De: A Sportsman's Sketches
The dry warmth of evening gave way to the dry warmth of midnight, and it would lie for a long time yet as a soft canopy over the sleeping fields; much time remained before the first murmurs, before the first rustlings and whispers of morning, before the first dewdrops of dawn. There was no moon in the sky: it rose late in that season. Countless golden stars seemed to flow quietly, all vying with one another in their twinkling, in the direction of the Milky Way, and truly, looking at them, you seemed to feel dimly yourself the swift, ceaseless motion of the earth... A strange, sharp, painful cry rang out suddenly twice in succession over the river, and a few moments later, repeated itself farther away... Kostya shuddered. "What's that?" "It's a heron crying," Pavel answered calmly. "A heron," repeated Kostya... "But what was it, Pavlusha, that I heard yesterday evening," he added after a brief pause, "you might know..." "What did you hear?" "Well, here's what I heard. I was coming from Kamennaya Gryada to Shashkino; and I went first through our hazel grove, and then I went across the meadow—you know, where it comes out at the steep bend—there's a deep hole there; you know, it's all overgrown with reeds; well, I went past this deep hole, brothers, and suddenly from that hole someone groaned, and so pitifully, pitifully: oo-oo... oo-oo... oo-oo! Such fear took me, brothers: it was late, and the voice was so sickly. It seemed I would burst into tears myself... What could that have been? eh?" "In that hole robbers drowned Akim the forester the year before last," Pavel remarked, "so perhaps it's his soul lamenting." "Well, that may be, brothers," Kostya replied, widening his already enormous eyes... "I didn't know that Akim was drowned in that hole: I would have been even more frightened." "And they say there are such tiny frogs," Pavel continued, "that cry so piteously." "Frogs? Well, no, those weren't frogs... what kind of... (The heron cried out again over the river.) There it goes!" Kostya exclaimed involuntarily, "just like a wood goblin crying." "The wood goblin doesn't cry, he's mute," Ilyusha picked up, "he only claps his hands and makes cracking sounds..." "And have you seen him, the wood goblin?" Fedya interrupted him mockingly. "No, I haven't seen him, and God preserve me from seeing him; but others have seen him. Just the other day he led one of our peasants astray: led him, led him through the forest, all around one clearing... He barely made it home by daylight." "Well, and did he see him?" "He saw him. They say he stood there, big, big, dark, muffled up, sort of like behind a tree, you can't make him out properly, as if hiding from the moon, and stares, stares with those great eyes, blinks them, blinks..." "Oh!" exclaimed Fedya, shuddering slightly and jerking his shoulders, "ugh!.." "And why does this filth breed in the world?" Pavel remarked. "I don't understand, truly!" "Don't curse, watch out, he'll hear you," Ilya noted. Silence fell again. "Look, look, boys," Vanya's childish voice suddenly rang out, "look at God's little stars—like bees swarming!" He stuck out his fresh little face from under the matting, propped himself on his little fist and slowly raised his large, quiet eyes upward. All the boys' eyes lifted to the sky and did not lower for some time. "Well, Vanya," Fedya spoke tenderly, "how is your sister Anyutka, is she well?" "She's well," Vanya answered, slightly lisping. "Tell her—why doesn't she come to see us?..." "I don't know." "Tell her she should come." "I'll tell her." "Tell her I'll give her a present." "And will you give me one?" "I'll give you one too." Vanya sighed. "Well, no, I don't need one. Give it to her instead: she's so kind, our girl." And Vanya laid his head on the ground again. Pavel stood up and took the empty pot in his hand. "Where are you going?" Fedya asked him. "To the river, to get some water: I want a drink." The dogs got up and followed him. "Mind you don't fall in the river!" Ilyusha called after him. "Why should he fall?" said Fedya, "he'll be careful." "Yes, he'll be careful. But anything can happen: he'll bend down, start drawing water, and the water spirit will grab him by the hand and drag him down. Then they'll say: the boy fell into the water, they say... What falling was there?.. There, he's gone into the reeds," he added, listening. The reeds indeed were "rustling," as we say, parting. "And is it true," Kostya asked, "that Akulina the fool has been mad ever since she was in the water?" "Ever since... What is she like now! But they say she used to be a beauty. The water spirit ruined her. He must not have expected them to pull her out so soon. So he, there at the bottom, ruined her." (I myself had met this Akulina more than once. Covered in rags, terribly thin, with a face black as coal, a clouded gaze and eternally bared teeth, she tramples for hours in one spot, somewhere on the road, pressing her bony hands tightly to her chest and slowly shifting from foot to foot, like a wild beast in a cage. She understands nothing, whatever anyone says to her, and only occasionally laughs convulsively.) "And they say," Kostya continued, "that Akulina threw herself in the river because her lover deceived her." "That's exactly why." "And do you remember Vasya?" Kostya added sadly. "Which Vasya?" asked Fedya. "Why, the one who drowned," answered Kostya, "in this very river. Oh, what a boy he was! what a boy! And his mother, Feklista, how she loved him, Vasya! And it was as if she sensed, Feklista did, that he would perish from water. Sometimes Vasya would go with us boys in summer to swim in the river—she would be all in a flutter. The other women don't care, they walk past with their washtubs, waddling along, but Feklista would set her tub on the ground and start calling to him: 'Come back,' she'd say, 'come back, my bright one! oh come back, my falcon!' And how he drowned, the Lord only knows. He was playing on the bank, and his mother was right there, raking hay; suddenly she hears something like bubbles going through the water—she looks, and only Vasya's little cap is floating on the water. Well, since then Feklista hasn't been in her right mind: she comes and lies down on the spot where he drowned; she lies down, brothers, and strikes up a song—remember, Vasya used to sing such a song—well, she strikes up that very one, and cries, cries, bitterly complaining to God..." "And here comes Pavlusha," said Fedya. Pavel approached the fire with the full pot in his hand. "Well, boys," he began after a pause, "this is bad." "What is it?" Kostya asked hurriedly. "I heard Vasya's voice." Everyone started. "What are you saying, what?" stammered Kostya. "I swear. As soon as I bent down to the water, I suddenly hear someone calling me in Vasya's voice and as if from under the water: 'Pavlusha, oh Pavlusha!' I listen; and then he calls again: 'Pavlusha, come here.' I stepped back. But I got some water anyway." "Oh Lord! oh Lord!" said the boys, crossing themselves. "Why, it's the water spirit who called you, Pavel," Fedya added... "And we were just talking about him, about Vasya." "Oh, this is a bad omen," Ilyusha said deliberately. "Well, never mind, let it be!" Pavel said decisively and sat down again, "you can't escape your fate." The boys fell quiet. It was clear that Pavel's words had made a deep impression on them. They began to settle down before the fire, as if preparing to sleep. "What's that?" Kostya suddenly asked, raising his head. Pavel listened. "Those are sandpipers flying, whistling." "Where are they flying to?" "Why, to where they say there's no winter." "And is there such a land?" "There is." "Far away?" "Far, far away, beyond the warm seas." Kostya sighed and closed his eyes. More than three hours had passed since I had joined the boys. The moon had risen at last; I didn't notice it right away: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night seemed to be just as magnificent as before... But already many stars, still recently standing high in the sky, had inclined toward the dark edge of the earth; everything around had completely quieted, as everything usually quiets only toward morning: all slept a sound, motionless, pre-dawn sleep. The air no longer smelled so strongly—dampness seemed to spread through it again... How short summer nights are!.. The boys' conversation died away along with the fires... Even the dogs were dozing; the horses, as far as I could make out by the faintly glimmering, weakly streaming light of the stars, also lay with lowered heads... Sweet oblivion came over me; it passed into drowsiness. A fresh stream ran across my face. I opened my eyes: morning was beginning. The dawn was not yet flushing anywhere, but it had already grown white in the east. Everything became visible, though dimly visible, all around. The pale gray sky grew lighter, colder, bluer; the stars now flickered with weak light, now disappeared; the earth grew damp, the leaves were covered with dew, here and there living sounds, voices began to be heard, and a thin, early breeze had already begun to wander and flutter over the earth. My body answered it with a light, cheerful trembling. I got up briskly and went to the boys. They were all sleeping like the dead around the smoldering fire; only Pavel half-rose and looked at me intently. I nodded to him and went my way along the smoking river. I had not gone two versts when all around me, over the broad wet meadow and ahead, over the greening hills, from forest to forest, and behind over the long dusty road, over the sparkling, crimsoned bushes, and over the river bashfully turning blue from under the thinning mist—there poured first crimson, then red, golden streams of young, hot light... Everything stirred, awoke, began to sing, to make noise, to speak. Everywhere large drops of dew glowed like radiant diamonds; toward me, pure and clear, as if also washed by the morning coolness, came the sounds of a bell, and suddenly past me, driven by the familiar boys, rushed the rested herd... I must regretfully add that in that same year Pavel was no more. He did not drown: he was killed, falling from a horse. A pity, he was a fine lad!
Biryuk
(From the cycle "A Sportsman's Sketches")
I was riding home from hunting in the evening alone, in a racing droshky. There were still about eight versts to home; my good trotting mare was running briskly along the dusty road, occasionally snorting and twitching her ears; the tired dog, as if tied, did not lag a step behind the rear wheels. A thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, a huge purple cloud was slowly rising from behind the forest; above me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The sultry heat suddenly gave way to damp cold; shadows quickly thickened. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry stream all overgrown with osiers, climbed the hill and entered the forest. The road wound before me between thick hazel bushes already flooded with darkness; I moved forward with difficulty. The droshky bounced over the hard roots of century-old oaks and lindens that constantly crossed the deep longitudinal ruts—traces of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. A strong wind suddenly howled in the heights, the trees roared, large raindrops sharply drummed, splashed against the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I went at a walk and was soon forced to stop: my horse was getting stuck, I couldn't see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and with my face covered, I waited patiently for the end of the bad weather, when suddenly, by a flash of lightning, a tall figure appeared to me on the road. I began to stare intently in that direction—the same figure seemed to rise from the ground beside my droshky. "Who's that?" asked a resonant voice. "And who are you?" "I'm the local forester." I gave my name. "Ah, I know! Are you going home?" "Home. But you see, what a storm..." "Yes, a storm," the voice answered. White lightning illuminated the forester from head to foot; a crackling, short clap of thunder rang out immediately after it. The rain gushed with redoubled force. "It won't pass soon," the forester continued. "What can we do!" "I'll take you to my hut if you like," he said abruptly. "Please do." "Kindly stay seated." He approached the horse's head, took it by the bridle and pulled it from its place. We started off. I held onto the droshky cushion, which swayed "like a boat at sea," and called the dog. My poor mare heavily slapped her feet through the mud, slipped, stumbled; the forester swayed before the shafts to the right and left, like a phantom. We rode for quite a while; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are at home, sir," he said in a calm voice. A gate creaked, several puppies barked in unison. I raised my head and by the light of lightning saw a small hut in the middle of a spacious yard enclosed by a wattle fence. A light glimmered dimly from one small window. The forester led the horse to the porch and knocked at the door. "Coming, coming!" rang out a thin little voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, a bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, in a little shirt, belted with a strip of cloth, with a lantern in her hand, appeared on the threshold. "Light the way for the gentleman," he said to her, "and I'll put your droshky under the shed." The girl glanced at me and went into the hut. I set off after her. The forester's hut consisted of one room, sooty, low and empty, without sleeping platform or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. On a bench lay a single-barreled gun, in the corner lay a heap of rags; two large pots stood near the stove. A splinter burned on the table, sadly flaring up and dying down. In the very middle of the hut hung a cradle, tied to the end of a long pole. The girl put out the lantern, sat down on a tiny bench and began with her right hand to rock the cradle, with her left to adjust the splinter. I looked around—my heart ached: it's not cheerful to enter a peasant's hut at night. The child in the cradle was breathing heavily and rapidly. "Are you here alone?" I asked the girl. "Alone," she pronounced barely audibly. "You're the forester's daughter?" "The forester's," she whispered. The door creaked, and the forester stepped, bowing his head, over the threshold. He picked up the lantern from the floor, went to the table and lit the wick. "I suppose you're not used to splinters?" he said and shook his curls. I looked at him. Rarely had I seen such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and splendidly built. From under his wet homespun shirt his powerful muscles bulged convexly. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under thick, grown-together brows boldly gazed small brown eyes. He lightly rested his hands on his hips and stopped before me. I thanked him and asked his name. "They call me Foma," he answered, "and by nickname Biryuk." "Ah, you're Biryuk?" I looked at him with redoubled curiosity. From my Ermolay and from others I had often heard stories about the forester Biryuk, whom all the neighboring peasants feared like fire. According to them, there had never been in the world such a master of his business: "He won't let you carry off a bundle of brushwood; at whatever time, even at midnight itself, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and don't think of resisting—he's strong, they say, and clever as a devil... And there's no way to get him: neither with vodka nor with money; he doesn't go for any bait. More than once good people have gathered to do away with him, but no—he doesn't give in." That's how the neighboring peasants spoke of Biryuk. "So you're Biryuk," I repeated, "I've heard about you, brother. They say you don't give anyone a break." "I do my duty," he answered grimly, "it's not right to eat the master's bread for nothing." He took an axe from his belt, sat down on the floor and began to chop splinters. "Don't you have a wife?" I asked him. "No," he answered and swung the axe hard. "Dead, I suppose?" "No... yes... dead," he added and turned away. I fell silent; he raised his eyes and looked at me. "She ran off with a passing tradesman," he said with a cruel smile. The girl lowered her eyes; the child woke and cried out; the girl went to the cradle. "Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting into her hand a stained horn. "And she abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing to the child. He went to the door, stopped and turned around. "I suppose, sir," he began, "you won't eat our bread, and I have nothing except bread..." "I'm not hungry." "Well, as you wish. I would have set up a samovar for you, but I have no tea... I'll go see about your horse." He went out and slammed the door. I looked around again. The hut seemed even sadder to me than before. The bitter smell of cold smoke unpleasantly constricted my breathing. The girl didn't move from her place and didn't raise her eyes; occasionally she pushed the cradle, timidly pulled onto her shoulder the slipping shirt; her bare legs hung motionless. "What's your name?" I asked. "Ulita," she said, lowering her sad little face still more. The forester came in and sat on the bench. "The storm is passing," he remarked after a short silence, "if you order it, I'll see you out of the forest." I stood up. Biryuk took his gun and examined the pan. "What's that for?" I asked. "There's mischief in the forest... At Kobylye Verkh they're cutting a tree," he added in answer to my questioning look. "Can you really hear it from here?" "I can hear it from the yard." We went out together. The rain had stopped. In the distance heavy masses of clouds still crowded, lightning flashed from time to time; but over our heads the dark blue sky was already visible here and there, stars twinkled through the thin, swiftly flying clouds. The outlines of trees, sprinkled with rain and stirred by the wind, began to emerge from the darkness. We began to listen. The forester took off his cap and bowed his head. "There... there," he suddenly said and extended his hand, "see what a night he's chosen." I heard nothing except the noise of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "Well then, I might," he added aloud, "miss him after all." "I'll go with you... do you want?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up, "we'll catch him in a jiffy, and then I'll see you out. Let's go." We set off: Biryuk in front, I behind him. God knows how he found the road, but he stopped only rarely, and then only to listen to the sound of the axe. "See," he muttered through his teeth, "do you hear? do you hear?" "But where?" Biryuk shrugged his shoulders. We descended into a ravine, the wind died down for a moment—measured blows clearly reached my hearing. Biryuk glanced at me and nodded his head. We went farther through the wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble rang out. "He's felled it..." Biryuk muttered. Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; the forest grew slightly lighter. We finally climbed out of the ravine. "Wait here," the forester whispered to me, bent down and, raising his gun upward, disappeared among the bushes. I began to listen with tension. Through the constant noise of the wind I seemed to hear faint sounds nearby: an axe was carefully striking branches, wheels were creaking, a horse was snorting... "Where are you going? Stop!" Biryuk's iron voice suddenly thundered. Another voice cried out pitifully, like a hare... A struggle began. "You're ly-ing, ly-ing," Biryuk kept saying, out of breath, "you won't get away..." I rushed in the direction of the noise and ran, stumbling at every step, to the place of battle. By the felled tree, on the ground, the forester was struggling; he was holding the thief under him and twisting his hands behind his back with a belt. I came closer. Biryuk got up and set him on his feet. I saw a peasant, wet, in tatters, with a long disheveled beard. A wretched little horse, half-covered with an angular piece of matting, stood there together with the cart frame. The forester said not a word; the peasant also remained silent and only shook his head. "Let him go," I whispered in Biryuk's ear, "I'll pay for the tree." Biryuk silently took the horse by the withers with his left hand; with his right he held the thief by the belt: "Well, turn around, crow!" he said sternly. "Pick up the little axe," the peasant muttered. "Why should it be wasted!" said the forester and picked up the axe. We set off. I walked behind... The rain began to drizzle again and soon poured in streams. With difficulty we reached the hut. Biryuk threw the captured little horse in the middle of the yard, led the peasant into the room, loosened the knot of the belt and sat him in a corner. The girl, who had fallen asleep by the stove, jumped up and began to look at us with silent fright. I sat on the bench. "Oh, how it's pouring," the forester remarked, "we'll have to wait it out. Won't you lie down?" "Thank you." "I would lock him in the closet for your honor's sake," he continued, pointing to the peasant, "but you see, the bolt..." "Leave him here, don't touch him," I interrupted Biryuk. The peasant glanced at me from under his brows. I inwardly gave myself my word to free the poor fellow at any cost. He sat motionless on the bench. By the light of the lantern I could make out his haggard, wrinkled face, his overhanging yellow eyebrows, restless eyes, thin limbs... The girl lay down on the floor at his very feet and fell asleep again. Biryuk sat by the table, leaning his head on his hands. A cricket chirped in the corner... the rain drummed on the roof and slid down the windows; we all kept silent. "Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly spoke in a dull, broken voice, "eh, Foma Kuzmich." "What do you want?" "Let me go." Biryuk didn't answer. "Let me go... from hunger... let me go." "I know you people," the forester replied grimly, "your whole settlement is like that—thief upon thief." "Let me go," the peasant kept saying, "the bailiff... we're ruined, that's how it is... let me go!" "Ruined!.. Nobody should steal." "Let me go, Foma Kuzmich... don't destroy me. Your master, you know yourself, will eat me alive, that's how it is." Biryuk turned away. The peasant was twitching, as if fever was shaking him. He shook his head and breathed unevenly. "Let me go," he repeated with mournful despair, "let me go, by God, let me go! I'll pay, that's how it is, by God. By God, from hunger... the children are squealing, you know yourself. It's hard, that's how it is." "But you still shouldn't go stealing." "The little horse," the peasant continued, "the little horse at least, let her go... she's my only living soul... let me go!" "I'm telling you, I can't. I'm also a man under orders: they'll demand it from me. You shouldn't be spoiled either." "Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, it's just that... let me go!