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

and steadfastly.
Petya crossed himself and bowed at the proper moments, he kept thinking
about his mother, and, at the same time, observed the priest, the
psalm-reader, Father, Pavlik, and Auntie. Pavlik was fidgeting all the time,
the turned-up hood irritated his ears and he kept tugging at it. Auntie was
weeping into her muff quietly. Father stood with eyes fixed on the
tombstone, his folded hands held humbly before him and his greying head with
the long seminarist's hair bent low. Petya knew Father was thinking about
Mother. But he had no idea of the terrible conflict raging within him.
Especially now did Vasily Petrovich miss her, her love, and her moral
support. He thought of the day when he, an eager young man, had read to her
his essay on Pushkin, of how they had both discussed it long and heatedly,
of the glorious morning, when he had put on his new uniform and was standing
in the hall, ready to set out to read his essay, and she had handed him his
freshly-pressed handkerchief, still warm from the hot iron, kissed him
fondly, and crossed him with her thin fingers; and afterwards, when he had
returned home in triumph, they had had a hearty dinner and little Petya,
whom they were training to be an independent young man, had smeared his
porridge all over his fat cheeks and kept repeating, "Daddy! Eat!" his black
eyes sparkling. How long ago, and yet, how close it all seemed! Now Vasily
Petrovich had to decide his fate alone.
For the first time in his life he understood clearly something that he
either could not or refused to understand before: that it was impossible in
Russia to be an honest and independent person if one held a government job.
One had to be a docile tsarist official, with no views of one's own, and
obey the orders of other officials-one's superiors-unquestioningly, no
matter how unjust or even criminal they might be. But worst of all, as far
as Vasily Petrovich was concerned, was the fact that the one responsible for
this state of affairs was none other than the Russian autocrat himself, the
Anointed of the Lord, in whose sanctity and infallibility Vasily Petrovich
had trusted so deeply and implicitly.
Now that this trust had been shaken, Vasily Petrovich turned
whole-heartedly to religion. He offered up prayers for his dead wife, and
implored divine help and guidance. But his prayers no longer brought him
consolation. He crossed himself, bowed low, and yet somehow or other he
seemed to see the priest and psalm-reader, who were rushing through the
service, in a new and different light. Their words and actions no longer
created the religious atmosphere of former years, but, instead, seemed
crude, unnatural, as if Vasily Petrovich himself was not praying, but only
observing two shamans performing some rite. That which formerly had moved
him deeply was now bereft of all its poetry.
The priest, in a mourning chasuble of brocade with a silver cross
embroidered on the back, his short arms wrapped in the dark sleeves of a
protruding tunic, was chanting the beautiful words of the requiem as he
deftly swung the censer to and fro, making the hot coals glow like rubies.
Purple smoke poured from it, turned grey quickly and melted in the wind,
leaving the air heavy with incense.
The psalm-reader had an enormous moustache and his winter overcoat was
exactly like Vasily Petrovich's, even to the frayed velvet collar. His
bulging eyes were reverently half closed, and his voice rose and fell as he