Capítulo 14 de 80

The warm, dry midnight air replaced the evening chill, and it would lie like a soft canopy over the sleeping fields for a long time yet; there was still much time left before the first murmurs, before the first rustlings and whispers of morning, before 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 competition, in the direction of the Milky Way, and truly, looking at them, you seemed to feel dimly 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 away... Kostya shuddered. "What's that?" "It's a heron crying," Pavel answered calmly. "A heron," Kostya repeated... "And what was it, Pavlusha, that I heard yesterday evening," he added after a brief silence, "maybe you know..." "What did you hear?" "Well, this is what I heard. I was going from Kamennaya Gryada to Shashkino; and I went first through our hazel grove, and then across the meadow—you know, where it comes out at the sharp bend—there's a deep pool there; you know, it's still all overgrown with reeds; well, I went past this pool, brothers, and suddenly from that pool someone began to moan, and so pitifully, so pitifully: ooh... ooh... ooh! Such fear took hold of me, brothers: it was late, and the voice was so sickly. I felt I could have wept myself... What could it have been? eh?" "In that pool, two years ago, thieves drowned Akim the forester," remarked Pavel, "so perhaps it's his soul lamenting." "Well, that's it, brothers," responded Kostya, widening his already enormous eyes... "I didn't know they'd drowned Akim in that pool: I would have been even more frightened." "And 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 again over the river.) Listen to it!" Kostya involuntarily exclaimed, "just like a wood demon crying." "A wood demon doesn't cry, he's mute," Ilyusha picked up, "he only claps his hands and makes a rattling sound..." "And have you seen him, the wood demon, or what?" Fedya interrupted him 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: he led him round and round the forest, all around one clearing... He barely made it home by daybreak." "Well, and did he see him?" "He saw him. He says he stood there, big, big, dark, muffled, sort of like behind a tree, you couldn't make him out properly, as if hiding from the moon, and he stares, stares with those great eyes of his, blinking them, blinking..." "Oh!" exclaimed Fedya, shuddering slightly and jerking his shoulders, "ugh!.." "And why has such vermin bred in the world?" remarked Pavel. "I really don't understand!" "Don't curse, watch out, he might hear you," Ilya remarked. Silence fell again. "Look, look, boys," Vanya's childish voice suddenly rang out, "look at God's little stars—like bees swarming!" He thrust his fresh little face out from under the matting, leaned on his fist and slowly raised his large, calm eyes upward. All the boys' eyes rose to the sky and didn't lower for some time. "Well, Vanya," Fedya began affectionately, "how is your sister Anyutka, is she well?" "She's well," answered Vanya with a slight lisp. "Tell her—why doesn't she come to see 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 girl." 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 get some water: I want a drink." 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. Anything can happen: he'll lean over, start scooping water, and the water demon will grab him by the hand and drag him down. Later they'll say: the boy fell into the water, they'll say... What do you mean fell?.. There he goes, into the reeds," he added, listening. The reeds indeed were "shurshing," as we say, parting. "Is it true," asked Kostya, "that Akulina the fool went mad after she'd been in the water?" "After that... Look at her now! But they say she used to be a beauty. The water demon ruined her. No doubt he didn't expect them to pull her out so soon. So he ruined her 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 animal in a cage. She understood nothing, whatever people 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. "What Vasya?" asked Fedya. "The one who drowned," answered Kostya, "in this very river. Oh, what a boy he was! What a boy! And his mother, Feklista, how she loved him, that Vasya! And it was as if she sensed, that Feklista, that he would perish from water. Whenever Vasya would go with us, with the boys, to swim in the river in summer—she would be all aflutter. Other women don't care, they walk past with their washtubs, waddling along, but Feklista would set 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, the Lord only knows. He was playing on the bank, and his mother was right there, raking hay; suddenly she hears something like bubbles rising in the water—she looks, and only Vasya's little cap is floating on the water. Well, since then 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 strike up a song—remember, Vasya used to sing such a song—well, that's the one she'll strike up, and she cries and cries, 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 a pause, "something's not right." "What?" Kostya asked hurriedly. "I heard Vasya's voice." Everyone shuddered. "What do you mean, what do you mean?" stammered Kostya. "By God. As soon as I bent down to the water, 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 moved away. Still, I got the water." "Oh Lord! Oh Lord!" said the boys, crossing themselves. "That was the water demon calling you, Pavel," added Fedya... "And we were just talking about him, about Vasya." "Oh, that's a bad sign," Ilyusha said deliberately. "Well, never mind, let it be!" Pavel said decisively and sat down again, "you can't escape your fate." The boys quieted down. It was evident that Pavel's words had made a deep impression on them. They began to settle 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 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 right away: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night seemed still as magnificent as before... But already many stars had set toward the dark edge of the earth, stars that had stood high in the sky only recently; everything had completely quieted down all around, as everything usually quiets down only toward morning: all slept a deep, motionless, pre-dawn sleep. The air no longer smelled so strong—dampness seemed to spread through it again... Short are the summer nights!.. 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 faintly glimmering, weakly flowing starlight, also lay with lowered heads... Sweet oblivion came over me; it passed into drowsiness. A fresh stream ran across my face. I opened my eyes: morning was beginning. Dawn was not yet reddening anywhere, but the east had already grown white. Everything became visible, though dimly visible, all around. The pale gray sky was brightening, growing cold, turning blue; the stars now blinked with weak light, now disappeared; the earth grew damp, leaves became covered with dew, here and there living sounds, voices began to be heard, and a thin, early breeze had already started to wander and flutter over the earth. My body answered it with a light, cheerful tremor. 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 intently at me. I nodded to him and went on my way along the smoking river. I had not gone two versts when all around me over the wide wet meadow, and ahead over the greening hills, from forest to forest, and behind along the long dusty road, over the sparkling, crimsoned bushes, and over the river shyly turning blue through the thinning mist—there poured first crimson, then red, golden streams of young, hot light... Everything stirred, awoke, began to sing, make noise, speak. Everywhere large drops of dew sparkled like radiant diamonds; 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, rushed the rested herd... I must regretfully add that Pavel did not live out that year. He did not drown: he was killed, falling from a horse. A pity, he was a fine lad!

Byryuk (The Wolf)

(From the cycle "Sketches from a Hunter's Album")

I was riding home from hunting one evening alone, in a racing droshky. There were still about eight versts to home; my good trotting mare was running briskly along the dusty road, occasionally snorting and twitching her ears; my tired dog, as if tied, did not lag a step behind the rear wheels. A storm 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 murmured. The sultry heat was suddenly replaced by damp cold; shadows quickly thickened. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry streambed 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 began to rage, large drops of rain sharply drummed, slapped against the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I proceeded at a walk and was soon forced to stop: my horse was floundering, I couldn't see a thing. I somehow sheltered myself by a wide bush. Hunched over and with my face covered, 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 peer intently in that direction—the same figure seemed to grow out of 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! 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 short clap of thunder rang out immediately after it. The rain gushed with doubled force. "It won't pass soon," the forester continued. "What can you do!" "I'll take 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 the spot. We set off. I held onto the cushion of the droshky, which rocked "like a boat at sea," and called the dog. My poor mare slapped heavily through the mud with her hooves, slipping, stumbling; the forester swayed before the shafts right and left, like a ghost. We rode for quite a while; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are at home, sir," he said in a calm voice. A gate creaked, several puppies barked in chorus. 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. A light glimmered dimly 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 about twelve years old, in a little shirt, belted with a strap, with a lantern in her hand, appeared on the threshold. "Light the way for the gentleman," 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 platforms or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. On a bench lay a single-barreled gun, in the corner lay a heap of rags; two large pots stood near 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, 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 breathed heavily and rapidly. "Are you here alone?" I asked the girl. "Alone," she uttered 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 a splinter?" he said and shook his curls. I looked at him. Rarely had I happened to see such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and built magnificently. From under his wet canvas shirt his powerful muscles bulged prominently. 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 slightly placed 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 Byryuk." "Ah, you're Byryuk?" I looked at him with redoubled curiosity. From my Ermolay and from others I had often heard stories about the forester Byryuk, whom all the surrounding peasants feared like fire. According to them, there had never been such a master of his craft in the world: "He won't let you steal a bundle of brushwood; at whatever time, even at dead of night, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and don't you think of resisting—he's strong, they say, and nimble as a devil... And there's no way to get to him: neither with vodka nor with money; he doesn'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 Byryuk. "So you're Byryuk," 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 right 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 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 uttered with a cruel smile. The girl hung her head; the child woke up and cried out; the girl approached the cradle. "Here, give him this," said Byryuk, thrusting into her hand a soiled feeding horn. "She abandoned him too," 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 but 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 to 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 spot 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 short silence, "if you order it, I'll see you out of the forest." I stood up. Byryuk took his gun and examined the pan. "What's that for?" I asked. "They're causing mischief in the forest... At Kobylye Verkh they're cutting down a tree," 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 overhead we could already see here and there dark blue sky, little stars twinkled through the thin, fast-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 bowed his head. "There... there," he suddenly said and extended his hand, "see what a night he chose." I heard nothing except the noise of leaves. Byryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "And so I might," he added aloud, "miss him after all." "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 out. Let's go." We set off: Byryuk in front, I behind him. God knows how he found the road, but he stopped only occasionally, and that only to listen to the sound of an axe. "See," he muttered through his teeth, "do you hear? do you hear?" "But where?" Byryuk shrugged his shoulders. We descended into a ravine, the wind died down for a moment—measured blows clearly reached my ear. Byryuk looked 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 Byryuk. 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 intently. Through the constant noise of the wind I thought I could hear faint sounds nearby: an axe cautiously tapping on branches, wheels creaking, a horse snorting... "Where are you going? Stop!" Byryuk's iron voice suddenly thundered. Another voice cried out pitifully, like a hare... A struggle began. "You're ly-ing, ly-ing," Byryuk repeated, out of breath, "you won't get away..." I rushed in the direction of the noise and ran, stumbling at every step, to the place of battle. By the felled tree, on the ground, the forester was struggling; he held the thief beneath him and was twisting his hands behind his back with a sash. I approached. Byryuk got up and set him on his feet. I saw a peasant, wet, in tatters, with a long disheveled beard. A wretched little horse, half covered with a patched mat, stood there along with a cart frame. The forester said not a word; the peasant also remained silent and only shook his head. "Let him go," I whispered in Byryuk's ear, "I'll pay for the tree." Byryuk 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," 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. We reached the hut with difficulty. Byryuk 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 began to look at us with silent fright. I sat on the bench. "Look how it's pouring," the forester remarked, "you'll have to wait it out. Would you like to lie down?" "Thank you." "I would have locked him in the closet, for your honor's sake," he continued, pointing to the peasant, "but you see, the bolt..." "Leave him there, don't touch him," I interrupted Byryuk. The peasant glanced at me from under his brows. I inwardly gave myself my word to free the poor fellow at any cost. He sat motionless on the bench. By the light of the lantern I could make out his haggard, wrinkled face, his overhanging yellow eyebrows, his restless eyes, his thin limbs... The girl lay down on the floor right at his feet and fell asleep again. Byryuk 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 all were silent. "Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull, broken voice, "eh, Foma Kuzmich." "What do you want?" "Let me go." Byryuk didn't answer. "Let me go... from hunger... let me go." "I know you people," the forester replied glumly, "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!.. Nobody should steal." "Let me go, Foma Kuzmich... don't ruin me. Yours, you know yourself, will eat me alive, that's how it is." Byryuk 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 little ones are squealing, you know yourself. It's hard, that's how it is, it's gotten hard." "But you still shouldn't go stealing." "The little horse," the peasant continued, "the little horse at least, at least let her go... she's the only one we have... let me go!" "I'm telling you, I can't. I'm also a man under orders: they'll hold me accountable. You can't be coddled either." "Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, as God is my witness... let me go!