“The idea! It would be far more wonderful if you ever had sold any to any one. Or is it that you think they could be turned to profit?”

“No, I do not think that. What profit could be derived from them? The only thing that troubles me is, that they are dead.”

“Well, she’s a hard-headed person,” said Tchitchikoff to himself. “Listen, my good woman! Just think it over well: here you are ruining yourself with paying taxes on them as if they were living.”

“Oh, my friend, don’t speak of it!” interrupted the lady. “Only two weeks ago I paid a hundred and fifty roubles, besides making a present, to the assessor.”

“Well, you see how it is, my dear woman? Now, only take into consideration the fact that you won’t have to give any more presents, for now I shall pay for the dead serfs—I, and not you: I assume all responsibilities. I will even have the deed prepared at my expense—do you understand me?”

The old woman became thoughtful. She saw that the transaction really seemed to be a profitable one for herself, but it was too novel and untried; and so she began to feel very much afraid lest our friend should cheat her in this sale. He was a suspicious character, for he had arrived, God knows whence, and at night time too.

“Well, my dear woman, shall we strike the bargain?” asked Tchitchikoff.

“Really, my friend, I never sold any dead people before. I sold some live ones two years ago—two girls to the protopope for a hundred roubles each; and he was very glad and grateful: they turned out splendid workers: they even weave napkins.”

“Well, but the question isn’t one of living serfs—God be with them!—I ask for dead ones.”

“Really, I am afraid lest it should occasion me a loss in some way. Perhaps you are deceiving me, my father; perhaps they—they are worth more.”

“Listen, my good woman—what a woman you are! How can they be worth anything? They are dust. Do you understand? Simply dust. Take any useless, trivial thing, for example, even a simple rag—and the rag has a value; it can at least be sold for a paper-mill: but those dead serfs are good for nothing. Now, tell me yourself, what are they good for?”

“That is quite true. They are good for nothing at all, and only one thing deters me, that they are dead.”

“Eh! what a blockhead she is!” said Tchitchikoff to himself, beginning to lose his patience. “Come, I must settle it with her! She has thrown me into a perspiration, the confounded old fool!” Here he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped away the perspiration which had started out on his brow, and resolved to attack the old lady in a different style. “My dear woman,” said he, “you either do not wish to understand my words, or else you say all that for the mere sake of saying something. I will give you money—fifteen roubles in bank-notes—do you understand? Money. You cannot pick money up in the street. Now, tell me how much did you sell your honey for?”

“For twelve roubles a pood.”

“You are surely exaggerating a little, my good woman. You did not sell it for twelve?”

“By Heavens, I did.”

“Now, come. So much as that—for honey? You had been collecting it for a year, perhaps, with a deal of care and labour; you worried about your bees and their comfort, and kept them all winter in the cellar; but the dead souls I speak of are not a matter of this world. In their case you have not been put to trouble