"Valentin Katayev. A White Sail Gleams (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

The snorting muzzle of the horse came to a stop at a level with the
open window. Big teeth chewed at the white iron bit. Grassy-green foam
dripped from the black rubbery lips. Out of the delicate pink nostrils a hot
steamy breath poured over the three passengers.
The black lips stretched towards Petya's straw hat.
"Who's that inside?" a rough military voice shouted somewhere overhead.
"Summer residents. I'm taking them to the boat." The driver spoke
quickly, in an unrecognisably thin and sugary voice. "They're bound for
Akkerman and then straight to Odessa by boat. They've been living on a farm
out here all summer. Ever since the beginning of June. Now they're on their
way home."
"Well, let's have a look at 'em."
With these words a red face with yellow moustaches and eyebrows and a
close-shaven chin, and above it a cap with an oval badge on a green band,
appeared at the window.
"Who are you?"
"Holiday-makers," said Father, smiling.
The soldier evidently did not like the smile or that breezy word
"holiday-makers", which sounded to him like a jeer.
"I can see you're holiday-makers," he said with rough displeasure.
"That don't tell me anything. Just what kind of holiday-makers are you?"
Father turned pale with indignation. His jaw began to quiver, and his
little beard quivered too. He buttoned all the buttons of his summer coat
with trembling fingers and adjusted his pince-nez.
"How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice?" he cried in a sharp
falsetto. "I am Collegiate Counsellor Batchei, a high school teacher, and
these are my two children, Peter and Paul. Our destination is Odessa."
Pink spots broke out on Father's forehead.
"Excuse me, Your Honour," the soldier said smartly, his pale eyes
popping out of his head. He saluted with his whip hand. "I didn't know."
He looked as if he had been frightened to death by the "Collegiate
Counsellor", a grim-sounding title he probably had never heard before.
"To the devil with him!" he thought. "He might land me in hot water. I
might get it in the neck."
He put the spurs to his horse and galloped off.
"What an idiot!" Petya remarked, when the soldiers had ridden off a
good distance.
Father again lost his temper. "Hold your tongue! How many times have I
told you you mustn't dare say that word! People who regularly use the word
'idiot' are usually themselves-er-none too clever. Remember that."
At any other time, of course, Petya would have argued, but now he kept
his peace.
He knew Father's state of mind perfectly.
Father, who always spoke of titles and medals with scornful irritation,
who never wore his formal uniform or his Order of St. Anna, Third Class, who
never recognised any social privileges and insisted that all the inhabitants
of Russia were no more and no less than "citizens", had suddenly, in a fit
of anger, said God knows what. And to whom! To an ordinary soldier.
"High school teacher" .. . "Collegiate Counsellor" . . . "How dare you
speak to me in that tone of voice". . . .