来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
I was returning home alone from hunting one evening in a racing droshky. There were still about eight versts to go; my good trotting mare ran briskly along the dusty road, snorting occasionally 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 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 stream overgrown with osiers, 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 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 drummed 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 floundering, I could not see a thing. I somehow sheltered myself against a wide bush. Hunched over and muffling my face, I waited patiently for the bad weather to end, when suddenly, by a flash of lightning, a tall figure seemed to appear on the road. I began to stare intently in that direction—the same figure seemed to have risen from the earth beside my droshky.
"Who is it?" 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, sharp clap of thunder sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with redoubled force.
"It won't pass soon," the forester continued.
"What can one do!"
"I'll lead 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 its place. We set off. I held onto the droshky cushion, 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 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 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, the bolt creaked, and a girl about twelve years old, in a shift, belted with a strap, 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, smoke-blackened, low and empty, without sleeping shelves 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, 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 stool 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 is 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 over the threshold, bowing his head. He picked up the lantern from the floor, went to 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 hempen shirt his powerful muscles protruded prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under thick grown-together brows 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 Biryuk." {Biryuk is what they call in Oryol province a person who is solitary and sullen. (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 them, there had never been such a master of his trade: "He won't let you steal 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—he's 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 plotted to do away with him, but no—he won't let himself be caught."
This is 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 quarter."
"I perform my duty," he answered gloomily, "it's not fitting 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 and swung the axe powerfully.
"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 uttered with a cruel smile. The girl lowered her eyes; the child woke and cried out; the girl went to 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 went to the door, stopped and turned around.
"I suppose, sir," he began, "you won't eat our bread, and I have nothing except bread..."
"I'm not hungry."
"Well, as you wish. I would 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 sadder to me than before. The bitter smell of stale 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 pulling 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 brief silence, "if you command, 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 up to mischief in the forest... At Kobylye Verkh {Verkh is what they call a ravine in Oryol province. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)} they're cutting a tree," he added in response to my questioning look.
"Can you really hear it from here?"
"It can be heard from the yard."
We went out together. The rain had stopped. In the distance heavy masses of clouds still crowded, long flashes of lightning occasionally flared; but over our heads here and there dark blue sky was already visible, stars glimmered through the thin, fast-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 suddenly said and extended his hand, "see what a night he chose." I heard nothing except the rustle 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... shall I?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up again, "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 ears. Biryuk glanced at me and nodded 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; 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 the gun upward, disappeared among the bushes. I began to listen with strain. Through the constant noise of the wind I fancied I heard weak sounds nearby: an axe carefully tapped on branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted... "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," gasped Biryuk, panting, "you won't get away..." I rushed toward the noise and arrived, stumbling at every step, at the scene of battle. By a felled tree, on the ground, the forester was writhing; he held a thief under 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 piece of matting, stood there along with the cart undercarriage. The forester did not say a word; the peasant also kept 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 there," 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 look at us. I sat down on the bench.
"Eh, 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 honor's 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. 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 drummed on the roof and slid down the windows; we all kept silent.
"Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull, 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 people," the forester answered gloomily, "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!.. Nobody should steal."
"Let me go, Foma Kuzmich... don't ruin 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 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."
"But you still shouldn't go stealing."
"The little horse," the peasant continued, "the little horse at least... it's the only sustenance there is... let me go!"
"I tell you, it's impossible. I'm also a man under orders: they'll hold me accountable. You shouldn't be indulged either."
"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, just like that... let me go!"