来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
I was riding home alone one evening from a hunt in a 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 back wheels without falling a step behind. A storm was gathering. Ahead, an enormous purple cloud was slowly rising from beyond the forest; above me and towards me rushed long gray clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and whispered. 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 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 moved forward 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 raged, large raindrops struck sharply 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 was stuck, I couldn't 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, in a flash of lightning, a tall figure appeared to me on the road. I began to peer intently in that direction—the same figure seemed to have grown from the earth beside my trap.
"Who's 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," the voice answered.
White lightning illuminated the forester from head to foot; a crackling, 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 can lead you to my hut if you like," he said abruptly.
"I'd be obliged."
"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 trap, which swayed "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 phantom. We rode for quite a while; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are, sir," he said in a calm voice. The gate creaked, several puppies barked in unison. I raised my head and in the light of the 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!" sounded a thin little 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 at the threshold.
"Light the way for the gentleman," he said to her, "and I'll put your trap under the shelter."
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 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 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 ached: it's 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 pronounced barely audibly.
"You're the forester's daughter?"
"The forester's," she whispered.
The door creaked, and the forester stepped through the threshold, bowing his head. He picked up 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. I had rarely encountered such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and splendidly built. From under his wet homespun shirt his powerful muscles bulged prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under his thick grown-together eyebrows, small hazel eyes looked boldly. 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." [Biryuk is what they call in Oryol province a man who is solitary and sullen. (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 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; whatever the hour, even at midnight itself, he'll descend like snow on your head, and don't think of resisting—strong, they say, and clever as a devil... And there's no way to get him: neither with vodka nor money; he doesn't go for any bait. More than once good people have tried 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 quarter to anyone."
"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 splinters.
"Don't you have a wife?" I asked him.
"No," he replied, 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 said with a cruel smile. The girl lowered her eyes; the baby woke and cried out; the girl went to 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 baby. He went to the door, stopped and turned around.
"I suppose, sir," he began, "you won't eat our bread, and I have nothing except bread..."
"I'm not hungry."
"Well, as you wish. I would 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 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 spot and didn't raise her eyes; occasionally she pushed the cradle, timidly pulled up the shirt slipping from her shoulder; 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 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 ["Verkh" is what they call a ravine in Oryol province. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)] they're cutting a tree," he added in response to my questioning look.
"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, long lightning flashes occasionally flared; but above 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 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 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 shelter. "But like this 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 ahead, I behind him. God knows how he found the way, 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; 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 weak sounds nearby: an axe carefully struck branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted... "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, out of breath, "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 under him and was tying 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 a cart frame. 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, crow!" he said sternly. "Pick up the axe," 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 made it to 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 began to look at us with silent fright. I sat on the bench.
"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 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 all costs. He sat motionless on the bench. In 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 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 didn't answer.
"Let me go... from hunger... let me go."
"I know you," the forester gloomily retorted. "Your whole settlement 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 destroy me. Yours, you know yourself, will eat you alive, that's how it is."
Biryuk turned away. The peasant twitched 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 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 there is... 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 need to spoil you either."
"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, that's just how it is... let me go!"