“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’ 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.