伊凡·德米特里奇是個家道小康的人，每年全家要花銷一千二百盧布，向來對自己的命運十分滿意。一天晚飯后，他往沙發上一坐，開始讀起報來。
“今天我忘了看報，”他的妻子收拾著飯桌說，“你看看，那上面有沒有開彩的號碼？”
“阿，有，”伊凡·德米特里奇回答，“難道你的彩票沒有抵押出去？”
“沒有，星期二我還取過利息的。”
“多少號？”
“９４９９組，２６號。”
“好的，太太……讓我來查一查……９４９９－２６。”
伊凡·德米特里奇向來不相信彩票能帶來好運，換了別的時間說什么也不會去查看開彩的單子，但此刻他閒來無事，再說報紙就在眼前，于是他伸出食 指，從上而下逐一查對彩票的組號。像是嘲笑他的沒有信心，就在上面數起的第二行，９４９９號赫然跳入眼帘！他不急著看票號，也沒有再核對一遍，立即把報紙 往膝頭上一放，而且，像有人往他肚子上潑了一瓢冷水，他感到心窩里有一股令人愉悅的涼意：痒酥酥，顫悠悠，甜滋滋！
“瑪莎，有９４９９號！”他悶聲悶气地說。
妻子瞧著他那張惊愕的臉，明白他不是開玩笑。
“是９４９９號嗎？”她臉色發白，忙問，把疊好的桌布又放到桌上。
“沒錯，沒錯……當真有的！”
“那么票號呢？”
“啊，對了！還有票號。不過，先別忙……等一等。先不看，怎么樣？反正我們的組號對上了！反正，你明白……”
伊凡·德米特里奇望著妻子，咧開嘴傻笑著，倒像一個小孩子在看一樣閃光的東西。妻子也是笑容滿面：看到他只讀出組號，卻不急于弄清這張帶來好運的票號，她跟他一樣心里喜滋滋的。抱著能交上好運的希望，惜此折磨并刺激一下自己，那是多么甜美而又惊心動魄！
“有我們的組號，”伊凡·德米特里奇沉默很久后才說，“這么看來，我們有可能中彩。盡管只是可能，但畢竟大有希望！”
“行了，你快看看票號吧！”
“忙什么，待會儿來得及大失所望的！這號從上而下是第二行，這么說彩金有七万五呢。這不是錢，這是實力，是資本！等我一對號，看到上面有--二十六！啊？你听著，要是我們真的中了彩，那會怎么樣？”
夫婦二人開始笑逐顏開，默默地對視了很長時間。可能交上好運的想法弄得他們暈暈糊糊，他們甚至不能想象，不能說出，他們二人要這七万五盧布干 什么用，他們要買什么東西，上哪儿去旅游。他們一心只想著兩個數字：９４９９和７５０００，在各自的想象中描畫它們，至于可能實現的幸福本身，不知怎么他 們倒沒有想到。
伊凡·德米特里奇手里拿著那份報紙，在兩個屋角之間來回走了几趟，直到從最初的感受中平靜下來，才開始有點想入非非。
“要是我們真的中了彩，那會怎么樣？”他說，“這可是嶄新的生活，這可是時來運轉！彩票是你的，如果是我的，那么我首先，當然啦，花上二万五買下一份類似庄園的不動產；花一万用于一次性開銷：添置新家具，再外出旅游，還債等等。余下的四万五全存進銀行吃利息……”
“對，買座庄園，這是好主意，”妻子說，索性坐下來，把雙手放在膝上。
“在圖拉省或者奧爾洛夫省選一處好地方……首先，就不必再置消夏別墅；其次，庄園總歸會有收益。”
于是他開始浮想連翩，那畫面一幅比一幅更誘人，更富于詩意。在所有這些畫面中，他發現自己都大腹便便，心平气和，身強力壯，他感到溫暖，甚至 嫌熱了。瞧他，剛喝完一盤冰冷的雜拌濃湯，便挺著肚子躺在小河旁熱乎乎的沙地上，或者花園里的椴樹下……好熱……一雙小儿女在他身旁爬來爬去，挖著沙坑， 或者在草地里捉小甲虫。他舒舒服服地打著盹，万事不想，整個身心都感覺到，不管今天、明天，還是后天，他都不必去上班。等躺得厭煩了，他就去割割草，或者 去林子里采蘑菇，或者去看看農夫們怎樣用大魚网撈魚。等到太陽西下，他就拿著浴巾和肥皂，慢悠悠地走進岸邊的更衣房，在那里不慌不忙地脫掉衣服，用手掌長 時間地摩擦著赤裸的胸脯，然后跳進水里。而在水里，在那些暗銀色的肥皂波紋附近，有小魚游來游去，有綠色的水草搖搖擺擺。洗完澡就喝奶茶，吃點奶油雞蛋甜 面包……晚上便去散步，或者跟鄰居們玩玩文特１。
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１一种牌戲。
“對，買上一座庄園就好，”妻子說，她也在幻想著，看她的臉色可知，她想得都痴迷了。
伊凡·德米特里奇又暗自描畫出多雨的秋天，那些寒冷的晚上，以及晴和的初秋景色。在這种時候，他要有意識地到花園里、菜園里、河岸邊多多散 步，以便好好經一經凍，之后喝上一大杯伏特加，吃點腌松乳菇或者茴香油拌的小黃瓜，之后--再來一杯。孩子們從菜園子里跑回家，拖來了不少胡蘿卜和青蘿 卜，這些東西新鮮得都帶著泥土味……這之后，往長沙發上一躺，從容不迫地翻閱一本畫報，之后把畫報往臉上一合，解開坎肩上的扣子，舒舒服服地打個盹……
過了晴和的初秋，便是陰雨連綿的時令。白天夜里都下著雨，光禿禿的樹木在嗚嗚哭泣，秋風潮濕而寒冷。那些狗、馬、母雞，全都濕漉漉的，沒精打采，畏畏縮縮。沒地方可以散步了，這种天气出不了門，只得成天在房間里踱來踱去，不時愁苦地瞧瞧陰暗的窗子，好煩悶呀！
伊凡·德米特里奇收住腳，望著妻子。
“我，你知道，瑪莎，想出國旅行去，”他說，
于是他開始构想：深秋出國，去法國南部，意大利，或者印度，那該多好啊！
“那我也得出國，”妻子說，“行了，你快看看票號吧！”
“別忙！再等一等……”
他又在房間里踱來踱去，繼續暗自思量。腦子里突然冒出一個念頭：如果妻子當真也要出國，那可怎么辦？一個人出國旅游那才愜意；或者跟一伙容易 相處、無憂無慮、及時行樂的女人結伴同行也還愉快；就是不能跟那种一路上只惦記儿女、三句話不离孩子、成天唉聲歎气、花一個小錢也要心惊肉跳的女人一道出 門。伊凡·德米特里奇想象著：妻子帶著無數包裹和提籃進了車廂；她為什么事老是長吁短歎，抱怨一路上累得她頭疼，抱怨出門一趟花去了許多錢；每到一個停車 站就得跑下去弄開水，買夾肉面包和礦泉水……她舍不得去餐廳用餐，嫌那里東西太貴……
“瞧著吧，我花一分錢她都要管！”想到這里他看一眼妻子，“因為彩票是她的，不是我的！再說她何必出國？她在那邊能見什么世面？准會在旅館里歇著，也不放我离開她一步……我知道！”
于是他平生第一次注意到，他的妻子老了，丑了，渾身上下有一股子廚房里的油煙味。而他卻還年輕、健康、精神勃勃，哪怕再結一次婚也不成問題。
“當然，這些都是小事，廢話，”他又想道，“不過……她出國去干什么？她在那邊能長什么見識？她要真的去了……我能想象……其實對她來說，那 不勒斯１和克林２沒什么兩樣。她只會妨礙我。我只能處處依從她。我能想象，她一拿到錢，就會像者娘們那樣加上六道鎖……把錢藏得不讓我知道。她會周濟娘家 的親戚，對我則計較著每一個小錢。”
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１意大利旅游胜地。
２俄國中部普通城市。
伊凡·德米特里奇立即想起她的那些親戚們。所有這些兄弟姐妹和叔怕姨嬸，一听說她中了彩，准會上門，像叫花子那樣死乞白賴地纏著要錢，堆出一臉媚笑，虛情假意一番。可憎又可怜的人們！給他們錢吧，他們要了還要；不給吧--他們就會咒罵，無事生非，盼著你倒運。
伊凡·德米特里奇又想起了自己的親戚。以前他見到他們也還心平气和，此刻卻覺得他們面目可憎，令人討厭。
“都是些小人！”他想道。
此刻他連妻子也感到面目可憎，令人討厭。他對她窩了一肚子火，于是他幸災樂禍地想道：
“錢的事她一竅不通，所以才那么吝嗇。她要是真中了彩，頂多給我一百盧布，其余的--全都鎖起來。”
這時他已經沒了笑容，而是怀著憎恨望著妻子。她也抬眼看他，同樣怀著憎恨和气憤。她有著自己的七彩夢幻，自己的計划和自己的主意；她十分清楚，她的丈夫夢想著什么。她知道，誰會第一個伸出爪子來奪她的彩金。
“拿人家的錢做什么好夢！”她的眼神分明這樣說，“不，你休想！”
丈夫明白她的眼神，憎恨在他胸中翻滾。他要气一气他的妻子，故意跟她作對，飛快瞧一眼第四版報紙，得意洋洋地大聲宣告：
“９４９９組，４６號！不是２６號！”
希望与憎恨二者頓時消失，伊凡·德米特里奇和他的妻子立刻感到：他們的住房那么陰暗、窄小、低矮，他們剛吃過的晚飯沒有填飽肚子，腹部很不舒服；而秋夜漫長，令人煩悶……
“鬼知道怎么回事，”伊凡·德米特里奇說，開始耍起性子，“不管你踩哪儿，腳底下盡是紙片，面包渣，爪果殼。屋子里從來不打掃！弄得人只想离家逃走，真見鬼！我這就走，碰到第一棵楊樹就上吊。”
一八八七年三月九日
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 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 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 neighbours.__ "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 abro ad, 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 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 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 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 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-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!" -THE END-
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