来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
chi!... The boys' conversation faded along with the fires... The dogs were even dozing; the horses, as far as I could make out in the faintly glimmering, weakly flowing starlight, also lay with heads lowered... Sweet oblivion came over me; it passed into slumber.
A fresh stream ran across my face. I opened my eyes: morning was beginning. Dawn had not yet flushed anywhere, but already the east was whitening. Everything became visible, though dimly visible, around me. The pale-gray sky was brightening, 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 began to be heard, voices, 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 rose briskly and approached the boys. They all slept like the dead around the smoldering fire; only Pavel raised himself halfway and looked at me intently.
I nodded to him and went on my way along the smoking river. I had not gone two versts when already pouring 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 blueing from beneath the thinning mist—poured first scarlet, then red, golden streams of young, hot light... Everything stirred, awoke, sang, rustled, spoke. Everywhere, like radiant diamonds, large drops of dew glowed red; 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 fine lad!
Biryuk
(From the cycle "Notes of a Hunter")
I was riding home 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 fall back a step from the rear wheels. A storm 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 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, splashed against the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I proceeded at a walk and soon was forced to stop: my horse was stuck, I could see nothing. I somehow took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and with my face covered, I was waiting patiently for 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 ground beside my droshky.
"Who is it?" asked a resonant voice.
"And who are you yourself?"
"I'm the local forester."
I named myself.
"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 cracking and short clap of thunder sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with redoubled force.
"It won't pass soon," the forester continued.
"What can be done!"
"I'll guide you to my hut, if you like," 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 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 while; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are at home, master," he pronounced in a calm voice. The gate creaked, several puppies barked in unison. I raised my head and by the light of lightning saw a small hut in the middle of a spacious yard, enclosed by a wattle fence. From one small window dimly shone a light. The forester led the horse to the porch and knocked on the door. "Coming, coming!" came 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, smoke-blackened, 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 near 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'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, bending 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 in stature, broad-shouldered and built magnificently. From under his wet canvas shirt his powerful muscles bulged convexly. 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.
"My name is Foma," he answered, "and by nickname Biryuk." {Biryuk is what they call in Oryol province a person who is solitary and morose. (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 neighboring peasants feared like fire. According to their words, there had never been such a master of his business in the world: "He won't let you carry off a bundle of brushwood; at whatever time it might be, even at the very midnight, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and don't think of resisting—he's strong, they say, and nimble 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 gathered to drive him from this world, 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 no one any slack."
"I do my duty," he answered glumly, "it's not right to eat the master's bread for nothing."
He took an axe from his belt, sat down on the floor and began to chop splinters.
"Don't you have a wife?" I asked him.
"No," he answered, swinging the axe vigorously.
"She died, I suppose?"
"No... yes... she died," he added and turned away.
I fell silent; he raised his eyes and looked at me.
"Ran off with a passing tradesman," he uttered 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 baby's horn. "She abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing to the child. He approached the door, stopped and turned around.
"You, I suppose, master," he began, "won't eat our bread, and I have nothing except bread..."
"I'm not hungry."
"Well, as you know. 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 melancholy to me than before. The bitter smell of stale smoke unpleasantly constricted my breathing. The girl did not move from her spot and did not raise her eyes; occasionally she pushed the cradle, timidly pulled onto her shoulder the slipping shift; 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 order it, I'll guide you out of the forest."
I stood up. Biryuk took the gun and examined the pan.
"What's that for?" I asked.
"They're playing tricks in the forest... At Kobylye Verkh {" Verkh" is what they call a ravine in Oryol province. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)} they're cutting down a tree," he added in response to my questioning look.
"Can you hear it from here?"
"From the yard you can hear it."
We went out together. The rain had stopped. In the distance heavy masses of clouds still crowded, lightning flashed from time to time; but above our heads could already be seen here and there dark-blue sky, little stars twinkled through the thin, swiftly 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 lowered his head. "There... there," he said suddenly 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 too." "I'll go with you... do you want?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up, "we'll catch him in a jiffy, and then I'll guide you. Let's go."
We set off: Biryuk ahead, I after him. God knows how he knew the road, but he stopped only occasionally, and that in order 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 glanced at me and nodded his head. We went further through wet fern and nettle. A dull and prolonged rumble sounded.
"He's felled it..." muttered Biryuk.
Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; it grew slightly lighter in the forest. We finally got out of the ravine. "Wait here," the forester whispered to me, bent down and, raising the gun upward, disappeared among the bushes. I began to listen with strain. 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 Biryuk's iron voice. Another voice cried out pitifully, like a hare... A struggle began. "You li-ie, you li-ie," 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 under him and was 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 piece of matting, stood there together with cart wheels. 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, crow!" he said sternly. "Pick up the axe," muttered the peasant. "Why should it be lost!" 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 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 fallen asleep by the stove, jumped up and with silent fright began to look at us. I sat on the bench.
"Look at it, how it's pouring," remarked the forester, "we'll have to wait it out. Would you like to lie down?"
"Thank you."
"I would lock him in the closet, for your kindness," 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 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 knocked on the roof and slid down the windows; we all were silent.
"Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull and 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," the forester gloomily retorted, "your whole settlement is like that—thief upon thief."
"Let me go," repeated the peasant, "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 twitched, as if fever shook him. He shook his head and breathed unevenly.
"Let me go," he repeated with melancholy 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, things have come to."
"But you still shouldn't go stealing."
"The little horse," continued the peasant, "the little horse, at least let her go... she's the only living thing there is... let me go!"
"I'm telling you, it's impossible. I'm also a man under orders: they'll make me answer. You shouldn't be indulged either."
"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, as sure as can be... let me go!