l the steppe is lovely and full of life. As soon
as the sun goes down and the darkness enfolds the earth, the day's
weariness is forgotten, everything is forgiven, and the steppe
breathes a light sigh from its broad bosom. As though because the
grass cannot see in the dark that it has grown old, a gay youthful
twitter rises up from it, such as is not heard by day; chirruping,
twittering, whistling, scratching, the basses, tenors and sopranos
of the steppe all mingle in an incessant, monotonous roar of sound
in which it is sweet to brood on memories and sorrows. The monotonous
twitter soothes to sleep like a lullaby; you drive and feel you are
falling asleep, but suddenly there comes the abrupt agitated cry
of a wakeful bird, or a vague sound like a voice crying out in
wonder "A-ah, a-ah!" and slumber closes one's eyelids again. Or you
drive by a little creek where there are bushes and hear the bird,
called by the steppe dwellers "the sleeper," call "Asleep, asleep,
asleep!" while another laughs or breaks into trills of hysterical
weeping--that is the owl. For whom do they call and who hears
them on that plain, God only knows, but there is deep sadness and
lamentation in their cry. . . . There is a scent of hay and dry
grass and belated flowers, but the scent is heavy, sweetly mawkish
and soft.

Everything can be seen through the mist, but it is hard to make out
the colours and the outlines of objects. Everything looks different
from what it is. You drive on and suddenly see standing before you
right in the roadway a dark figure like a monk; it stands motionless,
waiting, holding something in its hands. . . . Can it be a robber?
The figure comes closer, grows bigger; now it is on a level with
the chaise, and you see it is not a man, but a solitary bush or a
great stone. Such motionless expectant figures stand on the low
hills, hide behind the old barrows, peep out from the high grass,
and they all look like human beings and arouse suspicion.

And when the moon rises the night becomes pale and dim. The mist
seems to have passed away. The air is transparent, fresh and warm;
one can see well in all directions and even distinguish the separate
stalks of grass by the wayside. Stones and bits of pots can be seen
at a long distance. The suspicious figures like monks look blacker
against the light background of the night, and seem more sinister.
More and more often in the midst of the monotonous chirruping there
comes the sou