The Shooting Party

by Anton Chekhov

  Her dream came tr— although not on Sto—*

  Having abandoned all hope of getting to sleep, I got up and sat on my bed. The gentle murmur of the rain gradually turned into the angry roar that I loved so dearly when my heart was free from fear and anger. But now that roar appeared menacing; one thunderclap followed the other.

  ‘A husband murdered his wife!’ squawked the parrot.

  Those were its last words. Closing my eyes in abject fear, I groped in the darkness for the cage and hurled it into the corner.

  ‘To hell with you!’ I shouted, hearing the crash of the cage and the parrot’s screeching.

  That poor, noble bird! The flight into the corner had cost it dear. Next day its cage contained a cold corpse. Why had I killed it? If it was its favourite phrase about the husband who murdered his wife that rem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .†

  When she handed over the flat, my predecessor Pospelov’s mother made me pay for all the furniture – even for the photographs of people I didn’t know. But she wouldn’t take one copeck for the valuable parrot. On the evening of her departure for Finland she spent the whole night bidding her noble bird farewell. I remember the sobbing and lamentations that accompanied this valediction. I remember her tears when she asked me to look after her friend until her return. I gave her my word of honour that her parrot would not regret making my acquaintance. And I had not kept my word: I had killed the bird. I can imagine what the old crone would have said if she had found out about the fate of her squawker!

  XX

  Someone tapped cautiously on my window. The little house where I lived stood on a road that was right on the edge of the village and I often used to hear tapping on my window, especially in bad weather when travellers were looking for somewhere to stay the night. This time it was no traveller tapping on the window. When I went over to it and waited until the lightning flashed, I saw the dark outline of some tall, thin man. He was standing in front of the window and seemed to be shivering from the cold. I opened the window.

  ‘Who’s there? What do you want?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s me, Sergey Petrovich,’ came that plaintive voice in which people who are chilled to the marrow and terribly frightened tend to speak. ‘It’s me. I’ve come to see you, old chap.’

  That dark silhouette’s plaintive voice I was amazed to recognize as that of my friend Dr Pavel Ivanovich. I was baffled by this visit from Screwy, who normally led a regular life and who always went to bed before midnight. What could have prompted him to break his rules and turn up at my place at two o’clock in the morning – and in such bad weather into the bargain!

  ‘What do you want?’ I asked, in my heart of hearts consigning that unexpected visitor to hell.

  ‘I’m sorry, old chap. I wanted to knock on the door but your Polikarp must surely be sleeping like a log now. So I decided to tap on the window.’

  ‘Well, what do you want?’

  Pavel Ivanovich came closer to the window and mumbled something incomprehensible. He was shaking and seemed to be drunk.

  ‘I’m listening!’ I said, losing patience.

  ‘I can see you’re getting angry, but… if you only knew everything that’s happened you wouldn’t lose your temper over such trifles as having your sleep disturbed and being visited at this unsociable hour. There’s no time for sleeping now! Oh, my God! I’ve lived thirty years in this world and today is the first time I’ve been so dreadfully unhappy! I’m so unhappy, Sergey Petrovich!’

  ‘Ah… but what on earth’s happened? And what’s it got to do with me? I can barely stand up… I don’t feel like seeing anyone right now.’

  ‘Sergey Petrovich,’ Screwy said in a tearful voice, in the darkness holding out to my face a hand that was wet with rain. ‘You’re an honest man! You’re my friend!’

  And then I heard a man weeping: it was the doctor.

  ‘Go home, Pavel Ivanovich!’ I said after a short silence. ‘I can’t talk just now. My state of mind scares me – and yours as well. We won’t understand each other…’

  ‘My dear chap,’ the doctor pleaded. ‘Marry her!’

  ‘You’re out of your mind!’ I said, slamming the window.

  After the parrot the doctor was next to suffer from my tantrums: I hadn’t invited him in and I’d shut the window in his face. These were two boorish outbursts for which I would have challenged even a woman to a duel.* But that meek, inoffensive Screwy had no idea about duels. He didn’t even know the meaning of ‘angry’.

  Two minutes later there was a flash of lightning and as I looked through the window I could see the bent figure of my visitor. This time he was in a pleading posture, as expectant as a beggar seeking charity. No doubt he was waiting for me to forgive him and let him have his say.

  Fortunately my conscience pricked me. I felt sorry for myself, sorry that Nature had implanted so much cruelty and vileness in me. My base soul was as hard as stone – just like my healthy body…* I went to the window and opened it.

  ‘Come in!’ I said.

  ‘There’s no time! Every moment is precious! Poor Nadya has poisoned herself, she has a doctor constantly at her bedside. We just managed to save the poor girl… Isn’t that a calamity? And all you can do is ignore me and slam the window!’

  ‘All the same… is she still alive?’

  ‘ “All the same”! That’s no way to talk about unfortunate wretches, my good friend! Who would have thought that this clever, honest creature would want to depart this life because of a fellow like the Count? No, my friend, unfortunately for men, women cannot be perfect! However clever a woman may be, whatever imperfections she may be endowed with, there’s still some immovable force within her that prevents both herself and others from living. Take Nadezhda for example… Why did she do it? Vanity, simply vanity! Morbid vanity! Just to wound you she thought she would marry the Count. She needed neither his money nor his position. She merely wanted to satisfy her monstrous vanity. And suddenly she met with failure! You know that his wife has arrived. That old roué turns out to be married! And they say women have more staying-power, that they can take things better than men! But where’s her staying-power if she resorts to sulphur matches for such a pathetic reason? That’s not staying-power – it’s sheer vanity!’

  ‘You’ll catch cold!’

  ‘What I’ve just witnessed is worse than any cold… Those eyes, that pallor… ah! Unsuccessful suicide has now been added to unsuccessful love, to an unsuccessful attempt to spite you. It’s difficult to imagine a greater misfortune! My dear chap, if you have one ounce of pity if… if you could see her… well, why shouldn’t you go to her? You did love her! But even if you don’t love her any more why not sacrifice some of your time for her? Human life is precious – one could give everything for it! Save her life!’

  There was a violent bang on my door. I shuddered. My heart was bleeding… I don’t believe in presentiments, but on this occasion I was not alarmed for nothing. Someone out in the street was knocking on my door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I shouted out of the window.

  ‘I’ve come to see yer ’onner!’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve a letter from the Count, yer ’onner. Someone’s bin murdered!’

  A dark figure wrapped in a sheepskin coat came up to the window, cursing the weather as he handed me a letter. I quickly stepped away from the window, lit the candle and read the following:

  ‘For God’s sake drop everything and come at once! Olga’s been murdered. I’m in a dead panic and now I go out of my mind.

  Yours A. K.’

  Olga murdered! That brief phrase made my head spin and I saw black. I sat on the bed and let my hands drop to my sides – I just didn’t have the strength to think about it.

  ‘Is that you, Pavel Ivanych?’ I heard the messenger’s voice. ‘I was just on my way to you. I’ve a letter for you too.’

  XXI

  Five minutes
later Screwy and I were driving in a covered carriage to the Count’s estate. The rain beat on the carriage roof, ahead there were constant, blinding flashes of lightning. We could hear the roar of the lake…

  The last act of the drama was beginning and two of its characters were driving off to witness a heart-rending spectacle.

  ‘Well, what do you think is in store for us?’ I asked Pavel Ivanych on the way.

  ‘I just can’t imagine… I simply don’t know…’

  ‘I don’t know either…’

  ‘As Hamlet once regretted that the Lord of heaven and earth had forbidden the sin of suicide,51 so I regret now that fate made me a doctor. I deeply regret it!’

  ‘And I fear that my turn might come to regret that I’m an investigating magistrate,’ I said. ‘If the Count hasn’t confused murder with suicide and Olga has actually been murdered, then my poor nerves really will suffer!’

  ‘You could refuse the case…’

  I looked questioningly at Pavel Ivanych, but I could of course detect nothing, because it was so dark. How did he know that I could refuse the case? I was Olga’s lover, but who knew about it except Olga herself – yes, and perhaps Pshekhotsky, who had once accorded me his applause?

  ‘Why do you think I can refuse?’ I asked Screwy.

  ‘Well, you might become ill, or retire… None of that would be dishonourable – not by a long chalk – because there’s someone to take your place. But a doctor’s position is quite different.’

  ‘Is that all?’ I wondered.

  After a long, killing journey over clayey soil the carriage finally came to a halt at the entrance. Directly above it there were brightly lit windows and through the last one on the right, in Olga’s bedroom, a light faintly glimmered; but all the others were like dark patches. On the stairs we were met by Owlet. She peered at me with her tiny, piercing eyes and her wrinkled face creased into an evil, mocking smile.

  ‘There’s a nice little surprise in store for you!’ her eyes said. She was probably thinking that we had come on a drinking spree and didn’t know that the house had been struck by disaster.

  ‘Let me recommend this woman for your attention,’ I told Pavel Ivanych, pulling off the old crone’s bonnet to reveal a completely bald head. ‘This old witch is ninety, dear chap. If you and I had to perform an autopsy on this specimen one day we’d reach very different conclusions. You would find senile atrophy of the brain, whereas I’d convince you that she’s the cleverest, craftiest creature in the whole district. A devil in petticoats!’

  I was stunned when I entered the room. The scene that met me was completely unexpected. All the chairs and sofas were occupied. Groups were standing in the corners and by the windows too. Where could they have come from? If someone had told me earlier that I’d meet these people here I would have laughed my head off. Their presence was so improbable, so out of place in the Count’s house at the very time when, perhaps, the dead or dying Olga was lying in one of the rooms. It was the head gipsy Karpov’s choir from the London restaurant – the same choir with which the reader will be familiar from one of the earlier chapters. When I entered, my old friend Tina detached herself from one of the groups and on recognizing me she cried out for joy. A smile spread over her pale, dark-complexioned face when I gave her my hand and tears flowed from her eyes – she wanted to tell me something. But she couldn’t speak for tears and I didn’t manage to extract one word from her. I turned to the other gipsies and they explained their presence as follows. That morning the Count had sent a telegram to town with instructions for the whole choir – in its full complement – to be at the Count’s house by nine o’clock that same evening without fail. They had obeyed these ‘instructions’, caught the train and by eight o’clock they were already in the ballroom. ‘And we had visions of bringing pleasure to His Excellency and his gentlemen guests. We know so many new songs! And suddenly…’

  And suddenly a peasant had come tearing up on horseback with the news that a brutal murder had been committed at the shooting party and with orders to prepare a bed for Olga. They hadn’t believed this peasant, as he was as drunk as a pig. But when noises were heard on the stairs and a dark body was carried across the ballroom, there was no further room for doubt.

  ‘And now we don’t know what to do… We can’t stay here… when there’s a priest around it’s time for cheerful people to clear off. Besides, all the girls are upset and crying. They can’t stay in a house where there’s a corpse! We want to leave, but they won’t give us any horses. Mr Count is ill in bed and won’t see anyone and the servants just laugh at us when we ask for horses. We can’t walk in this weather, on such a dark night! And generally speaking the servants are terribly rude! When we asked for a samovar for the ladies they told us to go to hell.’

  All these complaints culminated in a tearful appeal to my magnanimity. Couldn’t I see that they were given carriages, so that they could get out of that damned house?

  ‘If the horses haven’t been stabled and if the coachmen haven’t been sent out somewhere else, you’ll be able to get away,’ I said. ‘I’ll give instructions.’

  For those poor devils in buffoons’ costumes, who were used to swaggering about with great panache and bravado, those glum faces and hesitant poses were quite out of character. My promise to arrange for them to be taken to the station roused their spirits somewhat. Male whispers turned into loud talk and the women stopped crying.

  And then, as I made my way to the Count’s study through a whole series of dark, unlit rooms, I peeped through one of the numerous doorways and a deeply moving sight met my eyes. At a table, by the hissing samovar, sat Sozya and her brother Pshekhotsky. Dressed in a light blouse, but still wearing those same bracelets and rings, Sozya was sniffing a scent bottle and languidly, delicately, sipping from a cup. Her eyes were red from weeping. Probably the incident at the shooting party had completely shattered her nerves and ruined her state of mind for some time to come. As wooden-faced as ever, Pshekhotsky was drinking his tea in large gulps from the saucer and telling his sister something. Judging from his mentor-like expression and gestures, he was trying to calm her and persuade her to stop crying.

  Needless to say, I found the Count emotionally in tatters. That flabby, feeble man had grown thinner and more pinched-looking than ever. He was pale and his lips trembled feverishly; his head was bound with a white handkerchief, whose sharp vinegary smell filled the whole room. When I entered he leapt up from the sofa where he was lying and dashed towards me, the folds of his dressing-gown wrapped tightly around him.

  ‘Ah? Ah?’ he began, trembling and in a choking voice. ‘Well?’

  After emitting several vague sounds he pulled me by the sleeve over to the sofa and after waiting for me to sit down pressed against me like a small, frightened dog and began pouring out his troubles.

  ‘Who would have expected it, eh?… Just a moment, dear chap, I want to wrap myself in this rug, I feel feverish… The poor girl’s been murdered. And how barbarously! She’s still alive, but the local doctor says she’ll die tonight. A terrible day! Then my wife suddenly turns up out of the blue, damn and blast her – that was my most unfortunate mistake! I was drunk when I got married in St Petersburg, Seryozha. I hid this from you, as I felt ashamed. But now she’s here – and you can see what she’s like. I just take one look and I blame myself! Oh, that damned weakness of mine! Under the influence of the moment and vodka I’m capable of doing anything you like! My wife’s arrival is the first little present, the scandal with Olga is the second. Now I’m waiting for the third… I know that something else will happen… I know! I shall go out of my mind!’

  After a good cry, three glasses of vodka and calling himself an ass, layabout and drunkard the Count described the drama that had taken place at the shooting party, his tongue faltering from emotion. What he told me was roughly as follows:

  About twenty or thirty minutes after I’d left, when my astonishment at Sozya’s arrival had somewhat subsided and when, aft
er meeting all the assembled company, Sozya started acting like a true madam, suddenly everyone heard a piercing, heartrending shriek. It came from the direction of the forest and was echoed four times. It was so unusual that those who heard it leapt to their feet, dogs barked and horses pricked up their ears. It was an unnatural cry, but the Count managed to detect in it a woman’s voice. It was resonant with despair and horror. Women who see a ghost or witness the sudden death of a child must surely shriek like that. The alarmed guests looked at the Count and the Count at them. For three minutes, deathly silence reigned.

  While the guests were surveying each other without a word, the coachmen and lackeys ran towards the place where the shriek had come from. The first messenger of woe was the old footman Ilya. He came running out of the forest to the clearing, his face pale, his pupils dilated: he wanted to tell us something but he was so breathless and agitated it was some time before he could utter a word. Finally, taking a grip and crossing himself he said:

  ‘The young lady’s been murdered!’

  What young lady? Who murdered her? But Ilya gave no reply to these questions. The role of second messenger fell to someone whom they had not been expecting and whose appearance stunned them completely. The sudden appearance and the look of this man were truly startling. When the Count saw him and remembered that Olga had been wandering around in the forest, his heart sank and his legs gave way from some terrible foreboding.

  It was Pyotr Yegorych Urbenin, the Count’s former manager and Olga’s husband. At first the company had heard heavy footsteps and the crackle of brushwood. It was as if a bear were making its way to the forest edge. But then the massive bulk of the unfortunate Pyotr Urbenin appeared. As he came out into the clearing and saw the company, he took one step back and stood as if rooted to the spot. For about two minutes he said nothing and did not budge, thus giving everyone the chance to take a good look at him. He was wearing his everyday grey waistcoat and trousers that were already pretty threadbare. He was hatless and his tousled hair clung to his sweaty forehead and temples. On this occasion his face – normally crimson and often deep purple – was pale. His eyes looked around dementedly, with an unnaturally wide stare, and his lips and hands were trembling.