Small Fry

by Anton Chekhov

"Dear Sir, Father and Friend!" a junior office worker, called Smith, was writing a holiday letter. "I hope that you can spend this special day, and many more to come, in good health and comfort. And also to your family I . . ."

The lamp was smoking, as the gas was getting low. A cockroach was running on the table near Smith's writing hand. Two rooms away from the office, the servant was cleaning his best boots for the third time, so quickly that the sound of the brush could be heard in all the other rooms.

"What else can I write to him, the fool?" Smith wondered, raising his eyes to the dirty ceiling.

On the ceiling he saw a dark circle – it was the shadow of the lamp. The room was dirty. Smith thought the office was so lonely that he felt sorry, not only for himself, but even for the cockroach.

"When I’m no longer working here, I’ll go away, but he'll be working here all his cockroach-life," he thought. "I’m bored! Should I clean my boots?"

Smith walked slowly to the servant's room. Ned had finished cleaning his boots. Holding the brush in one hand, he was standing at the open window, listening.

"They're ringing," he whispered to Smith, looking at him with eyes that were wide open. "Already!"

Smith put his ear to the open window and listened. The bells entered the room with a breeze of fresh air. Their sound mixed with the noise of carts, and above those sounds came the music of the street and a loud clear laughing.

"What a lot of people!" sighed Smith, looking down into the street, where men moved one after another under the bright lamps. "They're all going out at midnight . . . . Our men have had a good meal by now and are walking around the town. What a lot of laughter, what a lot of talk! I'm the only unlucky one, to have to sit here on this day: And I have to do it every year!"

"Well, nobody forced you to take the job. It's not your turn to be working today, but Matthew paid you to take his place. When other people are enjoying themselves you sell your holiday, so that you can earn more money. It's greed!"

"Not much to be greedy over - two roubles is all he gives me. . . . It's poverty, not greed. And it would be fun now to go out with a group of people, and then to start eating with them. . . . To have a bit of dinner and fall asleep. . . . One sits down at the table, there's cake to eat and hot tea to drink . . . You feel you're somebody special . . . . Ech h-h! . . . I've made a mess of things! Look at that woman driving by, while I have to sit here and get angry."

"We each have our duty in life, Ivan. Soon, you'll be promoted and drive about town."

"Me? No, brother, definitely not. I will only be employed in a small job, even if I try and try and try to get a good one. I'm not an educated man."

"Our Manager has no education either, but . . ."

"Well, but the Manager stole a hundred thousand before he got his position. And he's got very different manners from me, brother. With my manners I can't get far! And I’ve got such a terrible surname, Smith! It's hopeless, in fact.”

He moved away from the window and walked tiredly through the rooms. The ringing 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 noise of the carts, the darker the walls seemed and the more the lamp smoked.

"Should I stop working and leave the office?" thought Smith.

But leaving the office promised nothing . . . . After coming out of the office and walking around the town, Smith would go home, and in his home it was even sadder than in the office. . . . Even if he spent that day in comfort, what did he have other than his home? Nothing but the same grey walls, the same letters to write. . .

Smith stood still in the middle of the office and thought. The desire for a new, better life was a great ache in his heart. He wanted to find himself suddenly in the street, talking with the people in the crowd, to be in the middle of the celebration where all those bells were ringing and those carts were moving. Smith wanted what he had known in childhood – his family, the happy faces of his own people, light, warmth . . . ! He thought of the lady who had just driven by, her smart coat, the gold chain she wore . . . . He thought of a warm bed, of new boots, of a uniform without holes . . . . He thought of all those things because he had none of them.

"Should I steal?" he thought. "Even if stealing is easy, hiding is difficult. Men run away to America, they say, with what they've stolen, but where is America? We need education even to steal, it seems."

The bells became quieter. He heard only a distant noise of traffic, while his sadness and anger grew stronger. The clock in the office said half-past twelve.

"Should I write a secret report? Peters did and he got a better job."

Smith sat down at his table and thought. The lamp was still smoking and about to go out. The cockroach was still running on the table and had found no resting-place.

"One can always send in a secret report, but how would I write it? I would need to lie, like Peters, and I can't do it. If I make up anything, I’ll be the first to get into trouble. I'm a fool!"

And Smith, upset by thinking about how to escape from his hopeless life, stared at the letter he had written. The letter was written to a man he was afraid of and hated, and from whom he had been trying to get a job for the past ten years that paid eighteen roubles a month, instead of the one he had at sixteen roubles.

"Ah, I'll teach you to run here!" He quickly slapped his hand on the cockroach. "Ugly thing!"

The cockroach fell on its back and shook its legs. Smith took it by one leg and threw it into the lamp.

He felt better.