To the Russian of the lower class, who has been inarticulate for generations, there are no degrees of education. He does not realize that among a thousand persons who have, say, graduated from a university in the same class, all members of which have taken the same courses of study, there is any variation of intellect, and difference in ability, any deeper sense of meanings of things in one individual than in another. Why should there be? he asks. Are they not all educated? He thinks of education, as a certain moment in which the student becomes aware of all knowledge, and acquires all wisdom. And to the primitive minds of these people, “education” means the ability to read, write, and figure. At one station where we changed train crews, a big fellow, with a gigantic wooly cap, came into our car and sat by the stove. His assistants paid him much deference. He began to talk with the Czechs, and once set going, went on like a great phonograph. The Czechs finally ignored him, and he began to question Werkstein, my interpreter. Werkstein had difficulty in concealing his amusement at some of the things the big fellow said, and I got into the conversation. “This chap is educated,” said Werkstein. “That is why the provodnik and the brakeman sit here and listen to him talk--they feel that they are learning something. They almost worship him because he can tell them things he has read in books.” “What books has he read?” I asked. “Gorky, Puskin, Tolstoy?” The conductor threw up his hands in a delirium of joy as he heard me pronounce the names of the Russian novelists. Now he could show his fellows that he could talk to the American on common ground. But when I asked him to name some of the works of these writers that he had read, he pushed back his cap and scratched his head with a ponderous paw. He could not remember the titles--but he had read all their works. But he was utterly ignorant of anything Tolstoy or Gorky had written--he merely recognized the titles when they were mentioned. He changed the subject by asserting that we Americans wanted all Russians to agree on a government, when we Americans could not agree on our own. I agreed that there were some differences of opinion as to government in our country, but that in general we agreed fairly well. “Then why do you have so many presidents?” he asked in triumph. “We try to have but one,” I said. “You have more than fifteen now,” he replied, and dug his elbow into the ribs of a brakeman sitting behind him, to indicate that he had made a point which I could not refute. “Who are they?” I asked. “I cannot remember their names,” he asserted, but holding up a hand, he began to count on his fingers: “You have presidents in Brazil, Argentine, Chile, Mexico, ----.” The Czechs interrupted him with roars of laughter, and Werkstein explained to me. But he insisted that he was right.