“The Privy Councillor” is a funny but also deadly serious story about a small-town family being upended by a visit from a relative who has risen far above his modest beginnings.
The visitor is the privy councillor, a foppish, citified, quivering dandy. We never learn his name; the narrator, his 14-year-old nephew, only refers to him as “my uncle” or “the privy councillor.” The locals hope to gain advantages by the presence of this supposedly august visitor, or at the least to have thoughtful conversations about current affairs. But the privy councillor barely shows his face to anyone; he shuts himself up in his rooms and works through the day. Whenever he emerges, he is mainly interested in observing their rustic lives and habits. “Upon my soul!” he exclaims – over flowers, a pretty girl, a fulsome attempt to make conversation – “Isn’t that charming!”
Oblivious to the disappointment that he has caused, the privy councillor falls in love (in a sorta kinda way) with the wife of the bailiff, or manager of the family lands. The bailiff’s nickname is “The Devil,” so the privy councillor’s attentions lead to violence, and the story concludes with the city slicker making a quick retreat from the country. As a parting piece of rudeness, he fails to recognize his own nephew–the son of his hostess–as he skedaddles out the door.
The tale is a tad heavy-handed but the descriptions of life on the farm – and the ways in which the privy councillor upsets the natural order of things – are fantastic.
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The tensions between city slickers and rural folk are regular theme for Chekhov. “The New Villa” explores the mistrust and misunderstanding country and city folk have for and of each other. It’s a brilliant, complicated story, long enough to feel deeply rooted in its country setting.
A Chekhov Circus 