The Gulf of Finland lay smooth under the rays of the rising sun. A
Dutch trading vessel, which had wished to enter the harbour and
reach the Admiralty House, now furled its sails and dropped anchor.
It carried a flag at its main-top which hung down idly.
Near the red and green country-house stood an ancient lime-tree with
a split trunk; in the cleft a wooden platform with a railing had
been fitted, and a flight of steps led up to this arbour. In this
early morning hour there sat a man in the tree at an unpainted,
unsteady table, writing letters. The table was covered with papers,
but there was still room for a clock without a glass, a compass, a
case of drawing instruments, and a large bell of bronze.
The man sat in his shirt-sleeves; he wore darned stockings which
were turned down, and large shoes; his head seemed incredibly large,
but was not so in reality; his neck was like that of an ox, and his
body that of a giant; the hand which was now writing was coarse, and
stained with tar; he wrote carelessly, with lines somewhat slanting,
but quickly. The letters were short and to the point, with no
introductions and no conclusions, merely signed "Pe ter," the name
divided in two, as though it had been split by the heavy hand which
wrote it.
There were probably about a million men bearing that name in Russia;
but this Peter was the only one of importance, and everyone
recognised the signature.
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