As Nikita entered the house she was offering her guest a small tumbler
of thick glass which she had just filled with vodka.

'Don't refuse, Vasili Andreevich, you mustn't! Wish us a merry feast.
Drink it, dear!' she said.

The sight and smell of vodka, especially now when he was chilled through
and tired out, much disturbed Nikita's mind. He frowned, and having
shaken the snow off his cap and coat, stopped in front of the icons
as if not seeing anyone, crossed himself three times, and bowed to the
icons. Then, turning to the old master of the house and bowing first
to him, then to all those at table, then to the women who stood by the
oven, and muttering: 'A merry holiday!' he began taking off his outer
things without looking at the table.

'Why, you're all covered with hoar-frost, old fellow!' said the eldest
brother, looking at Nikita's snow-covered face, eyes, and beard.

Nikita took off his coat, shook it again, hung it up beside the oven,
and came up to the table. He too was offered vodka. He went through a
moment of painful hesitation and nearly took up the glass and emptied
the clear fragrant liquid down his throat, but he glanced at Vasili
Andreevich, remembered his oath and the boots that he had sold for
drink, recalled the cooper, remembered his son for whom he had promised
to buy a horse by spring, sighed, and declined it.

'I don't drink, thank you kindly,' he said frowning, and sat down on a
bench near the second window.

'How's that?' asked the eldest brother.