Capítulo 40 de 80

I was driving home alone one evening from the hunt in a racing droshky. I still had about eight versts to go; my good trotting mare was running briskly along the dusty road, occasionally snorting and twitching her ears; the tired dog, as if tied, kept pace with the rear wheels without lagging a step behind. A storm was approaching. Ahead, an enormous purple cloud was slowly rising from beyond the forest; above me and toward me raced long gray clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The sultry heat was suddenly replaced by damp cold; shadows thickened rapidly. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry streambed 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 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 roared in the heights, the trees grew turbulent, large drops of rain 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 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, 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 have risen 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 clap of thunder rang out immediately after it. The rain gushed with redoubled force.

"It won't pass soon," the forester continued.

"What can be done!"

"I can lead you to my hut, if you like," he said abruptly.

"Do me the favor."

"Please remain 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 rocked "like a boat at sea," and called the dog. My poor mare splashed her feet heavily through the mud, 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. 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 about twelve years old, in a little shirt 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 the corner lay a heap of rags; two large pots stood by the stove. A splinter of wood burned on the table, flaring up and going out 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 rocking the cradle with her right hand, adjusting the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart began to ache: it is 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.

"Are you the forester's daughter?"

"The forester's," she whispered.

The door creaked, and the forester stepped over the threshold, bowing 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 seen 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 thick eyebrows, small brown eyes gazed boldly. He lightly rested his hands on his hips and stopped before me.

I thanked him and asked his name.

"They call me Foma," he replied, "and by nickname Biryuk."

"Ah, you're Biryuk?"

I looked at him with redoubled 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 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 midnight, he'll descend like snow on your head, and don't 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 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 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 replied gloomily, "I can't 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 lowered her eyes; the child woke up and cried; the girl approached the cradle.

"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a soiled feeding horn into her hand. "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, 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 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 shirt; 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 command, I'll see you through 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 they're cutting down a tree," he added in response to my questioning look.

"Can you really hear it from here?"

"I can hear it from the yard."

We went out together. The rain had stopped. In the distance heavy masses of clouds still gathered, long lightning flashes flared occasionally; but above our heads 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 agitated 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 said suddenly and extended his hand, "see what a night he's chosen." I heard nothing but the rustle of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "Well then, I might," he added aloud, "miss him after all." "I'll go with you... do you want me to?" "All right," he replied and backed the horse up, "we'll catch him in a flash, and then I'll see you on your way. Let's go."

We set off: Biryuk ahead, 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..." Biryuk muttered.

Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; it grew slightly lighter in the forest. 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, weak sounds seemed to me not far away: an axe carefully knocked against branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted... "Where are you going? Stop!" Biryuk's iron voice suddenly thundered. 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 scene 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. Biryuk got up and set him on his feet. I saw a peasant, wet, in rags, with a long disheveled beard. A wretched little nag, half-covered with an angular mat, stood there together with the cart chassis. The forester didn't say a word; the peasant was also 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 be wasted!" 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. Biryuk threw the captured nag 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 with silent fear began to look at us. I sat down 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 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 fellow 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, anxious 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 knocked 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 didn't answer.

"Let me go... from hunger... let me go."

"I know you," the forester replied gloomily, "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!... No one 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 were shaking him. He shook his head and breathed unevenly.

"Let me go," he repeated with dejected 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 the only one we have... let me go!"

"I'm telling you, I can't. I'm also a man under authority: they'll hold me accountable. And I can't indulge you either."

"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, that's what it is... let me go!"