BOLSHÓV _and_ PODKHALYÚZIN BOLSHÓV. Now consider, Lázar, what trading's like: just think about it. You think it's getting money for nothing? "Money, not much!" they tell you; "ain't seen any for a long time. Take my note," they say. But what are you going to get from some people on a note? Here I have about a hundred thousand rubles' worth of 'em lying around, and with protests. You don't do anything but add to the heap each year. If you want, I'll sell you the whole pile for half a ruble in silver. You'll never catch the men who signed 'em even with bloodhounds. Some have died off, some have run away; there's not even a single man to put in the pen. Suppose you do send one there, Lázar, that doesn't do you any good; some of 'em will hold on so that you can't smoke 'em out. "I'm all right here," they say, "you go hang!" Isn't that so, Lázar? PODKHALYÚZIN. Just so, that's the way it happens. BOLSHÓV. Always notes, notes! But what on earth is a note? Absolutely nothing but paper, if I may say so. And if you discount it, they do it at a rate that makes your belly ache, and you pay for it later with your own property. [_After a brief silence_] It's better not to have dealings with provincials: always on credit, always on credit; and if he ever does bring the money, it's in slick small change--you look, and there's neither head nor tail to the coins, and the denomination's rubbed off long ago. But do as you please here! You'd better not show your goods to the tradesman of this place; any one of 'em'll go into any warehouse and sniff and peck, and peck, and then clear out. It'd be all right if there were no goods, but what do you expect a man to trade in? I've got one apothecary shop, one dry goods, the third a grocery. No use, none of them pays. You needn't even go to the market; they cut the prices down worse than the devil knows what; but if you sell a horse-collar, you have to throw in trimmings and earnest money, and treat the fellows, and stand all sorts of losses through wrong weights. That's the way it goes! Don't you realize that? PODKHALYÚZIN. Seems I ought to realize it, sir. BOLSHÓV. There's business for you, and that's the way to do it. [_Silence_] Well, Lázar, what do you think? PODKHALYÚZIN. What should I think, sir? That's just as you please. My business is that of a subordinate. BOLSHÓV. What do you mean, subordinate? Just speak out freely. I'm asking you about the business. PODKHALYÚZIN. Again, Samsón Sílych, it's just as you please, sir. BOLSHÓV. You twaddle one thing: "As you please." But what do you think? PODKHALYÚZIN. That I can't say, sir. BOLSHÓV. [_After a brief silence_] Tell me, Lázar, on your conscience; do you love me? [_Silence_] Do you love me or not? Why are you silent? [_Silence_] I've given you food and drink, set you up in the world; haven't I? PODKHALYÚZIN. Oh, Samsón Sílych! What's the use of talking about it, sir? Don't have any doubts about me! Only one word: I'm just such as you see me.