Zina promptly burst into tears, her mouth going right down at the corners, and the little hand jumping on her collar bone.
“There, there, Zina, you should be ashamed of yourself! Who could possibly think such a thing! Fie, what a disgrace!” Bormental broke out, at a loss.
“Well, Zina, you are a fool, God forgive me,” Philip Philipovich began saying. But at that moment Zina’s lament stopped of its own accord and they all fell silent. Sharikov was clearly unwell. Knocking his head against the wall he emitted a sound, something between “åå” and “eh” — something like “eh-ee-eh!” — his face turned pale, and his jaw began to work in spasms.
“A bucket, bring the scoundrel the bucket from the consulting room.”
And they all rushed round ministering to Sharikov in his sickness. When he was led off to bed, staggering along, supported by Bormental, he cursed very tenderly and melodiously, struggling to get his tongue round the ugly words.
All this had happened in the small hours at about one o’clock and now it was around three, but the two in the study were still wide awake, stimulated by the cognac and lemon. They had so filled the room with smoke that it rose and fell in slow layers, not even wavering.
Doctor Bormental, pale-faced, the light of purpose in his eyes, raised his wasp-waisted glass.
“Philip Philipovich!” he exclaimed warmly. “I shall never forget how I first came to make your acquaintance as a half-starved student and how you gave me a place at the faculty. Believe me, Philip Philipovich, you are much more to me than a professor, a teacher… My respect for you is unbounded… Permit me to embrace you, dear Philip Philipovich.”
“Yes, my dear fellow,” Philip Philipovich murmured in embarrassment and rose to meet him. Bormental embraced him and planted a kiss on the downy moustaches, now thoroughly impregnated with cigar smoke.
“Honestly, Philip Phili…”
“So touched, so touched — thank you,” said Philip Philipovich. “Dear boy, I shout at you sometimes during operations. You must forgive an old man’s peppery nature. In fact, I am very lonely, you see… From Seville to Granada…”
“Philip Philipovich, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” cried out the fiery Bormental. “If you don’t want to offend me, never say such things to me again.”
“Well, thank you… To the sacred shores of the Nile… Thank you … and I have come to love you as a most capable doctor.”
“Philip Philipovich, let me tell you!” exclaimed Bormental with passion, leapt up from his chair and tightly closed the door leading into the corridor, then, having returned to his place, continued in a whisper: “That is — the only way out! It is not for me, of course, give you advice, Philip Philipovich, but just take a look at yourself. You are completely exhausted, you can’t continue to work in these circumstances!”
“Quite impossible,” admitted Philip Philipovich with a sigh.
“Well, and that is unthinkable,” whispered Bormental. “Last time you said you were afraid for my sake, and I was so touched, if only you knew how touched, dear Professor. But I am not a child, after all, and I am well aware what terrible consequences there could be. But it is my firm opinion that there is no other way out.”
Philip Philipovich rose, made a gesture of rejection and exclaimed: “Do not tempt me, do not even talk about it!” The Professor took a turn about the room, emitting waves of smoke. “I won’t even listen. You must understand what would happen if we were discovered. Neither you nor I’ given our social origins’ will have the least chance of getting away with it, in spite of the fact that we should be first offenders. At least, I suppose your origins are not of the right sort, are they, dear boy?”
“What a hope! My father was a police investigator in Vilnius,” replied Bormental bitterly, finishing off his cognac.
“Well, there you are then, what more could you ask? That is a bad heredity. Hard to imagine anything more damaging. By the way, though, I’m wrong, mine is worse still. My father was a cathedral archpriest. Merci. From Seville to Granada … in the still of the night … there it is, damn it.”
“Philip Philipovich, you are a great man, world famous, and just because of some son-of-a-bitch, if you’ll excuse the expression… Surely they can’t touch you, what are you saying?”
“All the more reason not to do it,” retorted Philip Philipovich thoughtfully, pausing and looking round at the glass cupboard.
“But why?”
“Because you are not world famous.”
“Well, of course.”
“There you are, you see. And to desert a colleague in such a fix while remaining high and dry oneself on the pinnacle of one’s own world fame, forgive me… I am a Moscow student, not a Sharikov.”
Philip Philipovich raised his shoulders proudly which made him look like an ancient French king.
“Heigh-ho, Philip Philipovich,” sighed Bormental sadly. “That means you will wait until we manage to make a ‘ real’ human being out of this hooligan? Is that it?”
Philip Philipovich stopped him with a gesture, poured himself some cognac, sipped, sucked a section of lemon and said:
“Ivan Arnoldovich, I would like your opinion: do I understand anything in the anatomy and physiology of, let us say, the hypophysis of the human brain. What do you think?”
“Philip Philipovich, how could you ask?” replied Bormental ardently, throwing out his hands.
“All right then. Without false modesty. I also consider that I am not the last specialist in that field here in Moscow.”
“And I consider that you are the first — not only in Moscow but in London or Oxford!” Bormental broke in with ardour.
“Well, all right, let us assume that is so. Well then, future Professor Bormental: that is something no one could perform successfully. And there’s an end to it. It’s not worth considering. You can quote me. Preobrazhensky said: Finita. Klim!” Philip Philipovich cried out solemnly and the cupboard answered him with a clink. “Klim,” he repeated. “There it is, Bormental, you are the first follower of my school and, apart from that, as I realised today, you are my friend. And so I will tell you in secret and as a friend — of course, I know that you won’t hold me up to ridicule — that Preobrazhensky, the old donkey, went into that operation as irresponsibly as a third-year student.
It’s true we made a discovery and you yourself are aware of what significance,” here Philip Philipovich made a tragic gesture with both hands towards the window curtain as if embracing the whole of Moscow, “but just keep in mind, Ivan Arnoldovich, that the only result of this discovery will be that we shall all be fed up with this Sharikov to here,” Preobrazhensky slapped his own full, apoplectic neck.
“You may rest assured of that! If only someone,” continued Philip Philipovich in an ecstasy of self-reproach, “would fling me down on the floor here and flog me, I’d pay him fifty roubles, I swear I could. From Seville to Granada… The devil take me… I sat there for five years digging the pituitaries out of brains. You know how much work I got through — I can hardly believe it myself. And now the question arises — why? In order one fine day to transform a most likeable dog into such a nasty piece of work it makes the hair stand on end.”
“Absolutely disgusting!”
“I quite agree with you. There you see, Doctor, what happens when a scholar, instead of advancing parallel to and feeling his way in step with nature, decides to force a question and raise the curtain: out pops a Sharikov and there you are, like him or lump him.”
“Philip Philipovich, and if it had been Spinoza’s brain?”
“Yes!” Philip Philipovich snapped. “Yes! If only the poor unfortunate dog doesn’t die under the knife, and you’ve seen what kind of an operation it is. In a word, I, Philip Preobrazhensky, have never done anything more difficult in my life. It’s possible to take the hypophysis of a Spinoza or any other creature you care to name and make a dog into something extremely high-standing. But why, why the hell?
That’s the question. Explain to me, please, why we should set about manufacturing artificial Spinozas, when any simple peasant woman can give birth to one at the drop of a hat. After all, Madame Lomonosova bore that famous son of hers in Kholmogory.(9) Doctor, humanity-takes care of all that for us in her own good time and according to the order of evolution, and by distinguishing from the mass of the low and the lowly, she creates a few dozen exceptional geniuses to grace this earth of ours.
Now you see, Doctor, why I faulted your conclusions on the case history of Sharik. My discovery, devil take it and swallow it whole, is of as much use as a sick headache. Don’t argue with me, Ivan Arnoldovich. I’ve understood it all now. I never talk hot air, you know that. Theoretically it’s interesting. All right, then! Physiologists will be in ecstasy. Moscow will go crazy… But, practically speaking, what will happen? Who do you see before you now?” Preobrazhensky pointed in the direction of the consulting room, where Sharikov was taking his rest.
“An exceptionally nasty bit of work.”
“But who is he? Klim!” cried the professor. “Klim Chugunov. (Bormental’s mouth fell open.) That’s who he is: two criminal convictions, alcoholism, ‘ share out everything’, the fur hat and two ten-rouble notes gone. (At this point Philip Philipovich remembered the anniversary cane and turned crimson.) A lewd fellow and
