THE SHOOTING PARTY. Антон ЧеховЧитать онлайн книгу.
leave this dirty atmosphere, having first opened the Count’s eyes to the unlimited antipathy I felt for him… There was a moment when I was ready to rise and depart… But I did not go away… I was prevented (I’m ashamed to confess it!) by physical laziness…
‘Give me a glass of vodka, too!’ I said to Il’ya.
Long shadows began to be cast on the avenue and on the open space where we were sitting…
The distant croaking of frogs, the cawing of crows and the singing of orioles greeted the setting of the sun. A gay evening was just beginning…
‘Tell Urbenin to sit down,’ I whispered to the Count. ‘He’s standing before you like a boy.’
‘Oh, I never thought of that! Pëtr Egorych,’ the Count addressed his bailiff, ‘sit down, please! Why are you standing there?’
Urbenin sat down, casting a grateful glance at me. He who was always healthy and gay appeared to me now to be ill and dull. His face seemed wrinkled and sleepy, his eyes looked at us lazily and as if unwillingly.
‘Well, Pëtr Egorych, what’s new here? Any pretty girls, eh?’ Karnéev asked him. isn’t there something special… something out of the common?’
‘It’s always the same, your Excellency…’
‘Are there no new… nice little girls, Pëtr Egorych?’
The virtuous Pëtr Egorych blushed.
‘I don’t know, your Excellency… I don’t occupy myself with that’
‘There are, your Excellency,’ broke in the deep bass voice of one-eyed Kuz’ma, who had been silent all the time. ‘And quite worth notice, too.’
‘Are they pretty?’
‘There are all sorts, your Excellency, for all tastes… There are dark ones and fair ones - all sorts…’
‘O, ho! Stop a minute… I remember you now… My former Leporello, a sort of secretary… Your name’s Kuz’ma, I think?’
‘Yes, your Excellency…’
‘I remember, I remember… Well, and what have you now in view? Something new, all peasant girls?’
‘Mostly peasants, of course, but there are finer ones, too…’
‘Where have you found finer ones…’ Il’ya asked, winking at Kuz’ma.
‘At Easter the postman’s sister-in-law came to stay with him… Nastasia Ivanovna… A girl all on springs. She’s good enough to eat, but money is wanted… Cheeks like peaches, and all the rest as good… There’s something finer than that, too. It’s only waiting for you, your Excellency. Young, plump, jolly… a beauty! Such a beauty, your Excellency, as you’ve scarcely found in Petersburg…’
‘Who is it?’
‘Olenka, the forester Skvortsov’s daughter.’
Urbenin’s chair cracked under him. Supporting himself with his hands on the table, purple in the face, the bailiff rose slowly and turned towards the one-eyed Kuz’ma. The expression on his face of dullness and fatigue had given place to one of great anger.
‘Hold your tongue, serf!’ he grumbled. ‘One-eyed vermin! Say what you please, but don’t talk about respectable people!’
‘I’m not speaking of you, Pëtr Egorych,’ Kuz’ma said imperturbably.
‘I’m not talking about myself, blockhead! Besides… Forgive me, your Excellency,’ the bailiff turned to the Count, ‘forgive me for making a scene, but I would beg your Excellency to forbid your Leporello, as you were pleased to call him, to extend his zeal to persons who are worthy of all respect!’
‘I don’t understand…’ the Count lisped naively. ‘He has said nothing very offensive.’
Insulted and excited to a degree, Urbenin went away from the table and stood with his side towards us. With his arms crossed on his breast and his eyes blinking, hiding his purple face from us behind the branches of the bushes, he stood plunged in thought.
Had not this man a presentiment that in the near future his moral feelings would have to suffer offences a thousand times more bitter?
‘I don’t understand what has offended him!’ the Count whispered in my ear. ‘What a caution! There was nothing offensive in what was said.’
After two years of sober living, the glass of vodka acted on me in a slightly intoxicating manner. A feeling of lightness, of pleasure, was diffused in my brain and through my whole body. Added to this, I began to feel the coolness of evening, which little by little was supplanting the sultriness of the day. I proposed to take a stroll. The Count and his new Polish friend had their coats brought from the house, and we set off. Urbenin followed us.
CHAPTER III
The Count’s gardens in which we were walking demand special description for their lushness and splendour. From a botanical or an economical point of view, and in many other ways, they are richer and grander than any other gardens I have ever seen. Besides the avenue already mentioned with its green vaults, you found in them everything that capricious indulgence can demand from pleasure gardens. You found here every variety of indigenous and foreign fruit tree, beginning with the wild cherry and plum and finishing with apricots that were the size of a goose’s egg. You came across mulberry trees, barberry bushes, and even olive trees at every step… Here there were half-ruined, moss-grown grottoes, fountains, little ponds destined for goldfish and tame carp, hillocks, pavilions and costly conservatories… And all this rare luxury which had been collected by the hands of grandfathers and fathers, all this wealth of large, full roses, poetical grottoes and endless avenues had been barbarously abandoned, given over to thieves who attacked the trees with their axes, and to the rooks who unceremoniously built their ugly nests on the branches of rare trees! The lawful possessor of all this wealth walked beside me, and the muscles of his lean, satiated face were no more moved by the sight of this neglect, this crying human slovenliness, than if he had not been the owner of these gardens. Once only, by way of making some remark, he said to his bailiff that it would not be a bad thing if the paths were sanded. He noticed the absence of the sand that troubled nobody else, but not the bare trees that had been frozen in the hard winters, or the cows that were walking about in the garden. In reply to his remark, Urbenin said it would require ten men to keep the garden in order, and as his Excellency was not pleased to reside on his estate, the outlay on the garden would be a useless and unproductive luxury. The Count, of course, agreed with this argument.
‘Besides, I must confess I have no time for it!’ Urbenin said with a wave of the hand. ‘All the summer in the fields, and in winter selling the corn in town… There’s no time for gardens here!’
The charm of the principal, the so-called ‘main avenue’, consisted in its old broad-spreading limes, and in the masses of tulips that stretched out in two variegated borders at each side of its length and finished at the end in a yellow stone pavilion, which at one time had contained a refreshment room, billiards, skittles and other games. We wandered, somewhat aimlessly, towards this pavilion. At its door we were confronted by a reptile whose appearance somewhat unsettled the nerves of my companion, who was never very courageous.
‘A snake!’ the Count shrieked, seizing me by the hand and turning pale. ‘Look!’
The Pole stepped back, and then stood stock still with his arms outstretched as if he wanted to bar the way for the apparition. On the upper step of the crumbling stone stair there lay a young snake of our ordinary Russian species. When it saw us it raised its head and moved. The Count shrieked again and hid behind me.
‘Don’t be afraid, your Excellency…’ Urbenin said lazily as he placed his foot on the first