“No one even nodded.  Evidently they had not all of them heard of the lectures, and the ladies were not even aware of the existence of the museum.  All that would not have mattered, but imagine, my dear sir, the people suddenly leaped to their feet and struggled to the windows.  What was it?  What was the matter?

“‘Look, look!’ my neighbor nudged me.  ’Do you see that dark man getting into that cab?  That’s the famous runner, King!’

“And the whole tram began talking breathlessly of the runner who was then absorbing the brains of Moscow.

“I could give you ever so many other examples, but I think that is enough.  Now let us assume that I am mistaken about myself, that I am a wretchedly boastful and incompetent person; but apart from myself I might point to many of my contemporaries, men remarkable for their talent and industry, who have nevertheless died unrecognized.  Are Russian navigators, chemists, physicists, mechanicians, and agriculturists popular with the public?  Do our cultivated masses know anything of Russian artists, sculptors, and literary men?  Some old literary hack, hard-working and talented, will wear away the doorstep of the publishers’ offices for thirty-three years, cover reams of paper, be had up for libel twenty times, and yet not step beyond his ant-heap.  Can you mention to me a single representative of our literature who would have become celebrated if the rumor had not been spread over the earth that he had been killed in a duel, gone out of his mind, been sent into exile, or had cheated at cards?”

The first-class passenger was so excited that he dropped his cigar out of his mouth and got up.

“Yes,” he went on fiercely, “and side by side with these people I can quote you hundreds of all sorts of singers, acrobats, buffoons, whose names are known to every baby.  Yes!”

The door creaked, there was a draught, and an individual of forbidding aspect, wearing an Inverness coat, a top-hat, and blue spectacles, walked into the carriage.  The individual looked round at the seats, frowned, and went on further.

“Do you know who that is?” there came a timid whisper from the furthest corner of the compartment.

“That is N. N., the famous Tula cardsharper who was had up in connection with the Y. bank affair.”

“There you are!” laughed the first-class passenger.  “He knows a Tula cardsharper, but ask him whether he knows Semiradsky, Tchaykovsky, or Solovyov the philosopher—­he’ll shake his head....  It swinish!”

Three minutes passed in silence.

“Allow me in my turn to ask you a question,” said the vis-a-vis timidly, clearing his throat.  “Do you know the name of Pushkov?”

“Pushkov?  H’m!  Pushkov....  No, I don’t know it!”

“That is my name,...” said the vis-a-vis,, overcome with embarrassment.  “Then you don’t know it?  And yet I have been a professor at one of the Russian universities for thirty-five years,... a member of the Academy of Sciences,... have published more than one work....”