来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
I was driving home from the hunt one evening alone, in a racing droshky. There were still about eight versts to go; my good trotting mare ran briskly along the dusty road, occasionally snorting and twitching her ears; the tired dog, as if tied, didn't lag a step behind the rear wheels. A thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, an enormous purple cloud slowly rose from beyond the forest; above me and toward me swept 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 streambed 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 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 struck sharply, splashing on the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I went at a walk and was soon forced to stop: my horse was getting stuck, I couldn't see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and with my face wrapped, 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 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 foot; a crackling, short thunderclap sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with redoubled force.
"It won't pass soon," the forester continued.
"What can you do!"
"I'll lead you to my hut if you like," he said abruptly.
"Please do."
"Stay seated."
He approached the horse's head, took her by the bridle and pulled her from the spot. 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 slapped her feet heavily through the mud, slipped, stumbled; the forester swayed before the shafts right and left, like a ghost. We rode for quite a long time; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are, master," he said in a calm voice. A gate creaked, several puppies barked in chorus. I raised my head and in the lightning's glow 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, there was a patter of bare feet, the bolt creaked, and a girl about twelve years old, in a shift belted with a cord, holding a lantern, appeared in the doorway.
"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 bare, without sleeping platform or partitions. A tattered sheepskin coat hung on the wall. On a bench lay a single-barreled gun, in the corner was 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 to rock the cradle with her right hand, adjusting the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart ached: it's no joy 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 lifted 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. I had rarely had occasion to see such a fine fellow. He was tall, 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 broad eyebrows boldly gazed small hazel eyes. He rested his hands lightly on his hips and stopped before me.
I thanked him and asked his name.
"They call me Foma," he answered, "and by nickname Biryuk."
"Ah, you're Biryuk?"
I looked at him with redoubled 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 trade in the world: "He won't let you carry off a bundle of brushwood; whatever the time, even at the dead of night, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and don't think of resisting—strong, they say, and agile 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 won't let them."
That's how the neighboring peasants spoke of Biryuk.
"So you're Biryuk," I repeated, "I've heard about you, brother. They say you don't give anyone 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 down on the floor and began to split splinters.
"Don't you have a wife?" I asked him.
"No," he replied, swinging the axe hard.
"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 hung her head; the child woke and cried out; the girl approached the cradle.
"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a soiled 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.
"You, I suppose, master," he began, "won't eat our bread, and I have nothing except bread..."
"I'm not hungry."
"Well, as you wish. I would 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 to me 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 pulled onto her shoulder the slipping shift; 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 order, I'll lead 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 Kobyliy Verkh they're cutting a tree," he added in response to my questioning look.
"You can 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 here and there the dark blue sky was visible, 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 removed his cap and hung 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. "Or else I might," he added aloud, "miss him." "I'll go with you... want me to?" "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 way, but he stopped only occasionally, and that only to listen to the sound of the axe. "See," he muttered through his teeth, "do you hear? do you hear?" "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 rang out.
"He's felled it..." Biryuk muttered.
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 seemed to hear faint sounds nearby: an axe carefully struck branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted... "Where are you going? Stop!" suddenly thundered Biryuk's iron voice. Another voice cried out pitifully, like a hare... A struggle began. "You're ly-ing, ly-ing," Biryuk repeated, gasping, "you won't get away..." 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 grappling; 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 mat, stood there together with cart wheels. 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 sprinkle again and soon poured in streams. We reached the hut with difficulty. 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 fallen asleep by the stove, jumped up and began to look at us with silent fright. I sat on the bench.
"Look how it's pouring," the forester remarked, "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 no matter what. He sat motionless on the bench. By the light of the lantern I could make out his haggard, wrinkled face, overhanging yellow eyebrows, anxious 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... rain drummed on the roof and slid along 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 gloomily objected, "your whole village 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!... Nobody should steal."
"Let me go, Foma Kuzmich... don't destroy me. Yours, you know yourself, will eat me 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 little ones 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, at least her... she's all we have to live on... let me go!"
"I'm telling you, I can't. I'm also a bound man: they'll hold me accountable. There's no need to spoil you either."
"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, just so... let me go!"