Capítulo 74 de 80

I was riding home alone from the hunt one evening in my 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 thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, an enormous lilac cloud slowly rose 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 horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry stream 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 roared in the heights, the trees raged, large raindrops struck sharply, splashing against the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in torrents. I went at a walk and soon was forced to stop: my horse floundered, I could not 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, in 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 earth beside my droshky.

"Who's that?" asked a resonant voice.

"And who are you?"

"I'm the forester here."

I gave my name.

"Ah, I know! You're going home?"

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

"Yes, a storm," replied the voice.

White lightning illuminated the forester from head to foot; a crackling and short thunderclap sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with redoubled 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.

"Do me the favor."

"Please stay seated."

He approached the horse's head, took it by the bridle and pulled it from its place. We moved off. I held onto the cushion of the droshky, which swayed "like a boat at sea," and called to the dog. My poor mare splashed heavily through the mud, slipped, stumbled; the forester swayed before the shafts right and left, like a ghost. We rode for quite a while; finally my guide stopped. "Here we are home, sir," he said in a calm voice. The gate creaked, several puppies barked in unison. I raised my head and in 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. "Right away, right away!" rang out a thin little voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, in a chemise, girded with a belt, 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 followed her.

The forester's hut consisted of one room, smoke-blackened, low and empty, without sleeping shelves or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. On the bench lay a single-barreled gun, in the corner was a heap of rags; two large pots stood beside the stove. A splinter burned on the table, flickering sadly and dying. 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, adjusting the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart ached: it is not cheerful to enter a peasant's hut at night. The child in the cradle breathed heavily and rapidly.

"Are you here alone?" I asked the girl.

"Alone," she pronounced barely audibly.

"Are you the forester's daughter?"

"The forester's," she whispered.

The door creaked, and the forester stepped, bowing his head, over the threshold. He lifted the lantern from the floor, approached 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 mighty muscles protruded. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under his grown-together broad eyebrows boldly looked small brown eyes. He rested his hands lightly on his hips and stopped before me.

I thanked him and asked his name.

"My name is Foma," he answered, "and my nickname is Biryuk."

"Ah, you're Biryuk?"

I looked at him with redoubled 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; at any time, even at midnight itself, 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 take any bait. More than once good people have tried 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 give no one any quarter."

"I do my duty," he answered gloomily. "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 traveling townsman," 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 a stained horn into her hand. "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 besides bread I have nothing..."

"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 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 pulled onto her shoulder the slipping chemise; 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 down on the bench.

"The storm is passing," he remarked after a brief 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 doing mischief in the forest... At Kobylye Verkh they're cutting down 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, long lightning bolts flashed occasionally; but over our heads the dark blue sky was already visible here and there, little 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 lowered his head. "There... there," he said suddenly and stretched out 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, "oversleep him." "I'll go with you... want me to?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up, "we'll catch him in a jiffy, and then I'll guide you. Let's go."

We set off: Biryuk in front, I after him. God knows how he found the way, 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 further through the wet ferns and nettles. A dull 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 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 seemed to hear faint sounds nearby: an axe cautiously tapped on branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted... "Where are you going? Stop!" suddenly thundered Biryuk's iron voice. Another voice cried out pitifully, like a hare's... A struggle began. "You're lying, you're lying," Biryuk kept saying, gasping, "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 a felled tree, on the ground, the forester was struggling; he held the thief under him and was tying 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 bast mat, stood there together with a cart undercarriage. The forester did not say a word; the peasant also kept 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 axe," muttered the peasant. "Why should it go to waste!" said the forester and picked up the axe. We set off. I walked behind... The rain began to drizzle again and soon poured in torrents. With difficulty we reached the hut. Biryuk threw the caught little horse into 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 began to look at us with silent fright. I sat down on the bench.

"Look at that, how it's pouring," remarked the forester. "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 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 tapped on the roof and slid down the windows; we all kept silent.

"Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull and broken voice, "ah, 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 destroy me. Yours, you know yourself, will eat you alive, that's how it is."

Biryuk turned away. The peasant twitched, as if fever shook 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, they squeal, 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 all I have to live on... let me go!"

"I'm telling you, it's impossible. I'm also a man under orders: they'll hold me accountable. I shouldn't pamper you either."

"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, as it really is... let me go!"