'And what is your name?' asked the lady. 'You are a tax assessor, for sure?'
'No, ma'am,' answered Tchitchikov, grinning, 'not a tax assessor for sure, but just travelling on a little business of my own.'
'Oh, then you are a dealer! What a pity, really, that I sold my honey to the merchants so cheap; very likely you would have bought it from me, sir.'
'Your honey I shouldn't have bought.'
'What else then? Hemp perhaps? But there, I have very little hemp now, not more than half a pood.'
'No, ma'am, I buy a different sort of ware. Tell me, have any of your peasants died?'
'Oh, sir, eighteen of them,' said the old lady, sighing, 'and such a good lot died, all workmen. It's true that some have been born since, but what use are they? They are all such small fry. And the assessor came—you must pay the tax by the soul, said he. The peasants are dead, but I must pay as though they were alive. Last week my blacksmith was burnt, such a clever blacksmith and he could do locksmith's work too.'
'Did you have a fire, ma'am?'
'God preserve us from such a misfortune; a fire would be worse still: he caught fire of himself, my good sir. His inside somehow began burning, he had had a terrible lot to drink: all I can say is that a blue flame came out of him and he smouldered and smouldered away and turned black as a coal; and he was such a very clever blacksmith!
