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Updated: May 21, 2025
For a while Sobakevitch remained silent, and Chichikov did the same. This lasted for a couple of minutes, and, meanwhile, the aquiline-nosed Bagration gazed from the wall as though much interested in the bargaining. "What is your outside price?" at length said Sobakevitch. "Two and a half roubles." "Then you seem to rate a human soul at about the same value as a boiled turnip.
If not, tell me whom you're going to call upon." "Upon Sobakevitch." Instantly Nozdrev burst into a laugh compassable only by a healthy man in whose head every tooth still remains as white as sugar. By this I mean the laugh of quivering cheeks, the laugh which causes a neighbour who is sleeping behind double doors three rooms away to leap from his bed and exclaim with distended eyes, "Hullo!
"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.
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