reached the town gate there was a faint light of dawn in
the sky. Still in silence, Yartsev and Kotchevoy walked along the
wooden pavement, by the cheap summer cottages, eating-houses,
timber-stacks. Under the arch of interlacing branches, the damp air
was fragrant of lime-trees, and then a broad, long street opened
before them, and on it not a soul, not a light. . . . When they
reached the Red Pond, it was daylight.

"Moscow--it's a town that will have to suffer a great deal more,"
said Yartsev, looking at the Alexyevsky Monastery.

"What put that into your head?"

"I don't know. I love Moscow."

Both Yartsev and Kostya had been born in Moscow, and adored the
town, and felt for some reason antagonistic to every other town.
Both were convinced that Moscow was a remarkable town, and Russia
a remarkable country. In the Crimea, in the Caucasus, and abroad,
they felt dull, uncomfortable, and ill at ease, and they thought
their grey Moscow weather very pleasant and healthy. And when the
rain lashed at the window-panes and it got dark early, and when the
walls of the churches and houses looked a drab, dismal colour, days
when one doesn't know what to put on when one is going out--such
days excited them agreeably.

At last near the station they took a cab.

"It really would be nice to write an historical play," said Yartsev,
"but not about the Lyapunovs or the Godunovs, but of the times of
Yaroslav or of Monomach. . . . I hate all historical plays except
the monologue of Pimen. When you have to do with some historical
authority or even read a textbook of Russian history, you feel that
every one in Russia is exceptionally talented, gifted, and interesting;
but when I see an historical play at the theatre, Russian life
begins to seem stupid, morbid, and not original."

Near Dmitrovka the friends separated, and Yartsev went on to his
lodging in Nikitsky Street. He sat half dozing, swaying from side
to side, and pondering on the play. He suddenly imagined a terrible
din, a clanging noise, and shouts in some unknown language, that
might have been Kalmuck, and a village wrapped in flames, and forests
near covered with hoarfrost and soft pink in the glow of the fire,
visible for miles around, and so clearly that every little fir-tree
could be distinguished, and savage men darting about the village
on horseback and on foot, and as red as the glow in the sky.

"The Polovtsy," thought Yartsev.

One of them, a terrible old m