A Story Without an End

"A Story Without an End" by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov is a poignant and introspective short story that explores the complexities of human emotions and relationships. The narrative centers around a conversation between two characters, delving into themes of love, existential uncertainty, and the search for meaning in life. Chekhov's signature style is evident in his use of irony and subtle humor, revealing the often unresolved nature of personal struggles and the myriad of thoughts that linger in the human psyche. The story ultimately raises questions about the nature of storytelling itself and the limitations of endings, reflecting Chekhov's mastery in capturing the intricacies of everyday life.

								
SOON after two o'clock one night, long ago, the cook, pale and agitated,
rushed unexpectedly into my study and informed me that Madame Mimotih,
the old woman who owned the house next door, was sitting in her kitchen.

"She begs you to go in to her, sir . . ." said the cook, panting.
"Something bad has happened about her lodger. . . . He has shot himself
or hanged himself. . . ."

"What can I do?" said I. "Let her go for the doctor or for the police!"

"How is she to look for a doctor! She can hardly breathe, and she has
huddled under the stove, she is so frightened. . . . You had better go
round, sir."

I put on my coat and hat and went to Madame Mimotih's house. The gate
towards which I directed my steps was open. After pausing beside it,
uncertain what to do, I went into the yard without feeling for the
porter's bell. In the dark and dilapidated porch the door was not
locked. I opened it and walked into the entry. Here there was not a
glimmer of light, it was pitch dark, and, moreover, there was a marked
smell of incense. Groping my way out of the entry I knocked my elbow
against something made of iron, and in the darkness stumbled against a
board of some sort which almost fell to the floor. At last the door
covered with torn baize was found, and I went into a little hall.

I am not at the moment writing a fairy tale, and am far from intending
to alarm the reader, but 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, standing in a row, threw a scanty light on the faded slate-
coloured wallpaper. A coffin was standing on two tables in the middle of
the little room. The two candles served only to light up a swarthy
yellow face with a half-open mouth and sharp nose. Billows of muslin
were mingled in disorder from the face to the tips of the two shoes, and
from among the billows peeped out two pale motionless hands, holding a
wax cross. The dark gloomy corners of the little drawing-room, the ikons
behind the coffin, the coffin itself, everything except the softly
glimmering lights, were still as death, as the tomb itself.

"How strange!" I thought, dumbfoundered by the unexpected panorama of
death. "Why this haste? The lodger has hardly had time to hang himself,
or shoot himself, and here is the coffin already!"

I looked round. On the left there was a door with a glass panel; on the
right a lame hat-stand with a shabby fur coat on it. . . .

"Water. . . ." I heard a moan.

The moan came from the left, beyond the door with the glass panel. I
opened the door and walked into a little dark room with a solitary
window, through which there came a faint light from a street lamp
outside.

"Is anyone here?" I asked.

And without waiting for an answer I struck a match. This is what I saw
while it was burning. A man was sitting on the blood-stained floor at my
very feet. If my step had been a longer one I should have trodden on
him. With his legs thrust forward and his hands pressed on the floor, he
was making an effort to raise his handsome face, which was deathly pale
against his pitch-black beard. In the big eyes which he lifted upon me,
I read unutterable terror, pain, and entreaty. A cold sweat trickled in
big drops down his face. That sweat, the expression of his face, the
trembling of the hands he leaned upon, his hard breathing and his
clenched teeth, showed that he was suffering beyond endurance. Near his
right hand in a pool of blood lay a revolver.

"Don't go away," I heard a faint voice when the match had gone out.
"There's a candle on the table."

I lighted the candle and stood still in the middle of the room not
knowing what to do next. I stood and looked at the man on the floor, and
it seemed to me that I had seen him before.

"The pain is insufferable," he whispered, "and I haven't the strength to
shoot myself again. Incomprehensible lack of will."

I flung off my overcoat and attended to the sick man. Lifting him from
the floor like a baby, I laid him on the American-leather covered sofa
and carefully undressed him. He was shivering and cold when I took off
his clothes; the wound which I saw was not in keeping either with his
shivering nor the expression on his face. It was a trifling one. The
bullet had passed between the fifth and sixth ribs on the left side,
only piercing the skin and the flesh. I found the bullet itself in the
folds of the coat-lining near the back pocket. Stopping the bleeding as
best I could and making a temporary bandage of a pillow-case, a towel,
and two handkerchiefs, I gave the wounded man some water and covered him
with a fur coat that was hanging in the passage. We neither of us said a
word while the bandaging was being done. I did my work while he lay
motionless looking at me with his eyes screwed up as though he were
ashamed of his unsuccessful shot and the trouble he was giving me.

"Now I must trouble you to lie still," I said, when I had finished the
bandaging, "while I run to the chemist and get something."

"No need!" he muttered, clutching me by the sleeve and opening his eyes
wide.

I read terror in his eyes. He was afraid of my going away.

"No need! Stay another five minutes . . . ten. If it doesn't disgust
you, do stay, I entreat you."

As he begged me he was trembling and his teeth were chattering. I
obeyed, and sat down on the edge of the sofa. Ten minutes passed in
silence. I sat silent, looking about the room into which fate had
brought me so unexpectedly. What poverty! This man who was the possessor
of a handsome, effeminate face and a luxuriant well-tended beard, had
surroundings which a humble working man would not have envied. A sofa
with its American-leather torn and peeling, a humble greasy-looking
chair, a table covered with a little of paper, and a wretched oleograph
on the wall, that was all I saw. Damp, gloomy, and grey.

"What a wind!" said the sick man, without opening his eyes, "How it
whistles!"

"Yes," I said. "I say, I fancy I know you. Didn't you take part in some
private theatricals in General Luhatchev's villa last year?"

"What of it?" he asked, quickly opening his eyes.

A cloud seemed to pass over his face.

"I certainly saw you there. Isn't your name Vassilyev?"

"If it is, what of it? It makes it no better that you should know me."

"No, but I just asked you."

Vassilyev closed his eyes and, as though offended, turned his face to
the back of the sofa.

"I don't understand your curiosity," he muttered. "You'll be asking me
next what it was drove me to commit suicide!"

Before a minute had passed, he turned round towards me again, opened his
eyes and said in a tearful voice:

"Excuse me for taking such a tone, but you'll admit I'm right! To ask a

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