nd of the "A-ah, a-ah!" of astonishment troubling the
motionless air, and the cry of a sleepless or delirious bird. Broad
shadows move across the plain like clouds across the sky, and in
the inconceivable distance, if you look long and intently at it,
misty monstrous shapes rise up and huddle one against another. . . .
It is rather uncanny. One glances at the pale green, star-spangled
sky on which there is no cloudlet, no spot, and understands why the
warm air is motionless, why nature is on her guard, afraid to stir:
she is afraid and reluctant to lose one instant of life. Of the
unfathomable depth and infinity of the sky one can only form a
conception at sea and on the steppe by night when the moon is
shining. It is terribly lonely and caressing; it looks down languid
and alluring, and its caressing sweetness makes one giddy.

You drive on for one hour, for a second. . . . You meet upon the
way a silent old barrow or a stone figure put up God knows when and
by whom; a nightbird floats noiselessly over the earth, and little
by little those legends of the steppes, the tales of men you have
met, the stories of some old nurse from the steppe, and all the
things you have managed to see and treasure in your soul, come back
to your mind. And then in the churring of insects, in the sinister
figures, in the ancient barrows, in the blue sky, in the moonlight,
in the flight of the nightbird, in everything you see and hear,
triumphant beauty, youth, the fulness of power, and the passionate
thirst for life begin to be apparent; the soul responds to the call
of her lovely austere fatherland, and longs to fly over the steppes
with the nightbird. And in the triumph of beauty, in the exuberance
of happiness you are conscious of yearning and grief, as though the
steppe knew she was solitary, knew that her wealth and her inspiration
were wasted for the world, not glorified in song, not wanted by
anyone; and through the joyful clamour one hears her mournful,
hopeless call for singers, singers!

"Woa! Good-evening, Panteley! Is everything all right?"

"First-rate, Ivan Ivanitch!

"Haven't you seen Varlamov, lads?"

"No, we haven't."

Yegorushka woke up and opened his eyes. The chaise had stopped. On
the right the train of waggons stretched for a long way ahead on
the road, and men were moving to and fro near them. All the waggons
being loaded up with great bales of wool looked very high and fat,
while the horses looked short-legge