来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
and spoke, and only occasionally convulsed with laughter.) "And they say," Kostya continued, "that Akulina threw herself into the river because her lover deceived her." "That's exactly 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 premonition, that Feklista, that he would perish from water. When Vasya would go with us boys in summer to bathe in the river, she would be all atremble. The other women would think nothing of it, walking past with their washtubs, waddling along, but Feklista would set her washtub on the ground and start calling to him: 'Come back,' she'd say, 'come back, my bright one! 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 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, my brothers, and strike up a song—remember, Vasya used to sing such a song—so she'll strike it up, and herself crying, crying, bitterly complaining to God..." "And here comes Pavlusha," said Fedya. Pavel approached the fire with a full pot in his hand. "Well, boys," he began after a pause, "something's not right." "What is it?" asked Kostya hurriedly. "I heard Vasya's voice." Everyone started. "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 as if from under the water: 'Pavlusha, oh Pavlusha!' I listen; and he calls again: 'Pavlusha, come here.' I went away. But I did scoop up some 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 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 to settle down before the fire, as if preparing to sleep. "What's that?" asked Kostya suddenly, 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 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 at first: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night seemed just as magnificent as before... But already many stars, which had recently stood high in the sky, were inclining 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 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 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. The dawn was not yet flushing anywhere, but it was already turning white in the east. Everything became visible, though dimly visible, all around. The pale gray sky was growing lighter, colder, bluer; the stars now blinked with feeble light, now disappeared; the earth grew damp, the leaves sweated, here and there living sounds began to be heard, voices, and a thin, early breeze had already started wandering and fluttering over the earth. My body answered 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 raised himself halfway and gazed intently at me. I nodded to him and went on my way along the smoking river. I had not gone two versts when already pouring all around me, over 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—first scarlet, then red, golden streams of young, hot light poured forth... Everything stirred, awoke, sang, rustled, spoke. 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 regretfully add that in that same year Pavel was no more. 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 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 flicking her ears; the tired dog, as if tied, did not lag a single step behind the rear wheels. A thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, a huge purple cloud was slowly rising from behind the forest; over me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The sultry heat was suddenly replaced by damp cold; shadows quickly thickened. I struck the mare with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed over 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 advanced with difficulty. The droshky bounced 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 in the heights, the trees raged, large drops of rain sharply knocked and slapped 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 stuck, I could not see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and covering my face, I waited patiently for the end of the bad weather, when suddenly, by 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 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! 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 foot; a crackling and short thunderclap sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with redoubled force. "It won't pass soon," continued the forester. "What can I do!" "I'll lead you to my hut, if you like," 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 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 ghost. 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 surrounded by a wattle fence. From one small window a light shone dimly. The forester led the horse to the porch and knocked on the door. "Coming, coming!" a thin little voice rang out, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, in a shirt, belted with a strip of cloth, 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, 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 was piled a heap of rags; two large pots stood by the stove. A splinter 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 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 breathed heavily and rapidly. "Are you alone here?" I asked the girl. "Alone," she uttered barely audibly. "Are you the forester's daughter?" "The forester's," she whispered. The door creaked, and the forester stepped over the threshold, bowing his head. He picked up the lantern from the floor, went to 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 bulged prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under his grown-together wide eyebrows small brown eyes gazed boldly. He lightly placed 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 a solitary and sullen person in Oryol province. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)] "Ah, you're Biryuk?" I looked at him with redoubled curiosity. From my Yermolai 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 steal a bundle of brushwood; at whatever time it may be, even at midnight itself, he'll swoop down like snow on the head, and don't think of resisting—strong, they say, and agile as a devil... And there's no way to get to him: neither with vodka, nor with money; he won't take any bait. More than once good people have gathered to do away with 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 give nobody any quarter." "I do my duty," he answered sullenly. "It's not proper to eat the master's bread for nothing." He took an axe from his belt, sat on the floor and began chopping splinters. "Don't you have a wife?" I asked him. "No," he answered and swung the axe powerfully. "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 pronounced 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 soiled feeding 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. "I suppose, sir," he began, "you 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 again. 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; from time to time she pushed the cradle, timidly pulling 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 short silence. "If you command it, I'll lead you out of the forest." I stood 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 Kobylye Verkh." ["Verkh" is what they call a ravine in Oryol province. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)] 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, long lightning flashes still flared from time to time; but overhead here and there the dark blue sky was already visible, little stars twinkled through the thin, rapidly flying clouds. The outlines of trees, sprinkled with rain and agitated 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 said suddenly and extended his hand. "See what a night he's chosen." I heard nothing except the noise of the 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... would you like?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up. "We'll catch him in a jiffy, and then I'll lead you out. Let's go." We set off: Biryuk ahead, I behind him. God knows how he found the road, 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 the 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 the wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble sounded. "Felled it..." muttered Biryuk. Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; there was a faint lightening 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 with tension. Through the constant noise of the wind, faint sounds seemed to me nearby: an axe cautiously knocked against branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted... "Where to? Stop!" suddenly thundered the iron voice of Biryuk. 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 arrived, stumbling at every step, at the place of battle. By the felled tree, on the ground, the forester was struggling; he held the thief beneath him and was twisting his hands behind his back with a sash. 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 nag, half-covered with an angular piece of matting, 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. "Pick up the little axe," muttered the peasant. "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 captured nag into 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 looking at us with silent fright. I sat on the bench. "Ech, 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 honor's sake," 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, resting 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. "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 like that—thief upon thief." "Let me go," the peasant repeated. "The steward... we're ruined, that's what... 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 what." 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 what, by God. By God, from hunger... the little ones are squealing, you know yourself. It's hard, that's what, it's hard." "But you still shouldn't go stealing." "The little horse," continued the peasant, "the little horse at least, at least her... she's the only living thing we have... let me go!" "I'm telling you, I can't. I'm also a man under orders: they'll exact it from me. You shouldn't be indulged either." "Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, really that's what... let me go!"