.” That's true indeed,” the woman put in with animation, “for if you drive along the bank it's twenty-five miles out of the way.”
“Thirty-five.”
“You'll just catch the steamer at Ustyevo at two o'clock tomorrow,” the woman decided finally. But Stepan Trofimovitch was obstinately silent. His questioners, too, sank into silence. The peasant tugged at his horse at rare intervals; the peasant woman exchanged brief remarks with him. Stepan Trofimovitch fell into a doze. He was tremendously surprised when the woman, laughing, gave him a poke and he found himself in a rather large village at the door of a cottage with three windows.
“You've had a nap, sir?”
“What is it? Where am I? Ah, yes! Well . . . never mind,” sighed Stepan Trofimovitch, and he got out of the cart.
He looked about him mournfully; the village scene seemed strange to him and somehow terribly remote.
*February 19, 1861, the day of the Emancipation of the Serfs, is meant.— Translator's note.
“And the half-rouble, I was forgetting it!” he said to the peasant, turning to him with an excessively hurried gesture; he was evidently by now afraid to part from them.
“We'll settle indoors, walk in,” the peasant invited him.
“It's comfortable inside,” the woman said reassuringly.
Stepan Trofimovitch mounted the shaky steps. “How can it be?” he murmured in profound and apprehensive perplexity. He went into the cottage, however. “ Elle Pa voulu” he felt a stab at his heart and again he became oblivious of everything, even of the fact that he had gone into the cottage.
It was a light and fairly clean peasant's cottage, with three windows and two rooms; not exactly an inn, but a cottage at which people who knew the place were accustomed to stop “on their way through the village. Stepan Trofimovitch, quite unembarrassed, went to the foremost corner; forgot to greet anyone, sat down and sank into thought. Meanwhile a sensation of warmth, extremely agreeable after three hours of travelling in the damp, was suddenly diffused throughout his person. Even the slight shivers that spasmodically ran down his spine — such as always occur in particularly nervous people when they are feverish and have suddenly come into a Warm room from the cold — became all at once strangely agreeable. He raised his head and the delicious fragrance of the hot pancakes with which the woman of the house was busy at the stove tickled his nostrils. With a childlike smile he leaned towards the woman and suddenly said:
“What's that? Are they pancakes? Mais . . . c'est char-mant.”
“Would you like some, sir?” the woman politely offered him at once.
“I should like some, I certainly should, and . . . may I ask you for some tea too,” said Stepan Trofimovitch, reviving.
“Get the samovar? With the greatest pleasure.”
On a large plate with a big blue pattern on it were served the pancakes — regular peasant pancakes, thin, made half of wheat, covered with fresh hot butter, most delicious pancakes. Stepan Trofimovitch tasted them with relish.
“How rich they are and how good! And if one could only have un doigt d'eau de vie.”
“It's a drop of vodka you would like, sir, isn't it?”
“Just so, just so, a little, un tout petitnew,”
“Five farthings' worth, I suppose?”
“Five, yes, five, five, five, un tout petit rien,” Stepan Trofimovitch assented with a blissful smile.
Ask a peasant to do anything for you, and if he can, and will, he will serve you with care and friendliness; but ask him to fetch you vodka — and his habitual serenity and friendliness will pass at once into a sort of joyful haste and alacrity; he will be as keen in your interest as though you were one of his family. The peasant who fetches vodka — even though you are going to drink it and not he and he knows that beforehand — seems, as it were, to be enjoying part of your future gratification. Within three minutes (the tavern was only two paces away), a bottle and a large greenish wineglass were set on the table before Stepan Trofimovitch.
“Is that all for me!” He was extremely surprised. “I've always had vodka but I never knew you could get so much for five farthings.”
He filled the wineglass, got up and with a certain solemnity crossed the room to the other corner where his fellow-traveller, the black-browed peasant woman, who had shared the sack with him and bothered him with her questions, had ensconced herself. The woman was taken aback, and began to decline, but after having said all that was prescribed by politeness, she stood up and drank it decorously in three sips, as women do, and, with an expression of intense suffering on her face, gave back the wineglass and bowed to Stepan Trofimovitch. He returned the bow with dignity and returned to the table with an expression of positive pride on his countenance.
All this was done on the inspiration of the moment: a second before he had no idea that he would go and treat the peasant woman.
“I know how to get on with peasants to perfection, to perfection, and I've always told them so,” he thought complacently, pouring out the rest of the vodka; though there was less than a glass left, it warmed and revived him, and even went a little to his head.
“ Je suis malade tout a- fait, mais ce n'est pas trap mauvais d'etre malade.”
“Would you care to purchase?” a gentle feminine voice asked close by him.
He raised his eyes and to his surprise saw a lady — une dame, et die en avait Pair,somewhat over thirty, very modest in appearance, dressed not like a peasant, in a dark gown with a grey shawl on her shoulders. There was something very kindly in her face which attracted Stepan Trofimovitch immediately. She had only just come back to the cottage, where her things had been left on a bench close by the place where Stepan Trofimovitch had seated himself. Among them was a portfolio, at which he remembered he had looked with curiosity on going in, and a pack, not very large, of American leather. From this pack she took out two nicely bound books with a cross engraved on the cover, and offered them to Stepan Trofimovitch.
“ Et . . . mais je croisque c'est I'Evangile . . .with the greatest pleasure. . . . Ah, now I understand. . . . Vous etes ce qu'on appellea gospel-woman; I've read more than once. . . . Half a rouble?”
“Thirty-five kopecks,” answered the gospel-woman. “With the greatest pleasure. Je n'ai rien centre l'Evangile,and I've been wanting to re-read it for a long time. . . .”
The idea occurred to him at the moment that he had not read the gospel for thirty years at least, and at most had recalled some passages of it, seven years before, when reading Kenan's “Vie de Jesus.” As he had no small change he pulled out his four ten-rouble notes — all that he had. The woman of the house undertook to get change, and only then he noticed, looking round, that a good many people had come into the cottage, and that they had all been watching him for some time past, and seemed to be talking about him. They were talking too of the fire in the town, especially the owner of the cart who had only just returned from the town with the cow. They talked of arson, of the Shpigulin men.
“He said nothing to me about the fire when he brought me along, although he talked of everything,” struck Stepan Trofimovitch for some reason.
“Master, Stepan Trofimovitch, sir, is it you I see? Well, I never should have thought it! ... Don't you know me?” exclaimed a middle-aged man who looked like an old-fashioned house-serf, wearing no beard and dressed in an overcoat with a wide turn-down collar. Stepan Trofimovitch was alarmed at hearing his own name.
“Excuse me,” he muttered, “I don't quite remember you.”
“You don't remember me. I am Anisim, Anisim Ivanov. I used to be in the service of the late Mr. Gaganov, and many's the time I've seen you, sir, with Varvara Petrovna at the late Avdotya Sergyevna's. I used to go to you with books from her, and twice I brought you Petersburg sweets from her. . . .”
“Why, yes, I remember you, Anisim,” said Stepan Trofimovitch, smiling. “Do you live here?”