A gentle tinkling ringing sound went echoing through the entire flat and from far away in the hall came the spasmodic murmur of voices. The telephone rang. Zina disappeared.
Philip Philipovich tossed the stub of his cigarette into the bucket, buttoned up his smock before the mirror on the wall, straightened his downy moustache and called the dog:
“Phew! Phew! It’s all right, now, it’s all right. We’ll go to reception.”
The dog heaved himself up on uncertain legs but quickly recovered and set off in pursuit of the billowing hem of Philip Philipovich’s smock. Again he traversed the narrow corridor but noticed this time that it was brightly lit by a ceiling lamp. When the varnished door opened he entered Philip Philipovich’s study and was quite overcome by the decor. First and foremost it all blazed with light: a light burning from the moulded ceiling, another on the table, others on the wall and reflected from the glass cupboards. The light poured out over a mass of objects of which the most intriguing was a huge owl sitting on a leafless bough on the wall.
“Lie down,” ordered Philip Philipovich.
The carved door opposite opened to admit the man he had bitten who could now, in the bright light, be seen to be very handsome, young, with a pointed beard. The man handed over a sheet of paper and pronounced:
“An old patient…”
Thereupon he vanished soundlessly and Philip Philipovich, spreading out the hem of his smock, took his place behind the vast writing-table and immediately assumed an air of the utmost dignity and importance.
No, it’s not a hospital, I’ve landed up in some other place, thought the dog in some confusion and lay down on the patterned carpet by the leather sofa. We’ll look into that owl later…
The door opened softly and in came a man who made such an impression on the dog that he gave a small bark, albeit very timidly…
“Quiet! Gracious me, you’ve changed beyond all recognition, my good man.”
The man coming in bowed with respect and some embarrassment.
“He-he! You are a magician and a wonder-worker, Professor,” he uttered shyly.
“Take off your trousers,” Philip Philipovich commanded and got up.
Good Lord, thought the dog, what a creep!
On the creep’s head grew tufts of completely green hair but at the nape of the neck there was a rusty, tobacco-coloured gleam to them. The creep’s face was covered with wrinkles, but the complexion was pale pink, like a baby’s. The left leg was stiff, he had to drag it behind him across the carpet, but to make up for it the right leg jerked rhythmically. On the lapel of his splendid jacket a precious stone bulged like an eye.
The dog was so interested he no longer felt sick.
“Wuff-wuff!” he barked softly.
“Quiet! How do you sleep, my dear fellow?”
“He-he. Are we alone, Professor? It is beyond words,” the visitor launched out bashfully. “Parole d’honneur — it’s 25 years since anything of the sort,” the type began undoing his trouser buttons, “would you believe it, Professor, every night — naked girls, swarms of them. I am quite enchanted. You are a conjuror.”
“Hm,” Philip Philipovich smiled absently as he examined the pupils of his visitor’s eyes.
The latter had at last managed to undo his buttons and took off his striped trousers. Beneath them were the most extraordinary underpants. They were cream-coloured with black cats embroidered all over them and smelt of perfume.
The dog could not restrain himself at the sight of the cats and let out such a wuff that the guest jumped.
“Oh, dear!”
“I’ll thrash you! Don’t be afraid, he doesn’t bite.”
I don’t bite? — the dog was taken aback.
From the pocket of his trousers the visitor dropped a small envelope on which there was a picture of a beautiful girl with flowing hair. The type gave a little skip, bent down and picked it up, blushing deeply.
“You be careful, though,” warned Philip Philipovich shaking his finger. “Be careful, all the same, don’t overdo it.”
“I don’t over…” the type muttered in embarrassment. “It was just an experiment, dear Professor.”
“Well, and what happened? What was the result?” inquired Philip Philipovich severely.
The type gestured ecstatically.
“Twenty-five years, as God is my witness, Professor, there’s been nothing of the sort. The last time was in 1899 in Paris on the Rue de la Paix.”
“And why have you gone green?”
The guest’s face grew overcast.
“That accursed Zhirkost! [Cosmetics factory.— Ed.] You can’t imagine, Professor, what those good-for-nothings palmed me off with in the guise of hair-dye. Just look,” muttered the individual, peering round for a mirror.
“I’d like to smash their faces in!” he added, waxing more and more indignant. “What am I to do now, Professor?” he demanded tearfully.
“Hm, shave your head.”
“Professor,” the visitor exclaimed pitifully, “it will grow grey again! Apart from which I won’t dare show my face at work, as it is, this is the third day I’ve kept away. Ah, Professor, if only you could discover a way to restore youth to the hair.”
“Not all at once, not all at once, my dear fellow,” murmured Philip Philipovich.
Bending over the patient, eyes shining, he examined his naked stomach:
“Well now, that’s splendid, everything is just as it should be. To tell the truth I had scarcely expected such a result. Streams of blood, and songs galore… You may get dressed, dear Sir.”
“And to the one who’s most enchanting!” the patient joined in in a voice as rattly as an old frying pan and, beaming, began to get back into his clothes. Having tidied himself up, skipping and exhaling perfume, he paid out a packet of white banknotes to Philip Philipovich, caught him by both hands and pressed them tenderly.
“You need not come for another check-up for two weeks,” said Philip Philipovich, “but nevertheless I must ask you to be careful.”
“Professor!” his voice sounded ecstatically from behind the door. “You may rest assured…” With a last delighted titter, he vanished.
The tinkling bell echoed through the flat, the varnished door opened and the bitten man handed Philip Philipovich a piece of paper and announced:
“The age is not filled in correctly. Probably between 54 and 55. Cardiac sounds are rather muffled.”
He disappeared only to be replaced by a rustling lady in a dashingly angled hat and with a sparkling necklace on her flabby, creased neck. There were terrible black bags under her eyes and the cheeks were red like a doll’s. She was very ill at ease.
“Madam! How old are you?” Philip Philipovich inquired sternly.
The lady took fright and even grew pale under the layer of rouge.
“Professor, I swear to you, if you only knew what I am going through!”
“Your age, Madam?” insisted Philip Philipovich more sternly still.
“On my honour … well, forty-five…”
“Madam,” Philip Philipovich raised his voice, “there are people waiting for me. Don’t waste my time, if you please, you are not the only one!”
The lady’s breast heaved with emotion.
“I will tell you and you only, as a luminary of science. But I swear to you, it is so appalling…”
“How old are you?” Philip Philipovich demanded in a furious falsetto, and his spectacles flashed.
“Fifty-one!” writhing with terror, replied the lady.
“Take off your knickers, Madam,” ordered Philip Philipovich with relief and pointed to a high white scaffold in the corner.
“I swear, Professor,” murmured the lady, undoing some kind of press-studs on her belt with trembling fingers. “That Morris… I confess to you, honestly…”
“From Seville to Granada,” Philip Philipovich struck up absent-mindedly and pressed a pedal of the marble washstand.
There was a sound of running water.
“I swear to God!” said the lady, and spots of real colour broke through the artificial ones on her cheeks. “I know this is my last passion. But he’s such a bad man! Oh, Professor! He cheats at cards, all Moscow knows it. He can’t resist a single disgusting little salesgirl. He is so devilish young,” the lady muttered, casting out a screwed up tangle of lace from beneath her rustling petticoats.
The dog’s vision blurred and he felt quite giddy.
To hell with you, he thought dimly, laying his head on his paws and dozing off for shame. I shan’t even try to understand what it’s all about — I won’t understand anyway.
He awoke from the sound of tinkling to see Philip Philipovich throwing some glittering tubes into basin.
The spotted lady, hands clasped to her breast, was looking expectantly at Philip Philipovich. The latter, frowning importantly, sat down at his desk and wrote something down.
“I will graft you the ovaries of a monkey, Madam,” he announced and gave her a minatory glance.
“Oh, Professor, not a monkey, surely?”
“Yes,” answered Philip Philipovich inexorably.
“When is the operation?” the lady asked in a weak voice, turning pale.
“From Seville to Granada… Hm … on Monday. You will go into the clinic that morning. My assistant will prepare you.”
“Oh, I don’t want to go to the clinic. Could I not have it done here, Professor?”
“You must understand I only do operations here if there are very special circumstances. It will be very expensive — 500 roubles.”
“I agree, Professor.”
Again there was the sound of running water, the feathered hat dipped briefly, then there appeared a bald pate gleaming like china and embraced Philip Philipovich. The dog dozed off again, he no longer felt sick, he was luxuriating in the absence of pain in his flank and the warmth and even gave a little snore and dreamt a fragment of an agreeable
