A Story Without an End (Chekhov)
Short summary
Late one night, a cook informed the narrator that a neighbor's lodger had attempted suicide. The narrator reluctantly went to help and found a funeral in progress in one room and a wounded man named Vassilyev in another. Vassilyev had shot himself in the chest but survived.
The narrator bandaged Vassilyev's wound and stayed with him through the night. Vassilyev revealed that the funeral was for his wife, Zina. Despite his pain, he philosophized about suicide and human suffering. The next morning, Vassilyev insisted on attending his wife's funeral despite his injury.
A year later, the narrator finished writing this story while Vassilyev was in his drawing room, entertaining ladies and enjoying himself. When shown the story, Vassilyev acknowledged how quickly he had recovered from his despair.
One would have thought the imprint made on a man by his agonies would have been everlasting, never to be effaced or eradicated. And yet that imprint wears out as easily as a pair of cheap boots. There is nothing left, not a scrap.
Vassilyev returned to the drawing room, whistling and straightening his tie, while the narrator looked after him with regret for the lost intensity of that terrible night.
Detailed summary
Division into chapters is editorial.
The narrators encounter with Madame Mimotih and a dead body
Shortly after two o'clock one night, the narrator was unexpectedly visited by his cook, who appeared pale and agitated. She informed him that Madame Mimotih, the elderly woman who owned the neighboring house, was sitting in her kitchen and requesting his presence. Apparently, something terrible had happened to her lodger, who had either shot or hanged himself.
Despite his initial reluctance, the narrator put on his coat and went to Madame Mimotih's house. He entered through the unlocked door and made his way through the dark entry, where he detected the smell of incense. Upon reaching a small drawing room, he was confronted with a startling sight: a coffin containing a body with a swarthy yellow face, surrounded by candles.
The picture I saw from the passage was fantastic and could only have been drawn by death. Straight before me was a door leading to a little drawing room. Three five-kopeck wax candles... threw a scanty light on the faded wallpaper.
Finding the wounded Vassilyev and providing first aid
Confused by the presence of a coffin so soon after the reported suicide, the narrator continued his exploration of the house. Through a door with a glass panel, he heard a moan. Upon entering the room and striking a match, he discovered a man sitting on the bloodstained floor. The man had a handsome face with a pitch-black beard, and his eyes expressed terror, pain, and entreaty. Near his right hand lay a revolver in a pool of blood.
The wounded man explained that he lacked the strength to shoot himself again. The narrator removed his overcoat and attended to him, lifting him onto a sofa and examining his wound. It was surprisingly minor - the bullet had only pierced the skin and flesh between his ribs. After creating a temporary bandage from available materials and giving the man water, the narrator covered him with a fur coat from the passage. Throughout this process, they remained silent, with Vassilyev appearing ashamed of his unsuccessful suicide attempt.
Vassilyevs philosophical monologue about suicide
When the narrator suggested going to the chemist for supplies, Vassilyev clutched his sleeve and begged him to stay. The narrator observed the poor surroundings of this handsome, well-groomed man - just a torn sofa, a greasy chair, a paper-covered table, and a cheap oleograph on the wall. As they sat in silence, Vassilyev commented on the howling wind outside. The narrator recognized him from private theatricals at General Luhatchev's villa the previous year.
Vassilyev became defensive when the narrator identified him, assuming he would ask about his suicide attempt. He launched into a philosophical discourse about the psychological subtleties of suicide, claiming that no one truly understands the reasons behind such acts. He argued that the same reason that drives someone to suicide one day might seem worthless the next, and that external factors like light or the presence of another person could dramatically change one's desire to die.
Man will never understand the psychological subtleties of suicide! How can one speak of reasons? Today the reason makes one snatch up a revolver, while tomorrow the same reason seems not worth a rotten egg.
When the narrator suggested that Vassilyev was posing, he admitted it was possible, challenging the narrator to explain how someone could shoot himself and then pose shortly afterward. Despite his philosophical banter, Vassilyev's pale face and evident suffering revealed the gravity of his condition. In the background, they could hear Madame Mimotih reading religious texts in the drawing room where the coffin lay.
Half an hour ago I shot myself, and just now I am posing... Explain that if you can. These last words Vassilyev pronounced in a faint, failing voice. He was exhausted, and sank into silence.
The funeral procession and Vassilyevs suffering
Vassilyev spoke bitterly about the upcoming funeral, describing the dreary procession through mud and rain, with time dragging endlessly. He reflected on the dramatic change in his life, from happiness the previous year to his current despair. When the narrator left for the chemist's, he returned to find Vassilyev had torn off his bandages and was bleeding from the reopened wound. The narrator spent the night restoring him to consciousness as Vassilyev raved in delirium.
In the morning, despite the narrator's advice to stay home, Vassilyev insisted on attending the funeral. He walked bareheaded and silent behind the coffin all the way to the cemetery, struggling with each step and occasionally clutching his wounded side. His face showed complete apathy, except for one moment when he noticed a misspelled sign and expressed contempt for the ignorance it represented.
Epilogue: Vassilyev one year later
One year after these events, Vassilyev was in the narrator's drawing room, playing piano and showing ladies how provincial misses sing sentimental songs. He was laughing and enjoying himself, having barely worn out the boots in which he had followed his wife's coffin through the mud. When the narrator called him into his study and asked him to read the story of that night, Vassilyev's face grew increasingly grave as he read, until he turned terribly pale.
After finishing the story, Vassilyev began pacing the room. When asked how it should end, he looked at himself, his new fashionable suit, heard the ladies laughing, and began laughing himself. He declared that his past sufferings had left no trace, comparing the impermanence of emotional pain to cheap boots wearing out. He praised nature for its "transmutation of substances," suggesting that if humans retained agonizing memories forever, life would be unbearable.
It's absurd and pitiful, my friend, pitiful and absurd, but what's to be done? Homo sum... And I praise Mother Nature all the same for her transmutation of substances. If we retained an agonising memory of toothache...
As Vassilyev returned to the drawing room, the narrator looked after him with a sense of regret. He found himself missing Vassilyev's past suffering and all that he had felt for the man on that terrible night. It was as though he had lost something valuable.