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

of something that had happened long ago and which he could not quite place.
It was only after lessons had ended for the day and Petya found himself in
the street that he suddenly remembered it all.
An early twilight descended on the city. Oil lamps lit up the shop
windows, throwing sickly yellow streaks of light on the wet pavements. The
ghostly elongated shadows of passers-by flitted through the mist. Suddenly
there was a sound of singing. Row after row of people with their arms linked
were Founding the corner. A hat-less student marched in front, pressing a
black-framed portrait of Lev Tolstoi to his breast. The damp wind ruffled
his fair hair. "You fell, a victim in the fight," the student was singing in
a defiant tenor above the discordant voices of the crowd. Both the student
and the procession of singing people had suddenly and with great force
brought back to Petya a long-forgotten time and street. Then, as now, the
pavement had glittered in the mist, and along it marched a crowd of
students-mostly men and a few women wearing tiny karakul hats-and factory
workers in high boots. They had sung "You fell a victim." A scrap of red
bunting had bobbed over the heads of the crowd. That had been in 1905.
As if to complete the picture, Petya heard the clickety-clack of
horseshoes striking sparks on the wet granite cobbles. A Cossack patrol
galloped out of a side-street. Their peakless caps were cocked at a rakish
angle and short carbines dangled behind their shoulders. A whip cut the air
near Petya and the strong odour of horses' sweat filled his nostrils. In an
instant everything was a whirling, shouting, running mass.
Petya held his cap with both hands as he jumped out of the way. He
bumped into something hot. It turned over. He saw that it was a brazier
outside the greengrocer's. The hot coals scattered and mixed with the
smoking chestnuts. The street was empty.
For days Tolstoi's death was the sole topic of conversation in Russia.
Extra editions of the newspapers told the story of Tolstoi's departure from
his home in Yasnaya Polyana. Hundreds of telegrams date-lined Astapovo
Station described the last hours and minutes of the great writer. In a flash
the tiny, unknown Astapovo Station became as world-famous as Yasnaya
Polyana, and the name of the obscure station-master Ozolin who had taken the
dying man into his house was on everybody's lips.
Together with the names of Countess Sofya Andreyevna and Chertkov,
these new names-Astapovo and Ozolin- which accompanied Tolstoi to his grave,
were just as frightening to Petya as the black lettering on the white
ribbons of the funeral wreaths.
Petya noted with surprise that this death, which everyone regarded as a
"tragedy," apparently had something to do with the government, the Holy
Synod, the police, and the gendarmerie corps. Whenever he saw the bishop's
carriage with a monk sitting on the box next to the coachman, or the
clattering droshki of the chief of police, he was certain that both the
bishop and the chief of police were rushing somewhere on urgent business
connected with the death of Tolstoi.
Petya had never before seen his father in such a state of mind, not
actually excited, but, rather, exalted and inspired. His usually kind frank
face suddenly became sterner and younger. The hair above his high, classic
forehead was combed back student-fashion. But the aged, red-rimmed eyes full
of tears behind his pince-nez conveyed such grief, that Petya's heart ached