The Shooting Party by Anton Chekhov

Author:Anton Chekhov
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2003-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

XI

An hour later we were all sitting down and having dinner at long tables.

Anyone who was used to the cobwebs, mildew and the uninhibited whooping of gipsies in the Count’s apartments must have found it strange looking at that everyday, pedestrian crowd, now shattering the silence of those ancient, deserted rooms with its banal chatter. That gaily coloured, noisy crowd resembled a flock of starlings that had suddenly flown down to rest for a fleeting moment in a neglected cemetery or (and may that noble bird forgive the comparison!) a flight of migratory storks that had come to roost in their twilight days on the ruins of an abandoned castle.

I sat there, full of loathing for that crowd which was inspecting the decaying wealth of Count Karneyev with such idle curiosity. Those mosaic walls, the moulded ceilings, the luxurious, splendid Persian carpets and rococo furniture aroused delight and amazement. The Count’s mustachioed face continually grinned with a self-satisfied smile. He accepted the rapturous flattery of his guests as something well deserved, although in fact he had not contributed one bit to the riches and luxury of his neglected mansion. On the contrary, he deserved the bitterest reproaches – contempt even – for his barbaric, grossly indifferent attitude to all the wealth assembled by his father and forefathers, which had taken decades rather than days to accumulate! Only the spiritually blind or poor could fail to see on every grey marble slab, in every painting, in every dark corner of the Count’s garden, the sweat, tears and calloused hands of the people whose children now sheltered in those miserable little huts in the Count’s wretched village. And among that vast assembly now seated at the wedding table – wealthy, independent people whom nothing was preventing from uttering the harshest truth – there wasn’t a soul who would have informed the Count that his self-satisfied smile was stupid and inappropriate. Everyone found it necessary to smile obsequiously and sing his praises. If this was ‘elementary’ politeness (we love to lump the blame for many things on politeness and propriety) then I would have preferred ill-mannered louts who eat with their hands, take bread from someone else’s plate at table and blow their noses between two fingers, to those fops.

Urbenin was smiling, but he had his own reasons for that. He smiled obsequiously and respectfully – and happily, like a child. His broad smile was a substitute for the happiness of a dog – a loyal, affectionate dog that had been petted and made happy, and which was wagging its tail now, cheerfully and devotedly, as a token of gratitude.

Like Risler Senior in Alphonse Daudet’s novel,40 beaming and rubbing his hands with pleasure, he gaped at his loving wife and was so overcome with emotion that he could not resist asking himself question after question.

‘Who would have thought that this young beauty would fall in love with an old fogey like me? Surely she could have found someone a little younger and more

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