The Mayor, Yakov Anikyevitch Skouchayev, met Peredonov on the threshold of his drawing-room. He was a tall, robust man with closely cropped dark hair; he comported himself with dignity and courtesy, though not altogether free from contemptuousness towards people of small means.
Peredonov sat down heavily in a broad chair and said in answer to his host’s first polite questions:
“I’ve come on business.”
“With pleasure. What can I do for you?” said the Mayor politely.
In his cunning little black eyes suddenly glimmered a spark of contempt. He thought that Peredonov had come to borrow money, and decided that he could not let him have more than a hundred and fifty roubles. There were quite a number of officials in town who owed Skouchayev more or less significant sums. Skouchayev never referred to the loan, but he never extended further credit to the delinquent debtors. He always gave willingly the first time according to the standing and condition of the borrower.
“You, as Mayor, Yakov Anikyevitch, are the first personage in the town,” said Peredonov. “That’s why I came to have a talk with you.”
Skouchayev assumed an important air and inclined his head slightly as he sat in the chair.
“All sorts of scandal are being spread about me,” said Peredonov morosely. “They invent things that never happened.”
“You can’t gag other people’s mouths,” said the Mayor. “And, in any case, in our little Palestines it’s well known that gossips have nothing to do except to wag their tongues.”
“They say I don’t go to church, but that’s not true,” continued Peredonov. “I do go; it’s true I didn’t go on St. Elias’ day, but that was because I had a stomach ache. Otherwise I always go.”
“That’s quite true,” the host confirmed, “I happened to see you there myself, though I don’t often go to your church, I usually go to the monastery. It’s been a custom of our family for a long time.”
“All sorts of scandal are being spread about me,” said Peredonov. “They say that I tell the schoolboys nasty tales, but that’s nonsense. Of course, I sometimes tell them something amusing at a lesson, to make it interesting. You yourself have a boy at school. Now, he hasn’t told you anything of the sort about me, has he?”
“That’s quite true,” agreed Skouchayev. “Nothing of the sort has happened. However, youngsters are usually cunning, they never repeat what they know they oughtn’t to repeat. Of course, my boy is still quite small. He’s young enough to have repeated something silly, but I assure you he has said nothing of the sort.”
“And in the elder classes they know everything for themselves,” went on Peredonov. “But, of course, I never say anything improper there.”
“Naturally,” replied Skouchayev, “a school is not a market place.”
“That’s the kind of people they are here,” complained Peredonov. “They invent tales of things that never happened. That’s why I’ve come to you—you’re the Mayor of the town.”
Skouchayev felt very flattered that Peredonov had come to him. He did not understand what it was all about, but he was shrewd enough not to show his lack of comprehension.
“And there are other things being said about me,” continued Peredonov. “For one thing that I live with Varvara—they say that she’s not my cousin but my mistress. And she’s only a cousin to me—honest to God! She’s a very distant relative—only a third cousin; there’s nothing against marrying her. Indeed I’m going to marry her.”
“So-o. So-o. Of course!” said Skouchayev reflectively. “Besides, a bride’s wreath ends the matter.”
“It was impossible earlier,” said Peredonov. “I had important reasons. It was utterly impossible, or I should have married long ago, believe me.”
Skouchayev assumed an air of dignity, frowned, and, tapping on the dark tablecloth with his plump white fingers, said:
“I believe you. If that is so, it alters the case entirely. I believe you now. I must confess that it was a little dubious for you to live, if you will permit me to say so, with your companion without marrying her. It was very dubious, perhaps because—well, you know children are an impressionable race; they’re apt to pick things up. It’s hard to teach them what’s good, but the bad comes easily to them. That’s why it was really dubious. And besides, whose business is it? That’s how I look at it. It flatters me that you’ve come to complain to me, because although I’m only one of the common folk—I didn’t go beyond the District school—still I have the respect and confidence of society. This is my third year as Mayor, so that my word counts for something among the burgesses.”
Skouchayev talked and all the time entangled himself in his own thoughts, and it seemed as if he would never end his tongue-spinning. He stopped abruptly and thought irritatedly:
“This is a waste of time. That’s the trouble with these learned men. You can’t understand what they want. Everything’s clear to him, to the learned man, in his books, but as soon as he gets his nose out of his books, he tangles up himself and tangles up other people.”
He fixed his eye on Peredonov with a look of perplexity, his keen eyes grew dull, his stout body relapsed into the chair, and he seemed no longer the brisk man of action but simply a rather foolish old man.
Peredonov was silent for a while, as if he were bewitched by his host’s last words. Then, screwing up his eyes with an indefinable clouded expression, he said:
“You’re the Mayor of the town, so you can say that it’s all nonsense.”
“That is, in what respect?” inquired Skouchayev cautiously.
“Well,” explained Peredonov, “if they should inform against me in the District—that I don’t go to church or something or other—then if they should come and ask you might put in a word for me.”
“This we can do,” said the Mayor. “In any case, you can rely on us. If anything should happen, then we’ll stand
