by: Anton Pavlovich Chekhov (1860-1904)
IVAN DMITRITCH, a middle-class man who lived with his family
on an income of twelve hundred a year and was very well satisfied with his lot,
sat down on the sofa after supper and began reading the newspaper.
"I forgot to look at the newspaper today," his
wife said to him as she cleared the table. "Look and see whether the list
of drawings is there."
"Yes, it is," said Ivan Dmitritch; "but
hasn't your ticket lapsed?"
"No; I took the interest on Tuesday."
"What is the number?"
"Series 9,499, number 26."
"All right . . . we will look . . . 9,499 and 26."
Ivan Dmitritch had no faith in lottery luck, and would not,
as a rule, have consented to look at the lists of winning numbers, but now, as
he had nothing else to do and as the newspaper was before his eyes, he passed
his finger downwards along the column of numbers. And immediately, as though in
mockery of his scepticism, no further than the second line from the top, his
eye was caught by the figure 9,499! Unable to believe his eyes, he hurriedly
dropped the paper on his knees without looking to see the number of the ticket,
and, just as though some one had given him a douche of cold water, he felt an
agreeable chill in the pit of the stomach; tingling and terrible and sweet!
"Masha, 9,499 is there!" he said in a hollow
voice.
His wife looked at his astonished and panicstricken face,
and realized that he was not joking.
"9,499?" she asked, turning pale and dropping the
folded tablecloth on the table.
"Yes, yes . . . it really is there!"
"And the number of the ticket?"
"Oh yes! There's the number of the ticket too. But stay
. . . wait! No, I say! Anyway, the number of our series is there! Anyway, you
understand...."
Looking at his wife, Ivan Dmitritch gave a broad, senseless
smile, like a baby when a bright object is shown it. His wife smiled too; it
was as pleasant to her as to him that he only mentioned the series, and did not
try to find out the number of the winning ticket. To torment and tantalize
oneself with hopes of possible fortune is so sweet, so thrilling!
"It is our series," said Ivan Dmitritch, after a
long silence. "So there is a probability that we have won. It's only a
probability, but there it is!"
"Well, now look!"
"Wait a little. We have plenty of time to be
disappointed. It's on the second line from the top, so the prize is
seventy-five thousand. That's not money, but power, capital! And in a minute I
shall look at the list, and there--26! Eh? I say, what if we really have
won?"
The husband and wife began laughing and staring at one
another in silence. The possibility of winning bewildered them; they could not
have said, could not have dreamed, what they both needed that seventy-five
thousand for, what they would buy, where they would go. They thought only of
the figures 9,499 and 75,000 and pictured them in their imagination, while
somehow they could not think of the happiness itself which was so possible.
Ivan Dmitritch, holding the paper in his hand, walked several
times from corner to corner, and only when he had recovered from the first
impression began dreaming a little.
"And if we have won," he said--"why, it will
be a new life, it will be a transformation! The ticket is yours, but if it were
mine I should, first of all, of course, spend twenty-five thousand on real
property in the shape of an estate; ten thousand on immediate expenses, new
furnishing . . . travelling . . . paying debts, and so on. . . . The other
forty thousand I would put in the bank and get interest on it."
"Yes, an estate, that would be nice," said his
wife, sitting down and dropping her hands in her lap.
"Somewhere in the Tula or Oryol provinces. . . . In the
first place we shouldn't need a summer villa, and besides, it would always bring
in an income."
And pictures came crowding on his imagination, each more
gracious and poetical than the last. And in all these pictures he saw himself
well-fed, serene, healthy, felt warm, even hot! Here, after eating a summer
soup, cold as ice, he lay on his back on the burning sand close to a stream or
in the garden under a lime-tree. . . . It is hot. . . . His little boy and girl
are crawling about near him, digging in the sand or catching ladybirds in the
grass. He dozes sweetly, thinking of nothing, and feeling all over that he need
not go to the office today, tomorrow, or the day after. Or, tired of lying
still, he goes to the hayfield, or to the forest for mushrooms, or watches the
peasants catching fish with a net. When the sun sets he takes a towel and soap
and saunters to the bathing shed, where he undresses at his leisure, slowly
rubs his bare chest with his hands, and goes into the water. And in the water,
near the opaque soapy circles, little fish flit to and fro and green
water-weeds nod their heads. After bathing there is tea with cream and milk
rolls. . . . In the evening a walk or vint with the neighbors.
"Yes, it would be nice to buy an estate," said his
wife, also dreaming, and from her face it was evident that she was enchanted by
her thoughts.
Ivan Dmitritch pictured to himself autumn with its rains,
its cold evenings, and its St. Martin's summer. At that season he would have to
take longer walks about the garden and beside the river, so as to get
thoroughly chilled, and then drink a big glass of vodka and eat a salted
mushroom or a soused cucumber, and then--drink another. . . . The children
would come running from the kitchen-garden, bringing a carrot and a radish
smelling of fresh earth. . . . And then, he would lie stretched full length on
the sofa, and in leisurely fashion turn over the pages of some illustrated
magazine, or, covering his face with it and unbuttoning his waistcoat, give
himself up to slumber.
The St. Martin's summer is followed by cloudy, gloomy
weather. It rains day and night, the bare trees weep, the wind is damp and
cold. The dogs, the horses, the fowls--all are wet, depressed, downcast. There
is nowhere to walk; one can't go out for days together; one has to pace up and
down the room, looking despondently at the grey window. It is dreary!
Ivan Dmitritch stopped and looked at his wife.
"I should go abroad, you know, Masha," he said.
And he began thinking how nice it would be in late autumn to
go abroad somewhere to the South of France ... to Italy ... to India!
"I should certainly go abroad too," his wife said.
"But look at the number of the ticket!"
"Wait, wait! ..."
He walked about the room and went on thinking. It occurred
to him: what if his wife really did go abroad? It is pleasant to travel alone,
or in the society of light, careless women who live in the present, and not
such as think and talk all the journey about nothing but their children, sigh,
and tremble with dismay over every farthing. Ivan Dmitritch imagined his wife
in the train with a multitude of parcels, baskets, and bags; she would be
sighing over something, complaining that the train made her head ache, that she
had spent so much money.... At the stations he would continually be having to
run for boiling water, bread and butter. ...She wouldn't have dinner because of
its being too dear....
"She would begrudge me every farthing," he
thought, with a glance at his wife. "The lottery ticket is hers, not mine!
Besides, what is the use of her going abroad? What does she want there? She
would shut herself up in the hotel, and not let me out of her sight.... I
know!"
And for the first time in his life his mind dwelt on the
fact that his wife had grown elderly and plain, and that she was saturated
through and through with the smell of cooking, while he was still young, fresh,
and healthy, and might well have got married again.
"Of course, all that is silly nonsense," he
thought; "but...why should she go abroad? What would she make of it? And
yet she would go, of course.... I can fancy.... In reality it is all one to
her, whether it is Naples or Klin. She would only be in my way. I should be
dependent upon her. I can fancy how, like a regular woman, she will lock the
money up as soon as she gets it.... She will look after her relations and
grudge me every farthing."
Ivan Dmitritch thought of her relations. All those wretched
brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles would come crawling about as soon as
they heard of the winning ticket, would begin whining like beggars, and fawning
upon them with oily, hypocritical smiles. Wretched, detestable people! If they
were given anything, they would ask for more; while if they were refused, they
would swear at them, slander them, and wish them every kind of misfortune.
Ivan Dmitritch remembered his own relations, and their
faces, at which he had looked impartially in the past, struck him now as
repulsive and hateful.
"They are such reptiles!" he thought.
And his wife's face, too, struck him as repulsive and
hateful. Anger surged up in his heart against her, and he thought malignantly:
"She knows nothing about money, and so she is stingy.
If she won it she would give me a hundred roubles, and put the rest away under
lock and key."
And he looked at his wife, not with a smile now, but with
hatred. She glanced at him too, and also with hatred and anger. She had her own
daydreams, her own plans, her own reflections; she understood perfectly well
what her husband's dreams were. She knew who would be the first to try to grab
her winnings.
"It's very nice making daydreams at other people's
expense!" is what her eyes expressed. "No, don't you dare!"
Her husband understood her look; hatred began stirring again
in his breast, and in order to annoy his wife he glanced quickly, to spite her
at the fourth page on the newspaper and read out triumphantly:
"Series 9,499, number 46! Not 26!"
Hatred and hope both disappeared at once, and it began
immediately to seem to Ivan Dmitritch and his wife that their rooms were dark
and small and low-pitched, that the supper they had been eating was not doing
them good, but Lying heavy on their stomachs, that the evenings were long and
wearisome. . . .
"What the devil's the meaning of it?" said Ivan
Dmitritch, beginning to be ill-humored. 'Wherever one steps there are bits of
paper under one's feet, crumbs, husks. The rooms are never swept! One is simply
forced to go out. Damnation take my soul entirely! I shall go and hang myself
on the first aspen-tree!"
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