a week had passed before life went on as in the past, as gloomy,
oppressive, and senseless--a life not forbidden by government
prohibition, but not fully permitted, either: it was no better. And,
indeed, though we had buried Byelikov, how many such men in cases were
left, how many more of them there will be!"

"That's just how it is," said Ivan Ivanovitch and he lighted his pipe.

"How many more of them there will be!" repeated Burkin.

The schoolmaster came out of the barn. He was a short, stout man,
completely bald, with a black beard down to his waist. The two dogs came
out with him.

"What a moon!" he said, looking upwards.

It was midnight. On the right could be seen the whole village, a long
street stretching far away for four miles. All was buried in deep silent
slumber; not a movement, not a sound; one could hardly believe that
nature could be so still. When on a moonlight night you see a broad
village street, with its cottages, haystacks, and slumbering willows,
a feeling of calm comes over the soul; in this peace, wrapped away from
care, toil, and sorrow in the darkness of night, it is mild, melancholy,
beautiful, and it seems as though the stars look down upon it kindly and
with tenderness, and as though there were no evil on earth and all were
well. On the left the open country began from the end of the village;
it could be seen stretching far away to the horizon, and there was no
movement, no sound in that whole expanse bathed in moonlight.

"Yes, that is just how it is," repeated Ivan Ivanovitch; "and isn't our