"At home?" cried somebody out of the darkness. His voice was hoarse and quivering with emotion, fear and hatred. And some of the words would not come out, as if he had forgotten how to say them. "A home? What home? Why, is there home anywhere? Don't interrupt me or else I shall fire. At home I used to take a bath every day--can you understand?--a bath with water--water up to the very edges. While now--I do not even wash my face every day. My head is covered with scurf, and my whole body itches and over it crawl, crawl.... I am going mad from dirt, while you talk of--home! I am like an animal, I despise myself, I cannot recognise myself, and death is not at all terrifying. You tear my brain with your shrapnel-shots. Aim at what you will, all hit my brain--and you can speak of--home. What home? Streets, windows, people, but I would not go into the street now for anything. I should be ashamed to. You brought a samovar here, but I was ashamed to look at it." The other laughed again. Somebody called out,-- "D--n it all! I shall go home." "Home?" "You don't understand what duty is!" "Home? Listen! he wants to go home!" There was a burst of laughter and of painful shouts--and again all became silent--giving way before the incomprehensible. And then not only I, but every one of us felt _that_. It was coming towards us out of those dark, mysterious and strange fields; it was rising from out of those obscure dark ravines, where, maybe, the forgotten and lost among the stones were still dying; it was flowing from the strange, unfamiliar sky. We stood around the dying-out samovar in silence, losing consciousness from horror, while an enormous, shapeless shadow that had risen above the world, looked down upon us from the sky with a steady and silent gaze. Suddenly, quite close to us, probably at the Commander's house, music burst forth, and the frenzied, joyous, loud sounds seemed to flash out into the night and stillness. The band played with frenzied mirth and defiance, hurriedly, discordantly, too loudly, and too joyously, and one could feel that those who were playing, and those who were listening, saw as we did, that same enormous, shapeless shadow, risen above the world. And it was clear the player on the trumpet carried in himself, in his very brain and ears, that same enormous dumb shadow. The abrupt and broken sound tossed about, jumping and running away from the others, quivering with horror and insanity in its lonesomeness. And the other sounds seemed to be looking round at it, so clumsily they ran, stumbling, falling, and again rising in a disorderly crowd--too loud, too joyous, too close to the black ravines, where most probably the forgotten and lost among the boulders were still dying. And we stood for a long time around the cold samovar and were silent. FRAGMENT V