Childhood
ChildhoodI — THE TUTOR, KARL IVANITCHII — MAMMAIII — PAPAIV — LESSONSV — THE IDIOTVI — PREPARATIONS FOR THE CHASEVII — THE HUNTVIII — WE PLAY GAMESIX — A FIRST ESSAY IN LOVEX — THE SORT OF MAN MY FATHER WASXI — IN THE DRAWING-ROOM AND THE STUDYXII — GRISHAXIII — NATALIA SAVISHNAXIV — THE PARTINGXV — CHILDHOODXVI — VERSE-MAKINGXVII — THE PRINCESS KORNAKOFFXVIII — PRINCE IVAN IVANOVITCHXIX — THE IWINSXX — PREPARATIONS FOR THE PARTYXXI — BEFORE THE MAZURKAXXII — THE MAZURKAXXIII — AFTER THE MAZURKAXXIV — IN BEDXXV — THE LETTERXXVI — WHAT AWAITED US AT THE COUNTRY-HOUSEXXVII — GRIEFXXVIII — SAD RECOLLECTIONSCopyright
Childhood
Leo Tolstoy
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 particoloured 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 shielding 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.
Karl Ivanitch confirmed my words, but said nothing as to the
subject of the dream. Then, after a little conversation on the
weather, in which Mimi also took part, Mamma laid some lumps of
sugar on the tray for one or two of the more privileged servants,
and crossed over to her embroidery frame, which stood near one of
the windows.
"Go to Papa now, children," she said, "and ask him to come to
me before he goes to the home farm."
Then the music, the counting, and the wrathful looks from
Mimi began again, and we went off to see Papa. Passing through the
room which had been known ever since Grandpapa's time as "the
pantry," we entered the study.
III — PAPA
