AN ACTOR'S END

An Actor's End

Did he die from an overdose of castor oil?

I know. Something snapped in Shtchiptsov the actor's chest. So we must presume it's a heart condition. Literally or figuratively. Maybe his heart just gave out. Or what snapped in his chest during the argument with the manager was a realization his life was a waste. He had no wife. No children. And all that acting to entertain audiences -- but to what end?

At some point in life you may have a realization, a satori, where one sees clearly what life is all about. During those moments you could very well decide that most of what you've done has not amounted to much. This is especially true if you are an artist -- where sacrifice is to be expected.

Acting in Chekhov's day (and nothing has changed much)  -- unless you were famous -- is a profession where you would be struggling financially -- what kept you going was the love for the craft -- however even love has its limits. And the old man Shtchiptsov might have reached his limit.

He has a chance to reminisce with his fellow thespians about his adventures and through these memories we see the glory and hollowness of his life.

There must have been times when Shtchiptsov must've felt he was on top of the world -- strong, powerful and admired. He had given up the warmth of family and home. The comfort of routines and an ordinary job -- the laugh of his children -- the feeling of belonging to a community. However, he was traveling around -- doing something he loved -- meeting different people -- being part of a troupe -- every night a chance to be up on the stage and become transformed -- energized by the magic of theater. Was it a fair trade?

Yes and no. Many nights he probably experienced the wariness of the road -- the emptiness of coming back to a strange room and being all alone. Tired. Unloved. Only a bottle of booze by his side.

The old man has seen it all. He now wants to go to Vyazma. To die there. But as Thomas Wolfe once wrote: You can't go home again.

Shtchiptsov may have felt like a failure in his last days and never got to go back home -- but how can one sum up his life?

Well let us leave the final words to Thomas Wolfe:
"If a man has talent and can't use it, he's failed. If he uses only half of it, he has partly failed. If he uses the whole of it, he has succeeded, and won a satisfaction and triumph few men ever know."