来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
"Pavlusha, hey Pavlusha!" I listen; and he calls again: "Pavlusha, come here." I moved away. However, I did scoop up some water. "Oh Lord! Oh Lord!" the boys said, 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!" Pavel said resolutely and sat down again. "You can't escape your fate." The boys grew quiet. 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 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 finally rose; 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 that had recently stood high in the sky had inclined toward the dark edge of the earth; everything around had grown completely quiet, as everything usually grows quiet only toward morning: all slept a deep, motionless, predawn sleep. The air no longer smelled so strong—dampness seemed to spread through it again... Short are the summer nights!.. 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 starlight, also lay with their 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. The dawn was not yet red anywhere, but the east had already grown white. Everything became visible, though dimly visible, all around. The pale gray sky grew lighter, colder, bluer; the stars now flickered with faint light, now disappeared; the earth grew damp, the leaves were 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 shiver. I quickly got up and approached 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 before streams of light were already pouring all around me across the wide wet meadow, and ahead across the greening hills, from forest to forest, and behind along the long dusty road, across the sparkling, crimsoned bushes, and across the river, shyly 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 glowed 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, unfortunately, add that Pavel died that same year. He did not drown: he was killed, falling from a horse. A pity, he was a fine lad!
Biryuk
(From the cycle "Notes of a Hunter")
I was riding home from hunting in the 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, did not lag a step behind the rear wheels. A thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, a huge 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 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 bed 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 advanced with difficulty. The droshky bounced over the hard roots of century-old oaks and lindens that constantly crossed 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 splashed on 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. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and wrapping 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 grow out of the ground beside my droshky. "Who's there?" asked a resonant voice. "And who are you?" "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 thunder clap immediately followed 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. "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 started moving. I held onto the cushion of the droshky, which rocked "like a boat in 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 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 in the light of lightning saw a small hut in the middle of a spacious yard surrounded 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 little voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl about twelve years old, in a little shirt, belted with a strip of cloth, with a lantern in her hand, appeared on the threshold. "Light the way for the gentleman," he told 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 platforms 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 near the stove. A splinter burned on the table, sadly flaring up and dying down. 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 to rock the cradle with her right hand, adjusting the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart ached within me: it's not cheerful to enter a peasant's hut at night. The child in the cradle was breathing heavily and quickly. "Are you alone here?" 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 canvas shirt his powerful muscles protruded prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under thick, grown-together 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. "My name is 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 doubled 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: "He won't let you drag away a bundle of brushwood; at whatever time, even at midnight itself, he'll descend like snow on your head, and you mustn't think of resisting—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 tried to get rid of him, but no—he doesn't give in." That's how the neighboring peasants spoke of Biryuk. "So you're Biryuk," I repeated. "I, brother, have heard about you. They say you give no one any mercy." "I do my duty," he answered gloomily. "One can't 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 forcefully. "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 hung her head; the child woke up and cried; the girl approached the cradle. "Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting into her hand a soiled feeding horn. "She even abandoned him," he continued in an undertone, pointing to the child. He approached 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 would have set up 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 sadder to me 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 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 short silence. "If you order, I'll see you out of the forest." I got up. Biryuk took the gun and examined the pan. "What's that for?" I asked. "They're marauding in the forest... At Kobyly Verkh they're cutting down a tree," he added in response to my questioning look. "Can you really hear it from here?" "I 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 the 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 agitated by the wind, began to emerge from the darkness. We started listening. 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. "And 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 a flash, and then I'll see you out. Let's go." We went: Biryuk in front, I behind him. God knows how he found the road, but he stopped only occasionally, and that 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 looked at me and shook 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 glimmer 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 intensity. Through the constant noise of the wind I seemed to hear weak sounds nearby: an axe cautiously tapping on branches, wheels creaking, a horse 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, you're 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 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 little horse, half covered with an angular bast 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 little axe," 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 the corner. The girl, who had fallen asleep near the stove, jumped up and with silent fright began to stare at us. I sat down on the bench. "Look how it's pouring," the forester remarked. "We'll have to wait it out. Would you like to 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 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. In 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 were all silent. "Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull and broken voice. "Eh, 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 gloomily retorted. "Your whole village 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 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 despondent 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," the peasant continued, "the little horse at least, at least her... she's the only living thing there is... let me go!" "I'm telling you, I can't. I'm also a man under orders: they'll make me pay. You can't be spoiled either." "Let me go! It's need, Foma Kuzmich, need, really and truly... let me go!"