第8章 The Lottery Ticket 彩票

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.

“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 furnish ing...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 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 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!”

伊凡·德米特里奇是个中产阶级，和家人住在一起，年收入1200卢布，对自己的命运踌躇满志。晚饭后，他在沙发上坐下来，开始看报。

“我今天忘了看报，”他的妻子一边收拾着桌子，一边对他说。“看看上面有没有开彩的清单。”

“有，有，”伊凡·德米特里奇说。“你的彩票还没失效吧？”

“没有，星期二我还取过利息呢。”

“多少号？”

“9499组，26号。”

“好……我们来看看……9499-26。”

伊凡·德米特里奇不相信彩票会带来好运，通常他不愿去看开彩的清单，但现在，他没什么别的事儿，报纸就在眼前，他将手指顺着彩票栏向下移动。仿佛是嘲笑他的怀疑态度，就在正数第二行，9499这个数字马上吸引住了他的目光！他难以相信自己的眼睛，慌忙中将报纸丢在了膝盖上，没有注意看彩票的号码，而且，就像有人给他泼了一瓢冷水，他感到心窝里有一股惬意的凉气。

“玛莎，有9499号！”他声音低沉地说。

妻子看着他惊慌失措的脸庞，明白他不是在开玩笑。

“是9499号吗？”她脸色发白，把叠好的桌布放到桌上，问道。

“是，是……真有！”

“那票号呢？”

“噢，是！还有票号。不过，先停……等一下！不，我说！反正，我们的组号在那里！反正，你明白……”

伊凡·德米特里奇看着妻子，咧嘴傻笑，就像一个婴儿看一件闪光的东西。妻子也是面带微笑；他只提组号，并不急着弄清这张中奖的票号，这使她像他一样开心。怀着可能带来好运的希望，折磨和逗弄一下自己，是多么甜美、多么刺激！

“是我们的组号，”沉默了好一阵子后，伊凡·德米特里奇说道。“这么说，我们有可能已经中彩。尽管它只是一种可能，但总算有！”

“好了，现在看吧！”

“等一小会儿。我们要失望有的是时间！它在正数第二行，这样看来彩金是75000。这不是金钱，而是实力，是资本！我马上就看那个清单，票号是——26！对吧？我说，要是我们真的中了彩，会怎么样？”

夫妻俩开始笑了起来，彼此默默对视。中彩的可能让他们迷失了方向；他们说不出、想不出他们俩需要这75000干什么、买什么、去哪里。他们只想着9499和75000这两个数字，在各自的想象中描画着它们，不知何故，他们却没有想到可能实现的幸福本身。

伊凡·德米特里奇手里举着那份报纸，在从这个屋角走到那个屋角，来回走了好几趟，直到从最初的感受中恢复过来，他才开始有点想入非非。

“要是我们中彩，”他说，“啊，那将是新的生活，一定是脱胎换骨！彩票是你的，假如它是我的，我肯定首先要花上25000买下一份庄园那样的不动产；10000作为急用：添置新家具……旅游……还债等等……剩下的45000，我要存进银行，得利息。”

“对，买一座庄园，这样很好，”妻子说着，坐下来，两只手放在膝间。

“在图拉省或奥尔洛夫省的某个地方……首先，我们不需要消夏别墅；其次，庄园总会带来收益。”

于是，他开始浮想联翩，画面一幅比一幅优美雅致、富有诗意。在所有这些画面中，他看到自己营养充足，平静安详，身体健康，感到热情洋溢，甚至激动！喝完像冰一样凉的消暑汤后，他仰躺在小溪边烫人的沙地上或花园里的酸橙下……天很热……一双小儿女在他身边爬来爬去，挖着沙坑或在草地里捉瓢虫。他惬意地打着盹，什么都不想，完全感觉，今天、明天或后天，他都不必去上班。或者，等躺烦了，他要么去种秣草地，要么去森林里采蘑菇，要么去看农夫们用网逮鱼。待太阳落山，他带上毛巾和肥皂漫步走到沙滩泳屋，在那里悠闲地脱下衣服，慢慢用手摩擦赤裸的胸膛，然后跳进水里。而在水里，在那些晦暗的肥皂波纹附近，小鱼飞快地游来游去，青翠的水草摇曳着它们的脑袋。洗过澡后，有奶茶和牛奶小面包……傍晚时分去散散步或跟邻居们玩玩文特纸牌。

“对，买一座庄园会很不错，”妻子说，她也在梦想着，从脸色显然可以看出，她沉浸在自己的幻想之中，如痴如醉。

伊凡·德米特里奇又暗自描绘起多雨的秋天、秋天的寒夜以及秋季的小阳春。在那个季节，他常常不得不到花园与河边多散散步，以便好好冻冻，之后喝一大杯伏特加，吃点腌蘑菇或腌黄瓜，然后——再喝一杯……孩子们常常会带着胡萝卜和小萝卜从菜园里跑回来，这些萝卜散发着新鲜的泥土气息……然后，他会伸展四肢躺在沙发上，悠闲自得地翻阅一本有插图的杂志，或者把杂志蒙在脸上，解开马甲上的扣子，痛痛快快地睡上一觉。

小阳春后就是多云阴沉的天气。整天都下雨，光秃秃的树木低垂，风潮湿寒冷。那些狗、马、家禽全都湿淋淋的，情绪低落，垂头丧气。没有地方可以散步，一连几天都出不了门，只好在房间里走来走去，神情沮丧地看着灰蒙蒙的窗户。真是沉闷！

伊凡·德米特里奇停下来，望着妻子。

“我应该出国，你知道，玛莎，”他说。

于是，他开始想，晚秋出国，到法国南部……到意大利……到印度，该多好！

“我当然也要出国，”他的妻子说。“不过，要看看票号！”

“等一下，等一下！……”

他在房间里走来走去，继续想着。他突然想到：要是妻子真的要出国，该怎么办？一个人旅行当然愉快，要么跟一群轻松随便、活在当下的女人结伴旅行也很愉快；就是不能跟那种一路上只想儿女，只谈论儿女，唉声叹气，每花一个小钱就惊慌失措、浑身颤抖的女人一起旅行。伊凡·德米特里奇想象：妻子带着许多包裹、篮子和袋子上了火车；她会对一些事长吁短叹，抱怨火车让她头疼，抱怨她花了许多钱……每到车站，他都要不断跑去弄开水、买涂黄油的面包……她不吃正餐，因为正餐太贵……

“她总是每一分钱都舍不得给我，”他看了妻子一眼心里想道。“彩票是她的，不是我的！再说，她出国有什么用呢？她到那里想要什么呢？她会把自己关在旅馆里，也不让我离开她……我知道！”

他有生以来第一次注意到这个事实：他的妻子已经变得苍老难看，浑身上下一股厨房的油烟味，而他却还年轻健康、精神饱满，完全可以再婚。

“当然，所有这一切都是无稽之谈，”他想道，“可是……她为什么要出国？她会对此怎么解释？然而，她肯定要去……我可以想象……其实，对她来说，那不勒斯和克林都一样。她只会碍我的事儿。我应当视她而定。我可以想象，她一拿到钱，就会像规矩女人那样把钱锁起来……她一定会把钱藏起来，不让我知道。她会照顾她家的亲戚，对我连一分钱都不愿给。”

伊凡·德米特里奇想起了她的那些亲戚。所有那些让人讨厌的兄弟姐妹和叔伯婶娘，一听说她中彩，一定会照来一路巴结，像乞丐那样哭穷，一脸虚伪的媚笑讨好他们。可怜可憎的人们！要是给他们钱，他们还会再要；要是不给他们，他们一定会破口大骂，造谣中伤，盼他们倒霉。

伊凡·德米特里奇想起了自己的那些亲戚和他们的脸，过去他看他们的脸都不持偏见，现在却感到它们厌恶可恨。

“他们都是如此卑鄙的小人！”他想道。

而且他感到妻子的脸也厌恶可恨。他心里对她怒火腾腾，就心怀恶意地想道：“她对钱一窍不通，所以才非常吝啬。即使中彩，她也就给我100卢布，然后把剩下的全都锁起来。”

他看着妻子，此时不是带着微笑，而是怀着憎恨。她也望着他，同样怀着憎恨和愤怒。她有自己的幻想、自己的计划和自己深思熟虑的想法；她完全清楚丈夫的梦想是什么。她知道谁会第一个伸手来夺她的彩金。

“做着花别人钱的白日梦很好啊！”她的眼神这样说。“不，谅你也不敢！”

丈夫明白她的眼神；憎恨又开始在他胸中翻腾。为了气他的妻子，激怒她，他飞快地瞥了一眼第四版报纸，得意洋洋地大声念道：“9499组，46号！不是26号！”

希望和憎恨立刻都消失了，伊凡·德米特里奇和妻子马上开始感到，他们的房间昏暗、狭小、低矮，他们吃的晚饭并没使他们感到舒服，胃里沉沉的；夜晚漫长乏味……

“这到底是什么意思？”伊凡·德米特里奇说着，发起了脾气。“无论踩到哪里，脚下都是纸片、面包屑、果皮。房间从不打扫！简直是赶人走。彻底不让我活了！我要走，碰到第一棵白杨树就上吊！”