The Bet; A short story
by Anton Chekhov
The Best Short Story I Have ever read.................
It was a dark autumn night. The old banker was
walking up and down his study and remembering how, fifteen years before, he had
given a party one autumn evening. There had been many clever men there, and
there had been interesting conversations. Among other things they had talked of
capital punishment. The majority of the guests, among whom were many
journalists and intellectual men, disapproved of the death penalty. They
considered that form of punishment out of date, immoral, and unsuitable for
Christian States. In the opinion of some of them the death penalty ought to be
replaced everywhere by imprisonment for life. "I don't agree with
you," said their host the banker. "I have not tried either the death
penalty or imprisonment for life, but if one may judge a priori, the death penalty is more moral and more humane than imprisonment for
life. Capital punishment kills a man at once, but lifelong imprisonment kills
him slowly. Which executioner is the more humane, he who kills you in a few
minutes or he who drags the life out of you in the course of many years?"
"Both are equally
immoral," observed one of the guests, "for they both have the same
object - to take away life. The State is not God. It has not the right to take
away what it cannot restore when it wants to."
Among the guests was a
young lawyer, a young man of five-and-twenty. When he was asked his opinion, he
said:
"The death
sentence and the life sentence are equally immoral, but if I had to choose
between the death penalty and imprisonment for life, I would certainly choose
the second. To live anyhow is better than not at all."
A lively discussion
arose. The banker, who was younger and more nervous in those days, was suddenly
carried away by excitement; he struck the table with his fist and shouted at
the young man:
"It's not true!
I'll bet you two million you wouldn't stay in solitary confinement for five
years."
"If you mean that
in earnest," said the young man, "I'll take the bet, but I would stay
not five but fifteen years."
"Fifteen?
Done!" cried the banker. "Gentlemen, I stake two million!"
"Agreed! You stake
your millions and I stake my freedom!" said the young man.
And this wild,
senseless bet was carried out! The banker, spoilt and frivolous, with millions
beyond his reckoning, was delighted at the bet. At supper he made fun of the
young man, and said:
"Think better of
it, young man, while there is still time. To me two million is a trifle, but
you are losing three or four of the best years of your life. I say three or
four, because you won't stay longer. Don't forget either, you unhappy man, that
voluntary confinement is a great deal harder to bear than compulsory. The thought
that you have the right to step out in liberty at any moment will poison your
whole existence in prison. I am sorry for you."
And now the banker,
walking to and fro, remembered all this, and asked himself: "What was the
object of that bet? What is the good of that man's losing fifteen years of his
life and my throwing away two million? Can it prove that the death penalty is better
or worse than imprisonment for life? No, no. It was all nonsensical and
meaningless. On my part it was the caprice of a pampered man, and on his part
simple greed for money ..."
Then he remembered what
followed that evening. It was decided that the young man should spend the years
of his captivity under the strictest supervision in one of the lodges in the
banker's garden. It was agreed that for fifteen years he should not be free to
cross the threshold of the lodge, to see human beings, to hear the human voice,
or to receive letters and newspapers. He was allowed to have a musical
instrument and books, and was allowed to write letters, to drink wine, and to
smoke. By the terms of the agreement, the only relations he could have with the
outer world were by a little window made purposely for that object. He might
have anything he wanted - books, music, wine, and so on - in any quantity he
desired by writing an order, but could only receive them through the window.
The agreement provided for every detail and every trifle that would make his
imprisonment strictly solitary, and bound the young man to stay there exactly fifteen
years, beginning from twelve o'clock of November 14, 1870, and ending at twelve
o'clock of November 14, 1885. The slightest attempt on his part to break the
conditions, if only two minutes before the end, released the banker from the
obligation to pay him the two million.
For the first year of
his confinement, as far as one could judge from his brief notes, the prisoner
suffered severely from loneliness and depression. The sounds of the piano could
be heard continually day and night from his lodge. He refused wine and tobacco.
Wine, he wrote, excites the desires, and desires are the worst foes of the
prisoner; and besides, nothing could be more dreary than drinking good wine and
seeing no one. And tobacco spoilt the air of his room. In the first year the
books he sent for were principally of a light character; novels with a
complicated love plot, sensational and fantastic stories, and so on.
In the second year the
piano was silent in the lodge, and the prisoner asked only for the classics. In
the fifth year music was audible again, and the prisoner asked for wine. Those
who watched him through the window said that all that year he spent doing
nothing but eating and drinking and lying on his bed, frequently yawning and
angrily talking to himself. He did not read books. Sometimes at night he would
sit down to write; he would spend hours writing, and in the morning tear up all
that he had written. More than once he could be heard crying.
In the second half of
the sixth year the prisoner began zealously studying languages, philosophy, and
history. He threw himself eagerly into these studies - so much so that the
banker had enough to do to get him the books he ordered. In the course of four
years some six hundred volumes were procured at his request. It was during this
period that the banker received the following letter from his prisoner:
"My dear Jailer, I
write you these lines in six languages. Show them to people who know the
languages. Let them read them. If they find not one mistake I implore you to
fire a shot in the garden. That shot will show me that my efforts have not been
thrown away. The geniuses of all ages and of all lands speak different
languages, but the same flame burns in them all. Oh, if you only knew what
unearthly happiness my soul feels now from being able to understand them!"
The prisoner's desire was fulfilled. The banker ordered two shots to be fired
in the garden.
Then after the tenth
year, the prisoner sat immovably at the table and read nothing but the Gospel.
It seemed strange to the banker that a man who in four years had mastered six
hundred learned volumes should waste nearly a year over one thin book easy of
comprehension. Theology and histories of religion followed the Gospels.
In the last two years
of his confinement the prisoner read an immense quantity of books quite
indiscriminately. At one time he was busy with the natural sciences, then he
would ask for Byron or Shakespeare. There were notes in which he demanded at
the same time books on chemistry, and a manual of medicine, and a novel, and
some treatise on philosophy or theology. His reading suggested a man swimming
in the sea among the wreckage of his ship, and trying to save his life by
greedily clutching first at one spar and then at another.
The old banker remembered all this, and thought:
"To-morrow at
twelve o'clock he will regain his freedom. By our agreement I ought to pay him
two million. If I do pay him, it is all over with me: I shall be utterly ruined."
Fifteen years before,
his millions had been beyond his reckoning; now he was afraid to ask himself
which were greater, his debts or his assets. Desperate gambling on the Stock
Exchange, wild speculation and the excitability which he could not get over
even in advancing years, had by degrees led to the decline of his fortune and
the proud, fearless, self-confident millionaire had become a banker of middling
rank, trembling at every rise and fall in his investments. "Cursed
bet!" muttered the old man, clutching his head in despair "Why didn't
the man die? He is only forty now. He will take my last penny from me, he will
marry, will enjoy life, will gamble on the Exchange; while I shall look at him
with envy like a beggar, and hear from him every day the same sentence: 'I am
indebted to you for the happiness of my life, let me help you!' No, it is too
much! The one means of being saved from bankruptcy and disgrace is the death of
that man!"
It struck three
o'clock, the banker listened; everyone was asleep in the house and nothing
could be heard outside but the rustling of the chilled trees. Trying to make no
noise, he took from a fireproof safe the key of the door which had not been
opened for fifteen years, put on his overcoat, and went out of the house.
It was dark and cold in
the garden. Rain was falling. A damp cutting wind was racing about the garden,
howling and giving the trees no rest. The banker strained his eyes, but could
see neither the earth nor the white statues, nor the lodge, nor the trees.
Going to the spot where the lodge stood, he twice called the watchman. No
answer followed. Evidently the watchman had sought shelter from the weather,
and was now asleep somewhere either in the kitchen or in the greenhouse.
"If I had the
pluck to carry out my intention," thought the old man, "Suspicion
would fall first upon the watchman."
He felt in the darkness
for the steps and the door, and went into the entry of the lodge. Then he
groped his way into a little passage and lighted a match. There was not a soul
there. There was a bedstead with no bedding on it, and in the corner there was
a dark cast-iron stove. The seals on the door leading to the prisoner's rooms
were intact.
When the match went out
the old man, trembling with emotion, peeped through the little window. A candle
was burning dimly in the prisoner's room. He was sitting at the table. Nothing
could be seen but his back, the hair on his head, and his hands. Open books
were lying on the table, on the two easy-chairs, and on the carpet near the
table.
Five minutes passed and
the prisoner did not once stir. Fifteen years' imprisonment had taught him to
sit still. The banker tapped at the window with his finger, and the prisoner
made no movement whatever in response. Then the banker cautiously broke the
seals off the door and put the key in the keyhole. The rusty lock gave a
grating sound and the door creaked. The banker expected to hear at once
footsteps and a cry of astonishment, but three minutes passed and it was as quiet
as ever in the room. He made up his mind to go in.
At the table a man
unlike ordinary people was sitting motionless. He was a skeleton with the skin
drawn tight over his bones, with long curls like a woman's and a shaggy beard.
His face was yellow with an earthy tint in it, his cheeks were hollow, his back
long and narrow, and the hand on which his shaggy head was propped was so thin
and delicate that it was dreadful to look at it. His hair was already streaked
with silver, and seeing his emaciated, aged-looking face, no one would have
believed that he was only forty. He was asleep ... In front of his bowed head
there lay on the table a sheet of paper on which there was something written in
fine handwriting.
"Poor creature!"
thought the banker, "he is asleep and most likely dreaming of the
millions. And I have only to take this half-dead man, throw him on the bed,
stifle him a little with the pillow, and the most conscientious expert would
find no sign of a violent death. But let us first read what he has written here
... "
The banker took the
page from the table and read as follows:
"To-morrow at
twelve o'clock I regain my freedom and the right to associate with other men,
but before I leave this room and see the sunshine, I think it necessary to say
a few words to you. With a clear conscience I tell you, as before God, who
beholds me, that I despise freedom and life and health, and all that in your
books is called the good things of the world.
"For fifteen years
I have been intently studying earthly life. It is true I have not seen the
earth nor men, but in your books I have drunk fragrant wine, I have sung songs,
I have hunted stags and wild boars in the forests, have loved women ...
Beauties as ethereal as clouds, created by the magic of your poets and
geniuses, have visited me at night, and have whispered in my ears wonderful
tales that have set my brain in a whirl. In your books I have climbed to the
peaks of Elburz and Mont Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and
have watched it at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops with
gold and crimson. I have watched from there the lightning flashing over my head
and cleaving the storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes,
towns. I have heard the singing of the sirens, and the strains of the
shepherds' pipes; I have touched the wings of comely devils who flew down to
converse with me of God ... In your books I have flung myself into the
bottomless pit, performed miracles, slain, burned towns, preached new
religions, conquered whole kingdoms ...
"Your books have
given me wisdom. All that the unresting thought of man has created in the ages
is compressed into a small compass in my brain. I know that I am wiser than all
of you.
"And I despise
your books, I despise wisdom and the blessings of this world. It is all
worthless, fleeting, illusory, and deceptive, like a mirage. You may be proud,
wise, and fine, but death will wipe you off the face of the earth as though you
were no more than mice burrowing under the floor, and your posterity, your
history, your immortal geniuses will burn or freeze together with the earthly
globe.
"You have lost
your reason and taken the wrong path. You have taken lies for truth, and
hideousness for beauty. You would marvel if, owing to strange events of some
sorts, frogs and lizards suddenly grew on apple and orange trees instead of
fruit, or if roses began to smell like a sweating horse; so I marvel at you who
exchange heaven for earth. I don't want to understand you.
"To prove to you
in action how I despise all that you live by, I renounce the two million of
which I once dreamed as of paradise and which now I despise. To deprive myself
of the right to the money I shall go out from here five hours before the time
fixed, and so break the compact ..."
When the banker had
read this he laid the page on the table, kissed the strange man on the head,
and went out of the lodge, weeping. At no other time, even when he had lost heavily
on the Stock Exchange, had he felt so great a contempt for himself. When he got
home he lay on his bed, but his tears and emotion kept him for hours from
sleeping.
Next morning the
watchmen ran in with pale faces, and told him they had seen the man who lived
in the lodge climb out of the window into the garden, go to the gate, and
disappear. The banker went at once with the servants to the lodge and made sure
of the flight of his prisoner. To avoid arousing unnecessary talk, he took from
the table the writing in which the millions were renounced, and when he got
home locked it up in the fireproof safe.
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