A man I know recommended Chekhov’s “The Bet” to me the other day. He added his own summary. Everything in life was meaningless and empty, money meant nothing, and so we might as well go live in a cave, where dinner would depend on his catlike hunting skills. I laughed. I will admit the cat part really got me. But the line stayed with me longer than I expected, partly because I have heard versions of it many times, and partly because the story he chose says almost the opposite.

For those who haven’t read it, Chekhov wrote it in 1889. At a dinner party, a banker and a young lawyer argue over whether the death penalty is crueler than life imprisonment. The lawyer says he would choose prison over death any day. The banker bets two million rubles that he couldn’t last fifteen years in solitary confinement. The lawyer accepts, and he actually does it. He plays the piano at first, then reads novels, then languages, philosophy, history, the Gospels, theology. Years pass. Near the end he writes the banker a letter saying that everything people chase is a mirage, that he despises all of it, and that he renounces the money. Five hours before the deadline he climbs out the window and disappears.

It is tempting to read this as the moment a man becomes wise. When I was younger, I........

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