Small Fry (Chekhov)
Short summary
Russia, late 19th century. On Easter night, a petty clerk named Nevyrazimov was working alone in a government office, writing a congratulatory letter to his superior. Outside, the Easter bells rang as people hurried to midnight service.
Nevyrazimov had taken another clerk's shift for just two roubles and a necktie. As he listened to the festive sounds outside, he felt increasingly depressed by his dreary surroundings and hopeless position. He yearned for a better life with family, comfort, and status, contemplating whether he should leave the office or even consider stealing or writing a secret report to advance his career.
In his frustration, Nevyrazimov noticed a cockroach running across his desk.
'Ah, I'll teach you to run here, you devil!' He viciously slapped the palm of his hand on the cockroach... Nevyrazimov took it by one leg and threw it into the lamp. The lamp flared up and spluttered. And Nevyrazimov felt better.
Detailed summary
Division into chapters is editorial.
Easter letter writing in a desolate office
In a dimly lit office, a petty clerk named Nevyrazimov was writing a rough draft of an Easter congratulatory letter to his superior. The lamp was smoking due to low kerosene, and a cockroach scurried across his writing table. From two rooms away, the porter Paramon could be heard cleaning his boots for the third time in preparation for Easter celebrations.
Nevyrazimov struggled to find words to write to the man he despised. Looking up at the smutty ceiling, he observed the dark circle cast by the lampshade, the dusty cornice, and the faded bluish walls. The office seemed so desolate that he felt pity not only for himself but even for the cockroach running across his table.
And the office seemed to him such a place of desolation that he felt sorry, not only for himself, but even for the cockroach. 'When I am off duty I shall go away, but he'll be on duty here all his cockroach-life.'
Feeling bored and restless, Nevyrazimov considered cleaning his boots and wandered lazily to the porter's room. There he found Paramon, who had finished polishing his boots and was standing by the open window, listening intently to the Easter bells ringing in the distance.
Listening to church bells and envying others celebrations
Paramon whispered excitedly to Nevyrazimov that the bells were ringing. Nevyrazimov put his ear to the window and listened as the Easter chimes floated into the room along with the fresh spring air. The sounds of the bells mingled with the rumble of carriages, while the tenor tones of the nearest church and laughter rose above the chaos of sounds.
Looking down at the street, Nevyrazimov observed the shadows of people hurrying to midnight service. He sighed, lamenting that he was the only unlucky one who had to sit in the office on such a festive day. When he complained about having to work every Easter, Paramon reminded him that it was his own choice to take Zastupov's shift for money.
'I'm the only unlucky one, to have to sit here on such a day: And I have to do it every year!' '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.'
Nevyrazimov defended himself, saying it was poverty, not greed, that drove him to accept two roubles and a necktie to work on Easter. He described how pleasant it would be to attend the service, break the fast with a meal, and enjoy the company of a charming woman. As he spoke, a lady drove by in her carriage, prompting him to bemoan his situation while she enjoyed luxury.
Contemplating escape from a hopeless existence
Paramon tried to console Nevyrazimov, suggesting that with God's help, he might be promoted and drive in his own carriage someday. Nevyrazimov dismissed this idea, stating that he would never advance beyond a "titular" rank because he lacked education. When Paramon pointed out that their General had no education either, Nevyrazimov explained that the General had stolen a hundred thousand before getting his position and possessed different manners and deportment.
'I? No, brother, not likely. I shan't get beyond a 'titular,' not if I try till I burst. I'm not an educated man.' 'Our General has no education either, but...' 'Well, but the General stole a hundred thousand...'
Nevyrazimov lamented his hopeless position and unfortunate surname, suggesting his only options were to continue as he was or hang himself. Moving away from the window, he wandered wearily through the rooms. The sound of bells grew louder, making the office walls seem darker and the lamp smoke more oppressive.
He considered leaving the office, but realized his lodgings were even more depressing. Even if he could spend this one day pleasantly, tomorrow would bring the same gray walls and tedious duties. Standing in the middle of the office, Nevyrazimov was consumed by a yearning for a better life. He longed to join the festive crowd outside and experience the warmth of family celebrations he remembered from childhood.
The yearning for a new, better life gnawed at his heart with an intolerable ache. He had a passionate longing to find himself suddenly in the street, to mingle with the living crowd, to take part in the solemn festivity...
Nevyrazimov envied the lady's carriage, the head clerk's fine overcoat, and the secretary's gold chain. He dreamed of a warm bed, a Stanislav order, new boots, and a uniform without holes in the elbows. In his desperation, he even contemplated stealing, but concluded that one needed education even for theft.
Finding petty relief in cruelty
As the clock struck half-past twelve, Nevyrazimov considered writing a secret report as a means of advancement, recalling how his colleague Proshkin had risen in rank by doing so. However, he feared he lacked the skill to craft the necessary innuendoes and insinuations, and might get himself into trouble instead.
Staring at his draft letter, Nevyrazimov reflected that it was addressed to a man he feared and hated, from whom he had been trying for ten years to secure a post worth eighteen roubles a month instead of his current sixteen. His frustration mounted as he contemplated his situation.
Suddenly, the cockroach caught his eye again. "Ah, I'll teach you to run here, you devil!" he exclaimed, slapping his palm down on the insect. The cockroach fell on its back, wriggling its legs desperately. Nevyrazimov grabbed it by one leg and threw it into the lamp, which flared up and spluttered in response. After this small act of cruelty, Nevyrazimov felt better.
The letter was written to a man whom he feared and hated with his whole soul, and from whom he had for the last ten years been trying to wring a post worth eighteen roubles a month, instead of the one he had at sixteen roubles.
In this final act of petty violence against the helpless cockroach, Nevyrazimov found a momentary release from his own feelings of entrapment and powerlessness, a small assertion of control in his otherwise constrained existence.