On July evenings and nights, the quails and corncrakes no longer cry, the nightingales do not sing in the wooded gullies, the flowers give off no scent, but the steppe is still beautiful and filled with life. As soon as the sun sets and the earth is enveloped in dusk, the day’s anguish is forgotten, all is forgiven, and the steppe breathes easily with its broad chest. As if because the grass does not see its old age in the darkness, a merry, youthful chirring arises in it, such as does not happen in the daytime; chirping, whistling, scratching, steppe basses, tenors, and trebles—everything blends into a ceaseless, monotonous hum, a good background for remembrance and sorrow. The monotonous chirring lulls you like a cradle song; you ride along and feel you are falling asleep, but then from somewhere comes the abrupt, alarmed cry of a sleepless bird or some indefinite noise resembling someone’s voice, like an astonished ‘‘Ahh!’’ and the drowsiness lets go of your eyelids. And then it happens that you drive past a little gully thick with brush, and you hear a bird that the steppe people call a ‘‘sleepik,’’ crying ‘‘Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!’’ to someone, and another guffaws or dissolves in hysterical sobbing—that is an owl. Whom they cry to and who listens to them on this plain, God only knows, but there is much sorrow and plaintiveness in their cries ... There is a scent of hay, dried grass, and late flowers, but the scent is thick, sweetly cloying, and tender.
Everything is visible in the dusk, but it is hard to make out the colors and outlines of objects. Everything appears to be not what it is. You ride along and suddenly, ahead of you, you see a silhouette like a monk’s standing just by the road; he does not move, waits, and is holding something in his hands ... Is it a robber? The figure draws near, grows, now it comes even with the britzka, and you see that it is not a man but a solitary bush or a big stone. Such motionless figures, waiting for someone, stand on the hills, hide behind the barrows, peek from amidst the tall weeds, and they all look like people and arouse suspicion.
But when the moon rises, the night becomes pale and dark. It is as if the dusk had never been. The air is transparent, fresh, and warm, everything is clearly visible, and you can even make out the separate stalks of the weeds by the roadside. In the far distance, skulls and stones can be seen. The suspicious monklike figures seem blacker and look more sullen against the bright background of the night. More and more often, amidst the monotonous chirring, someone’s astonished ‘‘Ah!’’ is heard, and the cry of a sleepless or delirious bird rings out, troubling the motionless air. Broad shadows drift across the plain like clouds across the sky, and in the incomprehensible distance, if you look at it for a long time, misty, whimsical images loom and heap upon each other ... It is a little eerie. And once you gaze at the pale green sky spangled with stars, with not a cloud, not a spot on it, you understand why the warm air is motionless, why nature is on the alert and afraid to stir: she feels eerie and sorry to lose even one moment of life. The boundless depth and infinity of the sky can be judged only on the sea or on the steppe at night, when the moon is shining. It is frightening, beautiful, and caressing, it looks at you languorously and beckons, and its caress makes your head spin.
You ride for an hour, two hours ... On the way you come upon a silent old barrow or a stone idol set up God knows when or by whom, a night bird noiselessly flies over the ground, and steppe legends gradually come to your mind, stories of passing strangers, tales of some old nanny of the steppe, and all that you yourself have managed to see and grasp with your soul. And then, in the chirring of the insects, in the suspicious figures and barrows, in the blue sky, in the moonlight, in the flight of a night bird, in everything you see and hear, you begin to perceive the triumph of beauty, youth, flourishing strength, and a passionate thirst for life; your soul responds to the beautiful, stern motherland, and you want to fly over the steppe with the night bird. And in the triumph of beauty, in the excess of happiness, you feel a tension and anguish, as if the steppe were aware that it is lonely, that its riches and inspiration go for naught in the world, unsung by anyone, unneeded by anyone, and through the joyful hum you hear its anguished, hopeless call: a singer! a singer!
‘‘Who-oa! Greetings, Pantelei! Is all well?’’
‘‘Thank God, it is, Ivan Ivanych!’’
‘‘Have you boys seen Varlamov?’’
‘‘No, haven’t seen him.’’
Egorushka woke up and opened his eyes. The britzka had stopped. Down the road to the right, a wagon train stretched far ahead, with some people scurrying up and down by it. The wagons, because of the big bales of wool piled on them, all seemed very tall and plump, and the horses small and short-legged.
‘‘Well, so that means now we go to the Molokan’s!’’ Kuzmichov was saying loudly. ‘‘The Yid said Varlamov would spend the night at the Molokan’s. In that case, good-bye, brothers! God be with you!’’
‘‘Good-bye, Ivan Ivanych!’’ several voices anwered.
‘‘Tell you what, boys,’’ Kuzmichov said briskly, ‘‘why don’t you take my little lad with you! So he doesn’t hang about uselessly with us? Put him on a bale, Pantelei, and let him ride slowly, and we’ll catch up with you. Go on, Egor! Go, it’s all right! ...’’
Egorushka got down from the box. Several hands picked him up, lifted him high, and he found himself on something big, soft, and slightly moist with dew. The sky now seemed close to him and the earth far away.
‘‘Hey, take your coat!’’ Deniska shouted somewhere far below.
The coat and little bundle, tossed up from below, fell next to Egorushka. Quickly, not wanting to think about anything, he put the bundle under his head, covered himself with his coat, stretched his legs out all the way, squirming from the dew, and laughed with pleasure.
‘‘Sleep, sleep, sleep ...’’ he thought.
‘‘Don’t rough him up, you devils!’’ Deniska’s voice came from below.
‘‘Good-bye, brothers, God be with you!’’ shouted Kuzmichov. ‘‘I’m counting on you!’’
‘‘Don’t worry, Ivan Ivanych!’’
Deniska hupped the horses, the britzka squealed and started rolling, no longer down the road but somewhere to one side. For two minutes it was silent, as if the wagon train had fallen asleep, and you could hear only the clanking of the bucket tied to the rear of the britzka gradually dying away in the distance. But then at the head of the train someone shouted:
‘‘Gee-up, Kiriukha!’’
The wagon at the very front creaked, after it the second, the third ... Egorushka felt the wagon he was lying on sway and also creak. The train got moving. Egorushka took a tight grip on the rope with which the bundle was tied, laughed again with pleasure, straightened the gingerbread in his pocket, and began to fall asleep the way he used to fall asleep at home in his bed ...
When he woke up, the sun was already rising; it was screened by a barrow, but in an effort to spray light over the world, it spread its rays tensely in all directions and flooded the horizon with gold. It seemed to Egorushka that it was not where it belonged, because the day before it had risen behind his back, while today it was much more to
