His colleagues – who had formerly carried the titles of “meritorious,” “ordinary,” and “extraordinary” professors, but were intermingled by this time into one frightened human medley under the general and anonymous name “teaching staff,” without any distinctions in titles or degrees – were astounded at the changes that had occurred in him. Rumors soon began spreading around the university (“Professor Leibe – how shall I put this kindly? – is not quite himself.”). But Professor Leibe’s mental state was the least of the worries for the rectors, who were replacing one another in those years at a truly revolutionary, cavalry speed.
The rectors didn’t concern Professor Leibe, either. Thanks to the egg, he simply didn’t notice them. He met only those he wanted to see at general gatherings that took place every now and then. In the university’s large hall, which glimmered with thousands of candles and a mirror-like parquet floor, friendly rector Dormidontov smiled at him from the presidium’s table as before, bearded philanthropists nodded importantly from their places in the auditorium, and the sovereign emperor squinted, fatherlike, from a claret-colored gilded armchair in the front row, spoiling this deserving educational institute with his fairly frequent visits. Professor Leibe was likely the only one who continued toiling at Imperial Kazan University. All his colleagues had long since moved on to serving at Kazan State University.
And that’s how the egg was.
The professor ended up having to renounce his practice because of the egg. It turned out that the egg and practical medicine were absolutely incompatible. Delivering a lecture or discussing diagnoses was possible even with the shell on his head. But examining a patient certainly required its removal because the professor couldn’t see disease through its thick, merciful walls, instead noting a patient who was extremely well fed and brimming with health.
Leibe initially attempted to engage in a balancing act by taking off the shell for a couple of minutes during an examination then hurriedly putting it back on again, then taking it off again during a follow-up examination. He conducted operations without the egg, but this became genuine torture for him because Volf Karlovich’s psyche, which had become pampered, was wounded by seemingly innocuous remarks made by student observers or those assisting the doctor during the operations. It was in this extraordinary manner that a profession that had previously granted enjoyment and delight unexpectedly became the cause of pain and suffering.
Volf Karlovich quickly sensed that the egg didn’t like this sort of juggling. The egg became lackluster and its shine grew sad and dimmed after yet more rounds at the clinic where it was repeatedly removed from the professor’s head and then replaced. Leibe was even frightened one time after an operation when he noticed hairline fractures on the egg’s smooth surface, but his alarm turned out to be unfounded. He had only to wear the egg without removing it for several days for the fractures to heal. The problem, however, was obvious: the egg was forcing him to make a choice.
The professor chose in favor of the egg. He renounced his practice at the clinic and stopped receiving patients at home. A short while later he left the university department, too, without the slightest regret, since teaching no longer brought as much joy as observing an ideal world through the merciful shell. The grateful egg helped Leibe expunge everything unpleasant from the present as well as the past. His memory was cleared of what was painful and foul, and what had passed became just as bright and cloudless as the present. His own notion was that he remained a respected professor and a practicing surgeon who was successful and in demand. He was of the constant, joyful conviction that he had conducted his latest operation yesterday and would deliver his next lecture tomorrow.
Leibe didn’t notice the changes at his own apartment: loud residents who’d been assigned living quarters and were supplemented by numerous progeny, the disappearance of the greater part of the family silver and furniture, the absence of heating in winter and the switching off of the gas lamps. He lived without leaving his father’s office and he directed the skimpy remnants of his emotional warmth toward his beloved and selfless friend, his one and only faithful companion, the precious egg.
Sometimes he would wake up at night in fear. Had the egg gone away? No, the egg had not gone away. To the contrary, it gradually grew and strengthened, fitting ever more closely on its host and becoming one with him. Walls had grown out of its fairly flat crest – first down to the chest, later to the waist – so now Leibe was more solidly and dependably shut off from the surrounding world. Apparently the egg would soon grow out along the entire length of his body and close up. The professor did not know what would happen after that. Absolute happiness would likely ensue.
From time to time, however, moments did arise that forced Leibe to, well, not to remove the egg, no, but to thrust the tip of his nose out from under the shell for a short while and glance at the true world. Some sort of restless little bell occasionally dinged, high-pitched and alarming, in a little corner of his consciousness. The professor would look around in surprise, thrusting his head out from under the large, dependable egg dome as if he were a turtle that had awakened. What is this? What happened? Most often, the stubborn little bell summoned him to patients. After peering out for an instant, Leibe would see the patient, grow frightened, and immediately pull his head back. But his tenacious brain had already managed to make an initial diagnosis or advance a couple of hypotheses, and then the flywheel of debate would begin to spin. “Stop!” the professor would command himself. And he would try to bury recollections of those moments somewhere in out-of-the-way parts of his memory as quickly as possible. He wished he could have ripped from his head that unbearable little bell that disturbed his peace but he didn’t know where it was located. With time, however, the ringing sounded more rarely and he hoped it would soon abate forever.
The professor and the egg were happy together. Their joint life flowed along, evenly and unhurried, just as inexorably as a billiard ball directed by skilled hands rolls into a pocket. And then, suddenly – the cue’s hard counterblow! – there was the indelicate visit of a young personage in a rapturous state who was, by all appearances, suffering from infertility. This event marked a change in direction for his joint existence with the egg, and Leibe’s life unexpectedly became more varied and full, though no less pleasant. After tiring out a little in his seclusion, the professor enjoyed the changes, observing them through the egg’s solid, transparent walls, which by this time already came to knee level.
The university sent a smart automobile with glistening black finish and chrome handles for him. The interior was stupendously soft and the ride was both smooth and swift.
During the time Leibe was absent from Imperial Kazan University, the building itself had undergone considerable renovations and was nearly unrecognizable. The professor’s experienced eye divined in the harsh new lines of the architecture the remnants of details and contours that were of the past and very dear to his heart: the bend of a formal staircase, a half-removed bas-relief of a two-headed eagle on a wall, the festive patterned layout of a parquet floor, and a crystal chandelier that flashed inside a doorway.