来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
crackles and snaps..." "And have you seen him, the wood goblin, or what?" Fedya interrupted mockingly. "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: led him round and round the forest, all around the same clearing... The poor fellow barely made it home by daylight." "Well, and did he see him?" "He saw him. Says he was standing there, big, big, dark, wrapped up, as if behind a tree, you couldn't make him out properly, as if hiding from the moon, and staring, staring with those huge eyes of his, blinking them, blinking..." "Ugh!" exclaimed Fedya, shuddering slightly and hunching his shoulders, "pfft!.." "And why has this filth bred in the world?" remarked Pavel. "I don't understand, really!" "Don't curse, watch out, he'll hear you," remarked Ilya. Silence fell again. "Look there, look there, boys," suddenly rang out the childish voice of Vanya, "look at God's little stars—like bees swarming!" He stuck his fresh little face out from under the matting, leaned on his fist, and slowly raised his large, quiet eyes upward. The eyes of all the boys rose to the sky and did not lower for some time. "Well, Vanya," Fedya began tenderly, "how is your sister Anyutka, is she well?" "She's well," answered Vanya, slightly lisping. "Tell her—why doesn't she come to see us?.." "I don't know." "Tell her she should come." "I'll tell her." "Tell her I'll give her a treat." "And will you give me one?" "I'll give you one too." Vanya sighed. "Well, no, I don't need one. Better give it to her: she's so kind, our girl." And Vanya again laid his head on the ground. Pavel stood up and took the empty pot in his hand. "Where are you going?" Fedya asked him. "To the river, to fetch some water: I want to drink some water." The dogs rose and followed him. "Watch you don't fall in the river!" Ilyusha called after him. "Why should he fall in?" said Fedya, "he'll be careful." "Yes, he'll be careful. But anything can happen: he'll bend down, start scooping water, and the water spirit will grab him by the hand and drag him down to his place. Then they'll say: the boy fell, they say, into the water... What kind of fell?.. Look there, he's gone into the reeds," he added, listening. The reeds indeed were rustling, parting, as we say. "Is it true," asked Kostya, "that Akulina the fool went mad after she was in the water?" "Since then... What she's like now! But they say she was a beauty before. The water spirit spoiled her. Must be he didn't expect them to pull her out so soon. So he, there at the bottom, spoiled her." (I myself had encountered this Akulina more than once. Covered in rags, terribly thin, with a face black as coal, a clouded gaze and eternally bared teeth, she would stamp for hours in one spot, 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 understood nothing, whatever anyone said to her, and only occasionally laughed convulsively.) "And they say," continued Kostya, "that Akulina threw herself in the river because her lover deceived her." "That's why." "And do you remember Vasya?" Kostya added sadly. "Which Vasya?" asked Fedya. "The one who drowned," answered Kostya, "in this very river. Oh, what a boy he was! What a boy he was! And his mother, Feklista, how she loved him, her Vasya! And it was as if she sensed, Feklista did, that he would perish from water. Whenever Vasya would go with us boys in summer to bathe in the river—she would get all flustered. Other women don't care, they walk past with their washtubs, waddling along, but Feklista would put her tub on the ground and start calling to him: 'Come back, come back, my light! oh come back, my falcon!' And how he drowned, the Lord only knows. He was playing on the bank, and his mother was right there, raking hay; suddenly she hears, as if someone were blowing bubbles in the water—she looks, and only Vasya's cap is floating on the water. Well, since then Feklista hasn't been in her right mind: she'll come and lie down in the place where he drowned; she'll lie down, my friends, and start up a song—remember, Vasya always used to sing that song—so she starts it up, and cries, cries, complains bitterly to God..." "Here comes Pavlusha," said Fedya. Pavel approached the fire with the full pot in his hand. "Well, boys," he began after a pause, "something's wrong." "What?" Kostya asked hastily. "I heard Vasya's voice." Everyone started. "What are you saying, what are you saying?" stammered Kostya. "I swear to God. Just 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 moved away. But I did scoop up some water." "Oh Lord! oh Lord!" said the boys, crossing themselves. "It was the water spirit calling you, Pavel," added Fedya... "And we were just talking about him, about Vasya." "Ah, that's a bad sign," 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 to settle 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 is 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 passed since I had joined the boys. The moon had finally risen; I didn't notice it at first: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night seemed still 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 in a deep, 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, were also lying down, heads lowered... A sweet oblivion came over me; it passed into drowsiness. A fresh stream ran across my face. I opened my eyes: morning was beginning. Dawn was not yet reddening anywhere, but the east was already whitening. Everything became visible, though dimly visible, all around. The pale-gray sky was brightening, growing cold, turning blue; the stars now blinked with feeble 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 answered it with a light, cheerful tremor. I quickly got up and went to the boys. They were all sleeping 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. I had not walked two versts when already there poured 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 fog—first scarlet, then red, golden streams of young, hot light poured out... Everything stirred, awoke, sang, rustled, spoke. Everywhere, like radiant diamonds, large drops of dew reddened; 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 regretfully add that Pavel did not survive that year. He did not drown: he was killed, falling from a horse. A pity, he was a splendid lad!
Biryuk
(From the cycle "A Sportsman's Sketches")
I was returning from hunting one evening alone, in a racing droshky. It was 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, did not lag a step behind the rear wheels. A thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, a huge purple cloud was slowly rising from beyond the forest; above me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The stifling 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 century-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 clattered, slapped against the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I went at a walk and was soon forced to stop: my horse was getting stuck, I could not 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 the 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 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! Are you going home?" "Home. But you see what a storm..." "Yes, a storm," the voice answered. White lightning illuminated the forester from head to toe; a crackling and short clap of thunder sounded immediately after it. The rain poured with doubled force. "It won't pass soon," the forester continued. "What can one do!" "I can, if you like, lead you to my hut," 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 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 through the mud with her feet, slipped, stumbled; the forester swayed before the shafts to the right and left, like a ghost. We rode for quite a while; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are at home, 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. From one small window a light glimmered dimly. 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 of about twelve, in a shift, belted with a strip of cloth, with a lantern in her hand, appeared on the threshold. "Give the master some light," 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, sooty, 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 heap of rags; two large pots stood by the stove. A splinter burned on the table, sadly flaring up and going out. 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 with her right hand to rock the cradle, with her left to adjust the splinter. 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 alone here?" I asked the girl. "Alone," she uttered 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 magnificently 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 grown-together broad eyebrows boldly gazed 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 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; whatever the hour, even at deepest midnight, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and don't think of resisting—strong, they say, and cunning as a devil... And there's no way to get him: neither with vodka nor money; he won't go for any bait. More than once good people have tried to rid the world of him, but no—he won't let them." 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 grimly, "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. "Have you no 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 and cried out; the girl went to 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 went to the door, stopped and turned around. "You, I suppose, master," 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 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 came in and sat on the bench. "The storm is passing," he remarked after a brief silence, "if you order it, I'll see you through 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 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, lightning occasionally flashed; but overhead 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 stretched out his hand, "see what a night he's chosen." I heard nothing except the noise 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 no time, and then I'll see you off. Let's go." We went: Biryuk ahead, I after him. God knows how he found the road, but he stopped only occasionally, and then only to listen to 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 ear. Biryuk glanced at me and nodded his head. We went on through wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble sounded. "Brought it down..." muttered Biryuk. Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; there was a faint 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 I seemed to hear faint sounds nearby: an axe cautiously tapping on branches, wheels creaking, a horse snorting... "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 arrived, stumbling at every step, at the scene of battle. By the felled tree, on the ground, the forester was struggling; he was holding the thief beneath 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 piece of matting, stood there together with the 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, you crow!" he said sternly. "Pick up the axe there," muttered the peasant. "No use letting it go to waste!" said the forester and picked up the axe. We set off. I walked behind... The rain began to sprinkle again and soon poured in streams. With difficulty we got to the hut. 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 with silent fright began to stare at us. I sat on the bench. "Look at that, 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 haggard, 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, leaning his head on his hands. A cricket chirped in the corner... rain tapped on the roof and slid down the windows; we all were silent. "Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull, broken voice, "eh, Foma Kuzmich." "What do you want?" "Let me go." Biryuk did not answer. "Let me go... from hunger... let me go." "I know you people," the forester grimly retorted, "your whole settlement is the same—thief upon thief." "Let me go," the peasant repeated, "the bailiff... we're ruined, that's how it is... let me go!" "Ruined!.. Nobody 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 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 you still shouldn't go stealing." "The little horse," the peasant continued, "the little horse at least... it's the only living thing I have... let it go!" "I say no. I'm also a man under orders: they'll hold me accountable. You can't be indulged either." "Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, just so... let me go!