来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
The warmth of evening gave way to the dry warmth of midnight, and for a long time yet it would lie as a soft canopy over the sleeping fields; much time remained before the first murmurs, before the first rustlings and whispers of morning, before the first dewdrops of dawn. There was no moon in the sky: it rose late at that time. Countless golden stars seemed to flow quietly, all twinkling in rivalry, in the direction of the Milky Way, and truly, looking at them, you seemed to feel dimly yourself the swift, ceaseless course of the earth... A strange, harsh, painful cry rang out suddenly twice in succession over the river and, after a few moments, was repeated already farther off... Kostya shuddered. "What's that?" "It's a heron crying," Pavel answered calmly. "A heron," repeated Kostya... "But what was it, Pavlusha, that I heard yesterday evening," he added, after pausing a little, "you might know..." "What did you hear?" "Well, this is what I heard. I was walking from Kamennaya Gryada to Shashkino; and I walked first through all our hazel grove, and then went through a meadow—you know, where it comes out at the sharp bend in the ravine—there's a deep pool there, you know; it's still all overgrown with reeds; so I was walking past this pool, brothers, when suddenly from that very pool someone began to groan, and so piteously, piteously: oo-oo... oo-oo... oo-oo! Such fear came over me, brothers: it was late, and the voice was so sickly. I felt as if I would start crying myself... What could that have been, eh?" "In that pool, the year before last, thieves drowned Akim the forester," remarked Pavel, "so perhaps it was his soul complaining." "Well, that could be it, brothers," answered Kostya, widening his already enormous eyes... "I didn't know that Akim was drowned in that pool: I would have been even more frightened." "But then, they say, there are such tiny frogs," Pavel continued, "that cry so piteously." "Frogs? Well, no, that wasn't frogs... what kind of... (The heron cried out again over the river.) Ekh! there it goes!" Kostya exclaimed involuntarily, "like a wood goblin crying." "A wood goblin doesn't cry, it's mute," Ilyusha broke in, "it only claps its hands and rattles..." "And have you seen it, the wood goblin, or what?" Fedya interrupted him mockingly. "No, I haven't seen it, and God preserve me from seeing it; but others have seen it. Just the other day it led one of our peasants astray: it led him, led him through the forest, and all around one clearing... He barely made it home by dawn." "Well, and did he see it?" "He saw it. He says it stood there, huge, huge, dark, wrapped up, sort of like behind a tree, you couldn't make it out properly, like it was hiding from the moon, and it stares, stares with those eyes of its, blinking them, blinking..." "Ekh!" exclaimed Fedya, shuddering slightly and twitching his shoulders, "pfoo!.." "And why has this filth multiplied in the world?" remarked Pavel. "I don't understand, really!" "Don't curse, watch out, it'll hear you," remarked Ilya. Silence fell again. "Look, look, boys," Vanya's childish voice suddenly rang out, "look at God's little stars—like bees swarming!" He stuck his fresh little face out from under the matting, propped himself on his fist, and slowly raised upward his large, calm eyes. All the boys' eyes lifted to the sky and didn't lower for some time. "Well, Vanya," Fedya began affectionately, "how is your sister Anyutka, is she well?" "She's well," answered Vanya with a slight lisp. "Tell her—why doesn't she come to see us?.." "I don't know." "You tell her she should come." "I'll tell her." "You tell her I'll give her a treat." "And will you give me one?" "And I'll give you one." Vanya sighed. "Well, no, I don't need one. Give it to her instead: she's so kind, our girl." And Vanya laid his head on the ground again. Pavel stood up and took the empty pot in his hand. "Where are you going?" Fedya asked him. "To the river, to get some water: I want a drink." The dogs got up and followed him. "Mind you don't fall in the river!" Ilyusha called after him. "Why should he fall?" said Fedya, "he'll be careful." "Yes, he'll be careful. But anything can happen: he'll lean over, start drawing water, and the water sprite will grab him by the hand and pull him down to himself. Then they'll say: the boy fell, they say, into the water... What do you mean fell?.. Over there, he's gone into the reeds," he added, listening. The reeds were indeed "shurshing," rustling, as we say. "But is it true," asked Kostya, "that Akulina the simpleton has been out of her mind ever since she was in the water?" "Ever since then... Look what she's like now! But they say she used to be a beauty. The water sprite ruined her. He didn't expect, you see, that they'd pull her out so soon. So he ruined her, there at the bottom." (I myself have met this Akulina more than once. Covered in rags, terribly thin, with a face black as coal, a clouded gaze, and eternally bared teeth, she stamps for hours in one place, somewhere on the road, pressing her bony hands tightly to her chest and slowly swaying from foot to foot, like a wild beast in a cage. She understands nothing, whatever anyone says to her, and only occasionally laughs convulsively.) "But they say," Kostya continued, "that Akulina threw herself in the river because her lover deceived her." "That's exactly why." "And do you remember Vasya?" Kostya added sadly. "What Vasya?" asked Fedya. "The one who drowned," answered Kostya, "in this very river. Oh, what a boy he was! eh, what a boy he was! His mother, Feklista, how she loved him, her Vasya! And it was as if she sensed, Feklista did, that he would perish from water. Sometimes Vasya would go with us, with the boys, in summer to swim in the river—she'd be all of a flutter. The other women don't mind, they walk past with their washtubs, waddling along, but Feklista would set her washtub on the ground and start calling him: 'Come back, she'd say, come back, my dear! oh, come back, my falcon!' And how he drowned, God only knows. He was playing on the bank, and his mother was right there, raking hay; suddenly she hears something like bubbles rising in the water—she looks, and only Vasya's little cap is floating on the water. Well, since then Feklista hasn't been in her right mind: she'll come and lie down on the spot where he drowned; she'll lie down, brothers, and start singing a song—remember, Vasya always used to sing such a song—so she starts singing it, and she cries, cries, complains bitterly to God..." "And here comes Pavlusha," said Fedya. Pavel approached the fire with the full pot in his hand. "Well, boys," he began, after pausing, "something's not right." "What?" Kostya asked hurriedly. "I heard Vasya's voice." Everyone shuddered. "What do you mean, what do you mean?" stammered Kostya. "By God. I'd just bent down to the water when I suddenly hear someone calling me in Vasya's voice and sort of from under the water: 'Pavlusha, oh Pavlusha!' I listen; and then again it calls: 'Pavlusha, come here.' I moved away. But I got the water anyway." "Oh Lord! oh Lord!" the boys said, crossing themselves. "That was the water sprite calling you, Pavel," added Fedya... "And we were just talking about him, about Vasya." "Ah, that's a bad sign," said Ilyusha with deliberation. "Well, never mind, let it be!" said Pavel decisively and sat down again, "you can't escape your fate." The boys quieted down. It was obvious that Pavel's words had made a deep impression on them. They began settling down before the fire, as if preparing to sleep. "What's that?" Kostya suddenly asked, raising his head. Pavel listened. "Those are sandpipers flying, whistling." "Where are they flying to?" "To the place where, they say, there's no winter." "And is there really such a land?" "There is." "Far away?" "Far, far away, beyond the warm seas." Kostya sighed and closed his eyes. More than three hours had passed since I had joined the boys. The moon rose at last; I didn't notice it immediately: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night seemed to be just as magnificent as before... But already many stars, which had stood high in the sky not long ago, were inclining toward the dark edge of the earth; everything had completely quieted all around, as everything usually quiets only toward morning: everything slept with a deep, motionless, pre-dawn sleep. The air no longer smelled so strong—dampness seemed to spread through it again... The summer nights are short!.. The boys' conversation died away along with the fires... Even the dogs were dozing; the horses, as far as I could make out in the faintly glimmering, weakly flowing light of the stars, were also lying down, heads lowered... Sweet oblivion came over me; it passed into drowsiness. A fresh stream ran across my face. I opened my eyes: morning was beginning. The dawn was not yet reddening anywhere, but it had already grown white in the east. Everything became visible, though dimly visible, all around. The pale gray sky was growing light, cold, blue; the stars now flickered with faint light, now disappeared; the earth grew damp, leaves became covered with dew, here and there living sounds, voices began to be heard, and a thin, early breeze had already started wandering and fluttering over the earth. My body responded to it with a light, cheerful trembling. I got up briskly and approached the boys. They were all sleeping like the dead around the smoldering fire; only Pavel half-raised himself and looked intently at me. I nodded to him and walked homeward along the smoking river. Before I had gone two versts, streams of light were already pouring all around me across the wide wet meadow, and ahead, along the greening hills, from forest to forest, and behind along the long dusty road, along the sparkling, crimsoned bushes, and along the river, bashfully turning blue from beneath the thinning mist—first scarlet, then red, then golden streams of young, hot light poured forth... Everything stirred, awoke, began to sing, rustle, speak. Everywhere large drops of dew sparkled like radiant diamonds; toward me, clear and pure, as if also washed by the morning coolness, came the sounds of a bell, and suddenly past me, driven by the familiar boys, rushed the rested herd... I must add with regret that Pavel died that same year. He didn't drown: he was killed falling from a horse. A pity, he was a fine lad!
Biryuk
(From the cycle "Sketches from a Hunter's Album")
I was riding home from hunting one evening alone, in a racing droshky. There were still about eight versts to home; my good trotting mare was running briskly along the dusty road, occasionally snorting and twitching her ears; the tired dog, as if tied, didn't lag a step behind the rear wheels. A thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, a huge lilac cloud was slowly rising from behind the forest; above me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; the willows stirred and murmured anxiously. The sultry heat was suddenly replaced by damp cold; shadows quickly thickened. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry stream all overgrown with willows, 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 centuries-old oaks and lindens, constantly 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 drops of rain sharply began to tap, to slap against 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 couldn't see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and wrapping my face, 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 grow out of the ground beside my droshky. "Who's that?" asked a resonant voice. "And who are you?" "I'm the local forester." I introduced myself. "Ah, I know! Are you going home?" "Home. But you see, what a storm..." "Yes, a storm," answered the voice. White lightning illuminated the forester from head to toe; a crackling and short clap of thunder sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with doubled force. "It won't pass soon," the forester continued. "What can you do!" "I'll take you, if you like, to my hut," 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 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 through the mud with her hooves, slipped, stumbled; the forester swayed before the shafts to the right and left, like a ghost. We rode for quite a long time; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are home, sir," he said in a calm voice. A gate creaked, several puppies barked in chorus. 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 glimmered dimly 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, a 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 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 set off after 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 a bench lay a single-barreled gun, in the corner lay a pile of rags; two large pots stood by 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 put out the lantern, sat down on a tiny bench and began rocking the cradle with her right hand, straightening the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart ached: it's no joy to enter a peasant's hut at night. The child in the cradle was breathing heavily and rapidly. "Are you alone here?" I asked the girl. "Alone," she said barely audibly. "You're the forester's daughter?" "The forester's," she whispered. The door creaked, and the forester stepped, bowing his head, over the threshold. He picked up the lantern from the floor, went to the table and lit the lamp. "I suppose you're not used to a splinter?" he said and shook his curls. I looked at him. Rarely had I seen such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and wonderfully built. From under his wet canvas shirt his powerful muscles bulged prominently. 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 lightly rested his hands on his hips and stopped before me. I thanked him and asked his name. "I'm called Foma," he answered, "and by nickname Biryuk." "Ah, you're Biryuk?" I looked at him with redoubled curiosity. From my Ermolay 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 in the world such a master of his business: "He won't let you carry off a bundle of brushwood; whatever time it might be, 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 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 finish him off, but no—he doesn't give himself up." That's what the neighboring peasants said about Biryuk. "So you're Biryuk," I repeated, "I've heard about you, brother. They say you don't give anyone a break." "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 and swung 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 townsman," he said with a cruel smile. The girl hung her head; the child woke up and cried; 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 at the child. He went to the door, stopped and turned around. "You probably, sir," he began, "won't eat our bread, and I have nothing except bread..." "I'm not hungry." "Well, as you wish. I would have 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 sadder 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 pulling onto her shoulder her slipping shift; 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 see 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 Kobylye Verkh they're cutting a tree," he added in response to my questioning look. "Can you really 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 gathered, lightning flashed occasionally; but over our heads dark blue sky was already visible here and there, 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 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. "But this way I might," 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 on your way. Let's go." We set off: Biryuk ahead, I after him. God knows how he found the way, but he stopped only rarely, 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 farther 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 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 seemed to hear faint sounds 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're ly-ing, ly-ing," Biryuk kept saying, gasping, "you won't get away..." I rushed in the direction of the noise and ran, stumbling at every step, to the place of battle. By the felled tree, on the ground, the forester was scuffling; he was holding the thief under him and twisting his hands behind his back with a belt. I approached. Biryuk got up 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 piece of matting, stood there together with the cart frame. The forester didn't say 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 little axe there," 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 streams. We reached the hut with difficulty. Biryuk threw the captured little horse in the middle of the yard, led the peasant into the room, loosened the knot of the belt and sat him in a corner. The girl, who had fallen asleep by the stove, jumped up and began looking at us with silent fright. I sat on the bench. "Ekh, how it's pouring," remarked the forester, "you'll have to wait it out. Won't you lie down?" "Thank you." "I would, for your honor's sake, lock him in the closet," 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 drawn, wrinkled face, overhanging yellow eyebrows, restless eyes, thin limbs... The girl lay down on the floor right at his feet and fell asleep again. Biryuk sat by the table, resting his head on his hands. A cricket chirped in the corner... rain drummed on the roof and slid down the windows; we were all silent. "Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a hollow, 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 answered gloomily, "your whole village is like that—thief upon thief." "Let me go," the peasant kept saying, "the bailiff... 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 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 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, even just her... she's the only one we have... let me go!" "I'm telling you, it's impossible. I'm also a man under orders: they'll make me answer for it. I can't coddle you either." "Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, as it really is... let me go!