来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
I was driving home from the hunt one evening alone, in a racing droshky. It was 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 back wheels. A storm was approaching. Ahead, a huge purple cloud slowly rose from beyond the forest; above me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The stifling heat suddenly gave way to damp cold; shadows quickly thickened. 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 jolted 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 howled in the heights, the trees began to rage, large drops of rain sharply pattered and splashed 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 floundered, I could not see a thing. Somehow I sheltered myself by a wide bush. Hunched over and with my face covered, I waited patiently for 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 intently in that direction—the same figure seemed to rise from the ground beside my droshky.
"Who is it?" asked a resonant voice.
"And who are you?"
"I am 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 and short clap of thunder rang out immediately after it. The rain gushed with doubled 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 stay seated."
He approached the horse's head, took it by the bridle and pulled it 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 heavily slapped through the mud with her feet, slipped, stumbled; the forester swayed before the shafts to the right and left, like a phantom. 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. From one small window a dim light shone. The forester led the horse to the porch and knocked on the door. "Right away, right away!" rang out a thin voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, in a shift, belted with a strip of cloth, 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 platforms or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. On a bench lay a single-barreled gun, in a 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 with her right hand to rock the cradle, with her left to adjust the splinter. 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 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 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 powerful muscles protruded convexly. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under his grown-together broad eyebrows boldly looked small hazel eyes. 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 man who is solitary and sullen. Author's note.)
"Ah, you're Biryuk?"
I looked at him with redoubled curiosity. From my Yermolai and from others I had often heard tales about the forester Biryuk, whom all the neighboring peasants feared like fire. According to them, there had never yet been in the world such a master of his trade: "He won't let you drag away a bundle of brushwood; at any time, even at midnight itself, he'll swoop down like snow on the 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 with money; he won't take any bait. More than once good people have gathered to get rid of him, but no—he won't let himself be caught."
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 fulfill my duty," he answered gloomily, "it's not proper 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 mightily.
"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 hung her head; the child woke up and began to cry; the girl approached the cradle.
"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting into her hand a dirty feeding horn. "She even abandoned him," he continued in an undertone, pointing to 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 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 did not stir from her place and did not raise her eyes; occasionally she pushed the cradle, timidly pulled onto her shoulder the slipping shift; her bare feet hung motionless.
"What is your name?" I asked.
"Ulita," she said, lowering her sad little face even more.
The forester came in and sat on a bench.
"The storm is passing," he remarked after a short silence, "if you order it, 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... They're cutting a tree at Kobyliy Verkh." (Verkh is what they call in Oryol province a ravine. Author's note.) he added in response to my questioning look.
"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 crowded, long lightning flashes occasionally flared; but over our heads here and there dark blue sky was already visible, little stars twinkled through the thin, rapidly 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 hung his head. "There... there," he suddenly said and stretched out his hand, "see what a night he chose." I heard nothing except the noise of the 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... do you want?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up, "we'll catch him in a flash, and then I'll lead you out. 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 hearing. 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..." 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, it seemed to me that nearby were faint sounds: an axe cautiously 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 li-ie, you li-ie," Biryuk kept saying, panting, "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 struggling; he held the 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 bast mat, stood there together with the cart chassis. 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," 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 into the middle of the yard, led the peasant into the room, loosened the knot of the sash and sat him in a corner. The girl, who had fallen asleep by the stove, jumped up and with silent fright began to stare at us. I sat down on a bench.
"Look at it, how it's pouring," remarked the forester, "we'll have to wait it out. Would you like to lie down?"
"Thank you."
"I would, for your kindness, lock him in the closet," 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 were all silent.
"Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull 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 grimly retorted, "your whole village is like that—thief upon thief."
"Let me go," the peasant kept repeating, "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 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 melancholy 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... it's the only creature we have... let me go!"
"I tell you, I can't. I'm also a man under orders: they'll exact it from me. There's no call to indulge you either."
"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, it's really that... let me go!"