Small Fry

Anton Chekhov

HONORED Sir, Father and Benefactor!" a petty clerk called Nevyrazimov was writing a

rough copy of an Easter congratulatory letter. "I trust that you may spend this Holy Day

even as many more to come, in good health and prosperity. And to your family also I . . ."

The lamp, in which the kerosene was getting low, was smoking and smelling. A stray

cockroach was running about the table in alarm near Nevyrazimov's writing hand. Two

rooms away from the office Paramon the porter was for the third time cleaning his best

boots, and with such energy that the sound of the blacking-brush and of his expectorations

was audible in all the rooms.

"When I am off duty I shall go away, but he'll be on duty here all his cockroach-life," he

thought, stretching. "I am bored! Shall I clean my boots?"

And stretching once more, Nevyrazimov slouched lazily to the porter's room. Paramon had

finished cleaning his boots. Crossing himself with one hand and holding the brush in the

other, he was standing at the open window-pane, listening.

"They're ringing," he whispered to Nevyrazimov, looking at him with eyes intent and wide

open. "Already!"

Nevyrazimov put his ear to the open pane and listened. The Easter chimes floated into the

room with a whiff of fresh spring air. The booming of the bells mingled with the rumble of

carriages, and above the chaos of sounds rose the brisk tenor tones of the nearest church and

"Well, nobody forces you to take the job. It's not your turn to be on duty today, but

Zastupov hired you to take his place. When other folks are enjoying themselves you hire

yourself out. It's greediness!"

"Devil a bit of it! Not much to be greedy over -- two roubles is all he gives me; a necktie as

an extra. . . . It's poverty, not greediness. And it would be jolly, now, you know, to be going

with a party to the service, and then to break the fast. . . . To drink and to have a bit of

supper and tumble off to sleep. . . . One sits down to the table, there's an Easter cake and the

samovar hissing, and some charming little thing beside you. . . . You drink a glass and

chuck her under the chin, and it's first-rate. . . . You feel you're somebody. . . . Ech h-h! . . .

I've made a mess of things! Look at that hussy driving by in her carriage, while I have to sit

here and brood."

"We each have our lot in life, Ivan Danilitch. Please God, you'll be promoted and drive

about in your carriage one day."

"I? No, brother, not likely. I shan't get beyond a 'titular,' not if I try till I burst. I'm not an

He moved away from the window and walked wearily about the rooms. The din of the bells

grew louder and louder. . . . There was no need to stand by the window to hear it. And the

better he could hear the bells and the louder the roar of the carriages, the darker seemed the

muddy walls and the smutty cornice and the more the lamp smoked.

"Shall I hook it and leave the office?" thought Nevyrazimov.

But such a flight promised nothing worth having. . . . After coming out of the office and

wandering about the town, Nevyrazimov would have gone home to his lodging, and in his

lodging it was even grayer and more depressing than in the office. . . . Even supposing he

were to spend that day pleasantly and with comfort, what had he beyond? Nothing but the

same gray walls, the same stop-gap duty and complimentary letters. . . .

which the lady had just driven by, the overcoat in which the head clerk was so smart, the

gold chain that adorned the secretary's chest. . . . He thought of a warm bed, of the Stanislav

order, of new boots, of a uniform without holes in the elbows. . . . He thought of all those

things because he had none of them.

"Shall I steal?" he thought. "Even if stealing is an easy matter, hiding is what's difficult.

Men run away to America, they say, with what they've stolen, but the devil knows where

that blessed America is. One must have education even to steal, it seems."

The bells died down. He heard only a distant noise of carriages and Paramon's cough, while

his depression and anger grew more and more intense and unbearable. The clock in the

office struck half-past twelve.

"Shall I write a secret report? Proshkin did, and he rose rapidly."

Nevyrazimov sat down at his table and pondered. The lamp in which the kerosene had quite

run dry was smoking violently and threatening to go out. The stray cockroach was still

running about the table and had found no resting-place.

"One can always send in a secret report, but how is one to make it up? I should want to

make all sorts of innuendoes and insinuations, like Proshkin, and I can't do it. If I made up

stared at the rough copy he had written. The letter was written to a man whom he feared and

The cockroach fell on its back and wriggled its legs in despair. Nevyrazimov took it by one

leg and threw it into the lamp. The lamp flared up and spluttered.