“Well,” said Chichikov, “they exist, though only in idea.”
“But no—NOT only in idea. I tell you that nowhere else would you find such a fellow for working heavy tools as was Michiev. He had the strength of a horse in his shoulders.” And, with the words, Sobakevitch turned, as though for corroboration, to the portrait of Bagration, as is frequently done by one of the parties in a dispute when he purports to appeal to an extraneous individual who is not only unknown to him, but wholly unconnected with the subject in hand; with the result that the individual is left in doubt whether to make a reply, or whether to betake himself elsewhere.
“Nevertheless, I CANNOT give you more than two roubles per head,” said Chichikov.
“Well, as I don’t want you to swear that I have asked too much of you and won’t meet you halfway, suppose, for friendship’s sake, that you pay me seventy-five roubles in assignats?”
“Good heavens!” thought Chichikov to himself. “Does the man take me for a fool?” Then he added aloud: “The situation seems to me a strange one, for it is as though we were performing a stage comedy. No other explanation would meet the case. Yet you appear to be a man of sense, and possessed of some education. The matter is a very simple one. The question is: what is a dead soul worth, and is it of any use to any one?”
“It is of use to YOU, or you would not be buying such articles.”
Chichikov bit his lip, and stood at a loss for a retort. He tried to saying something about “family and domestic circumstances,” but Sobakevitch cut him short with:
“I don’t want to know your private affairs, for I never poke my nose into such things. You need the souls, and I am ready to sell them. Should you not buy them, I think you will repent it.”
“Two roubles is my price,” repeated Chichikov.
“Come, come! As you have named that sum, I can understand your not liking to go back upon it; but quote me a bona fide figure.”