Goes and gets acquainted with the other travellers, plays cards, and plays himself out of his last penny. Oh, I'm sick of this life. It's better in our village, really. There isn't so much going on, but then there is less to bother about. You get yourself a wife and lie on the stove all the time and eat pie. Of course, if you wanted to tell the truth, there's no denying it that there's nothing like living in St. Pete. All you want is money. And then you can live smart and classy—theeadres, dogs to dance for you, everything, and everybody talks so genteel, pretty near like in high society. If you go to the Schukin bazaar, the shopkeepers cry, "Gentlemen," at you. You sit with the officials in the ferry boat. If you want company, you go into a shop. A sport there will tell you about life in the barracks and explain the meaning of every star in the sky, so that you see them all as if you held them in your hand. Then an old officer's wife will gossip, or a pretty chambermaid will dart a look at you—ta, ta, ta! [Smirks and wags his head.] And what deucedly civil manners they have, too. You never hear no impolite language. They always say "Mister" to you. If you are tired of walking, why you take a cab and sit in it like a lord. And if you don't feel like paying, then you don't. Every house has an open-work gate and you can slip through and the devil himself won't catch you. There's one bad thing, though; sometimes you get first class eats and sometimes you're so starved you nearly drop—like now. It's all his fault. What can you do with him? His dad sends him money to keep him going, but the devil a lot it does. He goes off on a spree, rides in cabs, gets me to buy a theeadre ticket for him every day, and in a week look at him—sends me to the old clo'es man to sell his new dress coat. Sometimes he gets rid of everything down to his last shirt and is left with nothing except his coat and overcoat. Upon my word, it's the truth. And such fine cloth, too. English, you know. One dress coat costs him a hundred and fifty rubles and he sells it to the old clo'es man for twenty. No use saying nothing about his pants. They go for a song. And why? Because he doesn't tend to his business. Instead of sticking to his job, he gads about on the Prospect and plays cards. Ah, if the old gentleman only knew it! He wouldn't care that you are an official. He'd lift up your little shirtie and would lay it on so that you'd go about rubbing yourself for a week. If you have a job, stick to it. Here's the innkeeper says he won't let you have anything to eat unless you pay your back bills. Well, and suppose we don't pay. [Sighing.] Oh, good God! If only I could get cabbage soup. I think I could eat up the whole world now. There's a knock at the door. I suppose it's him. [Rises from the bed hastily.]
SCENE II
Osip and Khlestakov.
KHLESTAKOV. Here! [Hands him his cap and cane.] What, been warming the bed again!
OSIP. Why should I have been warming the bed? Have I never seen a bed before?
KHLESTAKOV. You're lying. The bed's all tumbled up.
OSIP. What do I want a bed for? Don't I know what a bed is like? I have legs and can use them to stand on. I don't need your bed.
KHLESTAKOV [walking up and down the room]. Go see if there isn't some tobacco in the pouch.
OSIP. What tobacco? You emptied it out four days ago.
KHLESTAKOV [pacing the room and twisting his lips. Finally he says in a loud resolute voice]. Listen—a—Osip.
OSIP. Yes, sir?
KHLESTAKOV [In a voice just as loud, but not quite so resolute]. Go down there.
OSIP. Where?
KHLESTAKOV [in a voice not at all resolute, nor loud, but almost in entreaty]. Down to the restaurant—tell them—to send up dinner.
OSIP. No, I won't.
KHLESTAKOV. How dare you, you fool!
OSIP. It won't do any good, anyhow. The landlord said he won't let you have anything more to eat.
KHLESTAKOV. How dare he! What nonsense is this?
OSIP. He'll go to the Governor, too, he says. It's two weeks now since you've paid him, he says. You and your master are cheats, he says, and your master is a blackleg besides, he says. We know the breed. We've seen swindlers like him before.
KHLESTAKOV. And you're delighted, I suppose, to repeat all this to me, you donkey.
OSIP. "Every Tom, Dick and Harry comes and lives here," he says, "and runs up debts so that you can't even put him out. I'm not going to fool about it," he says, "I'm going straight to the Governor and have him arrested and put in jail."
KHLESTAKOV. That'll do now, you fool. Go down at once and tell him to have dinner sent up. The coarse brute! The idea!
OSIP. Hadn't I better call the landlord here?
KHLESTAKOV. What do I want the landlord for? Go and tell him yourself.
OSIP. But really, master—
KHLESTAKOV. Well, go, the deuce take you. Call the landlord.
Osip goes out.
SCENE III
KHLESTAKOV [alone]. I am so ravenously hungry. I took a little stroll thinking I could walk off my appetite. But, hang it, it clings. If I hadn't dissipated so in Penza I'd have had enough money to get home with. The infantry captain did me up all right. Wonderful the way the scoundrel cut the cards! It didn't take more than a quarter of an hour for him to clean me out of my last penny. And yet I would give anything to have another set-to with him. Only I never will have the chance.—What a rotten town this is! You can't get anything on credit in the grocery shops here. It's deucedly mean, it is. [He whistles, first an air from Robert le Diable, then a popular song, then a blend of the two.] No one's coming.
SCENE IV
Khlestakov, Osip, and a Servant.
SERVANT. The landlord sent me up to ask what you want.
KHLESTAKOV. Ah, how do you do, brother! How are you? How are you?
SERVANT. All right, thank you.
KHLESTAKOV. And how are you getting on in the inn? Is business good?
SERVANT. Yes, business is all right, thank you.
KHLESTAKOV. Many guests?
SERVANT. Plenty.
KHLESTAKOV. See here, good friend. They haven't sent me dinner yet. Please hurry them up! See that I get it as soon as possible. I have some business to attend to immediately after dinner.
SERVANT. The landlord said he won't let you have anything any more. He was all for going to the Governor to-day and making a complaint against you.
KHLESTAKOV. What's there to complain about? Judge for yourself, friend. Why, I've got to eat. If I go on like this I'll turn into a skeleton. I'm hungry, I'm not joking.
SERVANT. Yes, sir, that's what he said. "I won't let him have no dinner," he said, "till he pays for what he has already had." That was his answer.
KHLESTAKOV. Try to persuade him.
SERVANT. But what shall I tell him?
KHLESTAKOV.
