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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.