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 sound 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-legged and little.