them to pay the tax as though for living serfs, and that, through a sentiment of personal respect for him, he was prepared to some extent to relieve him of this burdensome obligation. In regard to the real subject of his remarks, Tchitchikov expressed himself very cautiously and never spoke of the souls as dead, but invariably as non-existent.
Sobakevitch still listened as before with his head bent, and not a trace of anything approaching expression showed on his face. It seemed as though in that body there was no soul at all, or if there were, that it was not in its proper place, but, as with the immortal Boney,[1] somewhere far away and covered with so thick a shell that whatever was stirring at the bottom of it produced not the faintest ripple on the surface.
'And so …?' said Tchitchikov, waiting not without some perturbation for an answer.
'You want the dead souls?' inquired Sobakevitch very simply, with no sign of surprise, as though they had been talking of corn.
'Yes,' said Tchitchikov, and again he softened the expression, adding, 'non-existent ones.'
'There are some; to be sure there are,' said Sobakevitch.
'Well, if you have any, you will doubtless be glad to get rid of them?'
'Certainly, I am willing to sell them,' said Sobakevitch, slightly raising his head, and reflecting that doubtless the purchaser would make some profit out of them.
- ↑ An ogre-like character in many Russian fairy-tales.—Translator's Note.
