Valerya Begeevain.gallerix.ruLera Begeeva created these illustrations at the age of twenty, and they turned out so wonderful that the Meshcheryakov Publishing House immediately used them to illustrate their edition of Heart of a Dog (and that is saying something). In her profiles on gallery websites, Lera herself modestly writes, "learning to be an artist"—well, there is no limit to perfection, and for our part, we sincerely wish her further success (including in her future approaches to Bulgakov's motifs).
A vast multitude of objects cluttered the wealthy entrance hall.
"Where on earth did you find such a creature, Philip Philipovich?" the woman asked with a smile, helping him take off his heavy fur coat of silver fox with a bluish sheen. "Good heavens! Look how mangy he is!"
The door admitted a peculiar group of visitors. There were four of them all at once. All young people, and all very modestly dressed.
"What do these ones want?" the dog thought in surprise.
Philip Philipovich, having tucked the tail of a stiff napkin behind his collar, preached:
"Food, Ivan Arnoldovich, is a tricky business. One must know how to eat. My good advice to you is—do not talk about Bolshevism or medicine during dinner. And—heaven forbid—do not read Soviet newspapers before dinner."
"Why on earth am I needed?" the dog thought suspiciously. "My side has healed, I don't understand a thing."
And his paws slid across the slippery parquet floor as he was brought into the examination room.
Meanwhile, Sharikov reached for the decanter and, glancing sideways at Bormenthal, poured himself a small glass.
"You ought to offer it to others as well," Bormenthal said.
Sharikov took a long sigh and began fishing for pieces of sturgeon in the thick sauce.
Through the broken window near the ceiling, the face of Polygraph Polygraphovich appeared and poked into the kitchen.
"Have you lost your mind?" Philip Philipovich asked. "Why don't you come out?"
Sharikov himself looked around in anguish and fear, and replied: "I got locked in."
Bormenthal's eyes resembled two black gun barrels aimed point-blank at Sharikov. Without any preamble, he moved toward Sharikov and easily and confidently took him by the throat.
"Help!" squeaked Sharikov, turning pale.
A thin young lady with penciled-in eyes and cream-colored stockings appeared in the apartment, looking highly embarrassed by its magnificence.
"I'm marrying her, she's our typist, she's going to live with me."
"Doctor Bormenthal, be so good as to present Sharik to the investigator," Philip Philipovich ordered, taking possession of the warrant.
Out of the study door bounded a dog of a bizarre quality. He was bald in patches, with fur growing back in others; he came out like a trained circus performer on his hind legs, then dropped onto all fours and looked around. A deathly silence froze in the waiting room.
