“Let us suppose I have won it; the man must be deuced ill-bred mentally either to wear the so-called fame as an ornament or to put it up for show.  I confess that at first it gratifies one’s vanity; but only a spiritual parvenu would find it sufficient to fill the whole life, or take the place of real happiness.  It is quite another thing to be conscious you are doing good work; that the public appreciates it, and that your work calls forth an echo in other minds,—­a public man has the right to feel pleased with that.  But as to feeling gratified when somebody, looking more or less foolish, comes up and says:  ‘We are indebted to you for so much pleasure;’ or, when a dinner does not agree with me, our daily press remarks:  ’We communicate to our readers the sad news that our famous XX suffers from a stomachache,’—­pshaw! what do you take me for, that such a thing could give me satisfaction?”

“Listen,” I said, “I am not inordinately vain; but I confess that, when people speak of my extraordinary talents, and regret that I make not a better use of them, it flatters me; and though I feel more than ever my uselessness, it gives me pleasure; humankind is fond of approbation.”

“That is because you pity yourself, and in that you are quite right.  But you are turning away from the question.  I do not say that it would give one pleasure to be called an ass.”

“But the public esteem that goes hand in hand with fame?”

Sniatynski, who is very lively and always walks about the room, sitting down on any table or chair, now sat on the window-sill, and replied:—­

“Public esteem?  You are wrong there, old fellow; there is no such thing.  Ours is a strange society, dominated by a pure republican jealousy.  I write plays, work for the stage; very good.  I have gained a certain reputation; better still.  Now, these plays excite the jealousy,—­of another playwright, you think?  Not at all; it is the engineer, the bank clerk, the teacher, the physician, the railway official,—­in short, people who never wrote a play in their lives,—­that envy you.  All these in their intercourse will show that they do not think much of you, will speak slightingly of you behind your back, and belittle you on purpose, so as to add an inch or two to their own height.  ’Sniatynski? who is he?  Yes, I remember; he dresses at the same tailor as I.’  Such is fame, my dear fellow.”

“But if must be worth something, since people risk their lives for it?”

Sniatynski grew thoughtful, and replied with a certain gravity:—­

“In private life it is worth something; you can make a footstool of it for the woman you love.”

“You will gain a new fame by this definition.”

Sniatynski rushed at me with lively impetuosity.

“Yes, yes; put all your laurels into a cushion, go to the dear one, and say to her:  ’This for which people risk their lives; this which they consider supreme happiness, appreciate more than wealth,—­I have got it, striven for it; and now put your dear feet on it at once.’  If you do this, you will be loved all your life.  You wanted to know what fame is good for, and there you are.”