Capítulo 66 de 80

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, kept pace with the back wheels without falling behind a single step. A storm was approaching. Ahead, an enormous purple cloud slowly rose from behind the forest; above me and toward me rushed long grey clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The oppressive heat suddenly gave way to 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 raged, large drops of rain sharply drummed and splashed on the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. The rain poured in streams. I went at a walk and soon was forced to stop: my horse floundered, I couldn't see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and with my face wrapped, I waited patiently for the end of the bad weather, when suddenly, in a flash of lightning, a tall figure seemed to appear 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 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 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 lead you to my hut if you like," he said abruptly.

"Please do."

"Be so kind as to 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 heavily slapped her feet through the mud, slipped, stumbled; the forester swayed before the shafts right and left, like a ghost. We rode for quite some time; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are, master," he said in a calm voice. A gate creaked, several puppies barked in unison. I raised my head and in 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 shirt tied with a belt, 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, smoky, low and empty, without sleeping platform or partitions. A tattered 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 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 on a tiny bench and began to rock the cradle with her right hand, straighten the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart began to ache: 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 said barely audibly.

"You're the forester's daughter?"

"The forester's," she whispered.

The door creaked, and the forester stepped over the threshold, bowing his head. 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. I had rarely had occasion to see such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and splendidly built. From under his wet canvas shirt his powerful muscles protruded convexly. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and masculine face; from under thick, joined eyebrows small brown eyes looked boldly. He lightly rested his hands on his sides and stopped before me.

I thanked him and asked his name.

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

"Ah, you're Biryuk?"

I looked at him with redoubled curiosity. From my Yermolay 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; whatever time it may be, even at deepest midnight, he'll descend like snow on your head, and don't you think of resisting—he's strong, they say, and cunning 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 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 give no one any quarter."

"I do my duty," he answered sullenly, "it's not proper to eat the master's bread for nothing."

He took an axe from his belt, sat on the floor and began to chop splinters.

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

"No," he replied and struck 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 looked down; the child woke and cried out; the girl approached the cradle.

"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a dirty feeding horn into her hand. "She abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing to the child. He approached the door, stopped and turned around.

"You, master, I expect," 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 than before. The bitter smell of stale smoke unpleasantly constricted my breathing. The girl didn't stir from her place and didn't raise her eyes; occasionally she pushed the cradle, timidly pulled 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 came in and sat on the bench.

"The storm is passing," he remarked after a short silence, "if you order it, I'll lead you out of 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 a tree," he added in response to my questioning gaze.

"Can you 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 clustered, long flashes of lightning occasionally flared; but overhead dark blue sky was already visible here and there, 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 bowed his head. "There... there," he suddenly said and extended his hand, "see what a night he chose." I heard nothing but the rustle of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "And so 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 found the way, 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 ears. Biryuk glanced at me and nodded his head. We went further through wet ferns and nettles. A muffled 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 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 intently. Through the constant noise of the wind I fancied I could hear faint sounds nearby: an axe cautiously struck 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, panting, "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 binding 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 bast mat, stood there together with cart wheels. 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 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 made it to 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 the corner. The girl, who had fallen asleep by the stove, jumped up and with silent fright began to stare at us. I sat 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 honor," 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 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, resting 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 began in a muffled, 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 people," the forester answered sullenly, "your whole village is like that—thief upon thief."

"Let me go," the peasant repeated, "the bailiff... 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 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 thing we have... let me go!"

"I say it's impossible. I'm also a man under authority: they'll hold me accountable. There's no pampering you either."

"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, truly... let me go!"