The Childhood Page #2

"The Childhood" is a novel by Leo Tolstoy that reflects the author's early experiences and memories as a young boy. The narrative is framed through the eyes of a young protagonist, exploring themes of innocence, family, and the complexities of growing up in 19th-century Russia. Through vivid imagery and emotional depth, Tolstoy captures the joys and struggles of childhood, emphasizing the impact of familial relationships, societal expectations, and the transition from innocence to experience. This semi-autobiographical work offers insight into Tolstoy's own formative years and lays the groundwork for his later explorations of human nature and morality.

• Novel

								

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
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