Produced by Martin Adamson and David Widger
CHILDHOOD
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
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
He was standing near his writing-table, and pointing angrily to some
envelopes, papers, and little piles of coin upon it as he addressed some
observations to the bailiff, Jakoff Michaelovitch, who was standing in
his usual place (that is to say, between the door and the barometer)
and rapidly closing and unclosing the fingers of the hand which he held
behind his back, The more angry Papa grew, the more rapidly did those
fingers twirl, and when Papa ceased speaking they came to rest also.
Yet, as soon as ever Jakoff himself began to talk, they flew here,
there, and everywhere with lightning rapidity. These movements always
appeared to me an index of Jakoff's secret thoughts, though his face was
invariably placid, and expressive alike of dignity and submissiveness,
as who should say, "I am right, yet let it be as you wish." On seeing
us, Papa said, "Directly - wait a moment," and looked towards the door as
a hint for it to be shut.
"Gracious heavens! What can be the matter with you to-day, Jakoff?" he
went on with a hitch of one shoulder (a habit of his). "This envelope
here with the 800 roubles enclosed," - Jacob took out a set of tablets,
put down "800" and remained looking at the figures while he waited
for what was to come next - "is for expenses during my absence. Do you
understand? From the mill you ought to receive 1000 roubles. Is not
that so? And from the Treasury mortgage you ought to receive some 8000
roubles. From the hay - of which, according to your calculations, we
shall be able to sell 7000 poods [The pood = 40 lbs.]at 45 copecks a
piece there should come in 3000, Consequently the sum-total that you
ought to have in hand soon is - how much? - 12,000 roubles. Is that
right?"
"Precisely," answered Jakoff, Yet by the extreme rapidity with which
his fingers were twitching I could see that he had an objection to make.
Papa went on:
"Well, of this money you will send 10,000 roubles to the Petrovskoe
local council, As for the money already at the office, you will remit it
to me, and enter it as spent on this present date." Jakoff turned over
the tablet marked "12,000," and put down "21,000" - seeming, by his
action, to imply that 12,000 roubles had been turned over in the
same fashion as he had turned the tablet. "And this envelope with the
enclosed money," concluded Papa, "you will deliver for me to the person
to whom it is addressed."
I was standing close to the table, and could see the address. It was "To
Karl Ivanitch Mayer." Perhaps Papa had an idea that I had read something
which I ought not, for he touched my shoulder with his hand and made me
aware, by a slight movement, that I must withdraw from the table. Not
sure whether the movement was meant for a caress or a command, I kissed
the large, sinewy hand which rested upon my shoulder.
"Very well," said Jakoff. "And what are your orders about the accounts
for the money from Chabarovska?" (Chabarovska was Mamma's village.)
"Only that they are to remain in my office, and not to be taken thence
without my express instructions."
For a minute or two Jakoff was silent. Then his fingers began to twitch
with extraordinary rapidity, and, changing the expression of deferential
vacancy with which he had listened to his orders for one of shrewd
intelligence, he turned his tablets back and spoke.
"Will you allow me to inform you, Peter Alexandritch," he said, with
frequent pauses between his words, "that, however much you wish it, it
is out of the question to repay the local council now. You enumerated
some items, I think, as to what ought to come in from the mortgage, the
mill, and the hay (he jotted down each of these items on his tablets
again as he spoke). Yet I fear that we must have made a mistake
somewhere in the accounts." Here he paused a while, and looked gravely
at Papa.
"How so?"
"Well, will you be good enough to look for yourself? There is the
account for the mill. The miller has been to me twice to ask for time,
and I am afraid that he has no money whatever in hand. He is here now.
Would you like to speak to him?"
"No. Tell me what he says," replied Papa, showing by a movement of his
head that he had no desire to have speech with the miller.
"Well, it is easy enough to guess what he says. He declares that there
is no grinding to be got now, and that his last remaining money has gone
to pay for the dam. What good would it do for us to turn him out? As to
what you were pleased to say about the mortgage, you yourself are aware
that your money there is locked up and cannot be recovered at a moment's
notice. I was sending a load of flour to Ivan Afanovitch to-day, and
sent him a letter as well, to which he replies that he would have been
glad to oblige you, Peter Alexandritch, were it not that the matter is
out of his hands now, and that all the circumstances show that it would
take you at least two months to withdraw the money. From the hay I
understood you to estimate a return of 3000 roubles?" (Here Jakoff
jotted down "3000" on his tablets, and then looked for a moment from the
figures to Papa with a peculiar expression on his face.) "Well, surely
you see for yourself how little that is? And even then we should lose if
we were to sell the stuff now, for you must know that - "
It was clear that he would have had many other arguments to adduce had
not Papa interrupted him.
"I cannot make any change in my arrangements," said Papa. "Yet if there
should REALLY have to be any delay in the recovery of these sums, we
could borrow what we wanted from the Chabarovska funds."
"Very well, sir." The expression of Jakoff's face and the way in which
he twitched his fingers showed that this order had given him great
satisfaction. He was a serf, and a most zealous, devoted one, but,
like all good bailiffs, exacting and parsimonious to a degree in the
interests of his master. Moreover, he had some queer notions of his own.
He was forever endeavouring to increase his master's property at the
expense of his mistress's, and to prove that it would be impossible to
avoid using the rents from her estates for the benefit of Petrovskoe (my
father's village, and the place where we lived). This point he had now
gained and was delighted in consequence.
Papa then greeted ourselves, and said that if we stayed much longer in
the country we should become lazy boys; that we were growing quite big
now, and must set about doing lessons in earnest,
"I suppose you know that I am starting for Moscow to-night?" he went on,
"and that I am going to take you with me? You will live with Grandmamma,
but Mamma and the girls will remain here. You know, too, I am sure, that
Mamma's one consolation will be to hear that you are doing your lessons
well and pleasing every one around you."
The preparations which had been in progress for some days past had
made us expect some unusual event, but this news left us thunderstruck,
Woloda turned red, and, with a shaking voice, delivered Mamma's message
to Papa.
"So this was what my dream foreboded!" I thought to myself. "God send
that there come nothing worse!" I felt terribly sorry to have to leave
Mamma, but at the same rejoiced to think that I should soon be grown up,
"If we are going to-day, we shall probably have no lessons to do, and
that will be splendid, However, I am sorry for Karl Ivanitch, for he
will certainly be dismissed now. That was why that envelope had been
prepared for him. I think I would almost rather stay and do lessons here
than leave Mamma or hurt poor Karl. He is miserable enough already."
As these thoughts crossed my mind I stood looking sadly at the black
ribbons on my shoes, After a few words to Karl Ivanitch about the
depression of the barometer and an injunction to Jakoff not to feed
the hounds, since a farewell meet was to be held after luncheon, Papa
disappointed my hopes by sending us off to lessons - though he also
consoled us by promising to take us out hunting later.
On my way upstairs I made a digression to the terrace. Near the door
leading on to it Papa's favourite hound, Milka, was lying in the sun and
blinking her eyes.
"Miloshka," I cried as I caressed her and kissed her nose, "we are going
away today. Good-bye. Perhaps we shall never see each other again." I
was crying and laughing at the same time.
IV - LESSONS
Karl Ivanitch was in a bad temper, This was clear from his contracted
brows, and from the way in which he flung his frockcoat into a drawer,
angrily donned his old dressing-gown again, and made deep dints with
his nails to mark the place in the book of dialogues to which we were
to learn by heart. Woloda began working diligently, but I was too
distracted to do anything at all. For a long while I stared vacantly
at the book; but tears at the thought of the impending separation kept
rushing to my eyes and preventing me from reading a single word. When at
length the time came to repeat the dialogues to Karl (who listened to us
with blinking eyes - a very bad sign), I had no sooner reached the place
where some one asks, "Wo kommen Sie her?" ("Where do you come from?")
and some one else answers him, "Ich komme vom Kaffeehaus" ("I come from
the coffee-house"), than I burst into tears and, for sobbing, could not
pronounce, "Haben Sie die Zeitung nicht gelesen?" ("Have you not read the
newspaper?") at all. Next, when we came to our writing lesson, the tears
kept falling from my eyes and, making a mess on the paper, as though
some one had written on blotting-paper with water, Karl was very
angry. He ordered me to go down upon my knees, declared that it was all
obstinacy and "puppet-comedy playing" (a favourite expression of his)
on my part, threatened me with the ruler, and commanded me to say that
I was sorry. Yet for sobbing and crying I could not get a word out. At
last - conscious, perhaps, that he was unjust - he departed to Nicola's
pantry, and slammed the door behind him. Nevertheless their conversation
there carried to the schoolroom.
"Have you heard that the children are going to Moscow, Nicola?" said
Karl.
"Yes. How could I help hearing it?"
At this point Nicola seemed to get up for Karl said, "Sit down, Nicola,"
and then locked the door. However, I came out of my corner and crept to
the door to listen.
"However much you may do for people, and however fond of them you may
be, never expect any gratitude, Nicola," said Karl warmly. Nicola, who
was shoe-cobbling by the window, nodded his head in assent.
"Twelve years have I lived in this house," went on Karl, lifting his
eyes and his snuff-box towards the ceiling, "and before God I can say
that I have loved them, and worked for them, even more than if they had
been my own children. You recollect, Nicola, when Woloda had the fever?
You recollect how, for nine days and nights, I never closed my eyes as
I sat beside his bed? Yes, at that time I was 'the dear, good Karl
Ivanitch' - I was wanted then; but now" - and he smiled ironically - "the
children are growing up, and must go to study in earnest. Perhaps they
never learnt anything with me, Nicola? Eh?"
"I am sure they did," replied Nicola, laying his awl down and
straightening a piece of thread with his hands.
"No, I am wanted no longer, and am to be turned out. What good are
promises and gratitude? Natalia Nicolaevna" - here he laid his hand upon
his heart - "I love and revere, but what can SHE I do here? Her will is
powerless in this house."
He flung a strip of leather on the floor with an angry gesture. "Yet I
know who has been playing tricks here, and why I am no longer wanted. It
is because I do not flatter and toady as certain people do. I am in
the habit of speaking the truth in all places and to all persons," he
continued proudly, "God be with these children, for my leaving them will
benefit them little, whereas I - well, by God's help I may be able to
earn a crust of bread somewhere. Nicola, eh?"
Nicola raised his head and looked at Karl as though to consider whether
he would indeed be able to earn a crust of bread, but he said nothing.
Karl said a great deal more of the same kind - in particular how much
better his services had been appreciated at a certain general's where
he had formerly lived (I regretted to hear that). Likewise he spoke of
Saxony, his parents, his friend the tailor, Schonheit (beauty), and so
on.
I sympathised with his distress, and felt dreadfully sorry that he and
Papa (both of whom I loved about equally) had had a difference. Then I
returned to my corner, crouched down upon my heels, and fell to thinking
how a reconciliation between them might be effected.
Returning to the study, Karl ordered me to get up and prepare to write
from dictation. When I was ready he sat down with a dignified air in
his arm-chair, and in a voice which seemed to come from a profound abyss
began to dictate: "Von al-len Lei-den-shaf-ten die grau-samste ist. Have
you written that?" He paused, took a pinch of snuff, and began again:
"Die grausamste ist die Un-dank-bar-keit [The most cruel of all passions
is ingratitude.] a capital U, mind."
The last word written, I looked at him, for him to go on.
"Punctum" (stop), he concluded, with a faintly perceptible smile, as he
signed to us to hand him our copy-books.
Several times, and in several different tones, and always with an
expression of the greatest satisfaction, did he read out that sentence,
which expressed his predominant thought at the moment, Then he set us
to learn a lesson in history, and sat down near the window. His face did
not look so depressed now, but, on the contrary, expressed eloquently
the satisfaction of a man who had avenged himself for an injury dealt
him.
By this time it was a quarter to one o'clock, but Karl Ivanitch never
thought of releasing us, He merely set us a new lesson to learn. My
fatigue and hunger were increasing in equal proportions, so that I
eagerly followed every sign of the approach of luncheon. First came the
housemaid with a cloth to wipe the plates, Next, the sound of crockery
resounded in the dining-room, as the table was moved and chairs placed
round it, After that, Mimi, Lubotshka, and Katenka. (Katenka was Mimi's
daughter, and twelve years old) came in from the garden, but Foka (the
servant who always used to come and announce luncheon) was not yet to be
seen. Only when he entered was it lawful to throw one's books aside and
run downstairs.
Hark! Steps resounded on the staircase, but they were not Foka's. Foka's
I had learnt to study, and knew the creaking of his boots well. The door
opened, and a figure unknown to me made its appearance.
V - THE IDIOT
The man who now entered the room was about fifty years old, with a pale,
attenuated face pitted with smallpox, long grey hair, and a scanty beard
of a reddish hue. Likewise he was so tall that, on coming through the
doorway, he was forced not only to bend his head, but to incline his
whole body forward. He was dressed in a sort of smock that was much
torn, and held in his hand a stout staff. As he entered he smote this
staff upon the floor, and, contracting his brows and opening his mouth
to its fullest extent, laughed in a dreadful, unnatural way. He had lost
the sight of one eye, and its colourless pupil kept rolling about and
imparting to his hideous face an even more repellent expression than it
otherwise bore.
"Hullo, you are caught!" he exclaimed as he ran to Woloda with little
short steps and, seizing him round the head, looked at it searchingly.
Next he left him, went to the table, and, with a perfectly serious
expression on his face, began to blow under the oil-cloth, and to make
the sign of the cross over it, "O-oh, what a pity! O-oh, how it hurts!
They are angry! They fly from me!" he exclaimed in a tearful choking
voice as he glared at Woloda and wiped away the streaming tears with his
sleeve, His voice was harsh and rough, all his movements hysterical and
spasmodic, and his words devoid of sense or connection (for he used no
conjunctions). Yet the tone of that voice was so heartrending, and his
yellow, deformed face at times so sincere and pitiful in its expression,
that, as one listened to him, it was impossible to repress a mingled
sensation of pity, grief, and fear.
This was the idiot Grisha. Whence he had come, or who were his parents,
or what had induced him to choose the strange life which he led, no
one ever knew. All that I myself knew was that from his fifteenth year
upwards he had been known as an imbecile who went barefooted both in
winter and summer, visited convents, gave little images to any one who
cared to take them, and spoke meaningless words which some people took
for prophecies; that nobody remembered him as being different; that at,
rate intervals he used to call at Grandmamma's house; and that by some
people he was said to be the outcast son of rich parents and a pure,
saintly soul, while others averred that he was a mere peasant and an
idler.
At last the punctual and wished-for Foka arrived, and we went
downstairs. Grisha followed us sobbing and continuing to talk nonsense,
and knocking his staff on each step of the staircase. When we entered
the drawing-room we found Papa and Mamma walking up and down there, with
their hands clasped in each other's, and talking in low tones. Maria
Ivanovna was sitting bolt upright in an arm-chair placed at tight angles
to the sofa, and giving some sort of a lesson to the two girls sitting
beside her. When Karl Ivanitch entered the room she looked at him for a
moment, and then turned her eyes away with an expression which seemed to
say, "You are beneath my notice, Karl Ivanitch." It was easy to see from
the girls' eyes that they had important news to communicate to us as
soon as an opportunity occurred (for to leave their seats and approach
us first was contrary to Mimi's rules). It was for us to go to her
and say, "Bon jour, Mimi," and then make her a low bow; after which we
should possibly be permitted to enter into conversation with the girls.
What an intolerable creature that Mimi was! One could hardly say a word
in her presence without being found fault with. Also whenever we wanted
to speak in Russian, she would say, "Parlez, donc, francais," as though
on purpose to annoy us, while, if there was any particularly nice
dish at luncheon which we wished to enjoy in peace, she would keep on
ejaculating, "Mangez, donc, avec du pain!" or, "Comment est-ce que vous
tenez votre fourchette?" "What has SHE got to do with us?" I used to
think to myself. "Let her teach the girls. WE have our Karl Ivanitch." I
shared to the full his dislike of "certain people."
"Ask Mamma to let us go hunting too," Katenka whispered to me, as she
caught me by the sleeve just when the elders of the family were making a
move towards the dining-room.
"Very well. I will try."
Grisha likewise took a seat in the dining-room, but at a little table
apart from the rest. He never lifted his eyes from his plate, but kept
on sighing and making horrible grimaces, as he muttered to himself:
"What a pity! It has flown away! The dove is flying to heaven! The stone
lies on the tomb!" and so forth.
Ever since the morning Mamma had been absent-minded, and Grisha's
presence, words, and actions seemed to make her more so.
"By the way, there is something I forgot to ask you," she said, as she
handed Papa a plate of soup.
"What is it?"
"That you will have those dreadful dogs of yours tied up, They nearly
worried poor Grisha to death when he entered the courtyard, and I am
sure they will bite the children some day."
No sooner did Grisha hear himself mentioned that he turned towards our
table and showed us his torn clothes. Then, as he went on with his meal,
he said: "He would have let them tear me in pieces, but God would not
allow it! What a sin to let the dogs loose - a great sin! But do not beat
him, master; do not beat him! It is for God to forgive! It is past now!"
"What does he say?" said Papa, looking at him gravely and sternly. "I
cannot understand him at all."
"I think he is saying," replied Mamma, "that one of the huntsmen set
the dogs on him, but that God would not allow him to be torn in pieces,
Therefore he begs you not to punish the man."
"Oh, is that it?" said Papa, "How does he know that I intended to
punish the huntsman? You know, I am not very fond of fellows like this,"
he added in French, "and this one offends me particularly. Should it
ever happen that - "
"Oh, don't say so," interrupted Mamma, as if frightened by some thought.
"How can you know what he is?"
"I think I have plenty of opportunities for doing so, since no lack of
them come to see you - all of them the same sort, and probably all with
the same story."
I could see that Mamma's opinion differed from his, but that she did not
mean to quarrel about it.
"Please hand me the cakes," she said to him, "Are they good to-day or
not?"
"Yes, I AM angry," he went on as he took the cakes and put them where
Mamma could not reach them, "very angry at seeing supposedly reasonable
and educated people let themselves be deceived," and he struck the table
with his fork.
"I asked you to hand me the cakes," she repeated with outstretched hand.
"And it is a good thing," Papa continued as he put the hand aside, "that
the police run such vagabonds in. All they are good for is to play upon
the nerves of certain people who are already not over-strong in
that respect," and he smiled, observing that Mamma did not like the
conversation at all. However, he handed her the cakes.
"All that I have to say," she replied, "is that one can hardly believe
that a man who, though sixty years of age, goes barefooted winter and
summer, and always wears chains of two pounds' weight, and never
accepts the offers made to him to live a quiet, comfortable life - it is
difficult to believe that such a man should act thus out of laziness."
Pausing a moment, she added with a sigh: "As to predictions, je suis
payee pour y croire, I told you, I think, that Grisha prophesied the
very day and hour of poor Papa's death?"
"Oh, what HAVE you gone and done?" said Papa, laughing and putting his
hand to his cheek (whenever he did this I used to look for something
particularly comical from him). "Why did you call my attention to his
feet? I looked at them, and now can eat nothing more."
Luncheon was over now, and Lubotshka and Katenka were winking at us,
fidgeting about in their chairs, and showing great restlessness. The
winking, of course, signified, "Why don't you ask whether we too may go
to the hunt?" I nudged Woloda, and Woloda nudged me back, until at last
I took heart of grace, and began (at first shyly, but gradually with
more assurance) to ask if it would matter much if the girls too were
allowed to enjoy the sport. Thereupon a consultation was held among the
elder folks, and eventually leave was granted - Mamma, to make things
still more delightful, saying that she would come too.
VI - PREPARATIONS FOR THE CHASE
During dessert Jakoff had been sent for, and orders given him to have
ready the carriage, the hounds, and the saddle-horses - every detail
being minutely specified, and every horse called by its own particular
name. As Woloda's usual mount was lame, Papa ordered a "hunter" to be