Dead Souls (18 page)

"Later, later," replied Sobakevitch. "Do you go to your room, and Paul
Ivanovitch and I will take off our coats and have a nap."

Upon this the good lady expressed her readiness to send for feather
beds and cushions, but her husband expressed a preference for
slumbering in an armchair, and she therefore departed. When she had
gone Sobakevitch inclined his head in an attitude of willingness to
listen to Chichikov's business. Our hero began in a sort of detached
manner—touching lightly upon the subject of the Russian Empire, and
expatiating upon the immensity of the same, and saying that even the
Empire of Ancient Rome had been of considerably smaller dimensions.
Meanwhile Sobakevitch sat with his head drooping.

From that Chichikov went on to remark that, according to the statutes
of the said Russian Empire (which yielded to none in glory—so much so
that foreigners marvelled at it), peasants on the census lists who had
ended their earthly careers were nevertheless, on the rendering of new
lists, returned equally with the living, to the end that the courts
might be relieved of a multitude of trifling, useless emendations
which might complicate the already sufficiently complex mechanism of
the State. Nevertheless, said Chichikov, the general equity of this
measure did not obviate a certain amount of annoyance to landowners,
since it forced them to pay upon a non-living article the tax due upon
a living. Hence (our hero concluded) he (Chichikov) was prepared,
owing to the personal respect which he felt for Sobakevitch, to
relieve him, in part, of the irksome obligation referred to (in
passing, it may be said that Chichikov referred to his principal point
only guardedly, for he called the souls which he was seeking not
"dead," but "non-existent").

Meanwhile Sobakevitch listened with bent head; though something like a
trace of expression dawned in his face as he did so. Ordinarily his
body lacked a soul—or, if he did posses a soul, he seemed to keep it
elsewhere than where it ought to have been; so that, buried beneath
mountains (as it were) or enclosed within a massive shell, its
movements produced no sort of agitation on the surface.

"Well?" said Chichikov—though not without a certain tremor of
diffidence as to the possible response.

"You are after dead souls?" were Sobakevitch's perfectly simple words.
He spoke without the least surprise in his tone, and much as though
the conversation had been turning on grain.

"Yes," replied Chichikov, and then, as before, softened down the
expression "dead souls."

"They are to be found," said Sobakevitch. "Why should they not be?"

"Then of course you will be glad to get rid of any that you may chance
to have?"

"Yes, I shall have no objection to SELLING them." At this point the
speaker raised his head a little, for it had struck him that surely
the would-be buyer must have some advantage in view.

"The devil!" thought Chichikov to himself. "Here is he selling the
goods before I have even had time to utter a word!"

"And what about the price?" he added aloud. "Of course, the articles
are not of a kind very easy to appraise."

"I should be sorry to ask too much," said Sobakevitch. "How would a
hundred roubles per head suit you?"

"What, a hundred roubles per head?" Chichikov stared open-mouthed at
his host—doubting whether he had heard aright, or whether his host's
slow-moving tongue might not have inadvertently substituted one word
for another.

"Yes. Is that too much for you?" said Sobakevitch. Then he added:
"What is your own price?"

"My own price? I think that we cannot properly have understood one
another—that you must have forgotten of what the goods consist. With
my hand on my heart do I submit that eight grivni per soul would be a
handsome, a VERY handsome, offer."

"What? Eight grivni?"

"In my opinion, a higher offer would be impossible."

"But I am not a seller of boots."

"No; yet you, for your part, will agree that these souls are not live
human beings?"

"I suppose you hope to find fools ready to sell you souls on the
census list for a couple of groats apiece?"

"Pardon me, but why do you use the term 'on the census list'? The
souls themselves have long since passed away, and have left behind
them only their names. Not to trouble you with any further discussion
of the subject, I can offer you a rouble and a half per head, but no
more."

"You should be ashamed even to mention such a sum! Since you deal in
articles of this kind, quote me a genuine price."

"I cannot, Michael Semenovitch. Believe me, I cannot. What a man
cannot do, that he cannot do." The speaker ended by advancing another
half-rouble per head.

"But why hang back with your money?" said Sobakevitch. "Of a truth I
am not asking much of you. Any other rascal than myself would have
cheated you by selling you old rubbish instead of good, genuine souls,
whereas I should be ready to give you of my best, even were you buying
only nut-kernels. For instance, look at wheelwright Michiev. Never was
there such a one to build spring carts! And his handiwork was not like
your Moscow handiwork—good only for an hour. No, he did it all
himself, even down to the varnishing."

Chichikov opened his mouth to remark that, nevertheless, the said
Michiev had long since departed this world; but Sobakevitch's
eloquence had got too thoroughly into its stride to admit of any
interruption.

"And look, too, at Probka Stepan, the carpenter," his host went on. "I
will wager my head that nowhere else would you find such a workman.
What a strong fellow he was! He had served in the Guards, and the Lord
only knows what they had given for him, seeing that he was over three
arshins in height."

Again Chichikov tried to remark that Probka was dead, but
Sobakevitch's tongue was borne on the torrent of its own verbiage, and
the only thing to be done was to listen.

"And Milushkin, the bricklayer! He could build a stove in any house
you liked! And Maksim Teliatnikov, the bootmaker! Anything that he
drove his awl into became a pair of boots—and boots for which you
would be thankful, although he WAS a bit foul of the mouth. And
Eremi Sorokoplechin, too! He was the best of the lot, and used to work
at his trade in Moscow, where he paid a tax of five hundred roubles.
Well, THERE'S an assortment of serfs for you!—a very different
assortment from what Plushkin would sell you!"

"But permit me," at length put in Chichikov, astounded at this flood
of eloquence to which there appeared to be no end. "Permit me, I say,
to inquire why you enumerate the talents of the deceased, seeing that
they are all of them dead, and that therefore there can be no sense in
doing so. 'A dead body is only good to prop a fence with,' says the
proverb."

"Of course they are dead," replied Sobakevitch, but rather as though
the idea had only just occurred to him, and was giving him food for
thought. "But tell me, now: what is the use of listing them as still
alive? And what is the use of them themselves? They are flies, not
human beings."

"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."

"The devil fly away with him!" mused Chichikov. "However, I will add
another half-rouble." And he did so.

"Indeed?" said Sobakevitch. "Well, my last word upon it is—fifty
roubles in assignats. That will mean a sheer loss to me, for nowhere
else in the world could you buy better souls than mine."

"The old skinflint!" muttered Chichikov. Then he added aloud, with
irritation in his tone: "See here. This is a serious matter. Any one
but you would be thankful to get rid of the souls. Only a fool would
stick to them, and continue to pay the tax."

"Yes, but remember (and I say it wholly in a friendly way) that
transactions of this kind are not generally allowed, and that any one
would say that a man who engages in them must have some rather
doubtful advantage in view."

"Have it your own away," said Chichikov, with assumed indifference.
"As a matter of fact, I am not purchasing for profit, as you suppose,
but to humour a certain whim of mine. Two and a half roubles is the
most that I can offer."

"Bless your heart!" retorted the host. "At least give me thirty
roubles in assignats, and take the lot."

"No, for I see that you are unwilling to sell. I must say good-day to
you."

"Hold on, hold on!" exclaimed Sobakevitch, retaining his guest's hand,
and at the same moment treading heavily upon his toes—so heavily,
indeed, that Chichikov gasped and danced with the pain.

"I BEG your pardon!" said Sobakevitch hastily. "Evidently I have
hurt you. Pray sit down again."

"No," retorted Chichikov. "I am merely wasting my time, and must be
off."

"Oh, sit down just for a moment. I have something more agreeable to
say." And, drawing closer to his guest, Sobakevitch whispered in his
ear, as though communicating to him a secret: "How about twenty-five
roubles?"

"No, no, no!" exclaimed Chichikov. "I won't give you even a QUARTER
of that. I won't advance another kopeck."

For a while Sobakevitch remained silent, and Chichikov did the same.
This lasted for a couple of minutes, and, meanwhile, the
aquiline-nosed Bagration gazed from the wall as though much interested
in the bargaining.

"What is your outside price?" at length said Sobakevitch.

"Two and a half roubles."

"Then you seem to rate a human soul at about the same value as a
boiled turnip. At least give me THREE roubles."

"No, I cannot."

"Pardon me, but you are an impossible man to deal with. However, even
though it will mean a dead loss to me, and you have not shown a very
nice spirit about it, I cannot well refuse to please a friend. I
suppose a purchase deed had better be made out in order to have
everything in order?"

"Of course."

"Then for that purpose let us repair to the town."

The affair ended in their deciding to do this on the morrow, and to
arrange for the signing of a deed of purchase. Next, Chichikov
requested a list of the peasants; to which Sobakevitch readily agreed.
Indeed, he went to his writing-desk then and there, and started to
indite a list which gave not only the peasants' names, but also their
late qualifications.

Meanwhile Chichikov, having nothing else to do, stood looking at the
spacious form of his host; and as he gazed at his back as broad as
that of a cart horse, and at the legs as massive as the iron standards
which adorn a street, he could not help inwardly ejaculating:

"Truly God has endowed you with much! Though not adjusted with nicety,
at least you are strongly built. I wonder whether you were born a bear
or whether you have come to it through your rustic life, with its
tilling of crops and its trading with peasants? Yet no; I believe
that, even if you had received a fashionable education, and had mixed
with society, and had lived in St. Petersburg, you would still have
been just the kulak
^[26]
that you are. The only difference is that
circumstances, as they stand, permit of your polishing off a stuffed
shoulder of mutton at a meal; whereas in St. Petersburg you would have
been unable to do so. Also, as circumstances stand, you have under you
a number of peasants, whom you treat well for the reason that they are
your property; whereas, otherwise, you would have had under you
tchinovniks
^[27]
: whom you would have bullied because they were NOT
your property. Also, you would have robbed the Treasury, since a kulak
always remains a money-grubber."

"The list is ready," said Sobakevitch, turning round.

"Indeed? Then please let me look at it." Chichikov ran his eye over
the document, and could not but marvel at its neatness and accuracy.
Not only were there set forth in it the trade, the age, and the
pedigree of every serf, but on the margin of the sheet were jotted
remarks concerning each serf's conduct and sobriety. Truly it was a
pleasure to look at it.