ooked 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 l'a 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 charmant._"

"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 petit rien_."

"Five farthings