Capítulo 52 de 80

I was returning home from hunting one evening alone, in a racing droshky. There were still about eight versts to go; my good trotting mare ran briskly along the dusty road, occasionally snorting and twitching her ears; the tired dog, as if tied, did not fall back a single step from the rear wheels. A storm was approaching. Ahead, an enormous purple cloud was slowly rising from behind the forest; above me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; the willows stirred and whispered anxiously. The oppressive heat suddenly gave way to damp cold; shadows rapidly thickened. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry stream entirely overgrown with osiers, 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 jolted over the hard roots of century-old oaks and lindens, ceaselessly 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 raindrops sharply drummed and splashed on the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. The rain poured in streams. I went at a walk and was soon forced to stop: my horse was getting stuck, I could not see a thing. Somehow I sheltered by a wide bush. Hunched over and wrapping my face, I waited patiently 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 risen from the earth 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! You're going home?"

"Home. But you see what a storm..."

"Yes, a storm," the voice replied.

White lightning illuminated the forester from head to foot; a crackling, short clap of thunder sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with redoubled force.

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

"What can you do!"

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

"Do me the favor."

"Please remain seated."

He approached the horse's head, took it by the bridle and pulled it from its place. We set off. I held onto the cushion of the droshky, which rocked "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 right and left, like a ghost. We rode for quite a long time; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are, master," he said in a calm voice. A gate creaked, several puppies barked in chorus. I raised my head and by the light of the 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. "Coming, coming!" came a thin voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, in a little shirt tied with a belt, with a lantern in her hand, appeared on the threshold.

"Light the way for the master," he told 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 bunks 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 stool and began to rock the cradle with her right hand, straightening the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart ached within me: it is 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.

"You're the forester's daughter?"

"The forester's," she whispered.

The door creaked, and the forester stepped over the threshold, bowing his head. He picked up 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. I had rarely happened to see such a fine fellow. He was tall in stature, 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 joined wide brows boldly looked small brown eyes. 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 Yermolay and from others I had often heard tales about the forester Biryuk, whom all the surrounding 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; at whatever hour it might be, even at the deepest midnight, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and don't you think of resisting—he's strong, they say, and cunning 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 remove him from this world, but no—he doesn't give in."

This is how the neighboring peasants spoke of Biryuk.

"So you're Biryuk," I repeated, "I, brother, have heard about you. They say you don't give anyone quarter."

"I perform my duty," he answered gloomily, "it's not right to eat the master's bread for nothing."

He took an ax 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, swinging the ax forcefully.

"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 uttered with a cruel smile. The girl hung her head; the child woke up and cried out; the girl approached the cradle.

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

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

"I'm not hungry."

"Well, as you wish. I would 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 did not move from her place and did not raise her eyes; occasionally she pushed the cradle, timidly pulling 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 guide 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 gaze.

"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, long lightning flashes occasionally flared; but above our heads dark blue sky was already visible here and there, stars twinkled through thin, swiftly flying clouds. The outlines of trees, sprinkled with rain and agitated 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 extended his hand, "see what a night he's chosen." I heard nothing except the rustle of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "And this way I might, perhaps," he added aloud, "overlook 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 off. Let's go."

We set off: Biryuk ahead, I behind him. God knows how he found the way, but he stopped only occasionally, and that only to listen to the sound of the ax. "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 dull and prolonged rumble sounded.

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

Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; the forest became 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 strain. Through the constant noise of the wind I fancied I heard faint sounds nearby: an ax cautiously tapping on branches, wheels creaking, a horse snorting... "Where are you going? Stop!" suddenly thundered Biryuk's iron voice. Another voice cried out pitifully, like a hare... A struggle began. "You're ly-ying, you're ly-ying," Biryuk repeated breathlessly, "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 writhing; he was holding the thief beneath him and twisting his hands behind his back with a sash. I approached. Biryuk rose and set 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 mat, stood there together with a cart frame. The forester did not say 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 hand he held the thief by the belt. "Well, turn around, crow!" he said sternly. "Pick up the little ax," the peasant muttered. "Why should it go to waste!" said the forester and picked up the ax. 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 the corner. The girl, who had fallen asleep near the stove, jumped up and with silent fright began to stare at us. I sat down on the bench.

"Look how it's pouring," the forester remarked, "you'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 at the peasant, "but you see, the bolt..."

"Leave him there, 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 drawn, 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 near the table, resting 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 and broken voice, "eh, Foma Kuzmich."

"What do you want?"

"Let me go."

Biryuk did not answer.

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

"I know you," the forester replied gloomily, "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. Your master, you know yourself, will eat you alive, that's how it is."

Biryuk turned away. The peasant was twitching, as if fever were 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 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 her... she's my only livelihood... let me go!"

"I'm telling you, I can't. I'm also a dependent man: they'll hold me accountable. You shouldn't be indulged either."

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