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

would not allow him to retreat. In his opinion a "bargain with one's
conscience" was the epitome of moral degradation. And, nevertheless, he
wavered. The pit they had dug for him so ruthlessly would not bear thinking
about. He realized that there was no way out, although he tried to think of
one.
Vasily Petrovich was so disheartened that he even decided to petition
the Emperor and sent for ten kopeks' worth of the best "ministerial"
stationery from the shop round the corner. He still adhered to his belief
that the tsar-the Lord's Anointed-was just and upright.
Perhaps he would actually have written to the tsar, had it not been for
the fact that at this juncture Auntie took a hand in the matter. She told
the cook on no account to go for any "ministerial" stationery, and
addressing herself to Vasily Petrovich said:
"My God, you're the perfect innocent! Don't you understand that they
are one and the same bunch?"
Vasily Petrovich blinked confusedly and kept repeating:
"But what's to be done, Tatyana Ivanovna? Tell me, just what can I do?"
Auntie, however, had no advice to offer. She retreated to her little
room next to the kitchen, sat down at her dressing-table, and pressed a
crumpled lace handkerchief to her red nose.




REQUIEM






It was Christmas Eve, the twenty-fourth of December, a day that had a
special meaning for the Bachei family. It was the day of Mother's patron
saint. Every year on that day they visited the cemetery to offer up a mass
for the dead. They set out today too. There was a blizzard blowing and the
blinding whiteness hurt their eyes. The snow-drifts at the cemetery blended
with the white of the sky. Fine, powdery snow crystals rose over the black
iron railings and crosses. The wind whistled through old metal wreaths with
porcelain flowers. Petya stood knee-deep in the fresh snow. He had taken off
his cap, but still had on a hood. He was praying diligently, trying to
visualize his dead mother, but could recall only minor details: a hat with a
feather in it, a veil, the hem of a wide silk dress with a fringe on it. Two
kind eyes were smiling at him through the dotted veil tied under her chin.
That was all Petya could remember. There was a faint trace of a long past
grief that time had healed, the fear of his own death, and the gold letters
of Mother's name on the white marble slab from which the sexton had
carelessly brushed the snow just before they had arrived. Next to it was
Grandma's grave, and there was a vacant place between the two graves where,
as Vasily Petrovich was wont to say, he would one day be laid at rest
between his mother and his wife, the two women he had loved so faithfully