“Here are some more preserves,” at this moment said the hostess, returning with a small plate; “they are a good sort, sweetened with honey.”
“We’ll attend to that later on,” said Sobakevitch. “Go to your room now: Pavel Ivanovitch and I are going to take off our coats, and have a little rest.”
The hostess expressed her desire to send for some feather-beds and pillows; but her husband said, “We want nothing of that: we will rest in the arm-chairs.” So Mrs. Sobakevitch withdrew.
Sobakevitch then bent his head slightly, preparatory to hearing what the business might be. Tchitchikoff began in a very distant way, touched upon the Russian Empire in general, and expressed himself in very laudatory terms with regard to its extent, saying that even the ancient Roman Empire had not been so great, and that strangers rightly admired Muscovy. Sobakevitch listened to all this, and nodded, whereupon our hero added that according to the existing laws of the empire, souls (serfs) set down in the census lists, although they might have completed their earthly career, were, nevertheless, still taxed just like the living ones, pending the preparation of a new census list, although, as an offset to that, the newly born were not entered on the registers. Sobakevitch still listened and nodded, and then Tchitchikoff added that despite all the justice of these regulations, they were burdensome for some proprietors, since they entailed upon them the necessity of paying taxes for dead as well as for live serfs. He, Tchitchikoff, feeling great personal regard for his friend Sobakevitch, was, however, prepared to assume a portion of such really heavy obligations. With regard to this principal point, our hero expressed himself very cautiously: he made no direct mention of dead souls, but merely alluded to them as non-existent individuals.
Sobakevitch listened to all the talk as before, with his head bent and hardly any expression whatever upon his countenance. It seemed as though there were no soul at all in his body, or that if there were one belonging to it, it was not in the place where it should have been. As in the case of Koshtchei the Deathless,6 it was no doubt somewhere beyond the mountains.
“Well?” said Tchitchikoff, pausing at last and awaiting a reply, not without some emotion.
“You want some dead souls, eh?” simply inquired Sobakevitch, without showing the slightest surprise, and as if the question were one of selling grain or faggots.
“Yes,” replied Tchitchikoff, and he again softened the expression by adding, “non-existent persons.”
“They can be found: why not?” said Sobakevitch.
“And if there are any in your village, then, no doubt you—would be glad to get rid of them?”
“I am ready to sell them, if you like,” said Sobakevitch, raising his head a little, and recognising the fact that this would-be purchaser must in all probability find some profit in them—though what it was he could hardly tell.
“Deuce take it!” said Tchitchikoff to himself; “this fellow talks of selling before I have barely given a hint.” And then he remarked aloud, “And at what price, for instance? though, to be sure, for such things as that, any discussion of price is rather strange.”
“Well, I will not demand too much of you: let us say a hundred roubles a head,” replied Sobakevitch.
“A hundred!” exclaimed Tchitchikoff, dropping his jaw, and staring at his friend with all his eyes, not knowing whether he had heard him correctly, or whether his tongue, which was heavy by nature, had not turned the wrong way, and let slip one word instead of another.
“What, is that too high for you?” ejaculated Sobakevitch and he added, “Well, what would be your price?”