# The Complete Works of Count Tolstoy/Childhood/Chapter 1

CHILDHOOD
I.
KARL IVÁNOVICH, OUR TEACHER
On the 12th of August, 18-, exactly two days after my birthday, when I was ten years old and received such wonderful presents, Karl Ivánovich woke me at seven o'clock in the morning by striking right over my head at a fly with a flap which was made of wrapping-paper attached to a stick. He did that so awkwardly that he set in motion the small picture of my guardian angel which was hanging on the oak headpiece of my bed, and made the dead fly fall straight upon my head. I stuck my nose out of my coverlet, stopped the swinging picture with my hand, threw the killed fly upon the ground, and with angry, though sleepy, eyes measured Karl Ivánovich. But he, dressed in a many-coloured wadded dressing-gown, which was girded by a belt of the same material, in a red hand-knit skull-cap with a tassel, and in soft goatskin boots, continued to make the round of the walls, and to aim and flap at flies.
"I'll admit I am a little fellow," thought I, "but why does he worry me? Why does he not kill flies over Volódya's bed? There are lots of them there! No, Volódya is older than I, and I am the youngest of all; ​that's why he is tormenting me. All he is thinking about," whispered I, "is how to cause me annoyance. He knows quite well that he has waked and frightened me, but he acts as though he did not notice it. He is a contemptible fellow! And his dressing-gown, and cap, and tassel,— they are all contemptible!"
While I thus expressed in thought my disgust with Karl Ivánovich, he walked up to his bed, took a look at the watch which was hanging above it in a hand-made shoe of glass beads, hung the flap on a nail, and, evidently in the pleasantest mood, turned to us.
"Auf, Kinder, auf! 's ist Zeit. Die Mutter ist schon im Saal," he cried out in his good German voice, then came up to me, seated himself at my feet, and took his snuff-box out of his pocket. I pretended I was asleep. Karl Ivánovich at first took a snuff, wiped his nose, snapped his fingers, and then turned his attention to me. He smiled and began to tickle the soles of my feet. "Nun, nun, Faulenzer!" said he.
Though I was very much afraid of tickling, I did not jump up from bed and did not answer him, but only hid my head farther under the pillows, kicked my feet with all my might, and made all possible efforts to keep from laughing.
"What a good man he is, and how he loves us, and how could I have thought so ill of him?"
I was angry at myself and at Karl Ivánovich, and I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time; my nerves were shattered.
"Ach, lassen Sie, Karl Ivánovich!" cried I, with tears in my eyes, and stuck my head out of my pillows.
Karl Ivánovich was surprised, left my soles in peace, and with a disturbed mien began to ask what the matter was with me, and whether I had not had a bad dream. His good German face and the interest which he evinced in trying to ascertain the cause of my tears made them ​flow more copiously; I felt ashamed, and I could not understand how a minute ago I could have disliked Karl Ivánovich, and how I could have found his gown, his cap, and his tassel contemptible. Now, on the contrary, all those things appeared particularly charming to me, and even the tassel seemed to be an evident proof of his goodness.
I told him that I was crying because I had had a bad dream, that I dreamt mamma had died and was being buried. I had made up all that myself, because I really did not remember what it was that I had dreamt about that night; but when Karl Ivánovich, touched by my story, began to console me, it seemed to me that I had actually had such a terrible dream, and my tears began to flow, this time from an entirely different cause.
When Karl Ivánovich left me, and I raised myself in bed and began to pull my stockings on my tiny legs, my tears flowed less abundantly, but the gloomy thoughts of my fictitious dream did not leave me. The children's valet, Nikoláy, entered the room. He was a small, neat man, always serious, accurate, respectful, and a great friend of Karl Ivánovich. He was carrying our garments and shoes: for Volódya a pair of boots, and for me still the unbearable shoes with ribbons. I felt ashamed to cry in his presence. Besides, the morning sun shone merrily through the windows, and Volódya, who was mocking Márya Ivánovna, my sister's governess, was laughing so merrily and loudly, as he stood at the wash-basin, that even solemn Nikoláy, with a towel over his shoulder, and with soap in one of his hands and the water-tank in the other, smiled and said:
"That will do, Vladímir Petróvich! Be pleased to wash yourself!"
I cheered up completely.
"Sind Sie bald fertig?" was heard the voice of Karl Ivánovich from the study-room.
​His voice was stern, and no longer had that expression of kindness which had touched me to tears. In the classroom Karl Ivánovich was a different man: he was an instructor. I dressed in a hurry, washed myself, and, with the hair-brush in my hand, trying to smooth down my wet hair, made my appearance in response to his call.
Karl Ivánovich had his spectacles on his nose and a book in his hands, and was seated in his usual place, between the door and the window. At the left of the door were two small shelves: one was ours, the children's, the other was his, Karl Ivánovich's. On our shelf were all kinds of books, school-books and others: some of these were placed upright, others lay flat. Only two large volumes of the "Histoire des Voyages," in red bindings, were properly placed against the wall. Then followed long, fat, large, and small books, — bindings without books, and books without bindings. We used to stick and jam into it all kinds of things, when, just before recess, we were ordered to fix up the "library," as Karl Ivánovich loudly called that shelf.
The collection of books on his shelf was not so large as ours, but it was much more varied. I remember three of them: a German pamphlet about the manuring of gardens for cabbage, — without a binding: one volume of a history of the Seven Years' War, — in parchment which was burned at one end; and a complete course of hydrostatics. Karl Ivánovich used to pass the greater part of his time reading, and he had even impaired his eyesight in that way; but he never read anything else but these books and the Northern Bee.
Among the objects which lay on Karl Ivánovich's shelf, there was one which more than any other reminds me of him. It was a circle of cardboard, stuck in a wooden support, in which it moved, by means of pegs. Upon ​that circle was pasted a picture which represented a caricature of a lady and a hair-dresser. Karl Ivánovich was a good hand at pasting, and he had himself invented and made that circle in order to shield his weak eyes against the bright light.
Vividly I see before me the lank figure in the cotton dressing-gown and red cap, underneath which peep out scanty gray hairs. He is seated at the little table, upon which is placed the circle with the hair-dresser, that throws a shadow upon his face. In one hand he holds a book; his other is resting on the arm of the chair. Near him lies the watch with a chasseur painted on its face, a checkered handkerchief, a round black snuff-box, a green case for his glasses, and snuffers on a holder. All these things are lying so regularly and properly in their places, that by the order itself it is possible to conclude that Karl Ivánovich's conscience is pure and his soul at rest.
When we had run ourselves tired in the hall down-stairs, we used to steal up-stairs on tiptoes, into the study, and there we would see Karl Ivánovich sitting all alone in his armchair and with a calmly sublime expression reading one of his favourite books. There were moments when I caught him not reading: his spectacles were dropped lower on his large aquiline nose, his blue, half-closed eyes looked with a certain peculiar expression, and his lips smiled sadly. It was quiet in the room; one could hear only the even breathing and the ticking of the watch with the chasseur.
At times he did not notice me, while I stood at the door and thought: "Poor, poor old man! There are many of us: we are playing, we are happy; but he is all alone, and nobody comforts him. He is telling the truth when he says that he is an orphan. The history of his life is terrible, indeed! I remember his telling it to Nikoláy. It is terrible to be in his place!" And I would feel so ​sorry for him, that I would go up to him, take his hand, and say: "Lieber Karl Ivánovich!" He liked my speaking thus to him: he would pat me, and it was evident that he was touched.
Upon the other wall hung maps, nearly all of them torn, but skilfully pasted up by the hand of Karl Ivánovich. On the third wall, in the middle of which was a door that led down-stairs, were hanging, on one side, two rulers: one, all cut up, belonged to us, the other, which was new, was his, and was used more for encouragement than for ruling; on the other side was a blackboard, on which our great transgressions were marked with circles, and our small ones with crosses. At the left of the board was the corner where we were made to kneel.
How well I remember that corner! I remember the valve in the stove, the ventilator in that valve, and the noise which it made whenever it was turned. When I had stood in the corner quite awhile, until my knees and back were aching, I thought: "Karl Ivánovich has forgotten about me. He, no doubt, feels rested, sitting in a soft chair, and reading his Hydrostatics, but how about me?" And to make him think of me, I would softly open and close the valve, or scratch off some stucco from the wall; but if suddenly an unusually large piece fell upon the ground, — then, indeed, the fright it gave me was worse than any punishment. I looked at Karl Ivánovich, — but he sat there with his book in his hand, as if he had not heard anything.
In the middle of the room stood a table which was covered with a torn black oilcloth, underneath which peeped out the edges that had been all cut up with pen-knives. Around the table were a few unpainted tabourets, which had assumed a gloss from long usage. The last wall was occupied by three windows. From these the following view was had: right below the windows was the road, every puddle, every pebble, and every rut of ​which had long been familiar and dear to me; beyond the road lay an avenue of lopped linden-trees, and beyond that a wicker-fence could be seen in places; on the other side of the avenue appeared a meadow, on one side of which was a threshing-barn, and opposite it a forest; the hut of the watchman was visible far in the distance.
Through the window on the right was seen a part of the terrace where the grown people used to sit before dinner. At times, while Karl Ivánovich was correcting the dictation sheet, I looked in that direction, and I saw my mother's black head and somebody's back, and I dimly heard some conversation and laughter. I felt angry because I could not be there, and I thought: "When I shall be grown, shall I stop studying and eternally reading the Dialogues? And shall I not be sitting with those I love?" Anger passed into sadness, and I fell to musing, God knows why or over what, so that I did not hear Karl Ivánovich's angry words over my mistakes.
Karl Ivánovich took off his dressing-gown, put on his blue uniform with elevations and gatherings at the shoulders, fixed his cravat before the mirror, and took us down-stairs, to bid mother good morning.