Nikolai Gogol - Dead Souls

"And so . . . ?" said Chichikov, waiting not without some anxiety for an answer.

"You want dead souls?" Sobakevich asked quite simply, without the least surprise, as if they were talking about grain.

"Yes," replied Chichikov, and again he softened the expression, adding, "nonexistent ones."

"They could be found, why not. . . ," said Sobakevich.

"And if so, then you, undoubtedly . . . would be pleased to get rid of them?"

"If you like, I'm ready to sell," said Sobakevich, now raising his head slightly, as he realized that the buyer must certainly see some profit in it.

"Devil take it," Chichikov thought to himself, "this one's already selling before I've made a peep!" and said aloud:

"And, for instance, about the price? . . . though, anyhow, it's such an object. . . that a price is even a strange thing to ...”

"Well, so as not to ask too much from you, let's make it a hundred apiece!" said Sobakevich.

"A hundred!" cried Chichikov, opening his mouth and looking him straight in the eye, not knowing whether he himself had not heard right or Sobakevich's tongue, being of a heavy nature, had turned the wrong way and blurted out one word instead of another.

"Why, is that too costly for you?" Sobakevich said, and then added: "And what, incidentally, would your price be?"

"My price? Surely we've made a mistake somehow, or not understood each other, or have forgotten what the object in question is. I suppose, for my part, laying my hand on my heart, that eighty kopecks per soul would be the fairest price."

"Eh, that's overdoing it—a mere eighty kopecks!"

"Well, in my judgment, to my mind, it can't be more."

"But I'm not selling bast shoes."

"However, you must agree, they're not people either."

"So you think you'll find someone fool enough to take a few kopecks for a registered soul?"

"I beg your pardon, but why do you call them registered, when the souls themselves have been dead for a long time, and all that's left is a sensually imperceptible sound. However, not to get into further conversation along this line, I'll give you a rouble and a half, if you please, but more I cannot do."

"It's a shame for you even to mention such a sum! Come on, bargain, tell me the real price!"

"I cannot, Mikhail Semyonovich, trust my conscience, I cannot: what's impossible is impossible," Chichikov said, yet he did add another fifty kopecks.

"How can you be so stingy?" said Sobakevich. "Really, it's not so costly! Some crook would cheat you, sell you trash, not souls; but mine are all hale as nuts, all picked men: if not craftsmen, then some other kind of sturdy muzhiks. Just look: there's Mikheev the cartwright, for example! Never made any other kind of carriage than the spring kind. And not like your typical Moscow workmanship, good for an hour—really solid, and he does the upholstery and lacquering himself!"

Chichikov opened his mouth to observe that Mikheev had, however, long since departed this life; but Sobakevich had entered, as they say, into his full speaking strength, wherever on earth he got this clip and gift of words:

"And Cork Stepan, the carpenter? I'll bet my life you won't find such a muzhik anywhere. What tremendous strength! If he'd served in the guards, God knows what they'd have given him, he was seven feet tall!"

Chichikov was again about to observe that Cork, too, had departed this life; but Sobakevich obviously could not contain himself: speech poured out in such torrents that one could only listen:

"Milushkin, the bricklayer! Could put a stove into any house you like. Maxim Telyatnikov, the cobbler: one prick of the awl and your boots are done, and boots they are, too, thank you very much, and never a drop of liquor in him. And Yeremey Soroko-plyokhin! This muzhik alone is worth all the others, he went trading in Moscow, brought five hundred roubles in quittent alone. That's the kind of folk they are! A far cry from what some sort of Plyushkin would sell you."

"I beg your pardon," Chichikov said finally, amazed by such an abundant flood of speeches, which also seemed to have no end, "but why do you enumerate all their qualities, they're not good for anything now, these are all dead folk. A dead body's a good fence prop, as the proverb says."

"Yes, of course, they're dead," Sobakevich said, as if catching himself and remembering that they were indeed already dead, and then added: "Though one can also say: what about those people who are now listed as living? What sort of people are they? Flies, not people."

"Still, they do exist, while these are a dream."

"Oh, no, not a dream! I'll tell you what sort Mikheev was, one of those people you don't find anymore: such a huge machine, he wouldn't fit into this room; no, it's not a dream! And there was such tremendous strength in his tremendous shoulders as no horse ever had; I'd like to know where else you'll find such a dream!"

These last words he spoke addressing the portraits of Bagration and Colocotronis [24] Theodoras Colocotronis (1770-1843), a Greek general, was another hero of the Greek war of independence. hanging on the wall, as commonly happens when people are conversing and one of them suddenly, for some unknown reason, addresses not the one whom his words concern, but some third who chances to come in, even a total stranger, from whom he knows he will hear neither a reply, nor an opinion, nor a confirmation, but at whom he will nevertheless direct his gaze, as if calling on him to act as intermediary; and the stranger, slightly confused for the first moment, does not know whether to answer him on the matter, of which he has heard nothing, or to stand there for a moment, maintaining the proper decorum, and only then walk away.

"No, more than two roubles I cannot give," said Chichikov.

"If you please, so that you won't claim I'm asking too much and don't want to do you a favor, if you please—seventy-five roubles per soul, only in banknotes, really only for the sake of our acquaintance!"

"What indeed is with him," Chichikov thought to himself, "does he take me for a fool, or what?" and then added aloud:

"I find it strange, really: it seems some theater performance or comedy is going on between us, otherwise I can't explain it to myself . . . You seem to be quite an intelligent man, you possess educated knowledge. The object is simply pooh-pooh. What is it worth? Who needs it?"

"Well, you're buying it, that means you need it."

Here Chichikov bit his lip and could find no reply. He tried to begin talking about some family and domestic circumstances, but Sobakevich responded simply:

"I have no need to know what your relations are; I don't interfere in family affairs, that's your business. You're in need of souls, I'm selling them to you, and you'll regret it if you don't buy them."

"Two roubles," said Chichikov.

"Eh, really, the parrot calls everyone Poll, as the proverb says; you're stuck on this two and don't want to get off it. Give me your real price!"

"Well, devil take him," Chichikov thought to himself, "I'll add fifty kopecks, the dog, to buy nuts with!"

"If you please, I'll add fifty kopecks."

"Well, if you please, I'll also give you my final word: fifty roubles! It's my loss, really, you won't get such fine folk so cheaply anywhere else!"

"What a pinchfist!" Chichikov said to himself, and then continued aloud in some vexation:

"What indeed is this ... as if it were all quite a serious matter;

I can get them for nothing elsewhere. Anyone would be eager to unload them on me, just to get rid of them the sooner. Only a fool would keep them and pay taxes on them!"

"But, you know, this kind of purchase—I say it between the two of us, in friendship—is not always permissible, and if I or someone else were to tell, such a person would not enjoy any confidence with regard to contracts or on entering into any sort of profitable obligations."