Provincial Russia . sky. Itlooks down caressingly with a strange, tired,beautiful glance, and beckons to itself, and thatcaress makes your head giddy. You drive on an hour or two. . You comeunexpectedly on a silent old man knirgan or astone woman, set up God knows by whom orwhen; a night-bird flies noiselessly over the earth,and little by little the legends of the steppe, thetales of chance-met travellers, the stories of yoursteppe nurse, recur to the memory and all that youyourself have seen or imagined in your soul. Andthen in the hum of insects, in the suspicious figuresand kurgans, in the
Provincial Russia . sky. Itlooks down caressingly with a strange, tired,beautiful glance, and beckons to itself, and thatcaress makes your head giddy. You drive on an hour or two. . You comeunexpectedly on a silent old man knirgan or astone woman, set up God knows by whom orwhen; a night-bird flies noiselessly over the earth,and little by little the legends of the steppe, thetales of chance-met travellers, the stories of yoursteppe nurse, recur to the memory and all that youyourself have seen or imagined in your soul. Andthen in the hum of insects, in the suspicious figuresand kurgans, in the blue sky and the moonlight,in the flight of a night-bird, in everything you seeand hear—you begin to feel the triumph of beauty,to feel youth and the bloom of strength and apassionate thirst for life; the soul responds to thatbeautiful sad country, and longs to fly over thesteppe with the night-bird. And in the triumphof beauty, in the excess of happiness, you feel atension and a yearning, as if the steppe were. fT-
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Keywords: ., bookauthorstewarth, bookcentury1900, bookdecade1910, bookyear1913
