Some wonderful passages in Chekhov’s “The Steppe”

I’ve been unwell and busy this week, so I’ve been enjoying Chekhov’s company without blogging. Here however are some wonderful passages in “The Steppe” that I want to save (translated by Ronald Wilks):  

“On July evenings quails and corncrakes no longer call, nightingales do not sing in wooded river-beds, there is no scent of flowers, yet the steppe is still beautiful and full of life. No sooner has the sun set and darkness enfolded the earth than the day’s sorrows are forgotten and the steppe heaves a faint sigh from its broad bosom. A cheerful, youthful trilling that cannot be heard by day rises from the grass, as if it cannot see in the darkness how it has aged; chirring, whistling, scratching – those bass, tenor and treble voices of the steppe – everything blends in one unbroken din and against the background of these sounds it is pleasant to reminisce and to be sad. The monotonous chirring is as soothing as a lullaby. On and on you drive and you feel that you are falling asleep. But suddenly the abrupt alarm call of a wakeful bird reaches your ears, some vague sound, like a human voice uttering a long ‘Ah-ah!’ of astonishment rings out – and slumber seals your eyelids. Or you may be driving past a gully where bushes grow and you hear the bird called the ‘sleeper’ by steppe-dwellers crying ‘I’m sleeping, I’m sleeping, I’m sleeping!’ – whilst another bird guffaws or breaks into hysterical weeping – it is an owl. For whom are they crying? Who can hear them on the steppes? God alone knows, but their cries are filled with sadness and complaining. There is a scent of hay, dry grass and late flowers – dense, richly-cloying and soft.

[…] But when the moon rises the night grows pale and languorous. It is as if the darkness never existed. The air is crystal clear, fresh and warm, everything is perfectly visible and even individual stalks of grass by the road can be made out. Far and wide over that immense expanse skulls and rocks are visible. The suspicious, monk-like figures seem darker and more sinister against the bright background of night. That surprised ‘Ah-ah!’ rings out more often amid the monotonous chattering and disturbs the still air, or the cry of some wakeful or delirious bird is heard. Broad shadows pass over the plain like clouds across the sky and if you peer for long into the inscrutable distance, hazy, weird shapes loom up, towering one behind the other. It is all rather eerie. And if you look up at the pale-green, star-spangled sky where there is not one small cloud or speck, you will understand why the warm air is so still, why nature is on her guard and is afraid to stir: she is terrified and unwilling to forfeit even one moment of life. Only at sea or on the steppe at night, when the moon is shining, can you judge the sky’s unfathomable depth and boundlessness. It is awesome, beautiful and inviting, looking down languidly and beckoning you – and your head grows dizzy from its blandishments.

On you drive for an hour or two… By the roadside you pass a silent, ancient barrow or a stone image put up by God knows whom and when. A night bird flies silently over the earth and gradually you recall all those legends of the steppe, wayfarers’ stories, folk-tales told by some old nurse from the steppe, together with all that you yourself have seen and grasped with the spirit. And then, in the buzzing of the insects, in the sinister figures and ancient barrows, in the depths of the sky, in the moonlight and in the flight of the night bird – in all that you see or hear – there are glimpses of triumphant beauty, of youth in its prime and a passionate lust for life. Your spirit responds to its beautiful, austere homeland and you long to fly over the steppe with the night bird. And in this triumph of beauty, in this abundance of happiness, you are conscious of tension and sad yearning, as if the steppe realizes how lonely she is and that her wealth and inspiration are lost to the world – unsung and unneeded – and through all the joyful clamour you can hear her anguished, despairing call for a bard, a poet to call her own!” (IV) 

“If you look at the deep sky for long, without averting your gaze, your thoughts and your spirit somehow blend in a consciousness of solitude. You begin to feel desperately lonely and all that you had once considered near and dear becomes infinitely remote and trivial. The stars that have been looking down for thousands of years, the inscrutable sky itself and the darkness, so indifferent to man’s short life – when you are confronted by them and try to fathom their meaning they oppress your spirit with their silence. Then you are reminded of the solitude that awaits all of us in the grave – and the reality of existence seems awful, terrible…

[…] Everyone was resting, musing, fitfully glancing at the cross over which the red patches were dancing. There is something melancholy, dreamlike and highly poetic about a lonely grave. You can hear its very silence and in that silence you sense the presence of the soul of the unknown being lying beneath the cross. Is that soul at peace on the steppe? Does it not grieve on moonlit nights? Around a grave the steppe seems sad, cheerless and pensive, the grass sadder and the grasshoppers’ chatter more subdued. No passer-by would forget to mention that solitary soul in his prayers or stop looking back at the grave until it was far behind and veiled in darkness…” (VI)