By Anton Chekov
IVAN DMITRITCH， a middle-class man who lived with hisfamily on an income of twelve hundred a year and was verywell satisfied with his lot， sat down on the sofa after supperand began reading the newspaper.
“I forgot to look at the newspaper today，” his wife said tohim as she cleared the table. “Look and see whether the list ofdrawings is there.”
“Yes， it is，” said Ivan Dmitritch； “but hasn’t your ticketlapsed？”
“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， asa rule， have consented to look at the lists of winning numbers，but now， as he had nothing else to do and as the newspaperwas before his eyes， he passed his finger downwards along thecolumn of numbers. And immediately， as though in mockery ofhis scepticism， no further than the second line from the top， hiseye was caught by the figure 9，499！ Unable to believe his eyes，he hurriedly dropped the paper on his knees without looking tosee the number of the ticket， and， just as though some one hadgiven him a douche of cold water， he felt an agreeable chill inthe 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 foldedtablecloth 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， senselesssmile， like a baby when a bright object is shown it. His wifesmiled too； it was as pleasant to her as to him that he onlymentioned the series， and did not try to find out the number ofthe winning ticket. To torment and tantalize oneself with hopesof possible fortune 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 on the second line from the top， so the prize is seventyfivethousand. That’s not money， but power， capital！ And in aminute I shall look at the list， and there—26！ Eh？ I say， what ifwe really have won？”
The husband and wife began laughing and staring at oneanother in silence. The possibility of winning bewildered them；they could not have said， could not have dreamed， what theyboth needed that seventy-five thousand for， what they would buy，where they would go. They thought only of the figures 9，499 and75，000 and pictured them in their imagination， while somehowthey could not think of the happiness itself which was so possible.
Ivan Dmitritch， holding the paper in his hand， walked severaltimes from corner to corner， and only when he had recoveredfrom the first impression began dreaming a little.
“And if we have won，” he said—“why， it will be a newlife， it will be a transformation！ The ticket is yours， but ifit were mine I should， first of all， of course， spend twentyfivethousand on real property in the shape of an estate； tenthousand on immediate expenses， new furnishing... travelling...
paying debts， and so on.... The other forty thousand I wouldput in the bank and get interest on it.”
“Yes， an estate， that would be nice，” said his wife， sittingdown and dropping her hands in her lap.
“Somewhere in the Tula or Oryol provinces.... In the firstplace we shouldn’t need a summer villa， and besides， it wouldalways bring in an income.”
And pictures came crowding on his imagination， each moregracious and poetical than the last. And in all these pictureshe saw himself well-fed， serene， healthy， felt warm， evenhot！ Here， after eating a summer soup， cold as ice， he layon his back on the burning sand close to a stream or in thegarden under a lime-tree.... It is hot.... His little boy and girlare crawling about near him， digging in the sand or catchingladybirds 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 tothe hayfield， or to the forest for mushrooms， or watches thepeasants catching fish with a net. When the sun sets he takesa towel and soap and saunters to the bathing-shed， wherehe undresses at his leisure， slowly rubs his bare chest withhis hands， and goes into the water. And in the water， nearthe opaque soapy circles， little fish flit to and fro and greenwater-weeds nod their heads. After bathing there is tea withcream and milk rolls.... In the evening a walk or vint with theneighbours.
“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.
