The Giants of Russian Literature: The Greatest Russian Novels, Stories, Plays, Folk Tales & Legends. Максим Горький
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“Who said they were not? The mere fact of their being dead entails upon you a loss as dead as the souls, for you have to continue paying tax upon them, whereas MY plan is to relieve you both of the tax and of the resultant trouble. NOW do you understand? And I will not only do as I say, but also hand you over fifteen roubles per soul. Is that clear enough?”
“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.”
“See here, madam. (What a woman it is!) HOW could they be worth more? Think for yourself. They are so much loss to you — so much loss, do you understand? Take any worthless, rubbishy article you like — a piece of old rag, for example. That rag will yet fetch its price, for it can be bought for paper-making. But these dead souls are good for NOTHING AT ALL. Can you name anything that they ARE good for?”
“True, true — they ARE good for nothing. But what troubles me is the fact that they are dead.”
“What a blockhead of a creature!” said Chichikov to himself, for he was beginning to lose patience. “Bless her heart, I may as well be going. She has thrown me into a perfect sweat, the cursed old shrew!”
He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the perspiration from his brow. Yet he need not have flown into such a passion. More than one respected statesman reveals himself, when confronted with a business matter, to be just such another as Madam Korobotchka, in that, once he has got an idea into his head, there is no getting it out of him — you may ply him with daylight-clear arguments, yet they will rebound from his brain as an india-rubber ball rebounds from a flagstone. Nevertheless, wiping away the perspiration, Chichikov resolved to try whether he could not bring her back to the road by another path.
“Madam,” he said, “either you are declining to understand what I say or you are talking for the mere sake of talking. If I hand you over some money — fifteen roubles for each soul, do you understand? — it is MONEY, not something which can be picked up haphazard on the street. For instance, tell me how much you sold your honey for?”
“For twelve roubles per pood.”
“Ah! Then by those words, madam, you have laid a trifling sin upon your soul; for you did NOT sell the honey for twelve roubles.”
“By the Lord God I did!”
“Well, well! Never mind. Honey is only honey. Now, you had collected that stuff, it may be, for a year, and with infinite care and labour. You had fussed after it, you had trotted to and fro, you had duly frozen out the bees, and you had fed them in the cellar throughout the winter. But these dead souls of which I speak are quite another matter, for in this case you have put forth no exertions — it was merely God’s will that they should leave the world, and thus decrease the personnel of your establishment. In the former case you received (so you allege) twelve roubles per pood for your labour; but in this case you will receive money for having done nothing at all. Nor will you receive twelve roubles per item, but FIFTEEN— and roubles not in silver, but roubles in good paper currency.”
That these powerful inducements would certainly cause the old woman to yield Chichikov had not a doubt.
“True,” his hostess replied. “But how strangely business comes to me as a widow! Perhaps I had better wait a little longer, seeing that other buyers might come along, and I might be able to compare prices.”
“For shame, madam! For shame! Think what you are saying. Who else, I would ask, would care to buy those souls? What use could they be to any one?”
“If that is so, they might come in useful to ME,” mused the old woman aloud; after which she sat staring at Chichikov with her mouth open and a face of nervous expectancy as to his possible rejoinder.
“Dead folk useful in a household!” he exclaimed. “Why, what could you do with them? Set them up on poles to frighten away the sparrows from your garden?”
“The Lord save us, but what things you say!” she ejaculated, crossing herself.
“Well, WHAT could you do with them? By this time they are so much bones and earth. That is all there is left of them. Their transfer to myself would be ON PAPER only. Come, come! At least give me an answer.”
Again the old woman communed with herself.
“What are you thinking of, Nastasia Petrovna?” inquired Chichikov.
“I am thinking that I scarcely know what to do. Perhaps I had better sell you some hemp?”
“What do I want with hemp? Pardon me, but just when I have made to you a different proposal altogether you begin fussing about hemp! Hemp is hemp, and though I may want some when I NEXT visit you, I should like to know what you have to say to the suggestion under discussion.”
“Well, I think it a very queer bargain. Never have I heard of such a thing.”
Upon this Chichikov lost all patience, upset his chair, and bid her go to the devil; of which personage even the mere mention terrified her extremely.
“Do not speak of him, I beg of you!” she cried, turning pale. “May God, rather, bless him! Last night was the third night that he has appeared to me in a dream. You see, after saying my prayers, I bethought me of telling my fortune by the cards; and God must have sent him as a punishment. He looked so horrible, and had horns longer than a bull’s!”
“I wonder you don’t see SCORES of devils in your dreams! Merely out of Christian charity he had come to you to say, ‘I perceive a poor widow going to rack and ruin, and likely soon to stand in danger of want.’ Well, go to rack and ruin — yes, you and all your village together!”
“The insults!” exclaimed the old woman, glancing at her visitor in terror.
“I should think so!” continued Chichikov. “Indeed, I cannot find words to describe you. To say no more about it, you are like a dog in a manger. You don’t want to eat the hay yourself, yet you won’t let anyone else touch it. All that I am seeking to do is to purchase