来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
The evening warmth gave way to dry midnight heat, and it was to lie long yet as a soft canopy over the sleeping fields; much time remained until the first murmuring, the first rustlings and whispers of morning, until the first dewdrops of dawn. There was no moon in the sky: it rose late at that time. Countless golden stars seemed to flow quietly, all twinkling in rivalry, in the direction of the Milky Way, and truly, looking at them, you seemed to feel dimly yourself the swift, ceaseless running of the earth...
A strange, sharp, painful cry rang out suddenly twice in succession over the river and, after a few moments, repeated itself farther off...
Kostya started. "What's that?"
"It's a heron crying," Pavel answered calmly.
"A heron," repeated Kostya... "But what was it, Pavlusha, that I heard yesterday evening," he added after a brief pause, "you might know..."
"What did you hear?"
"Well, this is what I heard. I was walking from Kamennaya Gryada to Shashkino; first I went through our hazel grove, then along the meadow—you know, where it comes out at the steep bend—there's a deep pool there; you know, it's all overgrown with reeds; well, I was walking past this pool, brothers, when suddenly from that very pool someone began to moan, so pitifully, pitifully: oo-oo... oo-oo... oo-oo! Such fear seized me, brothers: it was late, and the voice was so sickly. I felt like crying myself... What could it have been? eh?"
"In that pool thieves drowned Akim the forester two years ago," remarked Pavel, "so perhaps it's his soul complaining."
"Well, that may be it, brothers," answered Kostya, widening his already enormous eyes... "I didn't know that Akim was drowned in that pool: I would have been even more frightened."
"But they say there are such tiny frogs," continued Pavel, "that cry so pitifully."
"Frogs? Well, no, that wasn't frogs... what kind of..." (The heron cried out again over the river.) "Ugh!" involuntarily exclaimed Kostya, "it's like a wood-goblin crying."
"The wood-goblin doesn't cry, he's mute," picked up Ilyusha, "he only claps his hands and rattles..."
"And have you seen him, the wood-goblin?" mockingly interrupted Fedya.
"No, I haven't seen him, and God preserve me from seeing him; but others have seen him. Just the other day he led one of our peasants astray: led him round and round the forest, all around one clearing... He barely made it home by daylight."
"Well, and did he see him?"
"He saw him. Says he stood there big, big, dark, wrapped up, sort of like behind a tree, you can't make him out properly, like hiding from the moon, and stares, stares with those huge eyes, blinking them, blinking..."
"Oh!" exclaimed Fedya, shuddering slightly and twitching his shoulders, "pfah!.."
"And why does such filth breed in the world?" remarked Pavel. "Really, I don't understand!"
"Don't curse, watch out, he'll hear," remarked Ilya.
Silence fell again.
"Look, look, boys," suddenly rang out Vanya's childish voice, "look at God's little stars—swarming like bees!"
He stuck out his fresh little face from under the matting, propped himself on his fist, and slowly raised his large, quiet eyes upward. All the boys' eyes lifted to the sky and did not lower soon.
"Well, Vanya," Fedya began affectionately, "how is your sister Anyutka, is she well?"
"Well," answered Vanya with a slight lisp.
"Tell her—why doesn't she come to see us?..."
"I don't know."
"Tell her she should come."
"I'll tell her."
"Tell her I'll give her a present."
"And will you give me one?"
"I'll give you one too."
Vanya sighed.
"Well, no, I don't need one. Give it to her instead: she's so kind, our sister."
And Vanya laid his head on the ground again. Pavel stood up and took the empty pot in his hand.
"Where are you going?" Fedya asked him.
"To the river, to get some water: I want a drink."
The dogs got up 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 anything can happen: he'll lean over, start scooping water, and the water-spirit will grab him by the hand and drag him down. Then they'll say: the boy fell, they say, into the water... But what kind of falling is that?.. There, he's climbed into the reeds," he added, listening.
The reeds were indeed "rustling" as they parted, as we say.
"Is it true," asked Kostya, "that Akulina the fool has been mad ever since she was in the water?"
"Ever since... Look at her now! But they say she used to be a beauty. The water-spirit ruined her. Must be he didn't expect them to pull her out so soon. So he ruined her, there at the bottom."
(I myself have met this Akulina more than once. Covered in rags, terribly thin, with a face black as coal, clouded gaze and eternally bared teeth, she stamps for hours in one place, somewhere on the road, pressing her bony hands tightly to her chest and slowly shifting from foot to foot, like a wild beast in a cage. She understands nothing, whatever anyone says to her, and only occasionally laughs convulsively.)
"But they say," continued Kostya, "that Akulina threw herself in the river because her lover deceived her."
"That very reason."
"And do you remember Vasya?" Kostya added sadly.
"What Vasya?" asked Fedya.
"The one who drowned," answered Kostya, "in this very river. Oh, what a boy he was! what a boy! And his mother, Feklista, how she loved him, that Vasya! And it was as if she sensed, Feklista, that water would be his death. When Vasya would go with us boys in summer to swim in the river, she'd be all in a flutter. Other women don't care, they walk past with their troughs, waddling along, but Feklista would set her trough on the ground and start calling to him: 'Come back, she'd say, come back, my light! 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 on 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 comes and lies down in the place where he drowned; lies down, brothers, and starts a song—remember, Vasya always sang such a song—well, that's the one she starts, and she cries, cries, bitterly complains 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?" Kostya asked hurriedly.
"I heard Vasya's voice."
Everyone shuddered.
"What do you mean, what do you mean?" stammered Kostya.
"I swear. I'd just leaned 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 stepped back. But I got the water anyway."
"Oh Lord! oh Lord!" said the boys, crossing themselves.
"It was the water-spirit calling you, Pavel," added Fedya... "And we were just talking about him, about Vasya."
"Oh, 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 settling 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 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 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 still seemed 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 had completely quieted around, as everything usually quiets only toward morning: all slept a deep, 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 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 lowered heads... Sweet oblivion fell upon me; it passed into drowsiness.
A fresh stream ran across my face. I opened my eyes: morning was beginning. Dawn was not yet flushing anywhere, but the east was already whitening. Everything became visible, though dimly visible, around. The pale-gray sky was brightening, growing cold, turning blue; the stars now flickered with faint light, now disappeared; the earth grew damp, leaves began to sweat, living sounds and voices began to be heard here and there, and a thin, early breeze was already wandering and fluttering over the earth. My body answered it with a light, cheerful tremor. I rose briskly and approached the boys. They were all sleeping like the dead around the smoldering fire; only Pavel half-rose and looked at me intently.
I nodded to him and went my way along the smoking river. Before I had gone two versts, streams of young, hot light were already pouring all around me across the broad 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 through the thinning mist—first scarlet, then red, golden streams poured... Everything stirred, awoke, began to sing, rustle, speak. Everywhere large drops of dew glowed like radiant diamonds; clean and clear sounds of a bell came toward me, as if also washed by the morning coolness, and suddenly past me, driven by the familiar boys, rushed the rested herd...
I must add with regret that Pavel did not survive that year. He did not drown: he was killed, falling from a horse. A pity, he was a fine lad!
---
Biryuk
(From the cycle "A Sportsman's Sketches")
I was riding home alone from hunting one evening, 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; my tired dog, as if tied, did not lag a step behind the back 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 and whispered anxiously. The sultry heat was suddenly replaced by damp cold; shadows quickly thickened. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed over 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 jolted over the hard roots of century-old oaks and lindens, constantly crossing deep longitudinal ruts—tracks 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 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 stuck, I couldn't see a thing. Somehow I sheltered by a wide bush. Hunched over and covering my face, I patiently awaited the end of the bad weather, when suddenly, by a flash of lightning, a tall figure appeared to me on the road. I began to stare in that direction—the same figure seemed to grow from the earth beside my droshky.
"Who's that?" asked a resonant voice.
"And who are you?"
"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," the voice answered.
White lightning illuminated the forester from head to foot; a crackling, short clap of thunder sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with doubled force.
"It won't pass soon," the forester continued.
"What can you do!"
"I'll take you to my hut, if you like," he said abruptly.
"Please do."
"Please stay 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 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 right and left, like a ghost. We rode for quite a while; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are, master," he said in a calm voice. A 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. 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 voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, a bolt creaked, and a girl about twelve years old, in a shirt, belted with a strip of cloth, with a lantern in her hand, appeared at the threshold.
"Light the way for the master," 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 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 by the stove. A splinter burned on the table, flaring and dying sadly. 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 here alone?" I asked the girl.
"Alone," she uttered 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, approached the table and lit a candle.
"I suppose you're not used to splinters?" he said and shook his curls.
I looked at him. Rarely had I seen such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and magnificently built. From under his wet canvas shirt his powerful muscles bulged prominently. 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 propped his hands on his hips and stopped before me.
I thanked him and asked his name.
"I'm called Foma," he answered, "and by nickname Biryuk."
"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 neighboring peasants feared like fire. According to them, 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 any time, even at midnight itself, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and don't think of resisting—strong, they say, and cunning as a 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 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 quarter."
"I do my duty," he answered gloomily, "it's not right to eat the master's bread for nothing."
He took an axe from his belt, sat on the floor and began splitting kindling.
"Don't you have a wife?" I asked him.
"No," he answered and swung the axe hard.
"Dead, I suppose?"
"No... yes... dead," he added and turned away.
I fell silent; he raised his eyes and looked at me.
"She ran off with a passing tradesman," he uttered with a cruel smile. The girl lowered her eyes; the child woke and cried; the girl approached the cradle.
"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a stained feeding horn into her hand. "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 like. I would have put the samovar on 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 than before. The bitter smell of cooled 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 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 brief silence, "if you wish, I'll see you out of the forest."
I stood up. Biryuk took the gun and examined the pan.
"What's that for?" I asked.
"There's trouble in the forest... They're cutting a tree at Kobyliy Verkh," he added in answer to my questioning glance.
"Can you hear it from here?"
"I can hear it 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's chosen." I heard nothing except the noise 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 no time, and then I'll see you out. Let's go."
We went: Biryuk ahead, I after him. God knows how he found the way, but he stopped only occasionally, and then only to listen to the sound of an axe. "See," he muttered through his teeth, "hear it? hear it?" "But where?" Biryuk shrugged his shoulders. We descended into a ravine, the wind died down for a moment—measured blows clearly reached my ears. Biryuk glanced at me and nodded his head. We went further through wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble sounded.
"Felled it..." muttered Biryuk.
Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; it grew slightly lighter 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 intently. Through the constant noise of the wind, faint sounds seemed to me nearby: an axe cautiously knocked on branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted. "Where? stop!" suddenly thundered Biryuk's iron voice. Another voice cried out piteously, like a hare's... A struggle began. "You're ly-ing, ly-ing," repeated Biryuk, gasping, "you won't escape..." 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 thrashing about; he held the thief under him and was twisting his hands behind his back with a belt. I approached. Biryuk rose 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 mat, stood there together with cart shafts. 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 axe," the peasant muttered. "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 reached the hut. Biryuk threw the captured nag in the middle of the yard, led the peasant into the room, loosened the knot of the belt and sat him in a 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.
"Look how it's pouring," remarked the forester, "we'll have to wait. Won't you lie down?"
"Thank you."
"I would lock him in the closet for your sake," he continued, pointing at 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 man 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 right at his feet and fell asleep again. Biryuk sat by the table, his head propped 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, 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 people," the forester answered gloomily, "your whole village is like that—thief upon thief."
"Let me go," the peasant repeated, "the steward... we're ruined, see... let me go!"
"Ruined!.. Nobody should steal."
"Let me go, Foma Kuzmich... don't destroy me. Yours, you know yourself, will eat me alive, see."
Biryuk turned away. The peasant twitched 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, see, by God. By God, from hunger... the children are squealing, you know yourself. It's hard, see, very hard."
"But you still shouldn't go stealing."
"The nag," the peasant continued, "the nag at least... it's my only livelihood... let me go!"
"I tell you, I can't. I'm also a man under orders: they'll hold me accountable. You shouldn't be coddled either."
"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, truly... let me go!"
Book: I.S. Turgenev. "A Sportsman's Sketches"
Publisher "Narodnaya Asveta", Minsk, 1977
OCR & SpellCheck: Zmiy (zpdd@chat.ru), December 25, 2001
Bezhin Meadow
(From the cycle "A Sportsman's Sketches")