The Bet

It was a dark autumn night. The old banker was pacing up and down his study, remembering a party he had given fifteen years before.

There had been many clever people at that party, and the conversation had turned to the death penalty. Most of the guests thought it was wrong. Some said it should be replaced everywhere by life imprisonment.

"I don't agree," the banker had said. "The death penalty is more humane. Execution kills a man at once. Life imprisonment kills him slowly."

"Both are wrong," said a young lawyer of twenty-five. "But if I had to choose, I would certainly choose prison. To live anyhow is better than not to live at all."

The argument grew heated. The banker, younger then and quick-tempered, banged the table.

"I bet you two million roubles that you couldn't stay locked up alone in a room for five years."

"If you mean it," said the lawyer, "I'll bet I can stay not five years, but fifteen."

"Fifteen? Done!"

The room

So the bet was made. The lawyer would live in a small lodge in the banker's garden, watched day and night. For fifteen years he must not leave it, see anyone or hear a human voice. He could have books, music, wine and anything else he wanted, passed through a little window. But if he left even two minutes early, the bet was lost.

In the first year, the lawyer suffered terribly from loneliness. The piano could be heard day and night. He refused wine, saying it only made him want company. He read light novels and love stories.

In the second year, the piano was silent. He asked only for the classics.

In the fifth year, music was heard again, and he asked for wine. Those who watched him through the window said he did nothing but eat, drink and lie on his bed, yawning and talking angrily to himself. Sometimes at night he wrote for hours, and in the morning tore everything up.

In the second half of the sixth year he began to study, with a passion. He studied languages, philosophy and history, so hungrily that the banker could hardly get the books fast enough. In four years, some six hundred volumes were sent in.

Later he read the Gospels, then the history of religions, then science, then Shakespeare and Byron, as if he were a man shipwrecked in the sea of books, grabbing at one piece of wreckage after another.

The banker's fear

Now the fifteen years were nearly over. Tomorrow at twelve o'clock, the lawyer would be free.

The banker stopped pacing. He was no longer the rich man he had been. He had gambled on the stock exchange, made wild speculations and lost much of his fortune. If he paid two million roubles now, he would be ruined.

"That cursed bet," he muttered. "Why didn't that man die? He's only forty. He'll take my last penny, marry, enjoy life and gamble on the exchange, while I look on like a beggar. No. There is only one way out. He must die."

At three in the morning he took the key to the lodge, crept through the cold, wet garden and let himself in.

The letter

The lawyer sat at the table, asleep. He looked like a skeleton, with long curly hair and a shaggy beard. His face was yellow, his cheeks hollow. His head rested on his arms, and in front of him lay a sheet of paper covered in small handwriting.

"Poor creature," thought the banker. "He's asleep, dreaming of his millions." He began to read.

Tomorrow at twelve o'clock I regain my freedom, the lawyer had written. But before I leave this room, I think it necessary to say a few words to you.

For fifteen years I have studied earthly life. It is true I have not seen the earth or people, but in your books I have drunk wine, sung songs, hunted deer in the forests, loved women. I have climbed mountains and seen the sun rise. I have seen green forests and fields, rivers and lakes and towns. I have heard the singing of the sirens. Your books have given me wisdom.

And I despise your books. I despise wisdom and all the blessings of this world. Everything is worthless, fleeting, like a mirage. You have lost your reason and taken the wrong path. You have exchanged heaven for earth.

To prove to you how I despise all that you live by, I give up the two millions I once dreamed of. To deprive myself of the right to the money, I shall leave this place five hours before the time agreed, and so break the bet.

The banker put down the paper. He kissed the strange man on the head and went out of the lodge, weeping. Never before, not even after his great losses, had he felt such contempt for himself.

In the morning the watchmen came running. The prisoner had climbed out of the window into the garden, gone to the gate and disappeared.

The banker went to the lodge, took the letter from the table and locked it in his safe.

About this story

Anton Chekhov (1860–1904), a doctor as well as a writer, is considered one of the greatest short-story writers who ever lived. This is a shortened retelling, which keeps close to the meaning of the lawyer's letter; the original, in Constance Garnett's English translation, is in the public domain.