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Where are they flying to?" "To where, they say, there is no winter." "And is there really such a land?" "There is." "Far away?" "Far, far away, beyond the warm seas." Kostya sighed and closed his eyes. More than three hours had passed since I had settled down beside the boys. The moon had risen at last; I did not notice it at once: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night seemed to be just as magnificent as before... But already many stars that had recently stood high in the sky had inclined toward the dark edge of the earth; everything had completely quieted down, as everything usually quiets down only toward morning: all slept a deep, motionless, pre-dawn sleep. The air no longer smelled so strong—dampness seemed to spread through it again... Short are the summer nights!.. The boys' conversation died away together with the fires... The dogs were even dozing; the horses, as far as I could make out in the faintly glimmering, weakly flowing light of the stars, also lay with their heads lowered... Sweet oblivion came over me; it passed into slumber. A fresh current ran across my face. I opened my eyes: morning was beginning. Nowhere yet did the dawn glow pink, but already it had turned white in the east. Everything became visible, though dimly visible, all around. The pale-gray sky was brightening, growing cold, turning blue; the stars now twinkled with a weak light, now disappeared; the earth grew damp, leaves became covered with dew, here and there living sounds, voices began to be heard, and a thin, early breeze had already started to wander and flutter over the earth. My body responded to it with a light, cheerful shiver. I quickly got up and went over to the boys. They were all sleeping like the dead around the smoldering fire; only Pavel raised himself halfway and looked intently at me. I nodded to him and went on my way along the smoking river. Before I had gone two versts, streams of light were already pouring all around me across the wide wet meadow, and ahead, over the greening hills, from forest to forest, and behind along the long dusty road, over the sparkling, crimsoned bushes, and over the river, bashfully turning blue from under the thinning mist—first scarlet, then red, golden streams of young, hot light poured forth... Everything stirred, awoke, began to sing, rustle, speak. Everywhere large drops of dew sparkled like radiant diamonds; toward me, pure and clear, as if also washed by the morning coolness, came the sounds of a bell, and suddenly past me, driven by the familiar boys, rushed the rested herd... I must add with regret that in that same year Pavel was no more. He did not drown: he was killed, falling from a horse. A pity, he was a fine lad!

Biryuk

(From the cycle "Notes of a Hunter")

I was driving home from hunting one evening alone, in a racing droshky. There were still about eight versts to home; my good trotting mare was running 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 behind the forest; above me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The sultry heat was suddenly replaced by damp cold; shadows quickly thickened. I struck the reins on the horse, descended into a ravine, crossed over a dry stream all overgrown with osiers, climbed the hill and drove into the forest. The road wound before me between thick hazel bushes, already flooded with darkness; I moved forward with difficulty. The droshky jumped over the hard roots of century-old oaks and lindens, constantly intersecting 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 pattered, slapped against the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I went at a walk and soon was forced to stop: my horse was floundering, I could not see a thing. Somehow I sheltered by a wide bush. Hunched over and with my face covered, I patiently awaited the end of the bad weather, when suddenly, in a 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 grow out of the ground beside my droshky. "Who is it?" 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," answered the voice. White lightning illuminated the forester from head to foot; a crackling and short clap of thunder sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with redoubled force. "It won't pass soon," continued the forester. "What can one do!" "I'll take you to my hut, if you like," he said abruptly. "Do me the favor." "Be pleased to sit." He approached the horse's head, took it by the bridle and pulled it from its place. We started off. I held onto the cushion of the droshky, which was rocking "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 to the right and left, like a phantom. We drove for quite a long time; 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 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, girded with a narrow belt, 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 droshky under the shed." The girl glanced at me and went into the hut. I went after her. The forester's hut consisted of one room, sooty, low and empty, without sleeping benches or partitions. A torn 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 beside the stove. A splinter of wood burned on the table, sadly flaring up and dying down. 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 with her right hand to rock the cradle, with her left to adjust the wood splinter. 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, over the threshold. He picked up the lantern from the floor, went to the table and lit the wick. "I suppose you're not used to wood 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 built magnificently. From under his wet canvas shirt his mighty muscles protruded convexly. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under grown-together broad 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. "They call me Foma," he answered, "and by nickname Biryuk." {In Oryol province, a man who is solitary and sullen is called Biryuk. (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 their words, there had never been such a master of his trade in the world: "He won't let you drag off a bundle of brushwood; at any 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 with 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." This is what the neighboring peasants said about 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 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 chop wood splinters. "Do you have no 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 tradesman," he said with a cruel smile. The girl hung her head; the child woke up and cried; the girl went to the cradle. "Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting into her hand a soiled feeding horn. "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 have put on 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 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 would push the cradle, timidly pull 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 it, I'll see you out of the forest." I got up. Biryuk took the gun and examined the pan. "What's that for?" I asked. "There's mischief in the forest... They're cutting a tree at Kobylye Verkh." {"Verkh" is the name for a ravine in Oryol province. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)} "Can you hear it from here?" "I can hear it from the yard." We went out together. The rain had stopped. In the distance heavy masses of clouds still crowded, lightning flashed from time to time; but overhead the dark-blue sky was already visible here and there, little stars twinkled through the thin, quickly flying clouds. The outlines of the 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 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. "Well, I might," he added aloud, "miss him after all." "I'll go with you... would you like?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up, "we'll catch him in a flash, and then I'll see you out. 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 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 on through the wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble sounded. "He's felled it..." muttered Biryuk. Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; there was a faint lightness 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 heard faint sounds not far away: an axe was cautiously tapping on branches, wheels were creaking, a horse was snorting... "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 kept saying, breathlessly, "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 under him and was twisting his hands behind his back with a belt. I approached. Biryuk got up 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 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," the peasant muttered. "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 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 down 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 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, leaning his head on his hands. A cricket chirped in the corner... the rain pattered on the roof and slid down the windows; we were all 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 repeated, "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 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, it's come to that." "But you still shouldn't go stealing." "The little horse," the peasant continued, "the little horse at least, even just her... she's my only living... let me go!" "I tell you, I can't. I'm also a man under orders: they'll hold me accountable. There's no need to spoil you either." "Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, it's really come to that... let me go!"