The wine was frozen hard, and the ham was frosted over with ice; we had to chop it with an axe, but à la guerre comme à la guerre.
“A Happy New Year,” we all cried. And I had cause for happiness. I was travelling back in the right direction, and every hour brought me nearer to Moscow—my heart was full of hope.
As our frozen champagne was not much to the taste of the post-master, I poured an equal quantity of rum into his glass; and this new form of “half and half” was a great success.
The driver, whom I invited to drink with us, was even more thoroughgoing in his methods: he poured pepper into the foaming wine, stirred it up with a spoon, and drank the glass at one gulp; then he sighed and added with a sort of groan, “That was fine and hot.”
The post-master himself helped me into the sledge, and was so zealous in his attentions that he dropped a lighted candle into the hay and failed to find it afterwards. He was in great spirits and kept repeating, “A Happy New Year for me too, thanks to you.”
The “heated” driver touched up the horses, and we started.
§3
At eight on the following evening I arrived at Vladímir and stopped at an inn which is described with perfect accuracy in The Tarantas,[[113]] with its queer menu in Russian-French and its vinegar for claret.
[113]. I.e., The Travelling Carriage, a novel by Count Sologub.
“Someone was asking for you this morning,” said the waiter, after reading the name on my passport; “perhaps he’s waiting in the bar now.” The waiter’s head displayed that dashing parting and noble curl over the ear which used to be the distinguishing marks of Russian waiters and are now peculiar to them and Prince Louis Napoleon.