Zhmuhin, still talking about women, drew the bolt in the entry and they both went out.  A full moon was floating in the sky just over the yard, and in the moonlight the house and barn looked whiter than by day; and on the grass brilliant streaks of moonlight, white too, stretched between the black shadows.  Far away on the right could be seen the steppe, above it the stars were softly glowing —­and it was all mysterious, infinitely far away, as though one were gazing into a deep abyss; while on the left heavy storm-clouds, black as soot, were piling up one upon another above the steppe; their edges were lighted up by the moon, and it looked as though there were mountains there with white snow on their peaks, dark forests, the sea.  There was a flash of lightning, a faint rumble of thunder, and it seemed as though a battle were being fought in the mountains.

Quite close to the house a little night-owl screeched monotonously: 

“Asleep! asleep!”

“What time is it now?” asked the visitor.

“Just after one.”

“How long it is still to dawn!”

They went back to the house and lay down again.  It was time to sleep, and one can usually sleep so splendidly before rain; but the old man had a hankering after serious, weighty thoughts; he wanted not simply to think but to meditate, and he meditated how good it would be, as death was near at hand, for the sake of his soul to give up the idleness which so imperceptibly swallowed up day after day, year after year, leaving no trace; to think out for himself some great exploit—­for instance, to walk on foot far, far away, or to give up meat like this young man.  And again he pictured to himself the time when animals would not be killed, pictured it clearly and distinctly as though he were living through that time himself; but suddenly it was all in a tangle again in his head and all was muddled.

The thunderstorm had passed over, but from the edges of the storm-clouds came rain softly pattering on the roof.  Zhmuhin got up, stretching and groaning with old age, and looked into the parlour.  Noticing that his visitor was not asleep, he said: 

“When we were in the Caucasus, you know, there was a colonel there who was a vegetarian, too; he didn’t eat meat, never went shooting, and would not let his servants catch fish.  Of course, I understand that every animal ought to live in freedom and enjoy its life; only I don’t understand how a pig can go about where it likes without being looked after. . . .”

The visitor got up and sat down.  His pale, haggard face expressed weariness and vexation; it was evident that he was exhausted, and only his gentleness and the delicacy of his soul prevented him from expressing his vexation in words.

“It’s getting light,” he said mildly.  “Please have the horse brought round for me.”

“Why so?  Wait a little and the rain will be over.”

“No, I entreat you,” said the visitor in horror, with a supplicating voice; “it is essential for me to go at once.”