A Story of the Extraordinary

In one of the princely palaces on the Neva embankment, in a brightly decorated little room in “Moorish” taste—dirty, unfriendly, and cold—a man sits, gently swaying. He is tightly bound in a gray caftan made of soldiers’ wool. He is over forty; he is short, powerfully built, and he limps on his left leg. He has drawn it forward—on the foot, a heavy reddish boot. The right leg is braced against the parquet, and in the most vivid moments of his speech it thumps loudly with the heel—broad, almost like a horse’s hoof…