THE CONFESSION OF VASSILII. I met Vassilii Poklévski at the post-house at Durnovskaia, a small village a few miles from Astrakhan. He had been recommended to me as a steady, intelligent _yamstchik_ (driver) of superior education to the average Muscovite, and he would, I was assured, serve me faithfully and well on the long journey I had been compelled to undertake. I therefore engaged him. Outwardly, he was a rough, uncouth-looking fellow with unkempt grey hair and unshorn beard, but very soon I ascertained that he was well read, and that he spoke French quite fluently. We set out together in a rather rickety _telega_ drawn by a pair of shaggy horses I had purchased, and for a fortnight had travelled along the post-road that follows the Volga. To inquiries as to where he had picked up his knowledge of literature and languages Vassilii always gave evasive replies, and although I knew he was an ardent supporter of the Cause, I began to suspect that his past was enveloped in some mystery, a surmise which proved correct. At Nijni Novgorod we encountered the first snow, and exchanged our _telega_ for a sleigh. One afternoon, just as twilight was setting in, we were crossing the wide snow-covered steppe which stretched out on one side from Veliki Usting as far as the eye could reach towards Vondokurskoi, in Vologda Province, while on the other was a dense forest of tall gloomy pines, rendered picturesque by the hoar-frost upon the branches. Vassilii was wrapped in his sheepskin until only his eyes and moustache were visible, while I, enveloped in my heavy fur-coat, sat back in the sleigh ruminating. The drive was weary, monotonous, and comfortless. In those parts of the road sheltered by trees the coating of snow was absent, but the ground was covered with ice. The runners of my sleigh would grind over the bare patches, and the ragged-coated little horses would flounder about on the frozen surface, while Vassilii would crack his long-thonged whip and yell imprecations at the horses, at the ground, at the snow because it was not there, and at the devil as the author of all his troubles. He had driven about fifteen versts from the little town of Nikolskoi towards Gorodezkoi, when suddenly we came upon the ruins of a good-sized house that had evidently been burned down a considerable time before, as ivy had thickly overgrown part of the bare blackened walls. It stood near the road, overlooking the frozen river, while at the rear was a cluster of wooden _isbas_, which I afterwards learnt formed the village of Nagorskoie. The ruin came into view as we rounded a bend in the road, and I was startled at the effect it had upon Vassilii.