来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
The evening warmth gave way to the dry midnight heat, and for a long time yet it lay as a soft canopy over the sleeping fields; much time remained until the first murmurs, the first rustles and whispers of morning, until the first dewdrops of dawn. There was no moon in the sky: it rose late at that time. Countless golden stars seemed to flow quietly, all twinkling in rivalry, in the direction of the Milky Way, and truly, watching them, you seemed to dimly sense yourself the swift, ceaseless running of the earth... A strange, sharp, painful cry rang out suddenly twice in succession over the river and, after a few moments, repeated itself farther off... Kostya shuddered. "What's that?" "It's a heron crying," Pavel replied calmly. "A heron," repeated Kostya... "But what was it, Pavlusha, that I heard yesterday evening," he added, after pausing briefly, "you might know..." "What did you hear?" "Well, here's what I heard. I was walking from Kamennaya Gryada to Shashkino; and I walked first through our hazel grove, and then went across the meadow—you know, where it comes out at the sharp turn—there's a deep pool there; you know, it's all overgrown with reeds; so I walked past this pool, brothers, and suddenly from that pool someone started moaning, so pitifully, so pitifully: ooh... ooh... ooh! Such fear came over me, brothers: it was late, and the voice was so sickly. I felt I could cry myself... What could that have been? eh?" "In that pool, two years back, Akim the forester was drowned by thieves," Pavel remarked, "so perhaps it's his soul lamenting." "Well, that could be it, brothers," Kostya replied, widening his already enormous eyes... "I didn't know that Akim was drowned in that pool: I would have been even more frightened." "But then, they say, there are such tiny frogs," Pavel continued, "that cry so pitifully." "Frogs? Well, no, those weren't frogs... what kind of..." (The heron cried out again over the river.) "Ugh!" Kostya exclaimed involuntarily, "just like a wood-demon crying." "A wood-demon doesn't cry, he's mute," Ilyusha chimed in, "he only claps his hands and rattles..." "And have you seen him, the wood-demon?" Fedya interrupted mockingly. "No, I haven't seen him, and God preserve me from seeing him; but others have seen him. Just the other day he led one of our peasants astray: led him, led him through the forest, all around one clearing... He barely made it home by daybreak." "Well, and did he see him?" "He saw him. They say he stood there, big, big, dark, wrapped up, sort of behind a tree, you can't make him out properly, as if hiding from the moon, and staring, staring with those eyes of his, blinking them, blinking..." "Ugh!" exclaimed Fedya, shuddering slightly and shaking his shoulders, "pfft!..." "And why has this filth multiplied in the world?" Pavel remarked. "I don't understand, really!" "Don't curse, watch out, he'll hear," Ilya noted. Silence fell again. "Look, look, boys," Vanya's childish voice suddenly rang out, "look at God's little stars—swarming like bees!" He thrust his fresh little face out from under the matting, propped himself on his fist, and slowly raised his large, calm eyes upward. All the boys' eyes rose to the sky and did not lower soon. "Well, Vanya," Fedya spoke tenderly, "how is your sister Anyutka, is she well?" "She's well," Vanya answered, slightly lisping. "Tell her—why doesn't she come to us?" "I don't know." "Tell her she should come." "I'll tell her." "Tell her I'll give her a treat." "And will you give me one?" "I'll give you one too." Vanya sighed. "Well, no, I don't need one. Give it to her instead: she's so kind, our sister." And Vanya laid his head on the ground again. Pavel stood up and took the empty pot in his hand. "Where are you going?" Fedya asked him. "To the river, to scoop some water: I feel like drinking some water." The dogs got up and followed him. "Watch you don't fall in the river!" Ilyusha called after him. "Why should he fall?" said Fedya, "he'll be careful." "Yes, he'll be careful. But anything can happen: he'll lean over, start scooping water, and the water-demon will grab him by the hand and drag him down to himself. Then they'll say: the boy fell into the water, they'll say... What do you mean fell?.. Look, he's gone into the reeds," he added, listening. The reeds were indeed "rustling," as we say, parting. "But is it true," Kostya asked, "that Akulina the fool-woman went mad after she was in the water?" "After that... What she's like now! But they say she was a beauty before. The water-demon spoiled her. He didn't expect, you see, that they'd pull her out so soon. So he spoiled her, down there at the bottom." (I myself had encountered this Akulina more than once. Covered in rags, terribly thin, with a face black as coal, a clouded gaze and eternally bared teeth, she would stamp for hours in one place, somewhere on the road, pressing her bony hands tightly to her chest and slowly swaying from foot to foot, like a wild beast in a cage. She understood nothing, whatever anyone said to her, and only occasionally laughed convulsively.) "And they say," Kostya continued, "that Akulina threw herself in the river because her sweetheart deceived her." "That's exactly why." "And do you remember Vasya?" Kostya added sadly. "Which Vasya?" asked Fedya. "The one who drowned," Kostya answered, "in this very river. Oh, what a boy he was! What a boy! His mother, Feklista, how she loved him, her Vasya! And it was as if she sensed it, Feklista did, that he would perish from water. Sometimes Vasya would go with us, with the boys, in summer to bathe in the river—she would tremble all over. Other women didn't care, they'd walk past with their washtubs, waddling along, but Feklista would put her washtub on the ground and start calling him: 'Come back,' she'd say, 'come back, my bright one! Oh, come back, my falcon!' And how he drowned, God only knows. He was playing on the bank, and his mother was right there, raking hay; suddenly she hears, as if someone's blowing bubbles in the water—she looks, and only Vasya's little cap is floating on the water. Well, from that time Feklista hasn't been in her right mind: she'll come and lie down on the spot where he drowned; she'll lie down, brothers, and start singing a song—remember, Vasya used to sing such a song—so she'll start that very song, and herself crying, crying, bitterly complaining to God..." "Here comes Pavlusha," said Fedya. Pavel approached the fire with the full pot in his hand. "Well, boys," he began, after pausing, "something's not right." "What?" Kostya asked hurriedly. "I heard Vasya's voice." Everyone started. "What do you mean, what?" Kostya stammered. "I swear to God. I had just bent down to the water when I suddenly hear someone calling me in Vasya's voice and as if from under the water: 'Pavlusha, oh Pavlusha!' I listen; and he calls again: 'Pavlusha, come here.' I stepped away. Still, I scooped the water." "Oh Lord! Oh Lord!" the boys said, crossing themselves. "That was the water-demon calling you, Pavel," Fedya added... "And we were just talking about him, about Vasya." "Ah, that's a bad sign," Ilyusha said deliberately. "Well, never mind, let it be!" Pavel said decisively and sat down again, "you can't avoid your fate." The boys quieted down. It was evident that Pavel's words had made a deep impression on them. They began settling down before the fire, as if preparing to sleep. "What's that?" Kostya suddenly asked, raising his head. Pavel listened. "Those are sandpipers flying, whistling." "Where are they flying to?" "To where, they say, there's no winter." "Is there really such a land?" "There is." "Far away?" "Far, far away, beyond the warm seas." Kostya sighed and closed his eyes. More than three hours had passed since I had joined the boys. The moon finally rose; I didn't notice it at first: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night seemed to be just as magnificent as before... But already many stars, which had recently stood high in the sky, were inclining toward the dark edge of the earth; everything around had completely quieted, as everything usually quiets only toward morning: everything slept a deep, motionless, pre-dawn sleep. The air no longer smelled so strongly—dampness seemed to spread through it again... Summer nights are short!.. The boys' conversation died away along with the fires... Even the dogs were dozing; the horses, as far as I could make out in the barely glimmering, weakly flowing starlight, also lay with heads lowered... Sweet oblivion came over me; it passed into drowsiness. A fresh stream ran across my face. I opened my eyes: morning was beginning. The dawn was not yet blushing anywhere, but the east had already whitened. Everything became visible, though dimly visible, all around. The pale-gray sky was lightening, growing cold, turning blue; the stars now flickered with weak light, now disappeared; the earth grew damp, leaves were covered with dew, living sounds and voices began to be heard here and there, and a thin, early breeze had already begun to wander and flutter over the earth. My body answered it with a light, cheerful trembling. I quickly got up and approached the boys. They were all sleeping like the dead around the smoldering fire; only Pavel half-rose and looked at me intently. I nodded to him and walked homeward along the smoking river. I had not walked two versts when already all around me, across the wide wet meadow, and ahead, along the greening hills, from forest to forest, and behind along the long dusty road, along the sparkling, crimsoned bushes, and along the river, bashfully blue beneath the thinning mist—poured first scarlet, then red, golden streams of young, hot light... Everything stirred, awoke, began to sing, rustle, speak. Everywhere radiant diamonds of large dewdrops kindled; toward me, pure and clear, as if also washed by the morning coolness, came the sounds of a bell, and suddenly past me, driven by the familiar boys, the rested herd rushed by... I must add with regret that Pavel died that same year. He did not drown: he was killed, falling from a horse. A pity, he was a fine lad!
Biryuk
(From the cycle "A Sportsman's Sketches")
I was riding home from hunting one evening alone, in a racing droshky. It was still about eight versts to home; my good trotting mare was running 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, an enormous 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 was suddenly replaced by damp cold; shadows quickly thickened. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed over a dry stream all 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, constantly crossing deep longitudinal ruts—traces of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. A strong wind suddenly roared in the heights, the trees raged, large drops of rain sharply drummed, slapped against the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. The rain poured in torrents. I rode at a walk and was soon forced to stop: my horse was getting stuck, I couldn't see a thing. I somehow took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and covering my face, I patiently awaited 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 grown out of the ground beside my droshky. "Who's that?" a resonant voice asked. "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," the voice answered. White lightning illuminated the forester from head to foot; a crackling and short clap of thunder followed immediately after it. The rain gushed with doubled force. "It won't pass soon," the forester continued. "What can I do!" "I can, if you like, lead you to my hut," 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 started 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 her feet through the mud, slipped, stumbled; the forester swayed before the shafts to the right and left, like an apparition. We rode for quite a long time; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are home, master," 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. "Coming, coming!" a thin little voice rang out, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, in a shirt, belted with a strap, with a lantern in her hand, appeared on the threshold. "Light the way for the master," 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, sooty, low and empty, without sleeping platform or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. On the 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, sadly flaring up and dying down. 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 rocking the cradle with her right hand, straightening the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart ached: it's not cheerful to enter a peasant's hut at night. The child in the cradle was breathing 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, bending his head. He picked up the lantern from the floor, approached the table and lit the wick. "I suppose you're not used to a splinter?" he said and shook his curls. I looked at him. Rarely had I seen such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and splendidly built. From under his wet homespun shirt his powerful muscles bulged convexly. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and masculine face; from under thick grown-together eyebrows boldly gazed small brown 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 doubled 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 their words, there had never been such a master of his trade in the world: "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 you can't get him with anything: neither with vodka nor money; he won't go for any bait. More than once good people have tried to do away with him, but no—he won't let them." This is 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 glumly, "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 splitting kindling. "Do you have no wife?" I asked him. "No," he answered and swung 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 townsman," he said with a cruel smile. The girl hung her head; the child woke up and cried; the girl approached the cradle. "Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting into her hand a soiled baby bottle. "And she abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing at 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 but bread..." "I'm not hungry." "Well, as you like. 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 sadder to me than before. The bitter smell of cooled 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 on the bench. "The storm is passing," he remarked after a brief silence, "if you order, I'll see you out of the forest." I stood up. Biryuk took the gun and examined the pan. "What's that for?" I asked. "There's trouble in the forest... At Kobyliy Verkh they're cutting a tree," he added in response to my questioning glance. "Can you really hear it from here?" "I can hear it from the yard." We went out together. The rain had stopped. Heavy masses of clouds still crowded in the distance, long lightning still flashed occasionally; but overhead dark-blue sky was already visible here and there, little stars twinkled through the thin, rapidly flying clouds. The outlines of trees, sprinkled with rain and stirred 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 suddenly said and stretched out his hand, "see what a night he chose." I heard nothing except the noise of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "But 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 jiffy, and then I'll see you off. Let's go." We set off: Biryuk ahead, I after 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..." Biryuk muttered. 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 the gun upward, disappeared among the bushes. I began to listen intently. Through the constant noise of the wind, weak sounds seemed to reach me nearby: an axe cautiously tapping on branches, wheels creaking, a horse snorting... "Where are you going? Stop!" Biryuk's iron voice suddenly thundered. Another voice cried out piteously, 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 scene 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 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 the cart chassis. The forester didn't 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," 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 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 a corner. The girl, who had fallen asleep by the stove, jumped up and with silent fright began to look at us. I sat on the bench. "Ugh, how it's pouring," the forester remarked, "you'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 any cost. He sat motionless on the bench. In 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 spoke in a dull, broken voice, "ah, Foma Kuzmich." "What do you want?" "Let me go." Biryuk didn't answer. "Let me go... from hunger... let me go." "I know you," the forester grimly retorted, "your whole settlement 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!.. 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 was shaking 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 children are squealing, you know yourself. It's hard, that's how it is, it's come to that." "But you still shouldn't go stealing." "The little horse," the peasant continued, "the little horse at least... it's the only living thing I have... let me go!" "I'm telling you, I can't. I'm also a man under orders: they'll take it out of me. You shouldn't be indulged either." "Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, as it truly is... let me go!