An Actor's End

Anton Chekhov

SHTCHIPTSOV, the "heavy father" and "good-hearted simpleton," a tall and thick-set old

man, not so much distinguished by his talents as an actor as by his exceptional physical

strength, had a desperate quarrel with the manager during the performance, and just when

the storm of words was at its height felt as though something had snapped in his chest.

Zhukov, the manager, as a rule began at the end of every heated discussion to laugh

hysterically and to fall into a swoon; on this occasion, however, Shtchiptsov did not remain

for this climax, but hurried home. The high words and the sensation of something ruptured

in his chest so agitated him as he left the theatre that he forgot to wash off his paint, and did

panting and filling the room with fumes of vodka. "Where have you been?"

Shtchiptsov made no answer, but simply stared at the comic man with lustreless eyes, under

which there were smudges of paint.

"You might at least have washed your phiz!" Sigaev went on. "You are a disgraceful sight!

Have you been boozing, or . . . are you ill, or what? But why don't you speak? I am asking

you: are you ill?"

Shtchiptsov did not speak. In spite of the paint on his face, the comic man could not help

noticing his striking pallor, the drops of sweat on his forehead, and the twitching of his lips.

His hands and feet were trembling too, and the whole huge figure of the "good-natured

simpleton" looked somehow crushed and flattened. The comic man took a rapid glance

"I wa-ant to go home," muttered Shtchiptsov.

"But you are at home now, aren't you?"

"No. . . . To Vyazma. . . ."

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you want to go and see your daddy and mummy? I'll be bound, they've kicked the bucket

years ago, and you won't find their graves. . . ."

"My ho-ome's there."

"Come, it's no good giving way to the dismal dumps. These neurotic feelings are the limit,

old man. You must get well, for you have to play Mitka in 'The Terrible Tsar' to-morrow.

There is nobody else to do it. Drink something hot and take some castor-oil? Have you got

the money for some castor-oil? Or, stay, I'll run and buy some."

The comic man fumbled in his pockets, found a fifteen-kopeck piece, and ran to the

chemist's. A quarter of an hour later he came back.

"Come, drink it," he said, holding the bottle to the "heavy father's" mouth. "Drink it straight

away in some land in which there were neither baths nor laundresses nor tailors. . . .

"I hear you are ill?" he said to Shtchiptsov, twirling round on his heel. "What's wrong with

you? What's wrong with you, really? . . ."

Shtchiptsov did not speak nor stir.

"Why don't you speak? Do you feel giddy? Oh well, don't talk, I won't pester you . . . don't

talk. . . ."

Brama-Glinsky (that was his stage name, in his passport he was called Guskov) walked

away to the window, put his hands in his pockets, and fell to gazing into the street. Before

his eyes stretched an immense waste, bounded by a grey fence beside which ran a perfect

forest of last year's burdocks. Beyond the waste ground was a dark, deserted factory, with

window-pane. "And what do you want to go to Vyazma for?"

"I want to die there."

"What next! Now he's dying! He has fallen ill for the first time in his life, and already he

fancies that his last hour is come. . . . No, my boy, no cholera will carry off a buffalo like

you. You'll live to be a hundred. . . . Where's the pain?"

"There's no pain, but I . . . feel . . ."

"You don't feel anything, it all comes from being too healthy. Your surplus energy upsets

you. You ought to get jolly tight -- drink, you know, till your whole inside is topsy-turvy.

Getting drunk is wonderfully restoring. . . . Do you remember how screwed you were at

Rostov on the Don? Good Lord, the very thought of it is alarming! Sashka and I together

could only just carry in the barrel, and you emptied it alone, and even sent for rum

afterwards. . . . You got so drunk you were catching devils in a sack and pulled a lamp-post

up by the roots. Do you remember? Then you went off to beat the Greeks. . . ."

"What are you crying for?"

"At Kherson I killed a horse with my fists. And at Taganrog some roughs fell upon me at

night, fifteen of them. I took off their caps and they followed me, begging: 'Uncle, give us

back our caps.' That's how I used to go on."

"What are you crying for, then, you silly?"

"But now it's all over . . . I feel it. If only I could go to Vyazma!"

A pause followed. After a silence Shtchiptsov suddenly jumped up and seized his cap. He

looked distraught.

"And the money for the journey?"

old man. . . . First thing, go to bed, then drink some brandy and tea to put you into a sweat.

Brama-Glinsky thought a minute, then made up his mind to go to a shopkeeper called

Madame Tsitrinnikov to try and get it from her on tick: who knows? perhaps the woman

would feel for them and let them have it. The jeune premier went off, and half an hour later

returned with a bottle of brandy and some castor-oil. Shtchiptsov was sitting motionless, as

before, on the bed, gazing dumbly at the floor. He drank the castor-oil offered him by his

friend like an automaton, with no consciousness of what he was doing. Like an automaton

he sat afterwards at the table, and drank tea and brandy; mechanically he emptied the whole

bottle and let the jeune premier put him to bed. The latter covered him up with a quilt and

an overcoat, advised him to get into a perspiration, and went away.

The night came on; Shtchiptsov had drunk a great deal of brandy, but he did not sleep. He

lay motionless under the quilt and stared at the dark ceiling; then, seeing the moon looking

in at the window, he turned his eyes from the ceiling towards the companion of the earth,

me as good . . . er . . . And, besides, comrades can never get on without words. You called

me all sorts of names . . . and have gone at me with your fists too, and yet I am fond of you!

Upon my soul, I am. I respect you and am fond of you! Explain, my angel, why I am so

fond of you. You are neither kith nor kin nor wife, but as soon as I heard you had fallen ill it

cut me to the heart."

was so overcome by his feelings that he began laughing hysterically, and was even meaning

to fall into a swoon, but, probably remembering that he was not at home nor at the theatre,

put off the swoon to a more convenient opportunity and went away.

Soon after him Adabashev, the tragic actor, a dingy, short-sighted individual who talked

through his nose, made his appearance. . . . For a long while he looked at Shtchiptsov, for a

long while he pondered, and at last he made a discovery.

assuming a mysterious expression. "Do you know what? You ought to have a dose of

twenty cups and several little flasks.

"You should have sent for me and I would have cupped you long ago," he said, tenderly

Thereupon Rigoletto stroked the broad chest of the "heavy father" and covered it all over

with suction cups.

"Yes . . ." he said, as after this operation he packed up his paraphernalia, crimson with

Shtchiptsov's blood. "You should have sent for me, and I would have come. . . . You needn't

trouble about payment. . . . I do it from sympathy. Where are you to get the money if that

idol won't pay you? Now, please take these drops. They are nice drops! And now you must

have a dose of this castor-oil. It's the real thing. That's right! I hope it will do you good.

Well, now, good-bye. . . ."

Rigoletto took his parcel and withdrew, pleased that he had been of assistance to a fellow-

creature.

you see . . . you see, old man, that's not the thing! Excuse me, but . . . it's positively

stupid. . . ."

"To go to Vyazma! My God, to Vyazma!"

"I . . . I did not expect it of you," the comic man muttered, utterly distracted. "What the

giant as tall as a watch-tower, and crying. Is it the thing for actors to cry?"

"No wife nor children," muttered Shtchiptsov. "I ought not to have gone for an actor, but

have stayed at Vyazma. My life has been wasted, Semyon! Oh, to be in Vyazma!"

"Aie . . . aie . . . aie! . . . that's not the thing! You see, it's stupid . . . contemptible indeed!"

their expense, and so on, but the sick man did not listen and kept muttering about Vyazma. .

approvingly.

Towards evening he died.

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