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

There at the blackboard stood the teacher, old Skeleton. He was in the
last stages of consumption and was ghastly thin. His blue frock-coat hung
loosely about his shoulders. It was too long and old, and very worn, but
there were new gold buttons on it. His starched dickey bulged casually on
his sunken chest and a skinny neck protruded from the wide greasy collar.
Skeleton stood stock-still for a moment or two, challenging the class with
his dark eyes. Then he turned swiftly to the blackboard, picked up a piece
of chalk with his thin, transparent fingers, and began tracing out the
letters.
In the ominous quiet they could hear the scratching of the chalk on the
slate: a light, delicate touch when he outlined a feathery curlicue and a
loud screech as he drew an amazingly straight line at a slant. Skeleton
would crouch and then suddenly straighten again, just like a puppet. He'd
cock his head to one side, utterly oblivious to his surroundings, and either
sing out "stro-o-ke" in a high thin voice, or "line" in a deep rasping one.
"Stroke, line. Stroke, line."
Suddenly a voice from the last row, still higher and as fine as a hair,
mimicked, "Stro-o-ke." Skeleton's back twitched, as if he had been stabbed,
but he pretended he hadn't heard. He continued writing, but the chalk was
already crumbling in his emaciated fingers, and his large shoulder-blades
jerked painfully beneath the threadbare frock-coat.
"Stroke, line. Stroke, line," he sang out and his neck and large ears
became crimson.
"Stro-o-oke! Str-rr-oke! Stro-o-oke!" mimicked someone in the last row.
All of a sudden Skeleton spun round, strode rapidly down the aisle and
grabbed the first boy at hand. He yanked him up from his desk, dragged him
to the door, and threw him out of the class-room. Then he banged the door so
hard that the panes rattled and dry putty fell all over the parquet floor.
Skeleton walked back to the blackboard with heavy steps. He was
wheezing loudly as he picked up the chalk and was about to continue the
lesson. Just then he heard the hum of steady, barely audible booing.
Startled, he froze into immobility. His knees trembled visibly. His cuffs
and baggy blue trousers trembled too. His black sunken eyes glared at the
boys with undisguised hatred. But he had no way of finding out the culprits.
They were all sitting with their mouths tightly shut, looking quite
indifferent, and yet they were all booing steadily, monotonously, and
imperceptibly. The whole class was booing, but no one could be accused of
it. Then a tortured scream of pain and rage broke from his lips. He was
jerking like a puppet as he hurled the chalk at the blackboard. It broke
into bits. Skeleton stamped his foot. His eyes became bloodshot. His thin
hair was plastered to his damp forehead. His neck twitched convulsively and
he tore open his collar. He rushed over to his desk, hurled the chair aside,
flung the class register against the wall, and began pounding the desk with
his fists. He no longer heard his own voice as he shouted, "Ruffians!
Ruffians!" The inkpot bounced up and down, and the purple liquid stained his
loosened dickey, his bony hands and damp forehead. The scene ended when
Skeleton, suddenly becoming limp, sat down on the window-sill, rested his
head against the frame and was seized with a terrible coughing spell. His
deeply sunken temples, almost black eye-sockets, and bared yellow teeth made
his face look like the skull of a skeleton. Were it not for the sweat