Capítulo 54 de 80

I was driving home alone from hunting one evening in a racing droshky. There were still about eight versts to go; 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 thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, an enormous purple cloud was slowly rising from beyond the forest; above me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The sultry heat suddenly gave way to damp cold; shadows thickened rapidly. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry brook 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 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 raged, large raindrops sharply clattered 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 was stuck, I couldn't see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and with my face covered, I was patiently waiting for the bad weather to end when suddenly, by the flash of lightning, a tall figure seemed to appear on the road. I began to stare intently in that direction—the same figure seemed to have sprung from the ground beside my droshky.

"Who's that?" 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 sounded 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.

"Please do."

"Be seated then."

He approached the horse's head, took it by the bridle, and pulled it from its place. 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 heavily slapped her feet 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, 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, a bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, in a little shirt belted with a cord, 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, smoky, low, and empty, without bunks or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. A single-barreled gun lay on the bench, a heap of rags lay in the corner; two large pots stood near the stove. A torch burned on the table, flaring 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 bench, and began to rock the cradle with her right hand, adjusting the torch 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 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 torches?" he said, shaking 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 canvas shirt his powerful muscles protruded prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and masculine face; from under his grown-together wide brows boldly gazed small brown 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." {In Oryol province, Biryuk means a solitary and gloomy 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 neighboring peasants feared like fire. According to them, there had never been such a master of his trade: "He won't let you steal a bundle of brushwood; whatever the time, even at midnight, 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 him: neither with vodka nor money; he won't take any bait. More than once good people have tried to do away with him, but no—he won't give in."

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 a break."

"I do my duty," he answered gloomily. "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 split kindling.

"Don't you have a wife?" I asked him.

"No," he replied, 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 up and began to cry; the girl approached the cradle.

"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a stained 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, sir, I suppose," 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 about 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, bowing her sad little face even lower.

The forester entered and sat down on the bench.

"The storm is passing," he remarked after a brief silence. "If you order, 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 making 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 occasionally flared; but over our heads 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 tossed 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 chose." I heard nothing but the noise of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "Otherwise I might, perhaps," he added aloud, "miss him." "I'll go with you... shall I?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up. "We'll catch him in a flash, and then I'll see you off. 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 to listen to the sound of the axe. "See," he muttered through his teeth, "do you hear? do you hear?" "Where?" Biryuk shrugged his shoulders. We descended into a ravine, the wind died down for a moment—measured blows clearly reached my ear. Biryuk glanced at me and nodded his head. We went further through wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble sounded.

"He's felled it..." muttered Biryuk.

Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; it grew slightly lighter in the forest. 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 I seemed to hear faint sounds 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... A struggle began. "You're ly-ing, ly-ing," Biryuk repeated breathlessly, "you won't get away..." I rushed in the direction of the noise and came running, stumbling at every step, to 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 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 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," the peasant muttered. "Why should it be lost!" 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 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 down on the bench.

"Look 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 sake," 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 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... rain tapped on the roof and slid down the windows; we all remained silent.

"Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull, 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 continued. "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. Your master, you know yourself, will eat me alive, that's how it is."

Biryuk turned away. The peasant twitched as if fever was 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... it's the only beast I have... let me go!"

"I tell you, I can't. I'm also a man under orders: they'll hold me accountable. You shouldn't be indulged either."

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