The Bet by Anton Chekhov

The Bet  by Anton Chekhov

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 They considered that form of punishment out of date,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 millions 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

millions!"

"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 millions are 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 millions? 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 two millions.

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.

II

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 millions. 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 whic h 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 millions 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.