tinuing to pay the tax upon dead souls as though they were still alive."
"Oh, good sir, do not speak of it!" the lady exclaimed. "Three weeks ago I took a hundred and fifty roubles to the Assessor, and buttered him up, and---"
"Then you see how it is, do you not? Remember that, according to my plan, you will never again have to butter up the Assessor, seeing that it will be I who will be paying for those, peasants—I, not you, for I shall have taken over the dues upon them, and have transferred them to myself as so many bona fide serfs. Do you understand at last?"
However, the old lady still communed with herself. She could see that the transaction would be to her advantage, yet it was one of such a novel and unprecedented nature that she was beginning to fear lest this purchaser of souls intended to cheat her. Certainly he had come from God only knew where, and at the dead of night, too!
"Let us shake hands over it," advised Chichikov."
"But, sir, I have never in my life sold dead folk—only living ones. Three years ago I transferred two wenches to Protopopov for a hundred roubles apiece, and he thanked me kindly, for they turned out splendid workers—able to make napkins or ^ anything else."
"Yes, but with the living we have nothing to do, damn it! I am asking you only about dead folk."
"Yes, yes, of course. But at first sight I felt afraid lest I should be incurring a loss—lest you should be wishing to outwit me, good sir. You see, the dead souls are worth rather more than you have offered for them."
"See here, madam. (What a woman it is!) How could they be worth more? Think for yourself: They are so much loss to you—so much loss, do you understand? Take any worthless, rubbishy article you like—a piece of old rag, for example. That rag will yet fetch its price, for it can be bought for paper-making. But these dead souls are good for nothing at all. Can you name anything that they are good for?"
"True, true—they are good for nothing. But what troubles me is the fact that they are dead."
"What a blockhead of a creature!" said Chichikov to himself, for he was beginning to lose patience. "Bless her heart, I may as well be going. She has thrown me into a perfect sweat, the cursed old shrew!"
He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the
