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IVAN DMITRITCH, a middle-class man who lived with his family on anincome of twelve hundred a year and was very well satisfied withhis lot, sat down on the sofa after supper and began reading thenewspaper.

"I forgot to look at the newspaper today," his wife said to him asshe cleared the table. "Look and see whether the list of drawingsis 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 arule, have consented to look at the lists of winning numbers, butnow, as he had nothing else to do and as the newspaper was beforehis eyes, he passed his finger downwards along the column ofnumbers. And immediately, as though in mockery of his scepticism,no further than the second line from the top, his eye was caught bythe figure 9,499! Unable to believe his eyes, he hurriedly droppedthe paper on his knees without looking to see the number of theticket, and, just as though some one had given him a douche of coldwater, 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, andrealized that he was not joking.

"9,499?" she asked, turning pale and dropping the folded tableclothon 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, youunderstand...."

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 theseries, and did not try to find out the number of the winningticket. To torment and tantalize oneself with hopes of possiblefortune is so sweet, so thrilling!

"It is our series," said Ivan Dmitritch, after a long silence. "Sothere 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 onthe second line from the top, so the prize is seventy-fivethousand. That's not money, but power, capital! And in a minute Ishall look at the list, and there--26! Eh? I say, what if we reallyhave won?"

The husband and wife began laughing and staring at one another insilence. The possibility of winning bewildered them; they could nothave said, could not have dreamed, what they both needed thatseventy-five thousand for, what they would buy, where they wouldgo. They thought only of the figures 9,499 and 75,000 and picturedthem in their imagination, while somehow they could not think ofthe happiness itself which was so possible.

Ivan Dmitritch, holding the paper in his hand, walked several timesfrom corner to corner, and only when he had recovered from thefirst impression began dreaming a little.

"And if we have won," he said--"why, it will be a new life, it willbe a transformation! The ticket is yours, but if it were mine Ishould, first of all, of course, spend twenty-five thousand on realproperty in the shape of an estate; ten thousand on immediateexpenses, new furnishing . . . travelling . . . paying debts, andso on. . . . The other forty thousand I would put in the bank andget interest on it."

"Yes, an estate, that would be nice," said his wife, sitting downand dropping her hands in her lap.

"Somewhere in the Tula or Oryol provinces. . . . In the first placewe shouldn't need a summer villa, and besides, it would alwaysbring in an income."

And pictures came crowding on his imagination, each more graciousand poetical than the last. And in all these pictures he sawhimself well-fed, serene, healthy, felt warm, even hot! Here, aftereating a summer soup, cold as ice, he lay on his back on theburning sand close to a stream or in the garden under a lime-tree.. . . It is hot. . . . His little boy and girl are crawling aboutnear him, digging in the sand or catching ladybirds in the grass.He dozes sweetly, thinking of nothing, and feeling all over that heneed 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 formushrooms, or watches the peasants catching fish with a net. Whenthe sun sets he takes a towel and soap and saunters to the bathingshed, where he undresses at his leisure, slowly rubs his bare chestwith his hands, and goes into the water. And in the water, near theopaque soapy circles, little fish flit to and fro and greenwater-weeds nod their heads. After bathing there is tea with creamand milk rolls. . . . In the evening a walk or vint with theneighbors.

"Yes, it would be nice to buy an estate," said his wife, alsodreaming, and from her face it was evident that she was enchantedby her thoughts.

Ivan Dmitritch pictured to himself autumn with its rains, its coldevenings, and its St. Martin's summer. At that season he would haveto take longer walks about the garden and beside the river, so asto get thoroughly chilled, and then drink a big glass of vodka andeat a salted mushroom or a soused cucumber, and then--drinkanother. . . . The children would come running from thekitchen-garden, bringing a carrot and a radish smelling of freshearth. . . . And then, he would lie stretched full length on thesofa, and in leisurely fashion turn over the pages of someillustrated magazine, or, covering his face with it and unbuttoninghis waistcoat, give himself up to slumber.

The St. Martin's summer is followed by cloudy, gloomy weather. Itrains day and night, the bare trees weep, the wind is damp andcold. The dogs, the horses, the fowls--all are wet, depressed,downcast. There is nowhere to walk; one can't go out for daystogether; one has to pace up and down the room, lookingdespondently 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 goabroad somewhere to the South of France . . . to Italy . . . toIndia!

"I should certainly go abroad too," his wife said. "But look at thenumber 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 travelalone, or in the society of light, careless women who live in thepresent, and not such as think and talk all the journey aboutnothing but their children, sigh, and tremble with dismay overevery farthing. Ivan Dmitritch imagined his wife in the train witha multitude of parcels, baskets, and bags; she would be sighingover something, complaining that the train made her head ache, thatshe had spent so much money. . . . At the stations he wouldcontinually 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 glanceat his wife. "The lottery ticket is hers, not mine! Besides, whatis the use of her going abroad? What does she want there? She wouldshut 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 thathis wife had grown elderly and plain, and that she was saturatedthrough and through with the smell of cooking, while he was stillyoung, fresh, and healthy, and might well have got married again.

"Of course, all that is silly nonsense," he thought; "but . . . whyshould she go abroad? What would she make of it? And yet she wouldgo, of course. . . . I can fancy. . . . In reality it is all one toher, whether it is Naples or Klin. She would only be in my way. Ishould be dependent upon her. I can fancy how, like a regularwoman, she will lock the money up as soon as she gets it. . . . Shewill look after her relations and grudge me every farthing."

Ivan Dmitritch thought of her relations. All those wretchedbrothers and sisters and aunts and uncles would come crawling aboutas soon as they heard of the winning ticket, would begin whininglike beggars, and fawning upon them with oily, hypocritical smiles.Wretched, detestable people! If they were given anything, theywould ask for more; while if they were refused, they would swear atthem, slander them, and wish them every kind of misfortune.

Ivan Dmitritch remembered his own relations, and their faces, atwhich he had looked impartially in the past, struck him now asrepulsive 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 thoughtmalignantly:

"She knows nothing about money, and so she is stingy. If she won itshe would give me a hundred roubles, and put the rest away underlock 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 herown daydreams, her own plans, her own reflections; she understoodperfectly well what her husband's dreams were. She knew who wouldbe the first to try to grab her winnings.

"It's very nice making daydreams at other people's expense!" iswhat her eyes expressed. "No, don't you dare!"

Her husband understood her look; hatred began stirring again in hisbreast, and in order to annoy his wife he glanced quickly, to spiteher 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 immediatelyto seem to Ivan Dmitritch and his wife that their rooms were darkand small and low-pitched, that the supper they had been eating wasnot doing them good, but Lying heavy on their stomachs, that theevenings 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 ofpaper under one's feet, crumbs, husks. The rooms are never swept!One is simply forced to go out. Damnation take my soul entirely! Ishall go and hang myself on the first aspen-tree!"