Capítulo 2 de 80

on his head an empty jug and put it on. All the boys laughed and fell silent again for a moment, as often happens with people talking in the open air. I looked around: the night stood solemn and regal; the damp freshness of late evening had been replaced by the dry warmth of midnight, and it would yet lie long as a soft canopy over the sleeping fields; much time remained until the first babbling, until the first rustlings and whispers of morning, until the first dewdrops of dawn. There was no moon in the sky: at that time it rose late. Countless golden stars seemed to flow quietly, all twinkling in rivalry, in the direction of the Milky Way, and truly, looking at them, you seemed to feel dimly yourself the swift, ceaseless running of the earth...

A strange, sharp, painful cry rang out suddenly twice in succession over the river and, after a few moments, was repeated farther off...

Kostya shuddered. "What was that?"

"That's a heron crying," Pavel calmly replied.

"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 walking from Kamennaya Gryada to Shashkino; and I walked first through our hazel grove, and then I went across the meadow—you know, where it comes out at the sharp bend—there's a deep pool there; you know, it's all overgrown with reeds; so I was walking past this pool, brothers, and suddenly from that pool someone began to moan, and so pitifully, pitifully: ooh... ooh... ooh! Such fear took hold of me, brothers: it was late, and the voice was so sickly. I felt like crying myself... What could it have been? eh?"

"In that pool, the year before last, thieves drowned Akim the forester," Pavel remarked, "so perhaps his soul is complaining."

"Well, that's it, brothers," Kostya replied, widening his already enormous eyes... "I didn't know that Akim was drowned in that pool: I would have been even more frightened."

"And they say there are such tiny frogs," Pavel continued, "that cry so pitifully."

"Frogs? Well, no, those weren't frogs... how could..." (The heron cried out again over the river.) "Damn it!" Kostya involuntarily exclaimed, "screaming like a wood demon."

"A wood demon doesn't cry, it's mute," Ilyusha picked up, "it only claps its hands and cracks..."

"And have you seen it, the wood demon?" Fedya interrupted him mockingly.

"No, I haven't seen it, and God preserve me from seeing it; but others have seen it. Just the other day it led one of our peasants astray: it led him, led him through the forest, always around one clearing... He barely made it home by daylight."

"Well, and did he see it?"

"He saw it. He says it stood there, big, big, dark, wrapped up, like behind a tree, you couldn't make it out properly, like hiding from the moon, and it stares, stares with its huge eyes, blinking them, blinking..."

"Oh!" exclaimed Fedya, shuddering slightly and twitching his shoulders, "ugh!.."

"And why has this filth multiplied in the world?" Pavel remarked. "I don't understand, really!"

"Don't curse, watch out, it might hear you," Ilya remarked.

Silence fell again.

"Look, look, boys," Vanya's childish voice suddenly rang out, "look at God's little stars—swarming like bees!"

He stuck his fresh little face out from under the matting, propped himself on his fist, and slowly raised his large quiet eyes upward. All the boys' eyes rose to the sky and didn't lower for some time.

"Well, Vanya," Fedya began tenderly, "is your sister Anyutka well?"

"She's well," Vanya answered with a slight lisp.

"Tell her—why doesn't she come to see us?.."

"I don't know."

"Tell her to come."

"I'll tell her."

"Tell her I'll give her a treat."

"And will you give me one?"

"I'll give you one too."

Vanya sighed.

"Well, no, I don't need one. Better give it to her: she's so kind, our Anyutka."

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 to drink."

The dogs got up and followed him.

"Watch 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. All sorts of things happen: he'll lean over, start scooping 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 do you mean fell?.. Look, he's gone into the reeds," he added, listening.

The reeds were indeed "rustling" as they parted, as we say.

"But is it true," Kostya asked, "that Akulina the fool has been mad ever since she was in the water?"

"Ever since then... Look at her now! But they say she used to be a beauty. The water spirit ruined her. He must not have expected they'd pull her out so soon. So he ruined her there, at the bottom."

(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 would tramp 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 understood nothing, whatever anyone said to her, and only occasionally laughed convulsively.)

"But 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," Kostya replied, "in this very river. What a boy he was! oh, what a boy he was! His mother, Feklista, how she loved him, her Vasya! And it was as if she sensed, Feklista did, that he would perish from water. When Vasya would go with us, with the boys, to swim in the river in summer—she'd be all in a flutter. The other women don't care, they walk past with their washtubs, waddling, but Feklista would set her washtub on the ground and start calling him: 'Come back,' she'd say, 'come back, my bright one! oh, come back, my falcon!' And how he drowned, God only knows. He was playing on the bank, and his mother was right there, raking hay; suddenly she hears something like bubbles rising in the water—she looks, and only Vasya's little cap is floating on the water. Well, ever since then Feklista hasn't been in her right mind: she'll come and lie down on the spot where he drowned; she'll lie down, brothers, and start up a song—remember, Vasya always used to sing such a song—well, that's the one she starts up, and she cries, cries, bitterly complaining to God..."

"Here comes Pavlusha," said Fedya.

Pavel approached the fire with the pot full in his hand.

"Well, boys," he began after a pause, "something's not right."

"What do you mean?" Kostya asked hurriedly.

"I heard Vasya's voice."

Everyone shuddered.

"What are you saying, what?" Kostya stammered.

"I swear. I'd just bent down to the water when I suddenly heard someone calling me in Vasya's voice and as if from under the water: 'Pavlusha, oh Pavlusha!' I listened; and he called again: 'Pavlusha, come here.' I moved away. But I got the water anyway."

"Oh Lord! oh Lord!" the boys said, crossing themselves.

"That was the water spirit calling you, Pavel," Fedya added... "And we were just talking about him, about Vasya."

"Oh, that's a bad sign," Ilyusha said deliberately.

"Well, never mind, let it be!" Pavel said decisively and sat down again, "you can't escape your fate."

The boys quieted down. It was evident that Pavel's words had made a deep impression on them. They began settling 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?"

"To where, they say, there's no winter."

"Is there really 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 finally rose; I didn't notice it immediately: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night seemed to be just as magnificent as before... But already many stars that had recently stood high in the sky had inclined toward the dark edge of the earth; everything around had completely quieted down, as everything usually quiets down only toward morning: everything slept a deep, motionless, pre-dawn sleep. The air no longer smelled so strongly—dampness seemed to spread through it again... Short are the summer nights!.. The boys' conversation died down along with the fires... Even the dogs were dozing; the horses, as far as I could make out in the faintly glimmering, weakly flowing starlight, also lay with lowered heads... Sweet oblivion fell upon me; it turned into drowsiness.

A fresh stream ran across my face. I opened my eyes: morning was beginning. Dawn was not yet flushing anywhere, but it had already whitened in the east. Everything became visible, though dimly visible, all around. The pale gray sky was lightening, growing cold, turning blue; the stars now twinkled with faint light, now disappeared; the earth grew damp, leaves became covered with dew, here and there living sounds, voices began to be heard, and a thin, early breeze was already wandering and fluttering over the earth. My body answered it with a light, cheerful tremor. I quickly got up and approached 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 set off homeward along the smoking river. I hadn't walked two versts when already all around me—over the broad wet meadow, and ahead, over the greening hills, from forest to forest, and behind along the long dusty road, over the sparkling, crimsoned bushes, and over the river bashfully showing blue through the thinning mist—there poured first pink, then red, golden streams of young, hot light... Everything stirred, awoke, began singing, rustling, speaking. Everywhere large drops of dew sparkled 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 add with regret that Pavel died that same year. He didn't drown: he was killed, falling from a horse. A pity, he was a splendid lad!

Biryuk

(From the cycle "Notes of a Hunter")

I was riding home from hunting one evening alone, in a racing drozhky. It was still about eight versts to home; my good trotting mare ran briskly along the dusty road, occasionally snorting and twitching her ears; my tired dog, as if tied, didn't lag a step behind the rear wheels. A thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead an enormous purple cloud was slowly rising from beyond the forest; over me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The oppressive heat was suddenly replaced by damp cold; shadows rapidly thickened. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry stream all overgrown with willow, 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 drozhky bounced over the hard roots of century-old oaks and lindens, constantly crossing deep longitudinal ruts—traces of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. A strong wind suddenly roared in the heights, the trees raged, large drops of rain sharply drummed, began splashing on the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I rode 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 wrapping my face, 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 staring intently in that direction—the same figure seemed to grow from the ground beside my drozhky.

"Who is it?" asked a resonant voice.

"And who are you?"

"I'm the local forester."

I named myself.

"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 sounded immediately after it. The rain poured down with doubled force.

"It won't pass soon," the forester continued.

"What can you do!"

"I'll lead you to my hut, if you like," he said abruptly.

"Please do."

"Be so kind as to stay seated."

He approached the horse's head, took it by the bridle and pulled it from the spot. We set off. I held onto the cushion of the drozhky, which swayed "like a boat on the sea," and called the dog. My poor mare heavily slapped her feet through the mud, slipped, stumbled; the forester swayed before the shafts left and right, like a ghost. We rode for quite a long time; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are 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 dimly shone from one small window. The forester led the horse to the porch and knocked on the door. "Coming, coming!" a thin voice rang out, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl about twelve years old, in a shift, belted with a strap, with a lantern in her hand, appeared on the threshold.

"Light the way for the master," he said to her, "and I'll put your drozhky 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 pile of rags; two large pots stood near the stove. A splinter burned on the table, sadly flaring up and going out. 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 rocking the cradle with her right hand, adjusting the splinter with her left. 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 said barely audibly.

"You're the forester's daughter?"

"The forester's," she whispered.

The door creaked, and the forester stepped over the threshold, bending his head. He picked up the lantern from the floor, went to the table and lit the lamp.

"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 canvas shirt his powerful muscles protruded prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under his grown-together thick eyebrows small brown eyes looked boldly. He lightly propped his hands on his hips and stopped before me.

I thanked him and asked his name.

"My name is 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 local peasants feared like fire. According to them, there had never been such a master of his trade in the world: "He won't let you take away 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 cunning as a devil... And there's no way to get him: not with vodka, not with money; he won't take any bait. More than once good people have tried to get rid of 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 glumly, "it's not right to eat the master's bread for nothing."

He took an axe from his belt, squatted on the floor and began splitting splinters.

"Don't you have a wife?" I asked him.

"No," he answered and swung the axe hard.

"She died, I suppose?"

"No... yes... she died," he added and turned away.

I fell silent; he raised his eyes and looked at me.

"She ran off with a traveling tradesman," he said with a cruel smile. The girl hung her head; the child woke up and cried; the girl went to the cradle.

"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting into her hand a stained feeding horn. "She abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing at the child. He went to the door, stopped and turned around.

"You, sir, I suppose," he began, "won't eat our bread, and I have nothing except bread..."

"I'm not hungry."

"Well, as you wish. I would have put the samovar on 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 more dismal to me than before. The bitter smell of stale 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 even 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 the gun and examined the pan.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"They're causing mischief in the forest... At Kobylye Verkh they're cutting a tree," he added in response to my questioning look.

"Can you hear it from here?"

"You 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 dark blue sky was already visible here and there, little stars twinkled through thin, rapidly 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 chose." I heard nothing except the noise of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "And this way I might, perhaps," he added aloud, "miss him." "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 after him. God knows how he knew the road, but he stopped only occasionally, and that 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 ear. Biryuk glanced at me and nodded his head. We went on through wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble sounded.

"He's felled it..." Biryuk muttered.

Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; there was a faint lightening in the forest. 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 listening intently. Through the constant noise of the wind I seemed to hear faint sounds nearby: an axe cautiously tapped on branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted. "Where are you going? Stop!" Biryuk's iron voice suddenly thundered. Another voice cried out piteously, like a hare... A struggle began. "You're ly-ing, ly-ing," Biryuk repeated, panting, "you won't get away..." I rushed in the direction of the noise and arrived, stumbling at every step, at the place of battle. By the felled tree, on the ground, the forester was bustling about; he was holding the thief under him and twisting his hands behind his back with a belt. I approached. Biryuk rose and stood him on his feet. I saw a peasant, wet, in rags, with a long disheveled beard. A wretched little horse, half covered with an angular piece of matting, stood there along with a cart frame. The forester said not a word; the peasant also was 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 axe there," 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 looking at us with silent fright. I sat down on the bench.

"Look how it's pouring," the forester remarked, "we'll have to wait it out. Wouldn't you like to lie down?"

"Thank you."

"I would lock him in the closet for your honor," he continued, pointing at 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 worn, wrinkled face, 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 were all silent.

"Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull, broken voice, "hey, Foma Kuzmich."

"What do you want?"

"Let me go."

Biryuk didn't answer.

"Let me go... from hunger... let me go."

"I know you," the forester grimly retorted, "your whole village is like that—thief upon thief."

"Let me go," the peasant repeated, "the steward... we're ruined, that's how it is... let me go!"

"Ruined!.. No one should steal."

"Let me go, Foma Kuzmich... don't ruin me. Yours, you know yourself, will eat you 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 dismal desperation, "let me go, I swear to God, let me go! I'll pay, that's how it is, I swear to God. I swear to 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, at least her... she's the only living thing we have... let me go!"

"I tell you, I can't. I'm also a man under orders: they'll demand it of me. You shouldn't be indulged either."

"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, really that's what it is... let me go!