来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
I was driving home from hunting alone one evening 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 lag a single 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; 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 willows, 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 droshky bounced over the hard roots of century-old oaks and lindens that constantly intersected 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 raindrops sharply drummed and splattered on 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 getting stuck, I couldn't see a thing. I somehow took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and covering my face, I was patiently waiting for the bad weather to end when suddenly, in 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 rise from the earth beside my droshky.
"Who's that?" asked a resonant voice.
"And who are you?"
"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," the voice answered.
White lightning illuminated the forester from head to foot; a crashing and short clap of thunder sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with doubled force.
"It won't pass soon," the forester continued.
"What can you 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 on the 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 ghost. We rode for quite a long 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 by the light of lightning saw a small hut in the middle of a spacious yard surrounded 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 of about twelve, in a shirt belted with a strip of cloth, 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, sooty, low and empty, without sleeping benches or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. A single-barrel gun lay on the bench, a heap of rags lay in the corner; two large pots stood near the stove. A splinter 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, adjusting 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 pronounced barely audibly.
"You're the forester's daughter?"
"The forester's," she whispered.
The door creaked, and the forester stepped over the threshold, bending his head. He picked up 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 rarely happened to see such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and splendidly 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 his thick grown-together 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 Yermolai 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; at any time, even at midnight itself, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and don't think of resisting—he's strong, they say, and clever as the 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 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've heard about you, brother. They say you don't give anyone a break."
"I perform 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 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 lowered her eyes; the child woke up and cried out; the girl approached the cradle.
"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a soiled baby bottle into her hand. "She abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing at the child. He approached the door, stopped and turned around.
"You probably, master," 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 again. The hut seemed even more dismal to me than before. The bitter smell of stale smoke unpleasantly constricted my breathing. The girl didn't move from her place and didn't raise her eyes; occasionally she pushed the cradle, timidly pulled up the shirt that was slipping off her shoulder; her bare feet 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 escort you out of the forest."
I stood up. Biryuk took the gun and examined the pan.
"What's that for?" I asked.
"They're mischief-making in the forest... At Kobylye Verkh they're cutting down a tree," he added in answer to my questioning look.
"Can you really 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 crowded, long lightning flashes occasionally flared; but above our heads the 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 agitated 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 stretched out 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. "Otherwise I might, perhaps," he added aloud, "oversleep him." "I'll go with you... want me to?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up, "we'll catch him in a flash, and then I'll escort you. Let's go."
We set off: Biryuk ahead, I behind him. God knows how he knew 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 hearing. 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; the forest grew slightly lighter. 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 strain. Through the constant noise of the wind I fancied I heard weak sounds nearby: an axe cautiously tapping on branches, wheels creaking, a horse snorting... "Where are you going? Stop!" Biryuk's iron voice suddenly thundered. Another voice cried out pitifully, like a hare... A struggle began. "You're ly-ing, you're ly-ing," Biryuk kept repeating 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 tying 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 piece of matting, stood right there along with a cart chassis. The forester said not a word; the peasant was also 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, you crow!" he said sternly. "Pick up the 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. We reached the hut with difficulty. 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 began to look at us with silent fright. I sat down 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's sake," he continued, pointing at 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 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 right at his feet and fell asleep again. Biryuk sat by the table, leaning 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 dull and 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," the forester replied gloomily. "Your whole village is like that—thief upon thief."
"Let me go," the peasant kept repeating. "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 ruin 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 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 living thing we have... let me go!"
"I'm telling you, it's impossible. I'm also a subordinate man: they'll hold me accountable. I can't indulge you either."
"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, really and truly... let me go!"