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

quickly echoed the priest's singing. Both priest and psalm-reader made a
pretence of not hurrying, although Vasily Petrovich could see they were
rushing the service, as they had to officiate at other graves where they
were eagerly awaited and whence impatient relatives were already signalling
them. Their relief was evident when they finally reached the last part and
put all their energy behind the words "the tears at the grave turn to
singing," etc., after which the Bachei family kissed the cold silver cross,
and while the psalm-reader was hurriedly wrapping it up in the stole, Vasily
Petrovich shook the priest's hand and awkwardly pressed two silver rubles
into his palm. The priest said, "I thank you!" and added, "I hear that
you're having trouble with the Education Department. Have faith in the Lord,
perhaps there is a way out. Good-bye for the present. Dreadful weather,
isn't it? A regular blizzard."
Vasily Petrovich had caught a faint trace of insult in those words.
Petya saw his face turn red. Suddenly there flashed into Vasily Petrovich's
mind the Education Department official bawling at him and his own
humiliating fear, and once again the feeling of pride, which until then he
had tried so hard to subordinate to Christian humility, welled up in him. At
that moment he decided that not for anything in the world would he
surrender, and if necessary he would suffer all the consequences for the
sake of Truth.
However, once they had returned home from the cemetery and he had
calmed down a little, his former doubts returned: had he the right to
jeopardize his family?
Meanwhile, the school holidays pursued their usual course, the only
difference being that this time they were not as jolly or as carefree as in
previous years.
Tedious and tiresome as usual was the waiting for nightfall on
Christmas Eve; appetizing smells drifted in from the kitchen while they
awaited the appearance of the first star in the window-the signal to light
the lamps and sit down to dinner and Christmas pudding. They had the usual
Christmas party next day, and carol-singers came in carrying a star hung
with tinsel and a round paper icon in the centre. Blue diamonds of moonlight
glittered festively and mysteriously on the frosted window-panes, and on New
Year's Eve there was apple pie with a new silver coin hidden in it for good
luck. The regimental bands played as usual in the clear, frosty noonday for
the Twelfth-Day parade on Cathedral Square. The holidays were coming to an
end. Some kind of decision had to be made. Vasily Petrovich became
despondent, and his depression affected the boys. Auntie alone tried to keep
up the holiday spirit. She put on a new silk dress, and all her favourite
rings were brought out to adorn her slender fingers; she smelled of "Coeur
de Jeannette" perfume, and she would sit at the piano, open a large folio,
and play Madame Vyaltseva's repertoire of waltzes, polkas, and gipsy
serenades. On Twelfth-Day Eve she decided to have the traditional
fortune-telling. They poured cold water into a basin and dropped melted
paraffin into it, as they had no wax, and then interpreted the various
shapes it froze into; in the kitchen they burned balls of crumpled paper and
then told the meaning of the shadows cast by them on the freshly whitewashed
wall. But there was something strained in all this.