Classic Short Stories
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.
by Anton Chekhov
"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
"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
"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