Ivan Dmitritch pictured to himself autumn with its rains， itscold evenings， and its St. Martin’s summer. At that season hewould have to take longer walks about the garden and besidethe river， so as to get thoroughly chilled， and then drink a bigglass of vodka and eat a salted mushroom or a soused cucumber，and then—drink another.... The children would come runningfrom the kitchen-garden， bringing a carrot and a radish smellingof fresh earth.... And then， he would lie stretched full lengthon the sofa， and in leisurely fashion turn over the pages ofsome illustrated magazine， or， covering his face with it andunbuttoning his waistcoat， give himself up to slumber.
The St. Martin’s summer is followed by cloudy， gloomyweather. It rains day and night， the bare trees weep， the windis damp and cold. The dogs， the horses， the fowls—all are wet，depressed， downcast. There is nowhere to walk； one can’t goout 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 autumnto go abroad somewhere to the South of France... to Italy.... toIndia！
“I should certainly go abroad too，” his wife said. “But lookat the number of the ticket！”
“Wait， wait！...”
He walked about the room and went on thinking. It occurredto him： what if his wife really did go abroad？ It is pleasant totravel alone， or in the society of light， careless women who livein the present， and not such as think and talk all the journeyabout nothing but their children， sigh， and tremble with dismayover every farthing. Ivan Dmitritch imagined his wife in thetrain with a multitude of parcels， baskets， and bags； she wouldbe sighing over something， complaining that the train made herhead ache， that she had spent so much money.... At the stationshe would continually be having to run for boiling water， breadand butter.... She wouldn’t have dinner because of its being toodear....
“She would begrudge me every farthing，” he thought， witha glance at his wife. “The lottery ticket is hers， not mine！
Besides， what is the use of her going abroad？ What does shewant there？ She would shut herself up in the hotel， and not letme out of her sight.... I know！”
And for the first time in his life his mind dwelt on the factthat his wife had grown elderly and plain， and that she wassaturated through and through with the smell of cooking， whilehe was still young， fresh， and healthy， and might well have gotmarried again.
“Of course， all that is silly nonsense，” he thought； “but...
why should she go abroad？ What would she make of it？ Andyet she would go， of course.... I can fancy... In reality it is allone to her， whether it is Naples or Klin. She would only be inmy way. I should be dependent upon her. I can fancy how， likea regular woman， she will lock the money up as soon as shegets it.... She will hide it from me.... She will look after herrelations and grudge me every farthing.”
Ivan Dmitritch thought of her relations. All those wretchedbrothers and sisters and aunts and uncles would come crawlingabout as soon as they heard of the winning ticket， wouldbegin whining like beggars， and fawning upon them with oily，hypocritical smiles. Wretched， detestable people！ If they weregiven anything， they would ask for more； while if they wererefused， they would swear at them， slander them， and wishthem every kind of misfortune.
Ivan Dmitritch remembered his own relations， and theirfaces， at which he had looked impartially in the past， struckhim 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 thoughtmalignantly：
“She knows nothing about money， and so she is stingy. If shewon it she would give me a hundred roubles， and put the restaway under lock and key.”
And he looked at his wife， not with a smile now， but withhatred. 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！” iswhat her eyes expressed. “No， don’t you dare！”
Her husband understood her look； hatred began stirringagain in his breast， and in order to annoy his wife he glancedquickly， to spite her at the fourth page on the newspaper andread out triumphantly：
“Series 9，499， number 46！ Not 26！”
Hatred and hope both disappeared at once， and it beganimmediately to seem to Ivan Dmitritch and his wife that theirrooms were dark and small and low-pitched， that the supperthey had been eating was not doing them good， but lyingheavy on their stomachs， that the evenings were long andwearisome....
“What the devil’s the meaning of it？” said Ivan Dmitritch，beginning to be ill-humoured. “Wherever one steps there are bitsof paper under one’s feet， crumbs， husks. The rooms are neverswept！ One is simply forced to go out. Damnation take my soulentirely！ I shall go and hang myself on the first aspen-tree！”
