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