Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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night descended on the room. Sallow and inspired, Persikov placed his feet
apart, staring at the parquet floor with his watering eyes, and exclaimed:
"But how can it be? It's monstrous! Quite monstrous, gentlemen," he
repeated, addressing the toads in the terrarium, who were asleep and made no
reply.
He paused, then went over to the button, raised the shutters, turned
out all the lights and looked into the microscope. His face grew tense and
he raised his bushy yellow eyebrows.
"Aha, aha," he muttered. "It's gone. I see. I understand," he drawled,
staring with crazed and inspired eyes at the extinguished light overhead.
"It's simple."
Again he let down the hissing shutters and put on the light. Then
looked into the microscope and grinned happily, almost greedily.
"I'll catch it," he said solemnly and gravely, crooking his finger.
"I'll catch it. Perhaps the sun will do it too."
The shutters shot up once more. Now you could see the sun. It was
shining on the walls of the Institute and slanting down onto the pavements
of Herzen Street. The Professor looked through the window, working out where
the sun would be in the afternoon. He kept stepping back and forwards, doing
a little dance, and eventually lay stomach down on the window-sill.
After that he got down to some important and mysterious work. He
covered the microscope with a bell glass. Then he melted a piece of
sealing-wax in the bluish flame of the Bun-sen burner, sealed the edge of
the glass to the table and made a thumb print on the blobs of wax. Finally
he turned off the gas and went out, locking the laboratory door firmly
behind him.
There was semi-darkness in the Institute corridors.
The Professor reached Pankrat's door and knocked for a long time to no
effect. At last something inside growled like a watchdog, coughed and