Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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rightly so. The coloured streak of light merely got in the way and indicated
that the specimen was out of focus. For this reason it was ruthlessly
eliminated with a single turn of the knob, which spread an even white light
over the plate. The zoologist's long fingers had already tightened on the
knob, when suddenly they trembled and let go. The reason for this was
Persikov's right eye. It tensed, stared in amazement and filled with alarm.
No mediocre mind to burden the Republic sat by the microscope. No, this was
Professor Persikov! All his mental powers were now concentrated in his right
eye. For five minutes or so in petrified silence the higher being observed
the lower one, peering hard at the out-of-focus specimen. There was complete
silence all around. Pankrat had gone to sleep in his cubby-hole in thes
vestibule, and only once there came a far-off gentle and musical tinkling of
glass in cupboards-that was Ivanov going out and locking his laboratory. The
entrance door groaned behind him. Then came the Professor's voice. To whom
his question was addressed no one knows.
"What on earth is that? I don't understand..."
A late lorry rumbled down Herzen Street, making the old walls of the
Institute shake. The shallow glass bowl with pipettes tinkled on the table.
The Professor turned pale and put his hands over the microscope, like a
mother whose child is threatened by danger. There could now be no question
of Persikov turning the knob. Oh no, now he was afraid that some external
force might push what he had seen out of his field of vision.
It was a full white morning with a strip of gold which cut across the
Institute's cream porch when the Professor left the microscope and walked
over to the window on stiff legs. With trembling fingers he pressed a
button, dense black shutters blotted out the morning and a wise scholarly