The First-class Passenger

"The First-class Passenger" is a short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that revolves around the interactions and reflections of a traveler in a train compartment. The story delves into themes of class, human behavior, and societal norms as the protagonist observes the dynamics between fellow passengers. Chekhov’s keen eye for detail and his ability to capture the complexities of human relationships are evident as the narrative unfolds, highlighting moments of introspection and the subtle absurdities of life. Through this vignette, Chekhov examines the distinctions between social status and personal identity, ultimately prompting readers to reflect on their own perceptions of class and humanity.

								
A FIRST-CLASS passenger who had just dined at the station and drunk a
little too much lay down on the velvet-covered seat, stretched himself
out luxuriously, and sank into a doze. After a nap of no more than five
minutes, he looked with oily eyes at his vis-a-vis, gave a smirk, and
said:

"My father of blessed memory used to like to have his heels tickled by
peasant women after dinner. I am just like him, with this difference,
that after dinner I always like my tongue and my brains gently
stimulated. Sinful man as I am, I like empty talk on a full stomach.
Will you allow me to have a chat with you?"

"I shall be delighted," answered the vis-a-vis.

"After a good dinner the most trifling subject is sufficient to arouse
devilishly great thoughts in my brain. For instance, we saw just now
near the refreshment bar two young men, and you heard one congratulate
the other on being celebrated. 'I congratulate you,' he said; 'you are
already a celebrity and are beginning to win fame.' Evidently actors or
journalists of microscopic dimensions. But they are not the point. The
question that is occupying my mind at the moment, sir, is exactly what
is to be understood by the word fame or charity. What do you think?
Pushkin called fame a bright patch on a ragged garment; we all
understand it as Pushkin does--that is, more or less subjectively--but no
one has yet given a clear, logical definition of the word.... I would
give a good deal for such a definition!"

"Why do you feel such a need for it?"

"You see, if we knew what fame is, the means of attaining it might also
perhaps be known to us," said the first-class passenger, after a
moment's thought. "I must tell you, sir, that when I was younger I
strove after celebrity with every fiber of my being. To be popular was
my craze, so to speak. For the sake of it I studied, worked, sat up at
night, neglected my meals. And I fancy, as far as I can judge without
partiality, I had all the natural gifts for attaining it. To begin with,
I am an engineer by profession. In the course of my life I have built in
Russia some two dozen magnificent bridges, I have laid aqueducts for
three towns; I have worked in Russia, in England, in Belgium....
Secondly, I am the author of several special treatises in my own line.
And thirdly, my dear sir, I have from a boy had a weakness for
chemistry. Studying that science in my leisure hours, I discovered
methods of obtaining certain organic acids, so that you will find my
name in all the foreign manuals of chemistry. I have always been in the
service, I have risen to the grade of actual civil councilor, and I have
an unblemished record. I will not fatigue your attention by enumerating
my works and my merits, I will only say that I have done far more than
some celebrities. And yet here I am in my old age, I am getting ready
for my coffin, so to say, and I am as celebrated as that black dog
yonder running on the embankment."

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

"H'm! Well, we will test it at once. Tell me, have you ever heard the
name Krikunov?"

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

"No, I haven't heard it,..." he said.

"That is my surname. You, a man of education, getting on in years, have
never heard of me--a convincing proof! It is evident that in my efforts
to gain fame I have not done the right thing at all: I did not know the
right way to set to work, and, trying to catch fame by the tail, got on
the wrong side of her."

"What is the right way to set to work?"

"Well, the devil only knows! Talent, you say? Genius? Originality? Not a
bit of it, sir!... People have lived and made a career side by side with
me who were worthless, trivial, and even contemptible compared with me.
They did not do one-tenth of the work I did, did not put themselves out,
were not distinguished for their talents, and did not make an effort to
be celebrated, but just look at them! Their names are continually in the
newspapers and on men's lips! If you are not tired of listening I will
illustrate it by an example. Some years ago I built a bridge in the town
of K. I must tell you that the dullness of that scurvy little town was
terrible. If it had not been for women and cards I believe I should have
gone out of my mind. Well, it's an old story: I was so bored that I got
into an affair with a singer. Everyone was enthusiastic about her, the
devil only knows why; to my thinking she was--what shall I say?--an
ordinary, commonplace creature, like lots of others. The hussy was
empty-headed, ill-tempered, greedy, and what's more, she was a fool.

"She ate and drank a vast amount, slept till five o clock in the
afternoon--and I fancy did nothing else. She was looked upon as a
cocotte, and that was indeed her profession; but when people wanted to
refer to her in a literary fashion, they called her an actress and a
singer. I used to be devoted to the theatre, and therefore this
fraudulent pretense of being an actress made me furiously indignant. My
young lady had not the slightest right to call herself an actress or a
singer. She was a creature entirely devoid of talent, devoid of
feeling--a pitiful creature one may say. As far as I can judge she sang
disgustingly. The whole charm of her 'art' lay in her kicking up her
legs on every suitable occasion, and not being embarrassed when people
walked into her dressing-room. She usually selected translated
vaudevilles, with singing in them, and opportunities for disporting
herself in male attire, in tights. In fact it was--ough! Well, I ask your
attention. As I remember now, a public ceremony took place to celebrate
the opening of the newly constructed bridge. There was a religious
service, there were speeches, telegrams, and so on. I hung about my
cherished creation, you know, all the while afraid that my heart would
burst with the excitement of an author. It's an old story and there's no
need for false modesty, and so I will tell you that my bridge was a
magnificent work! It was not a bridge but a picture, a perfect delight!
And who would not have been excited when the whole town came to the
opening? 'Oh,' I thought, 'now the eyes of all the public will be on me!
Where shall I hide myself?' Well, I need not have worried myself,
sir--alas! Except the official personages, no one took the slightest
notice of me. They stood in a crowd on the river-bank, gazed like sheep
at the bridge, and did not concern themselves to know who had built it.
And it was from that time, by the way, that I began to hate our
estimable public--damnation take them! Well, to continue. All at once the
public became agitated; a whisper ran through the crowd,... a smile came
on their faces, their shoulders began to move. 'They must have seen me,'
I thought. A likely idea! I looked, and my singer, with a train of young
scamps, was making her way through the crowd. The eyes of the crowd were

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