De: A Sportsman's Sketches
I was driving home from the hunt one evening alone, 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, did not fall back a single step from the rear wheels. A storm was approaching. Ahead, an enormous purple cloud was slowly rising from beyond the forest; above me and rushing toward me were 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 stream 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 crisscrossed 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 drops of rain struck sharply, splashed against 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 floundering, I could not see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and wrapping my face, I waited patiently for the end of the bad weather, when suddenly, by the 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 from the earth beside my droshky.
"Who is it?" asked a resonant voice.
"And who are you yourself?"
"I'm the local forester."
I named myself.
"Ah, I know! You're going home?"
"Home. But you see, what a storm..."
"Yes, a storm," answered the voice.
White lightning illuminated the forester from head to foot; a crashing, 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.
"Do me the favor."
"Please stay seated."
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 splashed heavily through the mud with her feet, 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 at home, master," he uttered in a calm voice. The gate creaked, several puppies barked in unison. I raised my head and by 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 at the door. "Coming, coming!" rang out a thin little 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 narrow strap, 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 the bench lay a single-barreled gun, in the corner was a heap of rags; two large pots stood by the stove. A splinter burned on the table, flaring and dying 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, to adjust the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart ached: it is not cheerful to enter a peasant's hut at night. The child in the cradle breathed heavily and rapidly.
"Are you alone here?" 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, across the threshold. He lifted the lantern from the floor, approached the table and lit the lamp.
"I suppose you're not used to splinters?" 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 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 wide eyebrows boldly looked small brown eyes. He lightly placed 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 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 trade in the world: "He won't let you carry off 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 quick as a devil... And there's no way to get him: neither with vodka, nor with money; he doesn't go for any bait. More than once good people have gathered to do away with him, but no—he doesn'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 quarter."
"I do my duty," he answered gloomily, "it's not proper 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.
"Dead, I suppose?"
"No... yes... dead," he added and turned away.
I fell silent; he raised his eyes and looked at me.
"She ran off with a passing townsman," he uttered 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 stained feeding horn into her hand. "She abandoned this one too," he continued in an undertone, pointing to 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 except bread..."
"I'm not hungry."
"Well, as you wish. I'd set up a 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 than before. The bitter smell of stale smoke unpleasantly constricted my breathing. The girl did not move from her place and did not raise her eyes; occasionally she pushed the cradle, timidly drew 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, I'll guide you out of the forest."
I stood up. Biryuk took the gun and examined the lock.
"What's that for?" I asked.
"They're up to mischief in the forest... At Kobylye Verkh they're cutting a tree," he added in response to my questioning glance.
"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 gathered, long lightning flashes occasionally flared; 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 said suddenly and extended his hand, "see what a night he's chosen." I heard nothing except the noise of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "And this way I might, perhaps," he added aloud, "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 see you off. Let's go."
We set off: Biryuk in front, I behind him. God knows how he knew the road, but he stopped only occasionally, and that 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 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 fancied I could hear faint sounds not far away: an axe cautiously struck against 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," Biryuk kept repeating, gasping, "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 under him and was twisting his hands behind his back with a belt. 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 there together with the cart frame. The forester said not a word; the peasant also was 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," muttered the peasant. "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 little horse in the middle of the yard, led the peasant into the room, loosened the knot of the belt and sat him in the 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.
"Look how it's pouring," remarked the forester, "we'll have to wait it out. Won't you lie down?"
"Thank you."
"I would, for your honor, lock him in the closet," 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 fellow 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, leaning his head on his hands. A cricket chirped in the corner... rain drummed on the roof and slid down the windows; we all were silent.
"Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull and 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," the forester replied gloomily, "your whole settlement is like that—thief upon thief."
"Let me go," the peasant kept repeating, "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 shook 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, they're 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 living thing we have... let me go!"
"I tell you, it's impossible. I'm also a man under orders: they'll hold me accountable. And it's not proper to coddle you either."
"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, it's really that... let me go!"