You are making fun of me. You're only ridiculing the provincials.
KHLESTAKOV.
Oh, mademoiselle, how I long to be your scarf, so that I might embrace your lily neck.
MARYA.
I haven't the least idea what you are talking about—scarf!—Peculiar weather today, isn't it?
KHLESTAKOV.
Your lips, mademoiselle, are better than any weather.
MARYA.
You are just saying that—I should like to ask you—I'd rather you would write some verses in my album for a souvenir.
You must know very many.
KHLESTAKOV.
Anything you desire, mademoiselle.
Ask! What verses will you have?
MARYA.
Any at all. Pretty, new verses.
KHLESTAKOV.
Oh, what are verses! I know a lot of them.
MARYA.
Well, tell me. What verses will you write for me?
KHLESTAKOV.
What's the use? I know them anyway.
MARYA.
I love them so.
KHLESTAKOV.
I have lots of them—of every sort.
If you like, for example, I'll give you this:
"Oh, thou, mortal man, who in thy anguish murmurest against God—" and others.
I can't remember them now. Besides, it's all bosh.
I'd rather offer you my love instead, which ever since your first glance—[Moves his chair nearer.]
MARYA.
Love?
I don't understand love. I never knew what love is. [Moves her chair away.]
KHLESTAKOV.
Why do you move your chair away?
It is better for us to sit near each other.
MARYA [moving away].
Why near? It's all the same if it's far away.
KHLESTAKOV [moving nearer].
Why far? It's all the same if it's near.
MARYA [moving away].
But what for?
KHLESTAKOV [moving nearer].
It only seems near to you. Imagine it's far.
How happy I would be, mademoiselle, if I could clasp you in my embrace.
MARYA [looking through the window].
What is that? It looked as if something had flown by.
Was it a magpie or some other bird?
KHLESTAKOV [kisses her shoulder and looks through the window].
It's a magpie.
MARYA [rises indignantly].