Preobrazhensky:
“Must I wait a hundred years for the glazier?”
In Darya Petrovna’s hand (printed letters):
“Zina has gone to the shop, said she would bring him.”
In the dining room everything combined to suggest late evening, thanks to the lamp with the silken shade. The light from the sideboard fell in two distinct patches because the mirror glass was stuck over by a diagonal cross from one corner to the other. Philip Philipovich, bending over the table, was absorbed in a huge, outspread newspaper. Lightning distorted his face and from his clenched teeth came a sprinkling of choked-back, foreshortened, gurgling words. He was reading a report:
“There can be no doubt whatsoever that this is his ‘ illegitimate’ (as they used to say in rotten bourgeois society) son. Now we know how the pseudo-scientific bourgeoisie take their pleasures! Anyone can occupy seven rooms until such time as the shining sword of justice gleams red above their heads. Shv…r.”
Insistently, the sound of a balalaika played with virtuoso skill penetrated through two dividing walls, and ornate variations on The Moon Is Shining got all confused in Philip Philipovich’s head with the words of the newspaper report in a detestable mix-up. Having read to the end, he made a play of spitting over his shoulder and automatically began to sing under his breath:
“The moon is shi-i-ning—shi-i-ning … the moon is … shi-ning… got to my brain, that accursed tune!”
He rang the bell. Zina’s face appeared through the curtains.
“Tell him that it’s five o’clock, time to stop, and call him in here, please.”
Philip Philipovich sat at the table in his armchair. Between the fingers of his left hand projected the brown end of a cigar. By the door-curtain, lounging against the lintel, legs crossed, stood a small man of unprepossessing appearance. The hair on his head grew in harsh outcroppings like bushes on an uprooted field and his face was covered by an unshaven downy stubble. The brow was startlingly low. Almost immediately above the thick, black, unkempt brows rose the brush-like hair of the head.
The jacket with the tear under the left armpit had wisps of straw sticking to it, the striped trousers were torn on the right knee and stained lilac on the left. Knotted round the man’s neck was an electric blue tie speared into place by an artificial ruby pin. The colour of this tie was so loud that Philip Philipovich, from time to time closing his weary eyes, seemed to see against a background of total darkness, now on the ceiling and now on the wall, a blazing torch with a pale blue halo. Opening his eyes, he was at once blinded again because, showering out a fan of light from the floor, a pair of patent leather shoes topped by white spats immediately took and held the eye.
As if he were wearing galoshes, Philip Philipovich thought with a feeling of repulsion, sighed, sniffed, and began to fiddle with his extinguished cigar. The man at the door stood smoking a cigarette, scattering the ash over his shirt-front, and shooting the odd glance at the Professor from dull eyes.
The clock on the wall with the wooden partridge struck five times. Inside it, something continued to groan as Philip Philipovich opened the conversation.
“I believe I have already twice requested you not to use the high bunk in the kitchen for sleeping, especially in the day-time?”
The man coughed hoarsely, as though he were choking on a small bone, and replied:
“The air suits us better in the kitchen.”
His voice was strange, rather muffled, yet at the same time resonant, as though it came from inside a small barrel.
Philip Philipovich shook his head and asked:
“Where did that repulsive object come from? I refer to the tie.”
Eyes following the finger, the fellow squinted over his pouting lip to gaze fondly at the tie.
“What’s repulsive about it?” the man said.
