“Yes—but I do not know,” said his hostess diffidently. “You see, never before have I sold dead souls.”
“Quite so. It would be a surprising thing if you had. But surely you do not think that these dead souls are in the least worth keeping?”
“Oh, no, indeed! Why should they be worth keeping? I am sure they are not so. The only thing which troubles me is the fact that they are DEAD.”
“She seems a truly obstinate old woman!” was Chichikov’s inward comment. “Look here, madam,” he added aloud. “You reason well, but you are simply ruining yourself by continuing to pay the tax upon dead souls as though they were still alive.”
“Oh, good sir, do not speak of it!” the lady exclaimed. “Three weeks ago I took a hundred and fifty roubles to that Assessor, and buttered him up, and—”
“Then you see how it is, do you not? Remember that, according to my plan, you will never again have to butter up the Assessor, seeing that it will be I who will be paying for those peasants—I, not YOU, for I shall have taken over the dues upon them, and have transferred them to myself as so many bona fide serfs. Do you understand AT LAST?”
However, the old lady still communed with herself. She could see that the transaction would be to her advantage, yet it was one of such a novel and unprecedented nature that she was beginning to fear lest this purchaser of souls intended to cheat her. Certainly he had come from God only knew where, and at the dead of night, too!
“But, sir, I have never in my life sold dead folk—only living ones. Three years ago I transferred two wenches to Protopopov for a hundred roubles apiece, and he thanked me kindly, for they turned out splendid workers—able to make napkins or anything else.
“Yes, but with the living we have nothing to do, damn it! I am asking you only about DEAD folk.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But at first sight I felt afraid lest I should be incurring a loss—lest you should be wishing to outwit me, good sir. You see, the dead souls are worth rather more than you have offered for them.”