"Valentin Katayev. The Cottage in the Steppe (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

put on his wide-brimmed black hat and went out quickly.
"God grant that I am wrong!" Auntie sighed. "Come on, boys, stop
wasting time or you'll be late for school," she added and went over to help
Pavlik, her favourite, buckle on his satchel, as he had not yet mastered the
fairly simple procedure.
The day slipped by, a short and, at the same time, an interminably long
and dreary November day, full of a vague feeling of expectation, furtive
rumour, and endless repetition of the same agonizing words: "Chertkov,"
"Sofya Andreyevna," "Astapovo," "Ozolin."
It was the day of Tolstoi's funeral.
Petya had spent all his life on the southern sea coast, in the
Novorossiisk steppe region, and had never seen a forest. But now he had a
very clear mental picture of Yasnaya Polyana, of woods fringing an overgrown
ravine. In his mind's eye Petya saw the black trunks of the ancient,
leafless lindens, and the plain pine coffin containing the withered,
decrepit body of Lev Tolstoi being lowered into the grave without priest or
choir boys attending. And overhead the boy could see the ominous clouds and
flocks of crows, exactly like those that circled over the church steeple and
the bleak Kulikovo Field in the rainy twilight.
As usual, Father returned from his classes when the lamp had been lit
in the dining-room. He was excited, happy and deeply moved. When Auntie, not
without anxiety, asked him whether he had delivered his speech and what the
reaction had been, Vasily Petrovich could not restrain the proud smile that
flashed radiantly beneath his pince-nez.
"You could have heard a pin drop," he said, taking his handkerchief out
of his back-pocket and wiping his damp beard. "I never expected the young
bounders to respond so eagerly and seriously. And that goes for the young
ladies too. I repeated it for the seventh form of the Maryinsky School."
"Were you actually given permission to do so?" "I didn't ask anyone's
permission. Why should I? I hold that the literature teacher is fully
entitled to discuss with his class the personality of any famous Russian
writer, especially when the writer in question happens to be Tolstoi. What
is more, I believe that it is my duty to do so." "You're so reckless."
Later in the evening some young people, strangers to the family,
dropped in: two students in very old, faded caps, and a young woman who also
seemed to be a student. One of the youths sported a crooked pince-nez on a
black ribbon, wore top-boots, smoked a cigarette and emitted the smoke
through his nostrils; the young woman had on a short jacket and kept
pressing her little chapped hands to her bosom. For some reason or other
they were reluctant to come into the rooms, and remained in the hall talking
with Vasily Petrovich for a long time. The deep, rumbling bass seemed to
belong to the student with the pince-nez, and the pleading, lisping voice of
the young woman kept repeating the same phrase over and over again at
regular intervals:
"We feel certain that as a progressive and noble-minded person and
public figure, you won't refuse the student body this humble request."
The third visitor kept wiping his wet shoes shyly on the door mat and
blowing his nose discreetly.
It turned out that news of Vasily Petrovich's talk had somehow reached
the Higher Courses for Women and the Medical School of the Imperial