f 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_
timid