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, did not lag a step behind the rear wheels. A thunderstorm 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 suddenly gave way to damp cold; shadows thickened quickly. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry stream all 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 slapped against 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 getting stuck, I could not see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and my face covered, 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 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! 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 crackling and short clap of thunder rang out immediately after it. The rain gushed with redoubled force.
"It won't pass soon," continued the forester.
"What can one do!"
"I'll lead you to my hut, if you like," he said abruptly.
"Do me the favor."
"Please sit."
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 on the sea," and called the dog. My poor mare heavily slapped through the mud with her feet, 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. The gate creaked, several puppies barked in unison. I raised my head and in the light of the 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. "Right away, right away!" rang out a thin little 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 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, smoke-blackened, low and empty, without sleeping platform or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. A single-barreled gun lay on the bench, a heap of rags lay in the corner; two large pots stood by the stove. A splinter of wood burned on the table, flaring up and dying down 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 to rock the cradle with her right hand, adjusting 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 rapidly.
"Are you alone here?" I asked the girl.
"Alone," she pronounced barely audibly.
"Are you 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, 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 of tall stature, broad-shouldered and splendidly built. From under his wet canvas shirt his mighty muscles protruded prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under his grown-together thick eyebrows boldly gazed small hazel 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."
"Ah, you're Biryuk?"
I looked at him with redoubled curiosity. From my Ermolay 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 in the world: "He won't let you steal a bundle of brushwood; at whatever time it might be, 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 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 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 no quarter to anyone."
"I do my duty," he answered grimly, "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 split splinters.
"Don't you have a wife?" I asked him.
"No," he answered, swinging the axe strongly.
"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 townsman," he said with a cruel smile. The girl lowered her eyes; the baby woke up 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, sir," he began, "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 once more. The hut seemed even more dismal 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 would push the cradle, timidly pull 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 short silence, "if you command, I'll see you through 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 Kobyliy Verkh they're cutting down a tree," he added in response to my questioning gaze.
"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 clustered, long lightning flashes occasionally flared; but above our heads the dark blue sky was already visible here and there, 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's chosen." I heard nothing except the rustle of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "But this way I'll probably miss him," he added aloud. "I'll go with you... want me to?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up, "we'll catch him in no time, 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 on through the wet ferns and nettles. A muffled and prolonged rumble rang out.
"He's felled it..." muttered Biryuk.
Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; in the forest it grew slightly lighter. 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, faint sounds seemed to me nearby: an axe cautiously tapped on branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted... "Where to? Stop!" suddenly thundered the iron voice of Biryuk. Another voice cried out piteously, 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 came running, stumbling at every step, to 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 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 little horse, half covered with an angular piece of matting, stood there together with the cart frame. 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 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 our way 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 belt and sat him in the corner. The girl, who had been asleep by the stove, jumped up and began to look at us with silent fright. I sat down on the bench.
"Look how it's pouring," remarked the forester, "we'll have to wait it out. Won't you lie down?"
"Thank you."
"I would lock him in the closet, for your honor's sake," he continued, pointing at 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 all costs. 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 were all silent.
"Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a muffled and 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 gloomily objected, "your whole settlement is like that—thief upon thief."
"Let me go," the peasant repeated, "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 was 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, 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," continued the peasant, "the little horse at least, even just her... she's the only living thing we have... let me go!"
"I tell you, I can't. I'm a man under orders too: they'll demand it from me. You shouldn't be indulged either."
"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, that's what it is... let me go!"