Capítulo 68 de 80

I was driving home from hunting one evening alone in a light racing trap. There were still about eight versts to home; 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 rear wheels without falling behind a step. A thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, an enormous purple cloud slowly rose from behind the forest; above me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and murmured. The sultry heat suddenly gave way to damp cold; shadows thickened rapidly. I struck the reins against the horse, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry streambed overgrown with osiers, climbed the hill and entered the forest. The road wound before me between thick hazel bushes already flooded with darkness; I advanced with difficulty. The trap 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 surged, large raindrops sharply drummed and splashed on the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I proceeded at a walk and soon was forced to stop: my horse got stuck, I could not see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and with my face covered, I waited patiently for the bad weather to end, 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 grown from the earth beside my trap.

"Who is that?" asked a resonant voice.

"And who are you?"

"I'm the forester here."

I gave my name.

"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 toe; a crackling, short clap of thunder sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with redoubled force.

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

"What can one do!"

"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 it by the bridle and pulled it from its place. We set off. I held onto the cushion of the trap, which rocked "like a boat on the sea," and called to 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 a phantom. We rode for quite a while; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are at home, sir," he said 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 light glimmered dimly from one small window. The forester led the horse to the porch and knocked on the door. "Right away, right away!" rang out a thin voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl about twelve years old, in a shift, belted with a strip of cloth, with a lantern in her hand, appeared on the threshold.

"Light the way for the gentleman," he said to her, "and I'll put your trap 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 bare, without sleeping platform or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. On a bench lay a single-barrel 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 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 stool and began to rock the cradle with her right hand, straightening the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart grew heavy: it is 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 splinters?" he said and shook his curls.

I looked at him. Rarely had I chanced to see such a fine fellow. He was tall in stature, broad-shouldered and magnificently built. From under his wet canvas shirt his powerful muscles protruded prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under grown-together wide eyebrows 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 the nickname Biryuk." [Note: Biryuk is what they call a solitary and sullen person in Oryol province. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)]

"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 trade in the world: "He won't let you carry off 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 clever 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 get rid of him, but no—he doesn't give in."

That's how the neighboring peasants spoke of Biryuk.

"So you're Biryuk," I repeated, "I, brother, have heard about you. They say you give no one quarter."

"I perform my duty," he answered gloomily, "one cannot 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, swinging the axe powerfully.

"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 townsman," he uttered with a cruel smile. The girl lowered her eyes; the child woke up and cried out; the girl approached the cradle.

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

"You, I suppose, sir," he began, "won't eat our bread, and I have nothing except 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 a second time. The hut seemed even more dismal to me than before. The bitter smell of cold 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 pulling onto her shoulder the slipping shirt; her bare feet hung motionless.

"What is 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 brief silence, "if you order it, I'll lead you out of the forest."

I stood up. Biryuk took the gun and examined the firing 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 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, lightning flashed from time to time; but over our heads 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 lowered his head. "There... there," he said suddenly and extended his hand, "see what a night he chose." I heard nothing except the noise of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "But 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 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 ears. 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 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 concentration. Through the constant noise of the wind, it seemed to me that weak sounds were nearby: an axe cautiously tapping on branches, wheels creaking, a horse snorting... "Where are you going? Stop!" suddenly thundered Biryuk's iron voice. Another voice cried out piteously, like a hare's... A struggle began. "You lie, you lie," repeated Biryuk, panting, "you won't get away..." I rushed in the direction of the noise and arrived, stumbling at every step, at 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. 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 together with cart wheels. The forester did not 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 little axe," muttered the peasant. "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. 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 sash 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. Would you like to lie down?"

"Thank you."

"I would lock him in the closet, for your grace," 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 all costs. 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... rain drummed on the roof and slid down the windows; we all kept silent.

"Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull, 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," repeated the peasant, "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 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 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 let her go... she's the only one 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 won't do to coddle you either."

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