The Lottery Ticket by ANTON CHEKHOV
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 panicstricken 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 neighbors.
“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 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 to 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-humored. ‘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!”
2,özet:Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare
For many years, an on-going feud between two families has caused much disruption in the city of Verona, Italy. The Capulets and the Montagues cannot seem to get along, and there have been many deaths among the two families because of it. Prince Escalus of Verona warns the two families that if the feud does not stop, the punishment will be death.
The stage opens with servants of the Capulet and Montague families. They get into a minor argument. Romeo, a Montague, enters the stage. He has recently been denied the love of Rosaline. He is miserable over this. His friend and cousin, Benvolio, enters and decides that they will go to the Capulet feast, in disguises, so he can prove to Romeo that other pretty women exist. They all exit. At the feast, Romeo meets Juliet, the daughter of Capulet. Instantly, they fall in love. After the feast, Romeo sneaks into the Capulet orchard and visits Juliet. Here, they proclaim their love for each other. They decide to marry the next afternoon and they exit the stage. Romeo and his friend and confidant, Friar Laurence, enter. Romeo seeks the help of Friar Laurence, who agrees to marry Romeo and Juliet, in hopes that the marriage will end the feud between the two families. They exit.
Later that afternoon, Tybalt, a nephew of Lady Capulet, enters. He meets Romeo and starts a fight with him, as he is angry that Romeo was at the Capulet feast. Mercutio, a friend of Romeo’s, is angered by Tybalt and challenges him to a duel. Tybalt kills Mercutio, and Romeo in response, kills Tybalt. He quickly flees the scene before he hears that the Prince has exiled him from Verona. All exit.
Romeo and the friar enter. Hiding in Friar Laurence’s cell, Romeo tries to commit suicide. The friar will not allow Romeo to take his own life, and convinces him to go and see Juliet to say goodbye to her.
Capulet enters and arranges for Juliet to marry Paris in three days. She refuses, but her father says he will disown her if she does not comply. They exit and Juliet enters in the friar’s cell. He gives her a potion that will make it appear as though she is dead. She exits. She reenters the stage (now at home) and agrees to marry Paris. Her father is so delighted with her obedience that he decides to move the wedding up one day, to the very next day (Wednesday). All exit. The next morning, Nurse enters and finds Juliet in her bed, apparently dead. The Capulets all enter with Paris and decide to have a funeral. All exit. Romeo, who is in Mantua, enters. His servant Balthasar enters and tells Romeo that Juliet is dead. Balthasar exits. Romeo doesn’t know that it is a fake death because he never gets the message from the friar. He buys a vial of poison from an apothecary and returns to Verona.
Romeo enters at the Capulet tomb and sees Juliet (apparently) dead. Paris, who had entered previously, but had been hiding, recognizes Romeo as a Montague and challenges him. Romeo kills him, drinks the poison he bought, and dies. Just as Juliet wakes up from the potion the friar gave her, the friar enters the tomb. He hears noises and tries to persuade Juliet to leave with him. She refuses, sees Romeo dead next to her, stabs herself with Romeo’s sword, and dies. The Capulets, Montagues, and the Prince of Verona all enter the tomb and wonder what went on. Friar Laurence explains the story, and the Capulets and Montagues agree to end their family feud.
3.özet:The Plague by Albert Camus
The book is divided into five sections, each of which tells of a distinct period in the plague’s takeover of Oran, the port city in northern Algeria where the story is set. Part 1 describes Oran as it was before the plague and just after the disease has taken hold. Bernard Rieux, the town doctor, notices a dead rat in the hallway of his apartment building one ordinary morning, and thereafter, nothing in his or anyone’s life in Oran is normal. Thousands of the town’s rats die, then cats and dogs, and finally the disease starts to infect people. Jean Tarrou, a visitor trapped in Oran, keeps a journal about the plague’s effect on the people of Oran, and it includes stories about characters like Joseph Grand, an insignificant city worker, and Cottard, a man who is mysteriously happy about the outbreak of the plague. By the end of this section, the people of Oran are forced to realize their dull and habitual ways may be gone for good. The town gates are shut, and Oran is now a prison cell, where no one can go out or come in.
Part 2 of the book tells what happens when the plague becomes “the concern of all of us.” (67). In this section, the townspeople struggle to fight their individual battles against the plague and the suffering and separation it forces them to endure. Characters like Raymond Rambert, who begins negotiating with smugglers, try to imagine ways to escape the city and meet up again with their loved ones. Father Paneloux, the town priest, preaches a fiery sermon that claims that God has sent the disease upon the people of Oran as a punishment for their sins. Tarrou starts voluntary sanitary squads in town, and many people, including Grand and Rambert, volunteer to help.
By the beginning of Part 3, “the plague had swallowed up everything and everyone. No longer were there individual destinies; only a collective destiny, made of plague and the emotions shared by all.” (167). In this short third section, the narrator tells us of the worst period of the disease, the brutally hot summer months when the plague kills so many people that there’s no space left to bury them. The town crematorium is burning bodies at top-capacity and everyone in the city suffers terrible feelings of pain and exile.
In Part 4 there is more attention paid to the emotions of some of the main characters. Cottard is still strangely cheerful about the plague. Rambert’s getaway plans seem ready to go through, but the journalist has a last-minute change of heart and decides to stay in Oran to help fight the disease. Many of the story’s main characters, including Dr. Rieux, Joseph Grand, Jean Tarrou, and Father Paneloux, are affected profoundly when they witness the death of a young child. After this experience, Paneloux gives a second sermon, and it shows far more sympathy for the suffering people of Oran. One evening, Tarrou explains his life philosophy, which centers on a passionate opposition to the death penalty, to Dr. Rieux. Grand falls ill and seems certain to die of the plague, but makes a sudden and miraculous recovery. The same “resurrection” happens to a woman in town, and by the end of this section, the rats, alive now, have begun to resurface in the city.
In the final section, the plague leaves just as suddenly as it came. After a public announcement that the epidemic seems to be over, a big celebration is held in the streets. Then the gates are opened, and families and lovers–including Rambert and his wife–are reunited. Cottard, despairing that the plague has gone and left him alone with his suffering again, has a crazy shooting fit, which ends with him being dragged away by the police. At this point, Dr. Rieux reveals that he is the story’s narrator. Though he has suffered greatly, and now finds out that his own wife is dead, he says he hoped to retell the book without it being his story. He wanted to “take the victims’ side,” sharing with them the feelings of love, exile, and suffering that all felt during the time of the plague. The book ends with the haunting observation that although the plague bacillus can go into hiding for years and years, it never dies or disappears for good.
dah istiosan bulabilrimm 
