来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
The evening warmth gave way to the dry warmth of midnight, and it would lie yet long as a soft canopy over the sleeping fields; much time remained before the first whispers, before the first rustlings and murmurs 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 vying in their twinkling, toward the Milky Way, and truly, watching them, you seemed to dimly feel the headlong, ceaseless rush of the earth itself... A strange, sharp, painful cry suddenly rang out twice in succession over the river and, after a few moments, repeated itself already farther off... Kostya shuddered. "What is that?" "That's a heron crying," Pavel calmly replied. "A heron," repeated Kostya... "And what was it, Pavlusha, that I heard yesterday evening," he added, after a brief silence, "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 our hazel grove, and then I went across the meadow—you know, where it comes out at the ravine bend—there's a deep pit there with spring water left from the flood, which doesn't dry up even in summer. You know, it's all overgrown with reeds; well, I went past this pit, brothers, and suddenly from that pit someone groaned, and so pitifully, pitifully: u-u... u-u... u-u! Such fear came over me, brothers: it was late, and the voice was so sickly. I felt I could have wept myself... What could that have been? eh?" "In that pit, the year before last, thieves drowned Akim the forester," remarked Pavel, "so perhaps his soul was lamenting." "Well, that's it then, brothers," replied Kostya, widening his already enormous eyes... "I didn't know that Akim was drowned in that pit: I would have been even more frightened." "But they say there are such tiny frogs," continued Pavel, "that cry so pitifully." "Frogs? Well, no, those weren't frogs... what kind of... (The heron cried out again over the river.) There it goes!" involuntarily exclaimed Kostya, "it sounds like a wood-spirit crying." "The wood-spirit doesn't cry, he's mute," picked up Ilyusha, "he only claps his hands and cracks..." "And have you seen him, the wood-spirit?" Fedya mockingly interrupted him. "No, I haven't seen him, and God preserve me from seeing him; but others have seen him. Just the other day he led one of our peasants astray: he led him, led him through the forest, and all around one clearing... He barely made it home by daylight." "Well, and did he see him?" "He saw him. They say he stands there, big, big, dark, muffled, sort of like behind a tree, you can't make him out properly, as if hiding from the moon, and he looks, looks with those eyes, blinks them, blinks them..." "Oh!" exclaimed Fedya, slightly shuddering and shaking his shoulders, "pfft!.." "And why has this filth bred in the world?" remarked Pavel. "I don't understand, truly!" "Don't curse, watch out, he'll hear," remarked Ilya. Silence fell again. "Look, look, boys," suddenly rang out Vanya's childish voice, "look at God's little stars—like bees swarming!" He thrust his fresh little face out from under the mat, propped himself on his fist, and slowly raised his large, quiet eyes upward. All the boys' eyes rose to the sky and didn't lower for some time. "Well, Vanya," Fedya spoke tenderly, "how is your sister Anyutka, is she well?" "She's well," answered Vanya, slightly lisping. "You tell her—why doesn't she come to 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 too." Vanya sighed. "Well, no, I don't need one. Give it to her instead: she's so kind, our one." 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. "Watch 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. Anything can happen: he'll bend down, start scooping water, and the water-spirit will grab him by the hand and drag him down. Then they'll say: the boy fell, they say, into the water... What kind of fell?.. Look, he's gone into the reeds," he added, listening. The reeds indeed were "rustling," as we say, parting. "And is it true," asked Kostya, "that Akulina the fool has been mad ever since she was in the water?" "Ever since then... What she's like now! But they say she used to be a beauty. The water-spirit ruined her. Evidently he didn't expect they'd pull her out so soon. So he ruined her there, at his place on 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 tramples for whole 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 animal in a cage. She understands nothing, whatever they say to her, and only occasionally laughs convulsively.) "And they say," continued Kostya, "that Akulina threw herself in the river because her sweetheart deceived her." "For that very reason." "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! i-ih, what a boy he was! And his mother, Feklista, how she loved him, that Vasya! And it was as if she sensed, that Feklista, that he would perish from water. Whenever Vasya went with us, with the boys, in summer to bathe in the river, she would be all in a flutter. Other women don't care, 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 bright one! 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 sang such a song—that's the one she sings, and she cries, cries, bitterly complains to God..." "And here comes Pavlusha," said Fedya. Pavel approached the fire with the full pot in his hand. "Well, boys," he began, after a pause, "this is bad business." "What?" Kostya asked hastily. "I heard Vasya's voice." They all started. "What do you mean, what?" stammered Kostya. "I swear. As soon as I bent down to the water, I suddenly hear someone calling me in Vasya's voice and as if from under the water: 'Pavlusha, oh Pavlusha!' I listen; and he calls again: 'Pavlusha, come here.' I stepped back. Still, I got the water." "Oh Lord! oh Lord!" said the boys, crossing themselves. "That was the water-spirit calling you, Pavel," added Fedya... "And we were just talking about him, about Vasya." "Oh, that's a bad omen," said Ilyusha deliberately. "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 evident 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 where, they say, there's no winter." "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 already passed since I had settled near the boys. The moon had finally risen; I didn't notice it at once: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night seemed to be just as magnificent as before... But already many stars that had recently stood high in the sky had inclined toward the dark edge of the earth; everything around had completely quieted, as everything usually quiets only toward morning: everything slept a sound, motionless, pre-dawn sleep. The air no longer smelled so strongly—dampness seemed to spread through it again... Short are the summer nights!.. The boys' conversation died out along with the fires... Even the dogs were dozing; the horses, as far as I could make out in the faintly glimmering, weakly flowing starlight, also lay with bowed heads... 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 flushing anywhere, but the east had already whitened. Everything became visible, though dimly visible, all around. The pale gray sky was brightening, growing cold, turning blue; the stars now blinked with weak light, now disappeared; the earth grew damp, the leaves became covered with dew, here and there living sounds, voices began to be heard, and a thin, early breeze was already wandering and fluttering over the earth. My body answered it with a light, cheerful trembling. I quickly got up and approached the boys. They all slept like the dead around the smoldering fire; only Pavel raised himself halfway and looked intently at me. I nodded to him and went on my way along the smoking river. Before I had gone two versts, all around me, across the wide wet meadow, and ahead, over the greening hills, from forest to forest, and behind, along the long dusty road, over the sparkling, crimsoned bushes, and over the river, bashfully turning blue from beneath the thinning mist—there poured first scarlet, then red, golden streams of young, hot light... Everything stirred, awoke, began to sing, make noise, speak. Everywhere large drops of dew sparkled like radiant diamonds; toward me, pure and clear, 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 in that same year Pavel was no more. He didn't drown: he was killed, falling from a horse. A pity, he was a fine lad!
Biryuk
(From the cycle "A Sportsman's Sketches")
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 ran 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 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 quickly thickened. I struck the reins on the horse, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry stream all 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, constantly crossing deep longitudinal ruts—traces of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. A strong wind suddenly roared on high, the trees raged, large drops of rain sharply drummed, splashed on the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I rode at a walk and soon was forced to stop: my horse was getting stuck, I couldn't see a thing. Somehow I sheltered by a wide bush. Hunched over and covering my face, I patiently awaited 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 have grown out of the ground beside my droshky. "Who's there?" asked a resonant voice. "And who are you yourself?" "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 and short thunderclap sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with doubled force. "It won't pass soon," the forester continued. "What to do!" "I'll take you to my hut, if you like," he said abruptly. "Please do." "Please stay seated." He approached the horse's head, took it by the bridle and pulled it from the spot. We started off. I held onto the cushion of the droshky, which rocked "like a boat on the sea," and called the dog. My poor mare heavily slapped her feet through the mud, 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, master," he said in a calm voice. A gate creaked, several puppies barked in unison. I raised my head and in the lightning flash 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!" rang out a thin voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, 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, smoky, low and empty, without sleeping loft 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 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, adjusting the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart ached: it's 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 pronounced 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, 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. 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 mighty muscles bulged prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under fused 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. "They call me 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 tales about the forester Biryuk, whom all the neighboring peasants feared like fire. According to their words, there had never been such a master of his craft 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 the head, and don't think of resisting—he's strong, they say, and deft 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 gathered to put him out of the world, 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 give no one quarter." "I do my duty," he answered glumly, "it's not right to eat the master's bread for nothing." He drew an axe from his belt, squatted on the floor and began splitting 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 tradesman," he said with a cruel smile. The girl lowered her eyes; the child woke and cried out; the girl approached the cradle. "Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting into her hand a soiled feeding horn. "She abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing to 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 but bread..." "I'm not hungry." "Well, as you wish. I would have 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 a second time. The hut seemed even more dismal than before. The bitter smell of cold 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 shirt; her bare feet 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 wish, 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 Kobyliy 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 crowded, lightning flashed occasionally; 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 bowed his head. "There... there," he suddenly said and extended his hand, "see what a night he's chosen." I heard nothing except the rustling of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "But like this I might," he added aloud, "miss him after all." "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 out. Let's go." We went: Biryuk ahead, I after him. God knows how he found the road, but he stopped only occasionally, and that to listen to the sound of the 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 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; there was barely any light 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 intently. Through the constant noise of the wind, faint sounds seemed to me nearby: an axe was cautiously tapping on branches, wheels were creaking, a horse was 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," repeated Biryuk, 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 struggling; he was holding the thief under him and twisting his hands behind his back with a belt. 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 cart wheels. The forester said not 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 he held the thief by the belt: "Well, turn around, crow!" he said sternly. "Pick up the 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. With difficulty we reached the hut. Biryuk threw the captured horse in the middle of the yard, led the peasant into the room, loosened the belt knot and sat him in the 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. "Eh, 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 sake," he continued, pointing to 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 all costs. He sat motionless on the bench. By the light of the lantern I could make out his worn, 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 was chirping 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, 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 replied glumly, "your whole settlement is like that—thief upon thief." "Let me go," the peasant repeated, "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, it's come to that." "But you still shouldn't go stealing." "The little horse," continued the peasant, "the little horse at least... it's my only living... let me go!" "I'm telling you, I can't. I'm also a man under orders: they'll make me answer. You can't be indulged either." "Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, it's really come to that... let me go!"