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I was driving home alone one evening from hunting in a racing droshky. It was still about eight versts to the house; my good trotting mare ran briskly along the dusty road, snorting occasionally 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 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 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 thick hazel bushes already flooded with darkness; I moved forward with difficulty. The droshky jolted 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 overhead, the trees grew stormy, large raindrops struck sharply, slapped against the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I moved at a walk and soon was forced to stop: my horse was getting stuck, I could see nothing at all. 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 seemed to appear 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 local forester."

I gave my name.

"Ah, I know! You're going 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 gushed with doubled force.

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

"What can one do!"

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

"Do me the favor."

"Please, stay seated."

He approached the horse's head, took her by the bridle and pulled her from the spot. We started 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 hooves through the mud, slipped, stumbled; the forester swayed before the shafts to the right and left like a phantom. We drove for quite a while; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are at home, sir," he said in a calm voice. The 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 large 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!" 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 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 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 benches 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 of wood burned on the table, sadly flaring 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 stool 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 was breathing heavily and fast.

"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 over the threshold, bending his head. 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 happened to see such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and splendidly built. From under his wet homespun shirt his powerful muscles bulged prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under his thick grown-together eyebrows boldly gazed small hazel eyes. 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." {Biryuk is what they call a solitary and sullen person in Oryol province. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)}

"Ah, you're Biryuk?"

I looked at him with redoubled curiosity. From my Yermolai 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 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 the 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 gathered to do away with him, but no—he won't be caught."

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 quarter."

"I do my duty," he answered sullenly, "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 to split splinters.

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

"No," he answered and swung the axe 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 passing townsman," he said with a cruel smile. The girl hung her head; the child woke up and began to cry; the girl approached the cradle.

"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a soiled 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.

"You, I suppose, sir," he began, "won't eat our bread, and I have nothing but 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 didn't move from her place and didn't raise her eyes; occasionally she pushed the cradle, timidly pulled onto her shoulder the slipping shift; her bare legs hung without moving.

"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 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.

"There's mischief in the forest... At Kobyliy Verkh {A 'verkh' is what they call a ravine in Oryol province. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)} they're cutting down a tree," he added in response to my questioning look.

"Can you hear it from here?"

"From the yard I can hear it."

We went out together. The rain had stopped. In the distance heavy masses of clouds still crowded together, long flashes of lightning occasionally flared; but over our heads dark blue sky was already visible here and there, 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 lowered 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. "But 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 flash, and then I'll see you off. 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 dull and prolonged rumble sounded.

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

Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; it grew slightly lighter 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 to listen with tension. Through the constant noise of the wind, weak sounds seemed to come from nearby: an axe cautiously tapped on branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted... "Where to? Stop!" suddenly thundered Biryuk's iron voice. Another voice cried out pitifully, like a hare... A struggle began. "You li-ie, you li-ie," repeated Biryuk, 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 the felled tree, on the ground, the forester was struggling; he held the thief beneath him and was 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 tatters, with a long disheveled beard. A wretched little horse, half covered with an angular bast mat, stood there together with the cart undercarriage. The forester said not 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 he held the thief by the belt. "Well, turn around, crow!" he said sternly. "Take 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 caught 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 by the stove, jumped up and began to look at us with silent fright. I sat down on the bench.

"Look 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, resting 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 began in a dull, 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 glumly, "your whole village is like that—thief upon thief."

"Let me go," the peasant persisted, "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 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 little ones are squealing, you know yourself. It's hard, that's how it is."

"But still you shouldn't go stealing."

"The little horse," continued the peasant, "the little horse, at least let her go... she's the only sustenance there is... let me go!"

"I say it's impossible. I'm also a subordinate person: 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!"