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The door slammed and the troublesome visitor went out with his dog. . . . Artyom bolted the door after him, crossed himself, and lay down.
"You get wages every month, and I'll be bound you sell timber on the sly." Artyom took a timid sideway glance at his visitor and twitched his beard as a magpie twitches her tail. "You are still young to say a thing like that to me," he said. "You will have to answer to God for those words. Whom may your people be? Where do you come from?" "I am from Vyazovka.
One pane of the window had been pasted up with paper, and leaves torn off by the wind could be heard pattering against the paper. "I tell you what, good Christian," said Artyom in a hoarse little tenor half-whisper, staring with unblinking, scared-looking eyes at the hunter. "I am not afraid of wolves or bears, or wild beasts of any sort, but I am afraid of man.
At that moment something began growling under the bench: the growl was followed by a hiss. Artyom started, drew up his legs, and looked enquiringly at the hunter. "It's my dog worrying your cat," said the hunter. "You devils!" he shouted under the bench. "Lie down. You'll be beaten. I say, your cat's thin, mate! She is nothing but skin and bone."
The tone is gloomy, oppressive; the audience unaccustomed to such subjects will walk out of the theatre, and you may well say good-bye to your reputation as an optimist in any case. My wife will play Vassilisa, the immoral and spiteful woman; Vishnevsky walks about the house and imagines himself the Tatar he is convinced that it is the part for him. Luka, alas! you must not give to Artyom.
"She is old, it is time she was dead. . . . So you say you are from Vyazovka?" "I see you don't feed her. Though she's a cat she's a creature . . . every breathing thing. You should have pity on her!" "You are a queer lot in Vyazovka," Artyom went on, as though not listening. "The church has been robbed twice in one year. . . To think that there are such wicked men!
IN the low-pitched, crooked little hut of Artyom, the forester, two men were sitting under the big dark ikon Artyom himself, a short and lean peasant with a wrinkled, aged-looking face and a little beard that grew out of his neck, and a well-grown young man in a new crimson shirt and big wading boots, who had been out hunting and come in for the night.
"For those words you will answer before God," Artyom said hoarsely from the stove. "I have no money." "I dare say! Scoundrels always have money. . . . Why are you afraid of people, then? So you must have! I'd like to take and rob you for spite, to teach you a lesson! . . ." Artyom slipped noiselessly from the stove, lighted a candle, and sat down under the holy image.
I am the son of Nefed the village elder." "You have gone out for sport with your gun. I used to like sport, too, when I was young. H'm! Ah, our sins are grievous," said Artyom, with a yawn. "It's a sad thing! There are few good folks, but villains and murderers no end God have mercy upon us." "You seem to be frightened of me, too. . . ." "Come, what next! What should I be afraid of you for?
His daughter is enchanting, Tatyana and Pyotr are also, and their mother is a splendid old woman. The central figure of the play, Nil, is vigorously drawn and extremely interesting! In fact, the play takes hold of one from the first act. Only God preserve you from letting anyone act Pertchihin except Artyom, while Alexeyev-Stanislavsky must certainly play Nil.
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