Capítulo 80 de 80

I was driving home from hunting one evening alone, in a racing droshky. It was 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, did not lag a step behind the rear wheels. 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 was suddenly replaced by damp cold; shadows thickened rapidly. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed over 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, constantly crossing 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 raindrops struck sharply, slapping against the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I proceeded at a walk and was soon forced to stop: my horse floundered, I could not see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and covering my face, 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 sprung from the earth beside my droshky.

"Who is it?" asked a resonant voice.

"And who are you yourself?"

"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," answered the voice.

White lightning illuminated the forester from head to foot; a crackling, short thunderclap rang out immediately after it. The rain gushed with redoubled force.

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

"What can be done!"

"I'll take 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 droshky, which swayed "like a boat at sea," and called to 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 ghost. We rode for quite a long time; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are at home, sir," he said in a calm voice. A wicket 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 large 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 little voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, in a little shirt, belted with a 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 after her.

The forester's hut consisted of one room, smoke-blackened, low and empty, without sleeping platform 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 by the stove. A splinter burned on the table, flaring up and dying down dismally. 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, adjusting the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart ached within me: 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 pronounced barely audibly.

"Are you the forester's daughter?"

"The forester's," she whispered.

The door creaked, and the forester stepped, bowing his head, over the threshold. He picked up the lantern from the floor, approached the table and lit the lamp.

"I suppose you're not accustomed 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 in stature, broad-shouldered and splendidly built. From under his wet canvas shirt his mighty muscles protruded conspicuously. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under grown-together wide eyebrows boldly looked small brown eyes. He lightly rested 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 Yermolay and from others I had often heard tales about the forester Biryuk, whom all the surrounding peasants feared like fire. According to their words, there had never been such a master of his trade: "He won't let you carry off a bundle of brushwood; whatever the time, even at dead of night, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and you mustn't think of resisting—he's strong, they say, and cunning as a devil... And there's no way to get at him: neither with vodka nor with money; he doesn't go for any bait. More than once good folk have gathered to do away with him, but no—he doesn't give himself up."

Thus the neighboring peasants spoke of Biryuk.

"So you're Biryuk," I repeated, "I've heard about you, brother. They say you give nobody quarter."

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

He drew an axe from behind his belt, squatted on the floor and began to chop splinters.

"Do you have no wife?" I asked him.

"No," he answered and swung 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 uttered with a cruel smile. The girl bowed her head; the child woke and began to cry; the girl approached the cradle.

"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a soiled 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, 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 have 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 cooled smoke unpleasantly constricted my breathing. The girl did not stir from her place and did not raise her eyes; occasionally she pushed the cradle, timidly pulling onto her shoulder her slipping shirt; her bare legs hung motionless.

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Ulita," she said, bowing her sad little face even lower.

The forester entered and sat on the bench.

"The storm is passing," he remarked after a brief silence, "if you order it, I'll see you out of the forest."

I stood up. Biryuk took the gun and examined the pan.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"There's mischief in the forest... At Kobylye Verkh they're cutting down a tree," he added in answer to my questioning gaze.

"Can you really hear it from here?"

"From the yard I can hear it."

We went out together. The rain had stopped. In the distance heavy masses of clouds still crowded, long lightning flashes still flickered occasionally; but above 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 stirred by the wind, began to emerge from the darkness. We began to listen. The forester removed his cap and bowed his head. "There... there," he suddenly said and extended his hand, "see what a night he's chosen." I heard nothing except the rustle of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "Well then I might, perhaps," he added aloud, "miss him after all." "I'll go with you... would you like?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up again, "we'll catch him in a flash, and then I'll see you off. Let's go."

We set off: Biryuk in front, I after him. God knows how he found 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 further through wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble rang out.

"It's fallen..." 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 nearby faint sounds: an axe was cautiously tapping on branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted... "Where are you going? Stop!" suddenly thundered Biryuk's iron voice. Another voice cried out piteously, 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 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 the cart undercarriage. The forester said not a word; the peasant too 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 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 stare at us. I sat on the bench.

"Look how it's pouring," remarked the forester, "we'll have to wait it out. Wouldn't you like to lie down?"

"Thank you."

"I would have locked him in the closet, for your honor's sake," he continued, pointing to the peasant, "but you see, the bolt..."

"Leave him there, 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 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 knocked on the roof and slid down the windows; we all were silent.

"Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull, broken voice, "ah, 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 grimly, "your whole settlement is like that—thief upon thief."

"Let me go," the peasant persisted, "the steward... we're ruined, that's how it is... let me go!"

"Ruined!.. Stealing is not proper for anyone."

"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 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 still you shouldn't go stealing."

"The little horse," the peasant continued, "the little horse at least, at least her... she'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 make me answer for it. There's no call to spoil you either."

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