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I was returning from hunting one evening alone, in a racing droshky. There were still about eight versts to home; my good trotting mare ran briskly along the dusty road, occasionally snorting and twitching her ears; the tired dog, as though tied, did not lag a step behind the rear wheels. A thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, an enormous lilac 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 was suddenly replaced by damp cold; shadows rapidly thickened. I struck the reins against the horse, descended into a ravine, crossed over a dry brook 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 bounced over the hard roots of century-old oaks and lindens that constantly crisscrossed the deep longitudinal ruts—traces of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. A strong wind suddenly howled in the heights, the trees became turbulent, large raindrops sharply drummed and splashed on the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I proceeded at a walk and was soon forced to stop: my horse was getting stuck, I could not see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and with my face covered, I patiently awaited the end of the bad weather, when suddenly, by the gleam of lightning, a tall figure seemed to appear 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 is it?" asked a resonant voice.

"And who are you?"

"I'm the local forester."

I gave my name.

"Ah, I know! You're heading 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 and short clap of thunder rang out immediately after. The rain gushed with redoubled force.

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

"What can one 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 the spot. 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, slipping and stumbling; the forester swayed before the shafts to the right and left, like an apparition. We rode for quite a long time; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are at home, sir," he uttered 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!" rang out a thin little voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl about twelve years old, in a little shirt belted with a strap, 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 platform or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. On the bench lay a single-barreled gun, in the corner lay a heap of rags; two large pots stood by the stove. A splinter of wood burned on the table, flaring up and dying down dismally. 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, straighten 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.

"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 lifted the lantern from the floor, approached the table and lit the wick.

"I suppose you're not accustomed to splinters?" he said and shook his curls.

I looked at him. Rarely had I seen such a fine fellow. He was tall in stature, broad-shouldered and splendidly built. 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 his grown-together thick 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.

"They call me Foma," he answered, "and by nickname Biryuk." {In Orel province, Biryuk means a solitary and sullen person. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)}

"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 craft in the world: "He won't let you steal a bundle of brushwood; whatever the time, even at dead of night, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and don't think of resisting—he's strong, they say, and nimble as a devil... And there's no way to get to him: neither with vodka nor 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 quarter."

"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, sat down on the floor and began to chop 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 uttered with a cruel smile. The girl hung her head; the child woke and cried; the girl approached the cradle.

"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a soiled feeding bottle into her hand. "She abandoned him too," he continued in a low voice, 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 except bread..."

"I'm not hungry."

"Well, as you wish. I would put on a 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 once more. 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 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 entered and sat on the bench.

"The storm is passing," he remarked after a brief silence, "if you order it, I'll escort 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 {In Orel province, "verkh" means ravine. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)} they're cutting down a tree," he added in response to my questioning gaze.

"Can you hear it from here?"

"From the yard you can hear it."

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 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 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. "At this rate, 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 escort you. 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 for the sound of an axe. "See," he muttered through his teeth, "do you hear? do you hear?" "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 the wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble resounded.

"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 tension. Through the constant noise of the wind, faint sounds seemed to me nearby: an axe carefully 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-ing, ly-ing," Biryuk kept repeating, gasping, "you won't get away..." I rushed in the direction of the noise and arrived, stumbling at every step, at the scene of battle. By the felled tree, on the ground, the forester was grappling; he held the thief beneath him and was twisting his hands behind his back with a sash. I approached. Biryuk rose and stood 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 frame. The forester said not a word; the peasant was also 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 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.

"What a downpour," 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 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 puffy, 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 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 did not answer.

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

"I know you," the forester answered grimly, "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. Your master, you know yourself, will eat me 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 still you 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, it's impossible. I'm also a man under orders: they'll hold me accountable. There's no point in spoiling you either."

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