来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
by the 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 all around me on the wide wet meadow, and ahead on the greening hills from forest to forest, and behind on the long dusty road, on the sparkling, crimsoned bushes, and on the river bashfully turning blue from beneath the thinning mist—there poured first crimson, then red, then golden streams of young, hot light... 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 add, unfortunately, that Pavel died that same year. He did not drown: he was killed falling from a horse. A pity—he was a fine lad!
Byryuk
(From the cycle "Notes of a Hunter")
I was driving 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 lag a step behind the rear wheels. A storm was approaching. Ahead, a huge purple cloud slowly rose from behind the forest; above me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The sultry heat suddenly gave way to damp cold; shadows rapidly thickened. I struck the reins on the horse, 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 intersecting 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 drummed, slapped on the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I went at a walk and soon was 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, in a 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 is it?" asked a resonant voice. "And who are you yourself?" "I am the local forester." I gave my name. "Ah, I know! You are 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 rang out immediately after it. The rain gushed with redoubled force. "It won't pass soon," continued the forester. "What to do!" "I will, if you like, lead you to my hut," he said abruptly. "Do me the favor." "Please be seated." He approached the horse's head, took it by the bridle and pulled it from its place. We set off. I held onto the cushion of the droshky, which swayed "like a boat at sea," and called the dog. My poor mare heavily slapped her feet through the mud, slid, stumbled; the forester swayed before the shafts left and right, like a ghost. We rode for quite a while; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are home, master," he said in a calm voice. The 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 enclosed by a wattle fence. From one small window a light dimly shone. The forester led the horse to the porch and knocked on the door. "Right away, right away!" rang out a thin voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, in a shift, belted with a string, 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 a 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 burned on the table, sadly flaring and dying. 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 to rock the cradle with her right hand, straighten the splinter with her left. 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 quickly. "Are you alone here?" I asked the girl. "Alone," she said barely audibly. "You are 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 lamp. "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 mighty muscles protruded convexly. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under his thick grown-together eyebrows small brown 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 Byryuk" (In Oryol province, a man who is solitary and sullen is called Byryuk. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)). "Ah, you are Byryuk?" I looked at him with redoubled curiosity. From my Yermolai and from others I had often heard stories about the forester Byryuk, whom all the neighboring peasants feared like fire. According to them, there had never been in the world such a master of his business: "He won't let you steal a bundle of brushwood; at whatever time, even at midnight itself, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and don't think of resisting—he's strong, they say, and clever as the devil... And there's no way to get him: neither with vodka nor money; he won't take any bait. More than once good people have tried to get rid of him, but no—he doesn't give himself up." This is how the neighboring peasants spoke of Byryuk. "So you are Byryuk," I repeated, "I, brother, have heard about you. They say you give no one quarter." "I do my duty," he answered gloomily, "it's not proper to 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 lowered her head; the child woke and cried; the girl approached the cradle. "Here, give him this," said Byryuk, thrusting into her hand a stained feeding horn. "She abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing at 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 but bread..." "I'm not hungry." "Well, as you wish. I would 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 more dismal to me than before. The bitter smell of cold 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 shift; her bare feet hung motionless. "What is 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 will see you out of the forest." I stood up. Byryuk took the gun and examined the pan. "What's that for?" I asked. "They're making mischief in the forest... At Kobyliy Verkh" ("Verkh" is the name for a ravine in Oryol province. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)) "they're cutting a tree," he added in response to my questioning glance. "Can you really 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 occasionally flared; but above our heads 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 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 rustle of leaves. Byryuk 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 flash, and then I'll see you out. Let's go." We set off: Byryuk in front, I behind 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?" Byryuk shrugged his shoulders. We descended into a ravine, the wind died down for a moment—measured blows clearly reached my hearing. Byryuk glanced at me and nodded his head. We went further through wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble rang out. "He's felled it..." muttered Byryuk. Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; the forest grew slightly lighter. 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 fancied weak sounds nearby: an axe cautiously knocking on branches, wheels creaking, a horse snorting... "Where are you going? Stop!" suddenly thundered Byryuk's iron voice. Another voice cried pitifully, like a hare... A struggle began. "You're ly-ing, ly-ing," Byryuk repeated, panting, "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 held the thief under him and was twisting his hands behind his back with a sash. I approached. Byryuk 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 mat, stood right there together with the cart undercarriage. The forester said not a word; the peasant also was silent and only shook his head. "Let him go," I whispered in Byryuk's ear, "I'll pay for the tree." Byryuk 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. Byryuk 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 by the stove, jumped up and with silent fright began to stare at us. I sat on the bench. "Look at it, 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 kindness, 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 Byryuk. The peasant glanced at me from under his brows. I inwardly gave myself my word to free the poor man at all costs. 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 right at his feet and fell asleep again. Byryuk sat by the table, leaning his head on his hands. A cricket cried 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." Byryuk did not answer. "Let me go... from hunger... let me go." "I know you," the forester answered gloomily, "your whole settlement is like that—thief upon thief." "Let me go," the peasant repeated, "the steward... 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." Byryuk turned away. The peasant twitched, as if fever shook 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, 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 my only living... let me go!" "I say it's impossible. I'm also a man under orders: they'll demand from me. There's no reason to spoil you either." "Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, that's just how it is... let me go!"