Dead Souls Nikolai Gogol (phonics story books TXT) 📖

a man cannot do, that he cannot do.” The speaker ended by advancing another half-rouble per head.

“But why hang back with your money?” said Sobakevitch. “Of a truth I am not asking much of you. Any other rascal than myself would have cheated you by selling you old rubbish instead of good, genuine souls, whereas I should be ready to give you of my best, even were you buying only nut-kernels. For instance, look at wheelwright Michiev. Never was there such a one to build spring carts! And his handiwork was not like your Moscow handiwork⁠—good only for an hour. No, he did it all himself, even down to the varnishing.”

Chichikov opened his mouth to remark that, nevertheless, the said Michiev had long since departed this world; but Sobakevitch’s eloquence had got too thoroughly into its stride to admit of any interruption.

“And look, too, at Probka Stepan, the carpenter,” his host went on. “I will wager my head that nowhere else would you find such a workman. What a strong fellow he was! He had served in the Guards, and the Lord only knows what they had given for him, seeing that he was over three arshins in height.”

Again Chichikov tried to remark that Probka was dead, but Sobakevitch’s tongue was borne on the torrent of its own verbiage, and the only thing to be done was to listen.

“And Milushkin, the bricklayer! He could build a stove in any house you liked! And Maksim Teliatnikov, the bootmaker! Anything that he drove his awl into became a pair of boots⁠—and boots for which you would be thankful, although he was a bit foul of the mouth. And Eremi Sorokoplechin, too! He was the best of the lot, and used to work at his trade in Moscow, where he paid a tax of five hundred roubles. Well, there’s an assortment of serfs for you!⁠—a very different assortment from what Plushkin would sell you!”

“But permit me,” at length put in Chichikov, astounded at this flood of eloquence to which there appeared to be no end. “Permit me, I say, to inquire why you enumerate the talents of the deceased, seeing that they are all of them dead, and that therefore there can be no sense in doing so. ‘A dead body is only good to prop a fence with,’ says the proverb.”

“Of course they are dead,” replied Sobakevitch, but rather as though the idea had only just occurred to him, and was giving him food for thought. “But tell me, now: what is the use of listing them as still alive? And what is the use of them themselves? They are flies, not human beings.”

“Well,” said Chichikov, “they exist, though only in idea.”

“But no⁠—not only in idea. I tell you that nowhere else would you find such a fellow for working heavy tools as was Michiev. He had the strength of a horse in his shoulders.” And, with the words, Sobakevitch turned, as though for corroboration, to the portrait of Bagration, as is frequently done by one of the parties in a dispute when he purports to appeal to an extraneous individual who is not only unknown to him, but wholly unconnected with the subject in hand; with the result that the individual is left in doubt whether to make a reply, or whether to betake himself elsewhere.

“Nevertheless, I cannot give you more than two roubles per head,” said Chichikov.

“Well, as I don’t want you to swear that I have asked too much of you and won’t meet you halfway, suppose, for friendship’s sake, that you pay me seventy-five roubles in assignats?”

“Good heavens!” thought Chichikov to himself. “Does the man take me for a fool?” Then he added aloud: “The situation seems to me a strange one, for it is as though we were performing a stage comedy. No other explanation would meet the case. Yet you appear to be a man of sense, and possessed of some education. The matter is a very simple one. The question is: what is a dead soul worth, and is it of any use to anyone?”

“It is of use to you, or you would not be buying such articles.”

Chichikov bit his lip, and stood at a loss for a retort. He tried to saying something about “family and domestic circumstances,” but Sobakevitch cut him short with:

“I don’t want to know your private affairs, for I never poke my nose into such things. You need the souls, and I am ready to sell them. Should you not buy them, I think you will repent it.”

“Two roubles is my price,” repeated Chichikov.

“Come, come! As you have named that sum, I can understand your not liking to go back upon it; but quote me a bona fide figure.”

“The devil fly away with him!” mused Chichikov. “However, I will add another half-rouble.” And he did so.

“Indeed!” said Sobakevitch. “Well, my last word upon it is⁠—fifty roubles in assignats. That will mean a sheer loss to me, for nowhere else in the world could you buy better souls than mine.”

“The old skinflint!” muttered Chichikov. Then he added aloud, with irritation in his tone: “See here. This is a serious matter. Any one but you would be thankful to get rid of the souls. Only a fool would stick to them, and continue to pay the tax.”

“Yes, but remember (and I say it wholly in a friendly way) that transactions of this kind are not generally allowed, and that anyone would say that a man who engages in them must have some rather doubtful advantage in view.”

“Have it your own away,” said Chichikov, with assumed indifference. “As a matter of fact, I am not purchasing for profit, as you suppose, but to humour a certain whim of mine. Two and a half roubles is the most that I can offer.”

“Bless your heart!” retorted the host. “At least give me thirty roubles in assignats, and take the lot.”

“No, for I see that you are unwilling to sell. I must say good