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 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