He was in the service of an important personage as an official in charge of special assignments, and sported a number of ribbons on the lapel of his tailcoat. He rented a good apartment on one of the smarter streets, kept three servants and the same number of horses. He was not old, but was known rather as “a man in his prime” – somewhere between thirty-five and forty. As a matter of fact, he preferred to keep his age to himself, not as a matter of petty pride, but rather on account of a kind of careful calculation, as if he were bent on insuring his life on more advantageous terms. However, there was no suggestion that behind his reticence about his age there lurked some vanity, and that this reticence would somehow succeed in impressing the fair sex.

He was a tall, well-proportioned man with pronounced features set in a lustreless dark face. He moved with an even, graceful carriage, and his manner was reserved, but pleasant – the type who is usually described as a bel homme.*

His face conveyed the same element of reserve, of a kind of self-possession, and his eyes would not let you see through them into his soul. It was his feeling that this would be uncomfortable both for himself and others. This was how he appeared in company. Of course, this is not to say that his face was wooden: no, it was just untroubled. Only at times did it betray signs of weariness – most probably because his work was so demanding. He was thought of as someone both businesslike and efficient. He always dressed with care and with some elegance, but always within the bounds of good taste. His linen was immaculate, his hands were white and had some substance to them, his fingernails long and clear.

One morning, after waking up and ringing, his servant brought in three letters together with his tea, as well as the news that a young gentleman who called himself Alexander Fyodorych Aduyev had arrived, and had called him – Pyotr Ivanych – his “uncle”, and promised to call back some time after eleven.

Pyotr Ivanych, as was his custom, took the news calmly, reacting only with a slight quickening of his attention and an equally slight raising of his eyebrows.

“Very well, you may go,” he told the servant.

Then he picked up one of the letters, was on the point of opening it, but stopped to think for a moment.

“It’s that nephew from the country – that’s surprising!” he grumbled to himself. “I had hoped that the people in those parts had forgotten all about me! Anyway, no need to pretend to be civil! I’ll just talk my way out of it…”

He rang again.

“When that gentleman comes, tell him that when I got up this morning I got an urgent message to leave for the factory, and won’t be back for three months.”

“Yes sir, but what should I do about the presents?”

“What presents?”

“A servant brought them: it was the mistress,” he said, “who sent them from the country.”

“Presents?”

“Yes sir, a tub of honey, a sack of dried raspberries…”

Pyotr Ivanych shrugged.

“As well as two lengths of linen and some preserves…”

“Yes, I see, it must be good cloth…”

“Yes, it is, and the preserves are sweetened.”

“Well, off with you, I’ll come and see in a moment.”

He picked up one of the letters, opened it and glanced at a page.

It looked like that Old Slavonic-style large writing. The letter v had been replaced by two struck-through vertical lines, and the letter k simply by two lines; and there was no punctuation.

Aduyev started to read out the letter under his breath:

“Honourable Sir, Mr Pyotr Ivanych,

“I was a close acquaintance and friend of your late parents; I also used to play with you quite often when you were a child, and was frequently a guest at your parents’ table. So I feel confident that I can count on your help and goodwill, and that you will not have forgotten old Vasily Tikhonych. All of us here have the fondest memories of you and your parents, and pray for you…

“What is this rubbish? Who is this from?” said Pyotr Ivanych, glancing at the signature. “Vasily Zayezzhalov! Zayezzhalov? For the life of me, I can’t remember. What does he want from me?”

He continued reading.

“I don’t mean to impose on you, but I do have this very humble favour to ask of you – I am sure you won’t refuse. In St Petersburg, I’m sure it’s not like it is for us back here. Up there, you know what’s what, and everything that’s going on. I’ve had this damned lawsuit dumped on me and it has been hanging over me for seven years now, and I can’t fight it off. Do you happen to remember that grove about two versts from my village? The court made a mistake with the deed of sale, and my adversary, Medvedev, has seized on it and won’t let go. There’s one clause in it which he claims is forged. He’s the same Medvedev who used to poach fish on your grounds; your late father drove him away in disgrace and was minded to lodge a complaint with the governor against him for his impertinence, but he was a kind-hearted man, may his soul rest in peace, and he let him go. But that rascal should never have been let off. Please be a good fellow and help me, Pyotr Ivanych, the case is now before the National Senate, but I don’t know which department, or who is dealing with it, but I’m sure you can find out quickly. Go and see the various secretaries and senators and try to influence them in my favour; tell them that I’m a victim of a mistake in the deed of sale, yes, a definite mistake; they will do whatever is necessary for you. Oh, and while you’re about it, see if you can get the papers granting me an official promotion to a higher grade.

“One more thing, Pyotr Ivanych, dear fellow, a little matter of a most deserving case: please find it in your heart to offer advice, help and sympathy to a poor, downtrodden and innocent victim. There is a councillor in our provincial administration by the name of Drozhov, a man with a heart of gold, not mere flesh and blood, who would die sooner than let down a friend.