Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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Alexander Semyonovich's seething brain did not quieten down. In Moscow
Feight learned of Persikov's discovery, and in the rooms of Red Paris in
Tverskaya Street Alexander Semyonovich had the brainwave of using the ray to
restore the Republic's poultry in a month. The Animal Husbandry Commission
listened to what he had to say, agreed with him, and Feight took his warrant
to the eccentric scientist.
The concert over the glassy waters, the grove and the park was drawing
to a close, when something happened to cut it short. The dogs in Kontsovka,
who Should have been fast asleep by then, suddenly set up a frenzied
barking, which gradually turned into an excruciating general howl. The howl
swelled up, drifting over the fields, and was answered by a high-pitched
concert from the million frogs on the ponds. All this was so ghastly, that
for a moment the mysterious enchanted night seemed to fade away.
Alexander Semyonovich put down his flute and went onto the veranda.
"Hear that, Manya? It's those blasted dogs... What do you think set
them off like that?"
"How should I know?" she replied, gazing at the moon.
"Hey, Manya, let's go and take a look at the eggs," Alexander
Semyonovich suggested.
"For goodness sake, Alexander Semyonovich. You're darned crazy about
those eggs and chickens. Have a rest for a bit."
"No, Manya, let's go."
A bright light was burning in the conservatory. Dunya came in too with
a burning face and shining eyes. Alexander Semyonovich opened the
observation windows carefully, and they all began peeping into the chambers.
On the white asbestos floor lay neat rows of bright-red eggs with spots on
them. There was total silence in the chambers, except for the hissing of the
15,000 candle-power light overhead.
"I'll hatch those chicks out alright!" exclaimed Alexander Semyonovich