'whose name is Fifty Million'

"'Good heavens,' I kept thinking as I sat in the railway carriage, 'how can we be called Russians? Are we really Russians in fact? Why does Europe make such a powerful and magic impression on all of us whoever we are? Why does it appeal to us so much?' I don't mean to those Russians who stay at home, those ordinary Russians whose name is Fifty Million, on whom we, all the one hundred thousand of us, look with disdain and whom our profound satirical journals make fun of, because they do not shave their beards. No, I mean our priviledged and patented little group."

Dostoyevsky em Winter Notes on Summer Impressions.