Fifty-Two Stories

THE FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER

A FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER, who had just had dinner at the station and was slightly tipsy, sprawled on the velvet seat, stretched out sweetly, and dozed off. After dozing for no more than five minutes, he looked with oily eyes at his vis-à-vis, grinned, and said:

“My father, of blessed memory, liked to have his heels scratched by a peasant wench after dinner. I’m exactly the same, with the only difference that each time after dinner I scratch not my heels but my tongue and brain. Sinner that I am, I love to babble on a full stomach. Will you allow me to chat with you a little?”

“By all means,” the vis-à-vis agreed.

“After a good dinner, it takes only the most insignificant pretext for devilishly big thoughts to come into my head. For instance, you and I just saw two young men at the buffet, and you heard one of them congratulate the other on becoming a celebrity. ‘Congratulations,’ he said, ‘you’re already a celebrity and are beginning to be famous.’ Obviously actors or microscopic journalists. But they’re not the point. I, sir, am now interested in the question of what, in fact, should be understood by the words ‘fame’ and ‘celebrity.’ What’s your opinion, sir? Pushkin called fame a bright patch on rags;¹ we all understand it Pushkin fashion, that is, more or less subjectively, but no one has yet given a clear, logical definition of this word. I’d give a lot for such a definition.”

“Why do you need it so much?”

“You see, if we knew what fame is, we might also know the ways of winning it,” the first-class passenger said after some thought. “I must point out to you, sir, that when I was younger I strove for celebrity with every fiber of my soul. Popularity was, so to speak, my madness. For the sake of it I studied, worked, didn’t sleep nights, didn’t eat enough, and ruined my health. And it seems, insofar as I can judge impartially, that I had all the qualifications for it. First of all, sir, I am an engineer by profession. In my lifetime I’ve built a couple of dozen splendid bridges in Russia, I’ve constructed water supply systems for three towns, I’ve worked in Russia, in England, in Belgium…Second, I’ve written many specialized articles in my line. Third, my dear sir, I’ve had a weakness for chemistry since childhood; devoting my leisure to this science, I have discovered methods for obtaining certain organic acids, so that you will find my name in all foreign chemistry textbooks. All this while I held a position, rose to the rank of actual state councillor, and have a spotless record. I won’t impose on your attention by listing all my honors and achievements, and will only say that I did much more than some celebrities. And what then? I’m already old, on my last legs, one might say, and I’m as much a celebrity as that black dog running along the embankment.”

“How can you tell? Maybe you are a celebrity.”

“Hm!…We’ll test it right now…Tell me, have you ever heard the name Krikunov?”

The vis-à-vis looked up at the ceiling, thought a little, and laughed.

“No, never heard it…,” he said.

“It’s my last name. You, an educated and elderly man, have never heard of me—conclusive proof! Obviously, in striving to become a celebrity, I didn’t do what I should have done at all. I didn’t know the proper methods, and, wishing to catch fame by the tail, I started from the wrong end.”

“What are the proper methods?”

“Devil knows! You say: talent? genius? originality? Not at all, my dear sir…Parallel with me people lived and pursued their careers who, compared to me, were empty, worthless, and even trashy. They worked a thousand times less than I did, didn’t turn inside out, didn’t sparkle with talent or strive for fame, but look at them! Their names turn up in the newspapers and in conversations all the time! If you’re not tired of listening, I’ll clarify with an example. Several years ago I built a bridge in the town of K. I must tell you that this shabby K. was a terribly boring town. If it hadn’t been for women and cards, I probably would have gone out of my mind. Well, sir, it’s all long past: out of boredom there I took up with a little singer. Devil knows why, everybody went into raptures over this little singer, but in my view—how shall I put it to you?—she was an ordinary, commonplace little type, like many others. An empty, capricious, greedy girl, and a fool besides. She ate a lot, drank a lot, slept till five in the afternoon—and nothing more, it seems. She was considered a cocotte—that was her profession—and when they wanted to refer to her more literarily, they called her an actress and singer. I used to be an inveterate theatergoer, and therefore this fraudulent toying with the title of actress outraged me terribly! My little singer didn’t have the least right to be called an actress or even a singer. This was a being totally devoid of talent, devoid of feeling, one might even say pathetic. To my understanding, her singing was disgusting, and the whole charm of her ‘art’ was that she kicked up her leg when necessary and was not embarrassed when someone came into her dressing room. She usually chose translated vaudevilles, with songs, the sort in which she could show off in a tightly fitting male costume. In a word—pfui! Now, sir, I ask for your attention. I remember as if it were today, a solemn ceremony was held for the opening of the newly built bridge to traffic. There was a prayer service, speeches, telegrams, and all the rest. I, you know, was hovering around this child of mine, and kept worrying that my heart would burst from authorial excitement. It’s all long past, there’s no need to play modest, so I’ll tell you that my bridge turned out to be magnificent! Not a bridge, but a picture, simply splendid! Just try not being excited when the whole town comes to the opening. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘now the public will stare all eyes at me. Where can I hide?’ But, my dear sir, I worried over nothing—alas! Apart from the officials, no one paid the slightest attention to me. The crowd of them stood on the bank, gazing at the bridge like sheep, and not caring at all about the one who built it. And, devil take them, from that time on, by the way, I began to hate this most esteemed public of ours. But to go on. Suddenly the public stirred: psst, psst, psst…Faces smiled, shoulders moved. ‘They must have spotted me,’ I thought. Oh, yes, fat chance! I look: my little singer is making her way through the crowd, with a bunch of wags behind her; the eyes of the crowd hasten to follow the whole procession. A thousand-voiced whispering began: ‘It’s So-and-So…Lovely! Enchanting!’ It was then that they noticed me…Two milksops—must have been local amateurs of the scenic art—looked at me, exchanged glances, and whispered: ‘That’s her lover!’ How do you like that? And some sort of runty figure in a top hat, with a long-unshaven mug, shuffled beside me for a long time, then turned to me with these words:

“ ‘Do you know the lady who’s walking on the other bank? It’s So-and-So…Her voice is beneath criticism, but she masters it to perfection!…”

“ ‘Might you tell me,’ I asked the runty figure, ‘who built this bridge?’

“ ‘I really don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Some engineer.’

“ ‘And who,’ I asked, ‘built the cathedral in your K.?’

“ ‘I can’t tell you that either.’

“Then I asked who in K. is considered the best pedagogue, who the best architect, and to all my questions the runty figure professed ignorance.

“ ‘And tell me, please,’ I asked in conclusion, ‘who does this singer live with?’

“ ‘With some engineer named Krikunov.’

“Well, my dear sir, how do you like that? But to go on…There are no minnesingers or bards in the wide world now, and celebrities are created almost exclusively by the newspapers. The day after the blessing of the bridge, I eagerly snatch up the local Messenger and search through it for something about my own person. I spend a long time looking over all four pages and, finally—there it is! Hurrah! I start reading: ‘Yesterday, the weather being excellent, an enormous gathering of people, in the presence of His Excellency Governor So-and-So and other authorities, attended the blessing of the newly constructed bridge…,’ etc. And it ended: ‘Present at the blessing, incidentally, radiant with beauty, was the darling of the K. public, our talented actress So-and-So. Needless to say, her appearance caused a sensation. The star was dressed…,’ etc. And not a single word about me! Not even half a word! It was very petty, but, believe me, I was so angry I even wept!

“I calmed myself with the thought that the province is stupid, there’s nothing to be expected from it, and for celebrity one must go to the intellectual centers, the capitals.² It so happened that one of my little projects was in Petersburg just then, sent to a competition. The date of the competition was approaching.

“I bade farewell to K. and went to Petersburg. The road from K. to Petersburg is long, so, not to be bored, I took a private compartment and…well, of course, the little singer. We rode along and all the way ate, drank champagne, and—tra-la-la! But here we arrive at the intellectual center. I arrived there on the very day of the competition, and had the pleasure, my dear sir, of celebrating a victory: my project was awarded the first prize. Hurrah! The next day I go to Nevsky Prospect and buy seventy kopecks’ worth of various newspapers. I hasten to my hotel room, lie down on the sofa, and, trying not to tremble, hasten to read. I look through one newspaper—nothing! I look through another—not a hint! Finally, in the fourth, I come across this news: ‘Yesterday on the express train the famous provincial actress So-and-So arrived in Petersburg. We are pleased to point out that the southern climate has had a beneficial effect on our acquaintance; her beautiful stage appearance…’ and I don’t remember what else! Far below this news, in the smallest typeface, was printed: ‘Yesterday in such-and-such competition the first prize was awarded to the engineer So-and-So.’ That’s all! And, to top it off, my last name was distorted: instead of Krikunov they wrote Kirkunov. There’s an intellectual center for you. But that’s not all…When I was leaving Petersburg a month later, the newspapers all vied with each other telling about ‘our incomparable, divine, highly talented’ and called my mistress not by her last name, but by her first name and patronymic….

“Several years later I was in Moscow. I was summoned there by a personal letter from the mayor, on business which Moscow and its newspapers had already been shouting about for more than a hundred years. Among other things, I delivered in one of the museums there five public lectures for charitable purposes. That seems like enough to make one a celebrity in the city, if only for three days, doesn’t it? But, alas! Not a single Moscow newspaper mentioned it. Fires, operettas, sleeping councillors, drunken merchants—they mention everything, but about me, my project, my lectures—not a peep. Ah, that dear old Moscow public! I get into a horse tram…The wagon is packed full: there are ladies and officers and students of both sexes—two and two.

“ ‘They say the Town Council has invited an engineer on such-and-such business!’ I say to my neighbor, loudly enough so that the whole wagon can hear. ‘Do you know his name?’

“The neighbor shook his head. The other people all glanced fleetingly at me, and in their eyes I read: ‘I don’t know.’

“ ‘They say someone’s giving lectures in such-and-such museum!’ I pester the public, wishing to strike up a conversation. ‘I’ve heard it’s interesting.’

“No one even nodded. Obviously not all of them had heard about the lectures, and the esteemed ladies didn’t even know about the existence of the museum. That was all still nothing, but imagine, my dear sir, the public suddenly jumped up and rushed to the windows. What is it? What’s the matter?

“ ‘Look, look!’ my neighbor nudged me. ‘See that dark-haired man getting into the cab? That’s the famous sprinter King!’ And the whole wagon, spluttering, began to talk about the sprinters, who then occupied the minds of Moscow.

“I could give you many other examples, but I suppose these are enough. Now I allow that I’m deluded about myself, that I’m giftless and a braggart, but, besides myself, I could point out to you many of my contemporaries, people remarkable for their talents and hard work, but who died in obscurity. All these Russian navigators, chemists, physicists, mechanics, agronomists—are they popular? Are Russian painters, sculptors, men of letters known to our educated masses? Some old literary dog, hardworking and talented, wears out the publishers’ doorsteps for thirty-three years, uses up the devil knows how much paper, is taken to court twenty times for defamation, and still never steps further than his anthill! Name for me at least one coryphaeus of our literature who became a celebrity before the rumor spread in the world that he had been killed in a duel, gone mad, been exiled, or cheated at cards!”

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

“Yes, sir,” he went on fiercely, “and parallel to these people I can cite you hundreds of little singers of all sorts, acrobats, and buffoons who are known even to nursing babies. Yes, sir!”

The door creaked, there was a gust of air, and a person of sullen appearance, wearing a greatcoat, a top hat, and blue spectacles, came into the car. The person examined the seats, frowned, and went on.

“Do you know who that is?” a timid whisper came from the far corner of the car. “That’s N. N., the famous Tula cardsharp, who was taken to court in the Y. bank affair.”

“There you are!” the first-class passenger laughed. “He knows the Tula cardsharp, but ask him if he knows Semiradsky, Tchaikovsky, or the philosopher Soloviev, he’ll just shake his head…Swinishness!”

Some three minutes passed in silence.

“Allow me to ask you in my turn,” the vis-à-vis coughed timidly, “is the name Pushkov known to you?”

“Pushkov? Hm!…Pushkov…No, I don’t know it.”

“It’s my name…” the vis-à-vis said shyly. “So you don’t know it? And I’ve been a professor at one of the Russian universities for thirty-five years…a member of the Academy of Science, sir…have published extensively…”

The first-class passenger and the vis-à-vis looked at each other and burst out laughing.

1886