来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
I was returning from hunting in the evening alone, in a racing droshky. I still had about eight versts to go before 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 falling behind a single step. A storm was approaching. Ahead, an enormous purple cloud was slowly rising from behind the forest; above me and rushing toward me were long gray clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The oppressive 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 entirely overgrown with osiers, climbed the hill and entered the forest. The road wound before me between thick hazel bushes already flooded with darkness; I advanced with difficulty. The droshky jolted over the hard roots of century-old oaks and lindens, constantly intersecting the deep longitudinal ruts—traces of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. A strong wind suddenly howled in the heights, the trees raged, large raindrops struck sharply and splattered on the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I proceeded at a walk and soon was forced to stop: my horse was sinking, I couldn't see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and with 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 rise from the ground 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 rang out 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.
"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 droshky cushion, which rocked "like a boat at sea," and called to 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 phantom. We rode for quite a while; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are home, master," he said in a calm voice. A wicket 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. "Coming, coming!" 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 narrow strip, 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. A single-barreled gun lay on a bench, a pile of rags was heaped in the corner; two large pots stood by the stove. A splinter burned on the table, flaring up and dying down mournfully. 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: it's cheerless 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 over the threshold, ducking 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. 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 powerful muscles protruded prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under his grown-together thick eyebrows, small hazel eyes gazed boldly. 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." {Biryuk is what they call in Oryol Province a solitary and sullen person. (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 surrounding peasants feared like fire. According to their words, there had never been such a master of his craft: "He won't let you take away a bundle of brushwood; at whatever hour, even at midnight itself, 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 at him: neither with vodka nor with money; he won't take any bait. More than once good people have tried to get rid of him, but no—he won't let them."
That's what the neighboring peasants said about Biryuk.
"So you're Biryuk," I repeated, "I've heard about you, brother. They say you don't give anyone a break."
"I do my duty," he answered glumly, "it's not proper to eat the master's bread for nothing."
He pulled an axe from his belt, squatted on the floor and began to chop splinters.
"Don't you have a wife?" I asked him.
"No," he answered, swinging the axe forcefully.
"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 lowered her eyes; the child woke and cried out; the girl went to 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 went to the door, stopped and turned around.
"You, I suppose, master," he began, "won't eat our bread, and I have nothing but bread..."
"I'm not hungry."
"Well, as you wish. I would have put on the samovar for you, but I have no tea... I'll go see to 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 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 down 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 up to mischief in the forest... At Kobylye Verkh {In Oryol Province "verkh" means ravine. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)} they're cutting down a tree," he added in response to my questioning look.
"Can you hear it from here?"
"From the yard you can hear it."
We went out together. The rain had stopped. In the distance heavy masses of clouds still crowded, long lightning flashes flickered occasionally; but overhead 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 chose." I heard nothing except the rustle of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "Well then, perhaps," he added aloud, "I'll 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 guide you. Let's go."
We set off: Biryuk in front, I behind him. God only 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 farther through wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble rang out.
"He's felled it..." muttered Biryuk.
Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; the forest grew slightly lighter. We finally climbed 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, weak sounds seemed to me 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 pitifully, like a hare's... A struggle began. "You're ly-ing, ly-ing," repeated Biryuk, gasping, "you won't get away..." I rushed in the direction of the noise and arrived, stumbling at every step, at the scene 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 sash. 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 right there together with the cart frame. The forester said not a word; the peasant also remained 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," 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 reached 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 began to look at us with silent fright. I sat down on the bench.
"Look at that, 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 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 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 worn, 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, 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 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 retorted gloomily, "your whole settlement is like that—thief upon thief."
"Let me go," the peasant persisted, "the steward... 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. Your master, you know yourself, will eat me alive, that's how it is."
Biryuk turned away. The peasant was twitching, as if fever were 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," the peasant continued, "the little horse, at least let her go... she's the only provider we have... let me go!"
"I tell you, I can't. I'm also a bonded man: they'll hold me accountable. There's no call to indulge you either."
"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, it really is so... let me go!"