Dead Souls

Chichikov saw that the old woman had overshot the mark and that it was necessary to explain what it was all about. In a few words he made clear to her that the transfer or purchase would only be on paper, and the souls would be registered as if they were living.

"But what do you need them for?" the old woman said, goggling her eyes at him.

"That's my business."

"But they really are dead."

"But who ever said they were alive? That's why it's a loss for you, because they're dead: you pay for them, but now I'll rid you of the trouble and the payments. Understand? And not only rid you of them, but give you fifteen roubles to boot. Well, is it clear now?

"I really don't know," the mistress said with deliberation. "I never yet sold any dead ones."

"I should think not! It would be quite a wonder if you'd sold them to anyone. Or do you think they really are good for anything?"

"No, I don't think so. What good could they be, they're no good at all. The only thing that troubles me is that they're already dead."

"Well, the woman seems a bit thick-headed," Chichikov thought to himself.

"Listen, dearie, you just give it some good thought: here you are being ruined, paying taxes for them as if they were alive ..."

"Oh, my dear, don't even mention it!" the lady landowner picked up. "Just two weeks ago I paid more than a hundred and fifty roubles. And had to grease the assessor's palm at that."

"Well, you see, dearie. And now consider only this, that you won't have to grease the assessor's palm any longer, because now I will pay for them; I, and not you; I will take all the obligations upon myself. I'll even have the deed drawn up at my own expense, do you understand that?"

The old woman fell to thinking. She saw that the business indeed seemed profitable, yet it was much too novel and unprecedented; and therefore she began to fear very much that this buyer might somehow hoodwink her; he had come from God knows where, and in the night, too.

"So, then, dearie, shall we shake hands on it?" said Chichikov.

"Really, my dear, it has never happened to me before to sell deceased ones. I did let two living ones go, two wenches, for a hundred roubles each, to our priest, the year before last, and he was ever so grateful, they turned out to be such good workers: they weave napkins."

"Well, this is nothing to do with the living—God be with them. I'm asking for dead ones."

"Really, I'm afraid this first time, I may somehow suffer a loss. Maybe you're deceiving me, my dear, and they're . . . somehow worth more."

"Listen, dearie ... eh, what a one! How much could they be worth? Consider: it's dust. Do you understand? It's just dust. Take any last worthless thing, even some simple rag, for instance, still a rag has its value: it can at least be sold to a paper mill—but for this there's no need at all. No, you tell me yourself, what is it needed for?"

"That's true enough. It's not needed for anything at all; but there's just this one thing stops me, that they're already dead."

"Bah, what a blockhead!" Chichikov said to himself, beginning to lose patience now. "Go, try getting along with her! I'm all in a sweat, the damned hag!" Here he took his handkerchief from his pocket and began mopping the sweat which in fact stood out on his brow. However, Chichikov need not have been angry: a man can be greatly respectable, even statesmanly, and in reality turn out to be a perfect Korobochka. Once he gets a thing stuck in his head, there's no overcoming him; present him with as many arguments as you like, all clear as day—everything bounces off him, like a rubber ball bouncing off a wall. Having mopped his sweat, Chichikov decided to see whether she could be guided onto the path from another side.

"Either you don't wish to understand my words, dearie," he said, "or you're saying it on purpose, just to say something . . . I'm offering you money: fifteen roubles in banknotes. Do you understand that? It's money. You won't find it lying in the street. Confess now, how much did you sell your honey for?"

"Thirty kopecks a pound."

"That's a bit of a sin on your soul, dearie. You didn't sell it for thirty kopecks."

"By God, I did, too."

"Well, you see? Still, that was honey. You collected it for maybe a year, with care, with effort, with trouble; you had to go, smoke the bees, feed them in the cellar all winter; but the thing with the dead souls is not of this world. Here you made no effort on your side, it was God's will that they depart this life, to the detriment of your household. There you get twelve roubles for your labor, your effort, and here you take them for nothing, for free, and not twelve but fifteen, and not in silver but all in blue banknotes."— After such strong assurances, Chichikov had scarcely any doubt that the old woman would finally give in.

"Really," the lady landowner replied, "I'm so inexperienced, what with being a widow and all! I'd better take a little time, maybe merchants will come by, I'll check on the prices."