A.P. Chekhov - The Lottery Ticket
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
"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 panic-stricken 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
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
"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 . . . .
"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
"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 hide it from me. . . . 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
"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 and 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
"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-humoured. "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!"
St. Martin's summer: a period of mild weather occurring in late