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Updated: May 21, 2025
And Kutsyn tried to recall the foreign words he had picked up from the newspapers. "I am the mayor of the town," he muttered. "That is the lord mayor . . . municipalais . . . Vwee? Kompreney?" He wanted to express his social position in words or in gesture, and did not know how.
Kutsyn had already two medals, and the Stanislav of the third degree, the badge of the Red Cross, and the badge of the Society of Saving from Drowning, and in addition to these he had made himself a little gold gun crossed by a guitar, and this ornament, hung from a buttonhole in his uniform, looked in the distance like something special, and delightfully resembled a badge of distinction.
Kutsyn, who knew no foreign language, shook his head to show that he did not understand. "Well, how am I to talk to him?" he thought. "It would be a good thing to send for an interpreter at once, but it is a delicate matter, I can't talk before witnesses. The interpreter would be chattering all over the town afterwards."
Downstairs near the door leading to the restaurant of the 'Japan, Kutsyn reflected that it would not be amiss to entertain the Persian. He stopped and indicating the tables, said: "By Russian custom it wouldn't be amiss . . . puree, entrekot, champagne and so on, kompreney."
Kutsyn pointed at Venice, and with two fingers represented walking legs. Rahat-Helam who kept his eyes fixed on his medals, and was apparently guessing that this was the most important person in the town, understood the word promenage and grinned politely. Then they both put on their coats and went out of the room.
Rahat-Helam, an enormous Asiatic, with a long nose like the beak of a snipe, with prominent eyes, and with a fez on his head, was sitting on the floor rummaging in his portmanteau. "I beg you to excuse my disturbing you," began Kutsyn, smiling. "I have the honour to introduce myself, the hereditary, honourable citizen and cavalier, Stepan Ivanovitch Kutsyn, mayor of this town.
Only Stepan Ivanovitch Kutsyn, the mayor of the town, hearing of the arrival of the oriental gentleman from the secretary of the Town Hall, grew thoughtful and inquired: "Where is he going?" "To Paris or to London, I believe." "H'm. . . . Then he is a big-wig, I suppose?" "The devil only knows."
"The frontiers of Persia" Kutsyn continued the greeting he had previously learned by heart "are in close contact with the borders of our spacious fatherland, and therefore mutual sympathies impel me, so to speak, to express my solidarity with you." The illustrious Persian got up and again muttered something in a wooden tongue.
The illustrious visitor understood, and a little later they were both sitting in the very best room of the restaurant, eating, and drinking champagne. "Let us drink to the prosperity of Persia!" said Kutsyn. "We Russians love the Persians.
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