“And what is your name?” inquired the lady. “I think you must certainly be an assessor.”

“No, my dear woman,” replied Tchitchikoff, laughing, “I certainly am not an assessor: I am travelling on my own business.”

“Ah! so you are a wholesale merchant. It really is a pity that I sold my honey to the dealers so cheap! You would probably have bought it of me, father.”

“No, I should not have bought honey.”

“What then? Hemp, perhaps? But very little hemp is spun in my house now,—half a pood⁵ at most.”

“No, my dear woman, I am thinking of a different sort of goods: tell me, have any of your peasants died?”

“Ah, yes, my friend, eighteen of them!” said the old woman with a sigh. “And they were such splendid fellows, all workmen. Some have been born since, it is true; but what of that? They are all small fry. And then the assessor comes: ‘Pay for your souls,’ says he. The people are dead, but until the next census you must still pay taxes on them as though they were living. And last week my smith was burnt to death—such a clever smith he was! and he knew the locksmith’s business too.”

“Have you had a fire here?”

“Oh, no! God preserve us from such a misfortune! he burnt himself up, my father. His inside got on fire in some way or other—through drinking too much. Blue flames came out of him, and he rotted and rotted away until he turned as black as coal. And he was such a skilful smith! At present I cannot drive out: there is no one to shoe the horses.”

“All is according to the will of God, my dear woman,” said Tchitchikoff, sighing. “Nothing can be said against the wisdom of God. Will you give them to me, Nastasya Petrovna?”

“Give you what, my friend?”

“Why, all the souls that have died.”

“But how can I give them away?”

“It is simple enough. Or, if you prefer it, you can sell them. I will give you money for them.”

“But how? I really don’t catch your idea. You don’t want to dig them up out of the ground, do you?”

Tchitchikoff perceived that the old woman was far from apprehending his meaning, and that it was indispensable for him to speak to her more plainly. So he explained to her in a few words that the transfer, or purchase, would have no significance except on paper, and that the dead souls would be inscribed as though they were living.

“But of what use can they be to you?” said the old woman, staring at him.

“That is my affair.”

“But they are dead.”

“Who says they are alive? My buying them is an advantage to you, since they are dead. You still have to pay for them, but I will release you from that trouble and taxation. Do you understand? And I will not only free you from that, but I will give you fifteen roubles to boot. Now is it clear?”

“Really, I don’t know,” exclaimed the lady, pausing. “I have never sold any dead people before.”