by Leo Tolstoy
Childhood. Boyhood. Youth
Leo Tolstoy
Tuesday, August 14th, 2012
Childhood. Boyhood. Youth
Childhood. Boyhood. Youth
By Leo Tolstoy
Translated by C.J. Hogarth
I -- THE TUTOR, KARL IVANITCH
On the 12th of August, 18-- (just three days after my tenth birthday,
when I had been given such wonderful presents), I was awakened at seven
o'clock in the morning by Karl Ivanitch slapping the wall close to my
head with a fly-flap made of sugar paper and a stick. He did this so
roughly that he hit the image of my patron saint suspended to the oaken
back of my bed, and the dead fly fell down on my curls. I peeped out
from under the coverlet, steadied the still shaking image with my hand,
flicked the dead fly on to the floor, and gazed at Karl Ivanitch with
sleepy, wrathful eyes. He, in a parti-coloured wadded dressing-gown
fastened about the waist with a wide belt of the same material, a red
knitted cap adorned with a tassel, and soft slippers of goat skin, went
on walking round the walls and taking aim at, and slapping, flies.
"Suppose," I thought to myself, "that I am only a small boy, yet why
should he disturb me? Why does he not go killing flies around Woloda's
bed? No; Woloda is older than I, and I am the youngest of the family, so
he torments me. That is what he thinks of all day long--how to tease
me. He knows very well that he has woken me up and frightened me, but he
pretends not to notice it. Disgusting brute! And his dressing-gown and
cap and tassel too--they are all of them disgusting."
While I was thus inwardly venting my wrath upon Karl Ivanitch, he had
passed to his own bedstead, looked at his watch (which hung suspended in
a little shoe sewn with bugles), and deposited the fly-flap on a nail,
then, evidently in the most cheerful mood possible, he turned round to
us.
"Get up, children! It is quite time, and your mother is already in the
drawing-room," he exclaimed in his strong German accent. Then he crossed
over to me, sat down at my feet, and took his snuff-box out of his
pocket. I pretended to be asleep. Karl Ivanitch sneezed, wiped his
nose, flicked his fingers, and began amusing himself by teasing me and
tickling my toes as he said with a smile, "Well, well, little lazy one!"
For all my dread of being tickled, I determined not to get out of bed
or to answer him, but hid my head deeper in the pillow, kicked out with
all my strength, and strained every nerve to keep from laughing.
"How kind he is, and how fond of us!" I thought to myself. "Yet to think
that I could be hating him so just now!"
I felt angry, both with myself and with Karl Ivanitch, I wanted to laugh
and to cry at the same time, for my nerves were all on edge.
"Leave me alone, Karl!" I exclaimed at length, with tears in my eyes, as
I raised my head from beneath the bed-clothes.
Karl Ivanitch was taken aback. He left off tickling my feet, and asked
me kindly what the matter was. Had I had a disagreeable dream? His good
German face and the sympathy with which he sought to know the cause
of my tears made them flow the faster. I felt conscience-stricken, and
could not understand how, only a minute ago, I had been hating Karl,
and thinking his dressing-gown and cap and tassel disgusting. On the
contrary, they looked eminently lovable now. Even the tassel seemed
another token of his goodness. I replied that I was crying because I had
had a bad dream, and had seen Mamma dead and being buried. Of course it
was a mere invention, since I did not remember having dreamt anything
at all that night, but the truth was that Karl's sympathy as he tried to
comfort and reassure me had gradually made me believe that I HAD dreamt
such a horrible dream, and so weep the more--though from a different
cause to the one he imagined.
When Karl Ivanitch had left me, I sat up in bed and proceeded to draw
my stockings over my little feet. The tears had quite dried now, yet the
mournful thought of the invented dream was still haunting me a little.
Presently Uncle [This term is often applied by children to old servants
in Russia] Nicola came in--a neat little man who was always grave,
methodical, and respectful, as well as a great friend of Karl's. He
brought with him our clothes and boots--at least, boots for Woloda, and
for myself the old detestable, be-ribanded shoes. In his presence I
felt ashamed to cry, and, moreover, the morning sun was shining so gaily
through the window, and Woloda, standing at the washstand as he mimicked
Maria Ivanovna (my sister's governess), was laughing so loud and so
long, that even the serious Nicola--a towel over his shoulder, the soap
in one hand, and the basin in the other--could not help smiling as he
said, "Will you please let me wash you, Vladimir Petrovitch?" I had
cheered up completely.
"Are you nearly ready?" came Karl's voice from the schoolroom. The tone
of that voice sounded stern now, and had nothing in it of the kindness
which had just touched me so much. In fact, in the schoolroom Karl was
altogether a different man from what he was at other times. There he was
the tutor. I washed and dressed myself hurriedly, and, a brush still
in my hand as I smoothed my wet hair, answered to his call. Karl,
with spectacles on nose and a book in his hand, was sitting, as usual,
between the door and one of the windows. To the left of the door were
two shelves--one of them the children's (that is to say, ours), and the
other one Karl's own. Upon ours were heaped all sorts of books--lesson
books and play books--some standing up and some lying down. The only
two standing decorously against the wall were two large volumes of a
Histoire des Voyages, in red binding. On that shelf could be seen books
thick and thin and books large and small, as well as covers without
books and books without covers, since everything got crammed up together
anyhow when play time arrived and we were told to put the "library" (as
Karl called these shelves) in order. The collection of books on his own
shelf was, if not so numerous as ours, at least more varied. Three of
them in particular I remember, namely, a German pamphlet (minus a cover)
on Manuring Cabbages in Kitchen-Gardens, a History of the Seven Years'
War (bound in parchment and burnt at one corner), and a Course of
Hydrostatics. Though Karl passed so much of his time in reading that he
had injured his sight by doing so, he never read anything beyond these
books and The Northern Bee.
Another article on Karl's shelf I remember well. This was a round piece
of cardboard fastened by a screw to a wooden stand, with a sort of comic
picture of a lady and a hairdresser glued to the cardboard. Karl was
very clever at fixing pieces of cardboard together, and had devised this
contrivance for shieldin
g his weak eyes from any very strong light.
I can see him before me now--the tall figure in its wadded dressing-gown
and red cap (a few grey hairs visible beneath the latter) sitting beside
the table; the screen with the hairdresser shading his face; one hand
holding a book, and the other one resting on the arm of the chair.
Before him lie his watch, with a huntsman painted on the dial, a
check cotton handkerchief, a round black snuff-box, and a green
spectacle-case. The neatness and orderliness of all these articles show
clearly that Karl Ivanitch has a clear conscience and a quiet mind.
Sometimes, when tired of running about the salon downstairs, I would
steal on tiptoe to the schoolroom and find Karl sitting alone in his
armchair as, with a grave and quiet expression on his face, he perused
one of his favourite books. Yet sometimes, also, there were moments when
he was not reading, and when the spectacles had slipped down his large
aquiline nose, and the blue, half-closed eyes and faintly smiling lips
seemed to be gazing before them with a curious expression. All would be
quiet in the room--not a sound being audible save his regular breathing
and the ticking of the watch with the hunter painted on the dial. He
would not see me, and I would stand at the door and think: "Poor, poor
old man! There are many of us, and we can play together and be happy,
but he sits there all alone, and has nobody to be fond of him. Surely
he speaks truth when he says that he is an orphan. And the story of his
life, too--how terrible it is! I remember him telling it to Nicola. How
dreadful to be in his position!" Then I would feel so sorry for him that
I would go to him, and take his hand, and say, "Dear Karl Ivanitch!"
and he would be visibly delighted whenever I spoke to him like this, and
would look much brighter.
On the second wall of the schoolroom hung some maps--mostly torn, but
glued together again by Karl's hand. On the third wall (in the middle of
which stood the door) hung, on one side of the door, a couple of rulers
(one of them ours--much bescratched, and the other one his--quite a new
one), with, on the further side of the door, a blackboard on which our
more serious faults were marked by circles and our lesser faults by
crosses. To the left of the blackboard was the corner in which we had to
kneel when naughty. How well I remember that corner--the shutter on the
stove, the ventilator above it, and the noise which it made when turned!
Sometimes I would be made to stay in that corner till my back and knees
were aching all over, and I would think to myself. "Has Karl Ivanitch
forgotten me? He goes on sitting quietly in his arm-chair and reading
his Hydrostatics, while I--!" Then, to remind him of my presence, I
would begin gently turning the ventilator round. Or scratching some
plaster off the wall; but if by chance an extra large piece fell upon
the floor, the fright of it was worse than any punishment. I would
glance round at Karl, but he would still be sitting there quietly, book
in hand, and pretending that he had noticed nothing.
In the middle of the room stood a table, covered with a torn black
oilcloth so much cut about with penknives that the edge of the table
showed through. Round the table stood unpainted chairs which, through
use, had attained a high degree of polish. The fourth and last wall
contained three windows, from the first of which the view was as
follows. Immediately beneath it there ran a high road on which every
irregularity, every pebble, every rut was known and dear to me. Beside
the road stretched a row of lime-trees, through which glimpses could be
caught of a wattled fence, with a meadow with farm buildings on one side
of it and a wood on the other--the whole bounded by the keeper's hut at
the further end of the meadow. The next window to the right overlooked
the part of the terrace where the "grownups" of the family used to sit
before luncheon. Sometimes, when Karl was correcting our exercises, I
would look out of that window and see Mamma's dark hair and the backs
of some persons with her, and hear the murmur of their talking and
laughter. Then I would feel vexed that I could not be there too, and
think to myself, "When am I going to be grown up, and to have no more
lessons, but sit with the people whom I love instead of with these
horrid dialogues in my hand?" Then my anger would change to sadness, and
I would fall into such a reverie that I never heard Karl when he scolded
me for my mistakes.
At last, on the morning of which I am speaking, Karl Ivanitch took
off his dressing-gown, put on his blue frockcoat with its creased and
crumpled shoulders, adjusted his tie before the looking-glass, and took
us down to greet Mamma.
II -- MAMMA
Mamma was sitting in the drawing-room and making tea. In one hand she
was holding the tea-pot, while with the other one she was drawing water
from the urn and letting it drip into the tray. Yet though she appeared
to be noticing what she doing, in reality she noted neither this fact
nor our entry.
However vivid be one's recollection of the past, any attempt to recall
the features of a beloved being shows them to one's vision as through
a mist of tears--dim and blurred. Those tears are the tears of the
imagination. When I try to recall Mamma as she was then, I see, true,
her brown eyes, expressive always of love and kindness, the small mole
on her neck below where the small hairs grow, her white embroidered
collar, and the delicate, fresh hand which so often caressed me,
and which I so often kissed; but her general appearance escapes me
altogether.
To the left of the sofa stood an English piano, at which my dark-haired
sister Lubotshka was sitting and playing with manifest effort (for
her hands were rosy from a recent washing in cold water) Clementi's
"Etudes." Then eleven years old, she was dressed in a short cotton frock
and white lace-frilled trousers, and could take her octaves only in
arpeggio. Beside her was sitting Maria Ivanovna, in a cap adorned
with pink ribbons and a blue shawl. Her face was red and cross, and it
assumed an expression even more severe when Karl Ivanitch entered the
room. Looking angrily at him without answering his bow, she went on
beating time with her foot and counting, "One, two, three--one, two,
three," more loudly and commandingly than ever.
Karl Ivanitch paid no attention to this rudeness, but went, as usual,
with German politeness to kiss Mamma's hand. She drew herself up, shook
her head as though by the movement to chase away sad thoughts from her,
and gave Karl her hand, kissing him on his wrinkled temple as he bent
his head in salutation.
"I thank you, dear Karl Ivanitch," she said in German, and then, still
using the same language asked him how we (the children) had slept.
Karl Ivanitch was deaf in one ear, and the added noise of the piano now
prevented him from hearing anything at all. He moved nearer to the sofa,
and, leaning one hand upon the table and lifting his cap above his
head, said with, a smile which in those days always seemed to me the
perfection of politeness: "You, will excuse me, will you not, Natalia
Nicolaevna?"
The reason for this was that, to avoid catching cold, Karl never took
off his red cap, but invariably asked permission, on entering the
drawing-room, to retain it on his head.
"Yes, pray replace it, Karl Ivanitch," said Mamma, bending towards him
and raising her voice, "But I asked you whether the children had slept
well?"
Still he did not hear, but, covering his bald head again with the red
cap, went on smiling more than ever.
"Stop a moment, Mimi," said Mamma (now smiling also) to Maria Ivanovna.
"It is impossible to hear anything."
How beautiful Mamma's face was when she smiled! It made her so
infinitely more charming, and everything around her seemed to grow
brighter! If in the more painful moments of my life I could have seen
that smile before my eyes, I should never have known what grief is. In
my opinion, it is in the smile of a face that the essence of what we
call beauty lies. If the smile heightens the charm of the face, then the
face is a beautiful one. If the smile does not alter the face, then the
face is an ordinary one. But if the smile spoils the face, then the face
is an ugly one indeed.
Mamma took my head between her hands, bent it gently backwards, looked
at me gravely, and said: "You have been crying this morning?"
I did not answer. She kissed my eyes, and said again in German: "Why did
you cry?"
When talking to us with particular intimacy she always used this
language, which she knew to perfection.
"I cried about a dream, Mamma" I replied, remembering the invented
vision, and trembling involuntarily at the recollection.
