De: A Sportsman's Sketches
I was returning from the hunt one evening alone, in a racing droshky. The house was still about eight versts away; my good trotting mare was running briskly along the dusty road, occasionally snorting and twitching her ears; the tired dog, as if tied, kept pace with the rear wheels without lagging a single step. A storm was approaching. Ahead, an enormous purple cloud was slowly rising from beyond 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 thickened rapidly. I struck the reins against the horse, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry stream overgrown with willows, climbed the hill and entered the forest. The road wound before me between dense 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 roared in the heights, the trees grew turbulent, large raindrops sharply clattered and splashed on 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 stuck, I couldn't see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and with my face covered, I was patiently waiting for the end of the bad weather when suddenly, in the 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 have grown from the earth beside my droshky.
"Who's there?" asked a resonant voice.
"And who are you yourself?"
"I'm the local forester."
I gave my name.
"Ah, I know! Are you heading home?"
"Home. But you see what a storm..."
"Yes, a storm," answered the voice.
White lightning illuminated the forester from head to foot; a crackling, short clap of thunder sounded immediately after it. The rain poured down with redoubled force.
"It won't pass soon," continued the forester.
"What can one do!"
"I'll lead you to my hut if you like," he said abruptly.
"Please do."
"Sit still."
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 droshky, 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 long time; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are at home, master," he said in a calm voice. A gate creaked, several puppies barked in unison. I raised my head and in the light of lightning saw a small hut in the middle of a spacious yard enclosed by a wattle fence. A dim light shone from one small window. The forester led the horse to the porch and knocked on the door. "Right away, right away!" rang out a thin voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl about twelve years old, in a shift belted with a cord, 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 droshky under the shed."
The girl glanced at me and went into the hut. I followed her.
The forester's hut consisted of one room, sooty, low and bare, without sleeping loft 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, flaring and dying sadly. In the very middle of the hut hung a cradle, tied to the end of a long pole. The girl extinguished the lantern, sat down on a tiny bench and began to rock the cradle with her right hand, straightening 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 uttered barely audibly.
"Are you the forester's daughter?"
"The forester's," she whispered.
The door creaked, and the forester stepped over the threshold, bending his head. He lifted the lantern from the floor, approached 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 happened to see such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and built magnificently. From under his wet homespun shirt his powerful muscles protruded prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under grown-together wide brows, small hazel eyes looked boldly. He lightly rested 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 doubled curiosity. From my Yermolay 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 such a master of his trade in the world: "He won't let you steal a bundle of brushwood; whatever the 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 agile as a devil... And there's no way to get him: neither with vodka nor with money; he won't go for any bait. More than once good people have gathered to get rid of him, but no—he won't let them."
This is how the neighboring peasants spoke of Biryuk.
"So you're Biryuk," I repeated, "I've heard about you, brother. They say you give nobody quarter."
"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 split splinters.
"Don't you have a wife?" I asked him.
"No," he answered, swinging 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 passing tradesman," he uttered with a cruel smile. The girl lowered her eyes; the child woke up and cried out; the girl went to the cradle.
"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a stained feeding horn into her hand. "She abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing at the child. He went to the door, stopped and turned around.
"You, I suppose, master," he began, "won't eat our bread, and I have nothing except bread..."
"I'm not hungry."
"Well, as you wish. I would put on the 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 more dismal to me than before. The bitter smell of cooled 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 pulling onto her shoulder her slipping shift; her bare feet 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 lead you out of the forest."
I stood up. Biryuk took the gun and examined the pan.
"What's that for?" I asked.
"They're up to 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?"
"I can hear it from the yard."
We went out together. The rain had stopped. In the distance heavy masses of clouds still crowded, long lightnings flashed occasionally; but over our heads here and there dark blue sky was already visible, little stars twinkled through the 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 said suddenly and stretched out his hand, "see what a night he chose for it." I heard nothing except the rustle of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "But at this rate I may well," he added aloud, "miss him." "I'll go with you... do you want me to?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up, "we'll catch him in a flash, and then I'll see you on your way. Let's go."
We set off: Biryuk in front, I behind him. God knows how he found the road, but he stopped only occasionally, 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 further through wet ferns and nettles. A muffled and prolonged rumble sounded.
"He's felled it..." muttered Biryuk.
Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; in the forest it grew slightly lighter. We finally got 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 strain. Through the constant noise of the wind I fancied weak sounds nearby: an axe cautiously knocked on branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted... "Where are you going? Stop!" suddenly thundered Biryuk's iron voice. Another voice cried out piteously, like a hare... A struggle began. "You li-ie, you li-ie," Biryuk kept saying, out of breath, "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 struggling; he was holding the thief under him and twisting his hands behind his back with a sash. I approached. Biryuk got up and put 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 a cart undercarriage. 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 little axe there," muttered the peasant. "Why should it be lost!" 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 sash and sat him in a corner. The girl, who had fallen asleep by the stove, jumped up and with silent fright began to look at us. I sat down on the bench.
"Look at that, how it's pouring," remarked the forester, "we'll have to wait it out. Would you like to lie down?"
"Thank you."
"I would lock him in the closet for your honor's sake," 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 man at any cost. He sat motionless on the bench. By the light of the lantern I could make out his haggard, 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 knocked on the roof and slid down the windows; we all were silent.
"Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull and broken voice, "ah, 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 settlement is like that—thief upon thief."
"Let me go," the peasant kept saying, "the steward... we're ruined, that's how it is... let me go!"
"Ruined!... Nobody should steal."
"Let me go, Foma Kuzmich... don't ruin me. Yours, 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 dismal despair, "let me go, by God, let me go! I'll pay, that's how it is, by God. By God, from hunger... the little ones 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, even just her... she's the only beast we have... let me go!"
"I'm telling you, I can't. I'm also a subordinate man: they'll hold me accountable. There's no spoiling you either."
"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, that's just how it is... let me go!"