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

streaming down his forehead, one could have easily taken him for a corpse.
That was the picture Pavlik could not banish from his mind. The boy
felt terribly oppressed; however, his mental state in no way interfered with
the job in hand. He bestowed special care on transferring the picture, for
he did not want to make a hole in the wet paper and spoil the bouquet and
light-blue ribbons that looked so bright in the light of the lamp.
Petya, meanwhile, was absent-mindedly leafing through a thick notebook.
There were emblems scratched out on the black oilskin cover-an anchor, a
heart pierced with an arrow and several mysterious initials. He was
listening to Father and Auntie arguing in the dining-room. Some words were
repeated more often than others; they were: "freedom of thought," "popular
government," "constitution," and, finally, that burning word-"revolution."
"Mark my words, it will all end in another revolution," Auntie said.
"You're an anarchist!" Father shouted shrilly.
"I'm a Russian patriot!"
"Russian patriots have faith in their tsar and their government!"
"Have you faith in them?"
"Yes, I have!"
Then Petya heard Tolstoi mentioned once more.
"Then why did this tsar and this government in whom you have such faith
excommunicate Tolstoi and ban his books?"
"To err is human. They look on Tolstoi as a politician, almost a
revolutionary, but Tolstoi is simply the world's greatest writer and the
pride of Russia. He is above all your parties and revolutions. I'll prove
that in my speech."
"Do you think the authorities will allow you to say that?"
"I don't need permission to say in public that Lev Tolstoi is a great
Russian writer."
"That's what you think."
"I don't think it-I am absolutely sure!"
"You're an idealist. You don't know the kind of country you're living
in. I beg you not to do that! They'll destroy you. Take my advice."






WHAT IS A RED?






Petya woke up in the middle of the night and saw Vasily Petrovich
sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves. Petya was used to seeing his father
correct exercise-books at night. This time, however, Father was doing
something else. The stacks of exercise-books were lying untouched, and he
was writing something rapidly in his fine hand. Little fat volumes of an old