through all his cash, the precious buck, so now he sticks
here with his tail between his legs and takes it easy.
We'd have had enough and more than enough to pay for
the fare, but no he must exhibit himself in every town.
[Imitates him.] "Osip, get me the best room to be
had and order the best dinner they serve. I can't stand
bad food. I must have the best." It would be all
right for a somebody, but for a common copying clerk!
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