Heart of a Dog by Mikhail Bulgakov Page A

vodka?' he asked.
        'Will you kindly keep quiet?' said Bormenthal. 'You've been at the vodka too often lately.'
        'Do you grudge me it?' asked Sharikov, glowering sullenly across the table.
        'Stop talking such damn nonsense . . .' Philip Philipovich broke in harshly, but Bormenthal
    interrupted him.
        'Don't worry, Philip Philipovich, leave it to me. You, Sharikov are talking nonsense and the most disturbing thing of all is that you talk it with such complete confidence. Of course I don't grudge you the vodka, especially as it's not mine but belongs to Philip Philipovich. It's simply that it's harmful. That's for a start; secondly you behave badly enough without vodka.' Bormenthal pointed to where the sideboard had been broken and glued together.
        'Zina, dear, give me a little more fish please,' said the professor.
        Meanwhile Sharikov had stretched out his hand towards the decanter and, with a sideways
    glance at Bormenthal, poured himself out a glassful.
        'You should offer it to the others first,' said Bormenthal. 'Like this - first to Philip Philipovich, then to me, then yourself.'
        A faint, sarcastic grin nickered across Sharikov's mouth and he poured out glasses of vodka all round.
        'You act just as if you were on parade here,' he said. 'Put your napkin here, your tie there, "please", "thank you", "excuse me" -why can't you behave naturally? Honestly, you stuffed shirts act as if it was still the days oftsarism.'
        'What do you mean by "behave naturally"?'
        Sharikov did not answer Philip Philipovich's question, but raised his glass and said: 'Here's how . . .'
        'And you too,' echoed Bormenthal with a tinge of irony.
        Sharikov tossed the glassful down his throat, blinked, lifted a piece of bread to his nose, sniffed it, then swallowed it as his eyes filled with tears.
        'Phase,' Philip Philipovich suddenly blurted out, as if preoccupied.
        Bormenthal gave him an astonished look. 'I'm sorry? . . .'
        'It's a phase,' repeated Philip Philipovich and nodded bitterly. 'There's nothing we can do about it. Klim.'
        Deeply interested, Bormenthal glanced sharply into Philip Philipovich's eyes: 'Do you suppose so, Philip Philipovich?' 'I don't suppose; I'm convinced.'
        'Can it be that . . .' began Bormenthal, then stopped after a glance at Sharikov, who was frowning suspiciously. 'Spdter . . .' said Philip Philipovich softly. 'Gut,' replied his assistant.
        Zina brought in the turkey. Bormenthal poured out some red wine for Philip Philipovich, then offered some to Sharikov.
        'Not for me, I prefer vodka.' His face had grown puffy, sweat was breaking out on his forehead and he was distinctly merrier. Philip Philipovich also cheered up slightly after drinking some wine. His eyes grew clearer and he looked rather more approvingly at Sharikov, whose black head above his white napkin now shone like a fly in a pool of cream.
        Bormenthal however, when fortified, seemed to want activity.
        'Well now, what are you and I going to do this evening?' he asked Sharikov.
        Sharikov winked and replied: 'Let's go to the circus. I like that best.'
        'Why go to the circus every day?' remarked Philip Philipovich in a good-humoured voice. 'It
    sounds so boring to me. If I were you I'd go to the theatre.'
        'I won't go to the theatre,' answered Sharikov nonchalantly and made the sign of the cross over his mouth.
        'Hiccuping at table takes other people's appetites away,' said Bormenthal automatically. 'If you don't mind my mentioning it... Incidentally, why don't you like the theatre?' Sharikov held his empty glass up to his eye and looked through it as though it were an opera glass. After some thought he pouted and said:
        'Hell, it's just rot . . . talk, talk. Pure counter-revolution.'
        Philip Philipovich leaned against his high, carved gothic