来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
it would be better for her: she's so kind, you know. And Vanya again laid his head on the ground. Pavel got 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?" said Fedya. "He'll be careful." "Yes, he'll be careful. But all sorts of things happen: he'll bend down, you see, start drawing water, and the water-spirit will grab him by the hand and drag him down. Then they'll say: the boy fell into the water, they'll say... What do you mean fell?.. Look, he's gone into the rushes," he added, listening. The rushes were indeed "rustling," as we say, parting. "Is it true," asked Kostya, "that Akulina the fool has been out of her mind ever since she was in the water?" "Ever since then... What she is now! But they say she used to be a beauty. The water-spirit ruined her. He didn't expect, you see, that they'd pull her out so soon. So he, down there at the bottom, ruined her." (I myself had met this Akulina more than once. Covered in rags, terribly thin, with a face black as coal, dimmed gaze and eternally bared teeth, she tramples 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 understands nothing, whatever they say to her, and only occasionally laughs convulsively.) "And they say," Kostya continued, "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. "Why, the one who drowned," answered Kostya, "in this very river. What a boy he was! Oh, what a boy he was! And his mother, Feklista, how she loved him, that Vasya! And it was as if she had a foreboding, Feklista did, that he would perish from water. Whenever Vasya would go with us, with the boys, in summer to bathe in the river—she'd be all aflutter. Other women don't care, they walk by with their tubs, waddling along, but Feklista would set her tub on the ground and start calling to him: 'Come back,' she'd say, 'come back, my bright one! Oh, come back, my falcon!' And then he drowned. The Lord knows how. 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. You see, from that time on 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 brothers, and start singing a song—you remember, Vasya used to sing just such a song—so she sings it, and cries, cries, complaining bitterly to God..." "Here comes Pavlusha," said Fedya. Pavel approached the fire with the full pot in his hand. "Well, lads," he began, after a pause, "something's not right." "What?" asked Kostya hastily. "I heard Vasya's voice." They all shuddered. "What do you mean, what do you mean?" 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 listened; and he calls again: 'Pavlusha, come here.' I went away. But I did fetch 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." "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 clear 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, lifting 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 passed since I joined the boys. The moon had risen at last; I didn't notice it at once: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night seemed just as magnificent as before... But already many stars, still recently standing 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: all slept a sound, motionless, pre-dawn sleep. The air no longer smelled so strong—dampness seemed to spread through it again... Short are the summer nights!.. The boys' conversation died down together with the fires... Even the dogs dozed; the horses, as far as I could make out in the faintly glimmering, weakly flowing starlight, also lay with lowered heads... Sweet oblivion came over me; it passed into drowsiness. A fresh stream ran across my face. I opened my eyes: morning was beginning. Dawn had not yet flushed anywhere, but already whiteness showed in the east. Everything became visible, though dimly visible, all around. The pale gray sky was lightening, growing cold, turning blue; the stars now flickered 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 had already started to wander and flutter 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 river, which was beginning to smoke. I had not gone two versts when 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 under the thinning mist—there poured first scarlet, then red, golden streams of young, hot light... Everything stirred, awoke, began to sing, rustle, speak. Everywhere large drops of dew blazed 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, with regret, add that Pavel died that same 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 riding home from hunting alone one evening, 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 an enormous purple cloud was slowly rising from behind the forest; above me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The oppressive heat suddenly gave way to damp cold; shadows thickened rapidly. 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 dense hazel bushes, already flooded with darkness; I moved forward with difficulty. The droshky jumped over the hard roots of century-old oaks and lindens, constantly intersecting the deep longitudinal ruts—traces of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. A strong wind suddenly roared on high, the trees became turbulent, large drops of rain sharply knocked, slapped against the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I rode at a walk and was soon forced to stop: my horse was getting stuck, I couldn't see a thing. I somehow took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and covering my face, I was patiently awaiting the end of the bad weather, when suddenly, in a flash 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 have grown out of the ground beside my droshky. "Who's that?" 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 clap of thunder sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed 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. "Please do." "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 rocked "like a boat at 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 phantom. We rode for quite a long time; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are at home, sir," he said in a calm voice. A gate creaked, several puppies barked in unison. I raised my head and by the light of the lightning 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. "Right away, right away!" rang out a thin little voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, a bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, in a shirt, 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, sooty, 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, 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 put out 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's not cheerful to enter a peasant's hut at night. The child in the cradle was breathing heavily and quickly. "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 lifted the lantern from the floor, went to the table and lit the candle. "I suppose you're not used to splinters?" he said and shook his curls. I looked at him. Rarely had I had occasion to see such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and magnificently built. From under his wet hempen shirt his mighty muscles protruded prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under his grown-together broad eyebrows small hazel eyes looked boldly. 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." (Biryuk is what they call in Oryol province a man who is solitary and sullen. [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 surrounding 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 you think of resisting—he's strong, they say, and cunning as the devil... And there's no way to get him: neither with vodka, nor with money; he doesn't go for any bait. More than once good people have tried to do away with him, but no—he doesn't give in." This is how the neighboring peasants spoke of Biryuk. "So you're Biryuk," I repeated. "Brother, I've heard about you. They say you give no one any quarter." "I do my duty," he answered glumly. "One mustn't eat the master's bread for nothing." He took an axe from his belt, squatted on the floor and began to chop 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 and cried; the girl went to the cradle. "Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a stained horn into her hand. "And she abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing to the child. He went to 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'd 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 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 came in and sat on the bench. "The storm is passing," he remarked after a brief silence. "If you wish, I'll lead you out of the forest." I got up. Biryuk took his gun and examined the pan. "What's that for?" I asked. "There's mischief in the forest... They're cutting a tree at Kobyly Verkh," he added in response to my questioning look. ("Verkh" is what they call a ravine in Oryol province. [Note by I.S. Turgenev.]) "Can you really hear it from here?" "It can be heard from the yard." We went out together. The rain had stopped. Heavy masses of clouds still crowded in the distance, long flashes of lightning still flared occasionally; but overhead 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 bowed his head. "There... there," he suddenly said and extended his hand, "see what a night he chose." 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... shall I?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up. "We'll catch him in a jiffy, and then I'll see you off. Let's go." We set off: Biryuk ahead, I after him. God knows how he knew 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 ear. 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; there was a faint light 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 intently. Through the constant noise of the wind I fancied weak sounds nearby: an axe cautiously knocked on branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted... "Where are you going? Stop!" suddenly thundered Biryuk's iron voice. Another voice cried out pitifully, like a hare... A struggle began. "You're lying, you're lying," 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 bustling; he was holding the thief under him and 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 rags, with a long disheveled beard. A wretched little horse, half covered with an angular bast mat, stood there together with the cart frame. The forester did not say 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. "Take 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 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 sash and sat him in a corner. The girl, who had been asleep by the stove, jumped up and began to look at us with silent fear. I sat on the bench. "Oh my, how it's pouring," remarked the forester. "We'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 to 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 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, leaning his head on his hands. A cricket chirped in the corner... the rain drummed on the roof and slid down the windows; we were all 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 people," the forester answered glumly. "Your whole settlement is the same—thief upon thief." "Let me go," repeated the peasant. "The bailiff... we're ruined, that's what... 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 what." Biryuk turned away. The peasant twitched as if fever was shaking him. He shook his head and breathed unevenly. "Let me go," he repeated with sad despair. "Let me go, by God, let me go! I'll pay, that's what, by God. By God, from hunger... the little ones are squealing, you know yourself. It's hard, that's what, it is." "But you still shouldn't go stealing." "The little horse," the peasant continued, "the little horse at least... it's my only means of living... 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 indulging you either." "Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, it's just that... let me go!"