A First-Class Passenger

A first-class passenger, having just dined at the station buffet and grown slightly tipsy, sprawled out on the velvet couch, stretched himself sweetly, and dozed off. Having dozed for no more than five minutes, he looked with oily eyes at his vis-a-vis the person seated opposite (Fr.)., smirked, and said:

"My late father of blessed memory liked to have the peasant women scratch his heels for him after dinner. I take entirely after him, except that after dinner it’s not my heels I scratch but my tongue and my brains. I confess to a weakness, sinner that I am, for idle talk on a full stomach. You’ll permit me to chatter with you?"

"By all means," the vis-a-vis agreed.

"After a good dinner the most trifling pretext is enough to send devilishly big thoughts crowding into my head. For instance, sir – just now we saw two young men by the buffet, and you heard one of them congratulating the other on his fame. ’Congratulations,’ he says, ’you’re already a celebrity and beginning to conquer glory.’ Actors, evidently, or petty little journalists. But that’s not the point. What occupies me now, my dear sir, is the question: what exactly are we to understand by the word fame, or celebrity? What do you think? Pushkin called fame a bright patch on a beggar’s rags, and we all understand it in Pushkin’s fashion, that is, more or less subjectively, but no one has yet given a clear, logical definition of the word. I’d pay dearly for such a definition!"

"What do you need it for so badly?"

"You see, if we knew what fame was, we might also know the means of achieving it," said the first-class passenger, after a moment’s thought. "I must tell you, sir, that when I was younger I strove with every fiber of my soul toward celebrity. Popularity was, so to speak, my madness. For its sake I studied, I worked, I went without sleep at night, I went hungry, and I ruined my health. And it seems to me, as far as I can judge impartially, that I had every qualification for achieving it. In the first place, sir, I am by profession an engineer. In my lifetime I have built some twenty magnificent bridges across Russia, laid water systems in three cities, worked in Russia, in England, in Belgium... In the second place, I have written many specialized articles in my field. In the third place, my dear sir, from earliest childhood I had a weakness for chemistry; pursuing that science in my leisure hours, I discovered methods for extracting certain organic acids, so that you’ll find my name in every foreign chemistry textbook. The whole time I was in government service, and I rose to the rank of full state councillor, with an unblemished record. I won’t trouble your attention by enumerating all my services and works – I’ll only say that I accomplished far more than many a famous man. And what of it? Here I am, already old, on the verge of kicking the bucket, one might say, and I’m about as well known as that black dog running along the embankment there."

"How can you tell? Perhaps you are known."

"Hm!... Well, let’s try it right now... Tell me, have you ever heard the surname Krikunov?"

The vis-a-vis raised his eyes to the ceiling, thought a moment, and laughed.

"No, I haven’t heard it," he said.

"That’s my surname. You, an intelligent and elderly man, have never once heard of me – convincing proof! Evidently, in seeking celebrity, I went about it entirely the wrong way. I didn’t know the real methods, and in trying to catch fame by the tail I approached it from the wrong side."

"And what are these real methods?"

"The devil only knows! You’ll say: talent? genius? exceptional ability? Not in the least, my dear sir... Living alongside me and making their careers were people, compared to me, empty, worthless, and even wretched. They worked a thousand times less than I did, never wore themselves to the bone, never dazzled anyone with talent, and never chased after fame – and yet look at them! Their names turn up constantly in the newspapers and in conversation! If it doesn’t bore you to listen, I’ll explain by example, sir. A few years ago I was building a bridge in the town of K. I must tell you, the boredom in that wretched K. was terrible. If it hadn’t been for the women and the cards, I think I’d have gone out of my mind. Well, sir, it’s all in the past now – out of sheer boredom I took up with a certain little singer there. The devil only knows why, everyone went into raptures over that little singer; to my mind, though – how shall I put it? – she was the most ordinary, run-of-the-mill little creature, of a kind there are plenty of. An empty, capricious, greedy girl, and a fool besides. She ate a great deal, drank a great deal, slept until five in the evening – and did nothing else, so far as I could tell. She was considered a kept woman – that was her true profession – but when people wished to speak of her in a literary fashion, they called her an actress and a singer. I had once been an ardent theater-goer, and so this swindling game with the title of actress infuriated me no end! My little singer had not the slightest right to call herself an actress, or even a singer. She was a creature entirely without talent, without feeling, one might even say pitiable. As far as I could judge, she sang abominably, and the whole charm of her ’art’ consisted in kicking up her leg at the right moment and not being embarrassed when someone walked into her dressing room. She generally chose translated vaudevilles, with songs, and preferably ones that let her show off in a tight-fitting man’s costume. In a word – pah! Well, sir, I beg your attention. As I recall it now, we were holding the ceremonial opening of traffic across the newly built bridge. There was a service of thanksgiving, speeches, telegrams, and so on. I hovered about my creation, you understand, terrified my heart might burst from an author’s excitement. It’s all in the past now, and there’s no use being modest, so I’ll tell you: the bridge came out magnificent! Not a bridge but a picture, sheer delight! And how could one not be excited, with the whole town at the opening. ’Well,’ I thought, ’now the public will stare its eyes out at me. Where can I hide?’ But I worried in vain, my dear sir – alas! Apart from the officials, not a soul paid me the slightest attention. They stood in a crowd on the bank, staring at the bridge like sheep, and never gave a thought to who had built it. And, devil take them, from that time on, I might add, I’ve hated our most esteemed public. But let us continue. Suddenly the crowd stirred: a buzzing, a whispering... Faces broke into smiles, shoulders began to move. ’They must have caught sight of me,’ I thought. Fat chance! I look, and there through the crowd my little singer is making her way, with a whole gang of young idlers trailing behind her; and in the rear of this whole procession the glances of the crowd go hurrying after. A thousand-voiced whisper started up: ’That’s so-and-so... Charming! Enchanting!’ Then they noticed me too... A couple of young milksops, local amateurs of the dramatic arts, I suppose, looked at me, exchanged glances, and whispered: ’That’s her lover!’ How do you like that? And some scrawny figure in a top hat, with an unshaven mug, shifted from foot to foot near me for a good while, then turned to me and said:"

"Do you know who that lady is, walking along the far bank? That’s so-and-so... Her voice is beneath any criticism, sir, but she handles it to perfection!"

"Might you tell me," I asked the scrawny figure, "who built this bridge?"

"Really, I don’t know!" the figure answered. "Some engineer or other!"

"And who," I ask, "built the cathedral in your K.?"

"I can’t tell you that either."

I went on to ask who was considered the best teacher in K., who the best architect, and to all my questions the scrawny figure answered with ignorance.

"And tell me, if you please," I asked in conclusion, "who does that singer live with?"

"With some engineer, Krikunov."

Well, sir, how do you like that? But further still... Minnesingers and bards no longer exist in this world, and fame nowadays is made almost exclusively by the newspapers. The very next day after the consecration of the bridge, I greedily snatch up the local Herald and search it for my own person. I run my eyes over all four pages for a long while and at last – there it is! Hurrah! I begin to read: ’Yesterday, in splendid weather and before an enormous concourse of people, in the presence of His Excellency the Governor of the province and other authorities, took place the consecration of the newly built bridge,’ and so on. And at the end: ’At the consecration, resplendent in her beauty, was present, among others, the darling of the K– public, our talented artiste so-and-so. It goes without saying that her appearance produced a sensation. The star was dressed...’ and so on. Of me – not one word! Not half a word! Petty as it may sound, would you believe it, I actually wept then, from sheer rage!

I consoled myself with the thought that the provinces are stupid and nothing can be expected of them, but that for real fame one must go to the intellectual centers, to the capitals. As it happened, I had a little piece of work lying in Petersburg at the time, submitted for a competition. The deadline for the competition was drawing near.

I said farewell to K. and set off for Petersburg. The road from K. to Petersburg is a long one, and so, that it shouldn’t be dull, I took a separate compartment, and – naturally – the little singer too. We traveled the whole way eating, drinking champagne, and – tra-la-la! But at last we arrive at the intellectual center. I arrived on the very day of the competition and had, my dear sir, the pleasure of celebrating a victory: my work was awarded the first prize. Hurrah! The very next day I go out onto the Nevsky and buy seventy kopecks’ worth of assorted newspapers. I hurry back to my room, lie down on the couch, and, mastering my trembling, hasten to read. I skim through one newspaper – nothing! I skim through another – not a word, God help me! At last, in the fourth, I stumble upon this item: ’Yesterday the well-known provincial artiste so-and-so arrived in Petersburg by the express train. We note with pleasure that the southern climate has had a beneficial effect on our acquaintance: her lovely stage appearance...’ – and I don’t remember what came after! Much further down, printed in the very smallest type, was the notice: ’Yesterday, at such-and-such a competition, the first prize was awarded to the engineer so-and-so.’ That was all! And to top it off, they even got my surname wrong: instead of Krikunov they printed Kirkunov. So much for the intellectual center. But that’s not all... When I left Petersburg a month later, all the newspapers were vying with one another to discuss ’our incomparable, divine, supremely talented’ artiste, and by then they’d stopped calling my mistress by her surname at all – only by her given name and patronymic..."

"A few years later I was in Moscow. I’d been summoned there by a letter, in his own hand, from the mayor, on a matter that Moscow and its newspapers have been shouting about for over a hundred years now. While there, incidentally, I gave five public lectures in one of the museums, for a charitable purpose. That, I should think, would be enough to make one known to the city for at least three days, wouldn’t it? But alas! Not a single Moscow newspaper breathed a word about me. About fires, about operettas, about dozing councilmen, about drunken merchants – there’s plenty about all of that, but about my project, my business, my lectures – not a peep. And the dear Moscow public! I’m riding the horse-tram... The car is packed to bursting: ladies, military men, students, women students – every creature two by two."

"They say the Duma has summoned an engineer on such-and-such a matter!" I say to my neighbor, loudly enough for the whole car to hear. "You wouldn’t know the name of this engineer?"

My neighbor shook his head no. The rest of the passengers glanced at me in passing, and in every glance I read: "I don’t know."

"They say someone’s giving lectures at such-and-such a museum!" I pester the public, wishing to strike up a conversation. "They say it’s interesting!"

Not a single head so much as nodded. Evidently not everyone had heard of the lectures, and the ladies didn’t even know the museum existed. That would still have been nothing, but imagine, my dear sir, the public suddenly leaps up and crowds to the windows. What is it? What’s the matter?

"Look, look!" my neighbor nudged me. "See that dark-haired fellow getting into the cab? That’s the famous pedestrian-racer King!"

And the whole car, choking with excitement, burst into talk about the pedestrian-racers who were occupying Moscow’s minds at the time.

I could give you many more examples, but I think these are enough. Now let us suppose that I am mistaken about myself, that I’m a braggart and a nonentity – but apart from myself, I could point you to a multitude of my contemporaries, men remarkable for talent and industry, who died in obscurity. All those Russian navigators, chemists, physicists, mechanics, agriculturalists – are they popular? Are our Russian painters, sculptors, literary men known to our educated masses? Some old literary dog, hardworking and talented, wears out the thresholds of editorial offices for three-and-thirty years, blackens the devil knows how much paper, gets sued for libel some twenty times, and still never advances a step beyond his own anthill! Name me a single luminary of our literature who became known before word had spread across the land that he’d been killed in a duel, gone mad, been sent into exile, or cheated at cards!"

The first-class passenger grew so carried away that he dropped his cigar from his mouth and half rose from his seat.

"Yes, sir," he went on ferociously, "and alongside these men I could set before you hundreds of every sort of little singer, acrobat, and clown, known even to nursing infants. Yes, sir!"

The door creaked, a draft blew through, and into the carriage came a gloomy-looking figure in a caped coat, top hat, and blue spectacles. The figure surveyed the seats, frowned, and passed on further.

"Do you know who that is?" came a timid whisper from a far corner of the carriage. "That’s N. N., the notorious Tula card-sharp, brought to trial in the affair of the Y– Bank."

"There you have it!" laughed the first-class passenger. "He knows the Tula card-sharp, but ask him whether he knows Semiradsky, or Tchaikovsky, or the philosopher Solovyov, and he’ll only shake his head at you... Disgraceful!"

Three minutes passed in silence.

"Allow me to ask you, in my turn," the vis-a-vis coughed timidly, "is the surname Pushkov known to you?"

"Pushkov? Hm!... Pushkov... No, I don’t know it!"

"That’s my surname..." said the vis-a-vis, embarrassed. "So then, you don’t know it? And I’ve been a professor at one of the Russian universities for thirty-five years now... a member of the Academy of Sciences, sir... published on numerous occasions..."

The first-class passenger and the vis-a-vis exchanged glances and burst out laughing.

Notes