About the book: 1913 / Guests gathered at the priest’s house for the holiday. The small but bright rooms of the priest's house were full of chatter and noise. The servants were knocked off their feet, the priest greeted the guests with cheerful greetings, joked and joked, as always, mother walked around crimson with pleasure. The day was approaching evening, but it was still hot. The sun was shining cheerfully, the aroma of flowers was floating from the garden into the wide open windows, and from somewhere in the neighborhood, probably from the kitchen, such delicious smells reached that the spiritual ones at times fell embarrassedly silent and, coughing, at the same time glanced towards the kitchen doors, until, Finally, one of them could not stand it. “And the sun is at sunset,” said the Dolgov psalm-reader Mitrofanich, a very skinny man, half-blind and with a long nose, in a thin voice, intoning in a thin voice, “and it’s early in the morning!” And he laughed for a long time, a silent laugh, as if he was shaking all over from head to toe. The clergy sympathetically supported him, and the corpulent Maryevsky priest with a cheerful face, Fr. Arkady joked in a deep voice. “The sun hasn’t even set yet, and my stomach is dark and boring!” Father ran, fussed, fussed, laughed, rubbed his hands, winked cheerfully. - Fathers and brothers, be patient... soon, soon! He ran into the kitchen, returned, and mysteriously reported. “Something’s not working out with mother’s pie: she started it at one and a half fathoms, and she won’t get it out of the oven.” And the pie is wonderful... happy! Who can’t stand the wait... He bowed with a laugh, pointing somewhere with his hand. - Please, come to the corner!