来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
I was driving home from hunting one evening alone, in a racing droshky. There were 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, kept pace with the back wheels without lagging a single step. A thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, an enormous 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 thickened rapidly. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry brook overgrown with willows, climbed the hill and entered the forest. The road wound before me between dense hazel bushes already flooded with darkness; I moved forward 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 raindrops sharply pattered and splashed 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 couldn't see a thing. I somehow sheltered myself beside a wide bush. Hunched over and with my face covered, I patiently awaited 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 rise from the earth 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," the voice replied.
White lightning illuminated the forester from head to toe; a crackling, short thunderclap sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with doubled force.
"It won't pass soon," the forester continued.
"What can one do!"
"I'll take you to my hut, if you like," he said abruptly.
"Please do."
"Kindly 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 little voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, a bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, in a shirt tied with a belt, with a lantern in her hand, appeared on 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 tattered 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 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 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 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 powerful muscles bulged prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under his thick, joined 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." [In Oryol province, Biryuk is what they call a man who is solitary and sullen.]
"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 them, there had never been such a master of his craft in the world: "He won't let you steal a bundle of brushwood; whatever the time, even at midnight, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and don't think of resisting—strong, they say, and nimble 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 gathered to do away with him, but no—he won't let them."
This is what the neighboring peasants said about Biryuk.
"So you're Biryuk," I repeated, "I've heard about you, brother. They say you give no one any quarter."
"I perform 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 chopping splinters.
"Don't you have a wife?" I asked him.
"No," he answered and swung the axe forcefully.
"She died, I suppose?"
"No... yes... 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 began to cry; the girl approached the cradle.
"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a soiled feeding horn into her hand. "She abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing to the child. He approached the door, stopped and turned around.
"I expect, master," he began, "you won't eat our bread, and I have nothing besides bread..."
"I'm not hungry."
"Well, as you like. I'd put on the 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 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 pulling onto her shoulder the slipping shirt; her bare feet hung motionless.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Ulita," she said, hanging her sad little face even lower.
The forester entered 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 making mischief in the forest... At Kobyly Verkh they're cutting a tree," he added in response to my inquiring gaze. ["Verkh" is what they call a ravine in Oryol province.]
"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 gathered, long lightning flashes occasionally lit up; 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 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 said suddenly and extended his hand, "see what a night he's chosen." I heard nothing except the rustling 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... 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 off. Let's go."
We set off: Biryuk in front, I behind him. God knows how he found the road, but he stopped only occasionally, 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 a ravine, the wind died down for a moment—measured blows clearly reached my ear. Biryuk glanced at me and nodded his head. We went further through wet ferns and nettles. A hollow and prolonged rumble sounded.
"He's felled it..." muttered Biryuk.
Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; in the forest it grew slightly lighter. We finally got 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 strain. Through the constant noise of the wind I fancied I heard faint 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 piteously, like a hare... A struggle began. "You're ly-ing, ly-ing," repeated Biryuk, out of breath, "you won't get away..." I rushed in the direction of the noise and came running, stumbling at every step, to the scene 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 little horse, half covered with an angular mat, stood right there along with a cart frame. The forester said not a word; the peasant was also 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 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 made it 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 by the stove, jumped up and with silent fright began to stare at us. I sat on the bench.
"Look how it's pouring," remarked the forester, "we'll have to wait it out. Would you like to lie down?"
"Thank you."
"I'd lock him in the closet, for your honor's 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 vowed 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, 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 hollow, 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," the forester retorted glumly, "your whole village is like that—thief upon thief."
"Let me go," the peasant persisted, "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 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."
"But you still shouldn't go stealing."
"The little horse," the peasant continued, "the little horse at least... it's the only living thing I have... let me go!"
"I'm telling you, it's impossible. I'm also a man under orders: they'll hold me responsible. There's no need to spoil you either."
"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, that's what it is... let me go!"