# The Complete Works of Count Tolstoy/Childhood/Chapter 4

IV.
The Lessons
Karl Ivánovich was not at all in humour. That was evident from his knit brow, from the manner with which he threw his coat into the drawer, from his girding himself angrily, and from his making a deep mark with his thumb in the book of Dialogues, in order to indicate the place to which we were to memorize.
Volódya studied pretty well, but I was so disconcerted that I could do absolutely nothing. I looked for a long time senselessly into the book of Dialogues, but I could not read through the tears which had gathered in my eyes at the thought of the impending departure. But when the time came to recite the Dialogues to Karl Ivánovich, who listened to me with half-closed eyes (that was a bad sign), — particularly when I reached the place where one says, "Wo kommen Sie her?" and the other answers: "Ich komme vom Kaffeehause," I could no longer restrain my tears, and through my sobs could not pronounce: "Haben Sie die Zeitung nicht gelesen?" When we reached penmanship, my tears that fell on the paper made blotches as if I were writing on wrapping-paper.
Karl Ivánovich grew angry, put me on my knees, insisted that it was nothing but stubbornness and a puppet-show (that was his favourite expression), threatened me with the ruler, and demanded that I should ask forgiveness, though I could not pronounce a word through my tears. In the end, he evidently felt that he was unjust ​and went away into Nikoláy's room, slamming the door after him.
In the class-room we could hear the conversation in the valet's room.
"Have you heard, Nikoláy, that the children are going to Moscow?" said Karl Ivánovich, as he entered the room.
"Indeed, I have."
Nikoláy, it seems, was on the point of rising, because Karl Ivánovich said: "Keep your seat, Nikoláy!" and immediately after closed the door. I left my corner and went to the door to listen.
"No matter how much good you may do to people, no matter how attached you may be, you evidently cannot expect any gratitude, Nikoláy?" said Karl Ivánovich, with feeling.
Nikoláy, who was sitting at the window, cobbling away at a boot, nodded his head in affirmation.
"I have been living in this house these fifteen years, and I can say before God, Nikoláy," continued Karl Ivánovich, raising his eyes and his snuff-box toward the ceiling, "that I have loved them and have worked with them more than if they were my own children. You remember, Nikoláy, when Volódenka had the fever, how I sat for nine days by his bed, without closing my eyes. Yes! when I was good, dear Karl Ivánovich, I was needed, but now," added he, smiling ironically, "now the children have grown, and they must study in earnest. As if they were not studying here, Nikoláy!"
"I should say they were, it seems!" said Nikolay, putting down the awl, and pulling through the waxed thread with both his hands.
"Yes, I am superfluous now, so I am sent away; but where are the promises? where is the gratitude? I respect and love Natálya Nikoláevna, Nikoláy," said he, putting his hand on his breast, "but what is she? Her ​will has as much power in this house as this!" saying which, he with an expressive mien threw upon the floor a chip of leather. "I know whose tricks they are, and why I am superfluous now; it is because I do not flatter and approve everything, as other people do. I am in the habit of speaking the truth at all times and to everybody," said he, proudly. "God be with them! They will not grow rich by not having me here, and I, God is merciful, will find a piece of bread somewhere. Am I right, Nikoláy?"
Nikoláy raised his head and looked at Karl Ivánovich, as if he wanted to assure himself that he would really be able to find a piece of bread, but he did not say anything.
Karl Ivánovich spoke much and long in that strain; he told of how his services had been much better appreciated at some general's, where he used to live (that pained me very much), he told of Saxony, of his parents, of his friend, tailor Schönheit, and so forth.
I sympathized with his sorrow, and I felt pained because my father and Karl Ivánovich, whom I respected about equally, did not understand each other; I again betook myself to my corner, sat down on my heels, and began to consider how to restore the right understanding between them.
When Karl Ivánovich returned to the class-room, he ordered me to get up, and to prepare the copy-book for dictation. When everything was ready, he majestically fell back into his chair, and in a voice which seemed to issue from some depth began to dictate as follows: "'‏‏‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ Von al-len Lei-den-schaf-ten die grau-sam-ste ist' — haben Sie geschrieben?" Here he stopped, slowly snuffed some tobacco, and continued with renewed strength: "' Die grausamste ist, die Un-dank-bar-keit' — ein grosses U." Having finished the last word, and in expectation of something to follow, I looked at him.
"Punctum," said he, with a barely perceptible smile, ​and made a sign that we should hand him our copy-books.
He read that motto several times, with various intonations and with an expression of the greatest satisfaction. The motto expressed his innermost thought. Then he gave us a lesson from history, and seated himself at the window. His face was not as stern as before; it expressed the satisfaction of a man who had in a fitting manner avenged the insult which had been offered him.
It was fifteen minutes to one, but Karl Ivánovich did not even think of dismissing us; he continued giving us new lessons. Ennui and appetite grew in the same proportion. With the greatest impatience I followed all the tokens which indicated the nearness of the dinner. There was the peasant woman going with a mop to wash the dishes; there the rattle of the plates was heard in the butler's room; the table was drawn out and chairs were placed; and there Mimi was coming from the garden with Lyúbochka and Kátenka (Kátenka was the twelve-year-old daughter of Mimi), but Fóka was not yet to be seen, servant Fóka, who always came and announced that dinner was served. Only then would we be allowed to throw aside our books and run down, without paying any heed to Karl Ivánovich.
Steps were heard on the staircase, but that was not Fóka. I had studied his walk, and always could recognize the creak of his boots. The door opened, and an entirely unfamiliar figure made its appearance.