Oh! The Public

Anton Chekhov

"HERE goes, I've done with drinking! Nothing. . . n-o-thing shall tempt me to it. It's time to

take myself in hand; I must buck up and work. . . You're glad to get your salary, so you

must do your work honestly, heartily, conscientiously, regardless of sleep and comfort.

Chuck taking it easy. You've got into the way of taking a salary for nothing, my boy -- that's

not the right thing . . . not the right thing at all. . . ."

After administering to himself several such lectures Podtyagin, the head ticket collector,

begins to feel an irresistible impulse to get to work. It is past one o'clock at night, but in

spite of that he wakes the ticket collectors and with them goes up and down the railway

please!"

The scraggy-looking man makes no reply. He is buried in sleep. The head ticket-collector

touches him on the shoulder and repeats impatiently: "T-t-tickets, p-p-please!"

The passenger starts, opens his eyes, and gazes in alarm at Podtyagin.

"What? . . . Who? . . . Eh?"

"You're asked in plain language: t-t-tickets, p-p-please! If you please!"

"My God!" moans the scraggy-looking man, pulling a woebegone face. "Good Heavens! I'm

suffering from rheumatism. . . . I haven't slept for three nights! I've just taken morphia on

purpose to get to sleep, and you . . . with your tickets! It's merciless, it's inhuman! If you

knew how hard it is for me to sleep you wouldn't disturb me for such nonsense. . . . It's

after you. . . ."

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have the ticket! My goodness, what zeal! If it were of any use to the company -- but half the

passengers are travelling without a ticket!"

"Listen, sir!" cries Podtyagin, flaring up. "If you don't leave off shouting and disturbing the

public, I shall be obliged to put you out at the next station and to draw up a report on the

incident!"

"This is revolting!" exclaims "the public," growing indignant. "Persecuting an invalid!

Listen, and have some consideration!"

"But the gentleman himself was abusive!" says Podtyagin, a little scared. "Very well. . . . I

won't take the ticket . . . as you like. . . . Only, of course, as you know very well, it's my duty

to do so. . . . If it were not my duty, then, of course. . . You can ask the station-master . . .

don't believe it, I can bring the station-master to them." A station. The train stops five

minutes. Before the third bell, Podtyagin enters the same second-class carriage. Behind him

stalks the station-master in a red cap.

"This gentleman here," Podtyagin begins, "declares that I have no right to ask for his ticket

and . . . and is offended at it. I ask you, Mr. Station-master, to explain to him. . . . Do I ask

for tickets according to regulation or to please myself? Sir," Podtyagin addresses the

scraggy-looking man, "sir! you can ask the station-master here if you don't believe me."

The invalid starts as though he had been stung, opens his eyes, and with a woebegone face

sinks back in his seat.

"My God! I have taken another powder and only just dozed off when here he is again. . .

"Drop it . . ." says the station-master, frowning and pulling Podtyagin by the sleeve.

Podtyagin shrugs his shoulders and slowly walks after the station-master.

master, that he might understand and be pacified, and he . . . swears!"

Another station. The train stops ten minutes. Before the second bell, while Podtyagin is

standing at the refreshment bar, drinking seltzer water, two gentlemen go up to him, one in

the uniform of an engineer, and the other in a military overcoat.

"Look here, ticket-collector!" the engineer begins, addressing Podtyagin. "Your behaviour

to that invalid passenger has revolted all who witnessed it. My name is Puzitsky; I am an

engineer, and this gentleman is a colonel. If you do not apologize to the passenger, we shall

make a complaint to the traffic manager, who is a friend of ours."

"Gentlemen! Why of course I . . . why of course you . . ." Podtyagin is panic-stricken.

done to him."

Half an hour later, Podtyagin having thought of an apologetic phrase which would satisfy

The invalid starts and leaps up: "What?"

"I . . . what was it? . . . You mustn't be offended. . . ."

"Och! Water . . ." gasps the invalid, clutching at his heart. "I'd just taken a third dose of

morphia, dropped asleep, and . . . again! Good God! when will this torture cease!"

"I only . . . you must excuse . . ."

"Oh! . . . Put me out at the next station! I can't stand any more. . . . I . . . I am dying. . . ."

"This is mean, disgusting!" cry the "public," revolted. "Go away! You shall pay for such

attendants' compartment, sits down at the table, exhausted, and complains: