Tolstoy read childhood work. L.N. Tolstoy. The story "Childhood". Analysis of selected chapters. Genre and direction

Childhood is sometimes considered the most carefree and full of happiness in a person’s life. It is to her that the story of Leo Tolstoy “Childhood” is dedicated, which is included in the famous trilogy of the writer “Childhood. Adolescence. Youth". The main character is a boy from a noble family - Nikolenka Irteniev, who is 10 years old. At this age at that time, children were sent to study in different educational institutions. And two weeks later, Nikolenka was expected by the same fate, he had to leave for Moscow with his father and older brother. In the meantime, the boy spends his time surrounded by close relatives. Next to him is his beloved maman, as he calls his mother, who is of great importance at this stage in the development of the child.

The story "Childhood" is partly autobiographical. Describing the atmosphere in Nikolenka's house, Lev Nikolaevich recreated a picture of his own childhood. Although he himself grew up without a mother, since she died when the writer was only a year and a half. The main character will also have to survive the death of his mother, but in his life this will happen at the age of ten. Nikolenka will have time to remember her, will love and idolize her. Creating the image of a mother, the writer endowed her with the best qualities that a woman can have. A distinctive feature are the eyes, which constantly radiated goodness and love. Not remembering his mother, Tolstoy believed that this is how a mother looks at her child. Reading the work, you can learn about the life of a noble family. In addition to his mother, Nikolenka has a teacher of German origin, Karl Ivanovich, who was also dear to the boy.

The author reveals the experiences of the hero through a monologue with himself, which reveals a change in mood from sadness to joy. This technique will be called "dialectic of the soul", the writer uses it in many of his works to show the reader a portrait of the hero through a description of the inner world. The story describes the hero's feelings for his friends, the first sympathy for the girl Sonya Valakhina. Seryozha Ivin, who was an example for Nikolenka, lost his authority after he humiliated Ilenka Grapa in front of everyone. Sympathy and his own helplessness upset the boy. Carefree time ends for Nikolenka after the death of her mother. He goes to study and a new time begins for him - adolescence, to which the second story of the trilogy is dedicated. The text of the story "Childhood" can be read in full on our website, here you can also download the book for free.

On August 12, 18 ..., exactly on the third day after my birthday, on which I was ten years old and on which I received such wonderful gifts, at seven o'clock in the morning Karl Ivanovich woke me up by hitting a clapperboard made of sugar paper over my very head on a stick - on a fly. He did it so awkwardly that he touched the icon of my angel hanging on the oak headboard, and that the dead fly fell right on my head. I poked my nose out from under the blanket, with my hand stopped the icon, which continued to swing, threw the dead fly on the floor, and, though with sleepy, but angry eyes, looked at Karl Ivanovich. He, in a colorful cotton robe, belted with a belt of the same material, in a red knitted yarmulke with a tassel, and in soft goat boots, continued to walk near the walls, take aim and clap.

“Let’s suppose,” I thought, “I’m small, but why does he disturb me? Why doesn't he kill flies near Volodya's bed? there are so many! No, Volodya is older than me; but I am least of all: that is why he torments me. All his life he thinks about it, - I whispered, - how to make trouble for me. He sees very well that he woke me up and frightened me, but he shows as if he does not notice ... a nasty person! And the dressing gown, and the hat, and the tassel - how nasty!

While I was mentally expressing my annoyance with Karl Ivanovich in this way, he went up to his bed, looked at the clock that hung above it in an embroidered beaded shoe, hung the clapperboard on a carnation, and, as was noticeable, in the most pleasant mood turned to us.

- Auf, Kinder, auf!.. s'ist Zeit. Die Mutter ist schon im Saal,” he called out in a good German voice, then he came up to me, sat down at my feet and took a snuffbox out of his pocket. I pretended to be asleep. Karl Ivanovich first sniffed, wiped his nose, snapped his fingers, and only then set to work on me. He chuckled and began to tickle my heels. - Nu, nun, Faulenzer! he said.

No matter how I was ticklish, I did not jump out of bed and did not answer him, but only buried my head deeper under the pillows, kicked my legs with all my might and tried my best to keep from laughing.

“How kind he is and how he loves us, and I could think so badly of him!”

I was annoyed both with myself and with Karl Ivanovich, I wanted to laugh and I wanted to cry: my nerves were upset.

“Ach, lassen Sie, Karl Ivanitch!” I cried with tears in my eyes, sticking my head out from under the pillows.

Karl Ivanovich was surprised, left my soles alone and began to ask me with anxiety: what am I talking about? didn’t I see something bad in my dream? His kind German face, the concern with which he tried to guess the cause of my tears, made them flow even more profusely: I was ashamed, and I did not understand how, a minute before, I could not love Karl Ivanovich and find his dressing gown, cap and tassel disgusting; now, on the contrary, all this seemed to me exceedingly sweet, and even the tassel seemed a clear proof of his kindness. I told him that I was crying because I had a bad dream - that maman had died and they were carrying her to bury. I invented all this, because I absolutely did not remember what I dreamed that night; but when Karl Ivanovich, touched by my story, began to comfort and reassure me, it seemed to me that I had definitely seen this terrible dream, and tears were shed for another reason.

When Karl Ivanovich left me and I, rising up on the bed, began to pull the stockings over my small legs, the tears subsided a little, but gloomy thoughts about a fictitious dream did not leave me. Uncle Nikolai came in - a small, clean little man, always serious, neat, respectful and a great friend of Karl Ivanovich. He carried our dresses and shoes: Volodya's boots, and I still had unbearable shoes with bows. With him, I would be ashamed to cry; moreover, the morning sun shone merrily through the windows, and Volodya, mimicking Marya Ivanovna (the sister's governess), laughed so cheerfully and sonorously, standing over the washbasin, that even serious Nikolai, with a towel on his shoulder, with soap in one hand and with a washstand in the other, smiling, he said:

- It will be for you, Vladimir Petrovich, if you please, wash your face.

I was quite amused.

– Sind Sie bald fertig? - I heard the voice of Karl Ivanych from the classroom.

His voice was stern and no longer had that expression of kindness that moved me to tears. In the classroom, Karl Ivanovich was a completely different person: he was a mentor. I quickly dressed, washed, and, still with a brush in my hand, smoothing my wet hair, came to his call.

Karl Ivanitch, with spectacles on his nose and a book in his hand, was sitting in his usual place, between the door and the window. To the left of the door there were two shelves: one was ours, for children, the other was Karl Ivanovich, own. On ours there were all sorts of books - educational and non-educational: some were standing, others were lying. Only two large volumes of "Histoire des voyages", in red bindings, primly rested against the wall; and then they went, long, thick, large and small books - crusts without books and books without crusts; you used to press and stick everything in the same place when they were ordered to put the library in order before the recreation, as Karl Ivanovich loudly called this shelf. Collection of books on own if it was not as large as on ours, then it was even more diverse. I remember three of them: a German pamphlet on the manure of cabbage gardens - without binding, one volume of the history of the Seven Years' War - in parchment burned from one corner, and a complete course in hydrostatics. Karl Ivanovich spent most of his time reading, even ruining his eyesight with it; but apart from these books and the Northern Bee, he read nothing.

Among the items that lay on the shelf of Karl Ivanovich, there was one that reminds me of him most of all. This is a cardon circle inserted into a wooden leg, in which this circle moved by means of pegs. A picture was pasted on the mug, representing caricatures of some lady and a hairdresser. Karl Ivanovich glued it very well, and he himself invented and made this circle in order to protect his weak eyes from bright light.

As now I see before me a long figure in a padded robe and in a red cap, from under which sparse gray hair can be seen. He sits near a table on which stands a circle with a hairdresser who casts a shadow over his face; in one hand he holds a book, the other rests on the arm of the chair; next to him are a watch with a painted huntsman on the dial, a checkered handkerchief, a black round snuff box, a green spectacle case, tongs on a tray. All this is so sedately, neatly in its place, that from this order alone one can conclude that Karl Ivanovich has a clear conscience and a peaceful soul.

It used to happen that you would run down the hall to your fill, tiptoe upstairs to the classroom, look - Karl Ivanovich was sitting alone in his armchair and with a calmly majestic expression was reading one of his favorite books. Sometimes I found him even at such moments when he was not reading: his glasses went down on his big aquiline nose, his blue half-closed eyes looked with some special expression, and his lips smiled sadly. The room is quiet; all you can hear is his even breathing and the striking of the clock with the huntsman.

It happened that he did not notice me, and I stood at the door and thought: “Poor, poor old man! There are many of us, we play, we have fun, but he is all alone, and no one caresses him. He tells the truth that he is an orphan. And what a terrible story! I remember how he told it to Nikolai - it's terrible to be in his position! And it will become so pitiful that you used to go up to him, take him by the hand and say: “Lieber Karl Ivanovich!” He loved it when I told him so; always caresses, and it is clear that he is touched.

Landcards hung on the other wall, all almost torn, but skilfully pasted over by the hand of Karl Ivanovich. On the third wall, in the middle of which there was a door down, two rulers hung on one side: one was cut, ours, the other was brand new, own, used by him more for encouragement than for shedding; on the other, a black board, on which our big misdeeds were marked with circles and small ones with crosses. To the left of the board was a corner where we were put on our knees.

Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy

(Chapters)

Happy, happy, irretrievable time of childhood! How not to love, not to cherish the memories of her? These memories refresh, elevate my soul and serve as a source of the best pleasures for me.

Having run to your fill, you used to sit at the tea table, on your high armchair; it’s already late, I drank my cup of milk with sugar a long time ago, sleep closes my eyes, but you don’t move, you sit and listen. And why not listen? Maman is talking to someone, and the sounds of her voice are so sweet, so welcoming. These sounds alone speak so much to my heart! With eyes hazy with drowsiness, I gaze intently at her face, and suddenly she became all small, small - her face is no more than a button; but I still see it clearly: I see how she looked at me and how she smiled. I love seeing her so tiny. I squint my eyes even more, and it becomes no more than those boys who are in the pupils; but I stirred - and the charm was destroyed; I narrow my eyes, turn around, try my best to renew it, but in vain.

I get up, climb up with my legs and comfortably fit into a chair.

“You’ll fall asleep again, Nikolenka,” mamma tells me, “you’d better go upstairs.”

“I don’t want to sleep, mother,” you answer her, and vague but sweet dreams fill your imagination, healthy childhood sleep closes your eyelids, and in a minute you will forget and sleep until you wake up. You feel, it happened, waking up, that someone's gentle hand is touching you; by one touch you recognize her, and even in a dream you involuntarily grab this hand and firmly, firmly press it to your lips.

Everyone has already dispersed; one candle is burning in the living room; maman said that she herself would wake me up; it was she who sat down on the chair on which I sleep, ran her wonderful gentle hand through my hair, and a sweet familiar voice sounds over my ear:

"Get up, my darling, it's time to go to bed."

Nobody's indifferent looks do not constrain her: she is not afraid to pour out all her tenderness and love on me. I don't move, but I kiss her hand even harder.

Get up, my angel.

She takes my neck with her other hand, and her fingers move quickly and tickle me. The room is quiet, semi-dark; my nerves are excited by tickling and awakening; mother sits beside me; she touches me; I can hear her scent and voice. All this makes me jump up, wrap my arms around her neck, press my head to her chest and, breathless, say:

“Ah, dear, dear mother, how I love you!”

She smiles her sad, charming smile, takes my head with both hands, kisses me on the forehead and puts me on her knees.

“So you love me very much?” - She is silent for a minute, then says: - Look, always love me, never forget. If your mother is not around, will you forget her? won't you forget, Nikolenka?

She kisses me even more tenderly.

- Full! and don't say it, my darling, my darling! I scream, kissing her knees, and tears flow from my eyes in streams - tears of love and delight.

After that, as you used to come upstairs and stand in front of the icons, in your quilted robe, what a wonderful feeling you experience, saying: “Save, Lord, papa and mama.” Repeating the prayers that for the first time my childish lips murmured behind my beloved mother, love for her and love for God somehow strangely merged into one feeling.

After prayer, you would wrap yourself up, it used to be in a blanket; the soul is light, light and gratifying; some dreams drive others, but what are they about? They are elusive, but filled with pure love and hopes for bright happiness. Remember, it happened, about Karl Ivanovich and his bitter fate - the only person whom I knew unhappy - and you will feel so sorry, you will love him so much that tears will flow from your eyes, and you think: “God grant him happiness, give me the opportunity to help him to ease his grief; I am ready to sacrifice everything for him.” Then you will stick your favorite porcelain toy - a bunny or a dog - into the corner of a down pillow and admire how good, warm and comfortable it is to lie there. You also pray that God will give happiness to everyone, that everyone will be happy and that tomorrow there will be good weather for walking, you will turn on the other side, thoughts and dreams will get mixed up, mixed up, and you will fall asleep quietly, calmly, still with your face wet from tears.

Will that freshness, carelessness, the need for love and the strength of faith that you possess in childhood ever return? What time could be better than when the two best virtues—innocent gaiety and the boundless need of love—were the only motives in life?

Where are those fervent prayers? where is the best gift - those pure tears of tenderness? A comforting angel flew in, wiped away those tears with a smile, and conjured up sweet dreams to the unspoiled childish imagination.

Has life left such heavy traces in my heart that these tears and these delights have departed from me forever? Are there only memories left?

The hunt is over. A carpet was spread out in the shade of young birch trees, and the whole society sat in a circle on the carpet. Gavrilo, the barman, crushing juicy green grass beside him, was grinding the plates and taking plums and peaches wrapped in leaves out of the box.

The sun shone through the green branches of the young birch trees and threw round, oscillating gaps on the patterns of the carpet, on my legs, and even on Gavrila's bald, sweaty head. A light breeze, running through the foliage of the trees, through my hair and sweaty face, extremely refreshed me.

When we were given ice cream and fruit, there was nothing to do on the carpet, and we, despite the slanting, scorching rays of the sun, got up and went to play.

- Well, what? said Lyubochka, squinting against the sun and jumping up and down on the grass. Let's go to Robinson.

- No ... boring, - said Volodya, lazily falling on the grass and chewing the leaves, - forever Robinson! If you absolutely want, then let's better build a gazebo.

Volodya visibly put on airs: he must have been proud that he had come on a hunting horse, and pretended to be very tired. It may also be that he already had too much common sense and too little imagination to fully enjoy playing Robinson. This game consisted of presenting scenes from Robinson Suisse, which we had read shortly before.

- Well, please ... why don't you want to make us this pleasure? the girls approached him. - You will be Charles, or Ernest, or father - as you wish? - said Katenka, trying to lift him from the ground by the sleeve of her jacket.

End of introductory segment.

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Notes

Swiss Robinson.

Chapter I
TEACHER KARL IVANYCH

August 12, 18 ..., exactly on the third day after my birthday, on which I was ten years old and on which I received such wonderful gifts, at seven o'clock in the morning - Karl Ivanovich woke me up by hitting a cracker over my very head - from sugar paper on a stick - fly. He did it so awkwardly that he touched the icon of my angel hanging on the oak headboard, and that the dead fly fell right on my head. I poked my nose out from under the blanket, with my hand stopped the icon, which continued to swing, threw the dead fly on the floor, and, though with sleepy, but angry eyes, looked at Karl Ivanitch. He, in a colorful cotton robe, girded with a belt of the same material, in a red knitted yarmulke with a tassel and in soft goat boots, continued to walk near the walls, aim and clap.
“Suppose,” I thought, “I am small, but why does he disturb me? Why doesn't he kill flies near Volodya's bed? there are so many! No, Volodya is older than me; but I am least of all: that is why he torments me. All his life he thinks only about that, - I whispered, - how would I make trouble. He sees very well that he woke me up and frightened me, but he shows it as if he does not notice ... a nasty person! And the dressing gown, and the hat, and the tassel - how nasty!
While I was mentally expressing my annoyance with Karl Ivanovich in this way, he went up to his bed, looked at the clock that hung above it in an embroidered beaded shoe, hung the clapperboard on a carnation, and, as was noticeable, in the most pleasant mood turned to us.
- Auf, Kinder, auf! .. s "ist Zeit. Die Mutter ust schon im Saal," he shouted in a kind German voice, then came up to me, sat down at my feet and took a snuffbox out of my pocket. I pretended to be sleeping. Karl Ivanovich at first he sniffed, wiped his nose, snapped his fingers, and only then set to work on me. He, chuckling, began to tickle my heels. “Nun, nun, Faulenzer!” he said.
No matter how I was ticklish, I did not jump out of bed and did not answer him, but only buried my head deeper under the pillows, kicked my legs with all my might and tried my best to keep from laughing.
“How kind he is and how he loves us, and I could think so badly of him!”
I was annoyed both with myself and with Karl Ivanovich, I wanted to laugh and I wanted to cry: my nerves were upset.
- Ach, lassen sie, Karl Ivanovich! I cried with tears in my eyes, sticking my head out from under the pillows.
Karl Ivanovich was surprised, left my soles alone and began to ask me with anxiety: what am I talking about? didn’t I see something bad in my dream? His kind German face, the concern with which he tried to guess the cause of my tears, made them flow even more profusely: I was ashamed, and I did not understand how, a minute before, I could not love Karl Ivanovich and find his dressing gown, cap and tassel disgusting; now, on the contrary, all this seemed to me exceedingly sweet, and even the tassel seemed a clear proof of his kindness. I told him that I was crying because I had a bad dream - as if maman had died and they were carrying her to bury. I invented all this, because I absolutely did not remember what I dreamed that night; but when Karl Ivanovich, touched by my story, began to comfort and reassure me, it seemed to me that I had definitely seen this terrible dream, and tears were shed for another reason.
When Karl Ivanovich left me and I, rising up on the bed, began to pull the stockings over my small legs, the tears subsided a little, but gloomy thoughts about a fictitious dream did not leave me. Uncle Nikolai came in - a small, clean little man, always serious, neat, respectful and a great friend of Karl Ivanovich. He carried our dresses and shoes. Volodya boots, and I still have unbearable shoes with bows. With him, I would be ashamed to cry; moreover, the morning sun shone merrily through the windows, and Volodya, mimicking Marya Ivanovna (the sister's governess), laughed so cheerfully and sonorously, standing over the washbasin, that even serious Nikolai, with a towel on his shoulder, with soap in one hand and with a washstand in the other, smiling, he said:
- It will be for you, Vladimir Petrovich, if you please, wash your face.
I was quite amused.
- Sind sie bald fertig? - I heard the voice of Karl Ivanych from the classroom.
His voice was stern and no longer had that expression of kindness that moved me to tears. In the classroom, Karl Ivanovich was a completely different person: he was a mentor. I quickly dressed, washed, and, still with a brush in my hand, smoothing my wet hair, came to his call.
Karl Ivanitch, with spectacles on his nose and a book in his hand, was sitting in his usual place, between the door and the window. To the left of the door there were two shelves: one - ours, children's, the other - Karl Ivanovich, own. On ours there were all sorts of books - educational and non-educational: some were standing, others were lying. Only two large volumes of "Histoire des voyages", in red bindings, decorously rested against the wall; and then came the long, thick, large and small books, the crusts without books and the books without crusts; you used to press and stick everything in the same place when they were ordered to put the library in order before the recreation, as Karl Ivanovich loudly called this shelf. Collection of books on own if it was not as large as on ours, then it was even more diverse. I remember three of them: a German pamphlet on the manure of cabbage gardens - without binding, one volume of the history of the Seven Years' War - in parchment burned from one corner, and a complete course in hydrostatics. Karl Ivanovich spent most of his time reading, even ruining his eyesight with it; but apart from these books and the Northern Bee, he read nothing.
Among the items that lay on the shelf of Karl Ivanovich, there was one that reminds me of him most of all. This is a circle made of cardboard, inserted into a wooden leg, in which this circle moved by means of pegs. A picture was pasted on the mug, representing caricatures of some lady and a hairdresser. Karl Ivanovich glued it very well, and he himself invented and made this circle in order to protect his weak eyes from bright light.
As now I see before me a long figure in a padded robe and in a red cap, from under which sparse gray hair can be seen. He sits near a table on which stands a circle with a hairdresser who casts a shadow over his face; in one hand he holds a book, the other rests on the arm of the chair; next to him are a watch with a painted huntsman on the dial, a checkered handkerchief, a black round snuff box, a green spectacle case, tongs on a tray. All this is so sedately, neatly in its place, that from this order alone one can conclude that Karl Ivanovich has a clear conscience and a peaceful soul.
It used to be like you were running down the hall to your fill, you would tiptoe upstairs to the classroom, you would look - Karl Ivanovich was sitting alone in his armchair and with a calmly majestic expression was reading one of his favorite books. Sometimes I found him even at such moments when he was not reading: his glasses went down on his big aquiline nose, his blue half-closed eyes looked with some special expression, and his lips smiled sadly. The room is quiet; all you can hear is his even breathing and the striking of the clock with the huntsman.
It happened that he did not notice me, and I stood at the door and thought: “Poor, poor old man! There are many of us, we play, we have fun, but he is all alone, and no one caresses him. He tells the truth that he is an orphan. And what a terrible story! I remember how he told it to Nikolai - it's terrible to be in his position! And it will become so pitiful that you used to go up to him, take him by the hand and say: “Lieber Karl Ivanovich!” He loved it when I told him so; always caresses, and it is clear that he is touched.
Landcards hung on the other wall, all almost torn, but skillfully glued by the hand of Karl Ivanovich. On the third wall, in the middle of which there was a door down, two rulers hung on one side: one was cut, ours, the other was brand new, own, used by him more for encouragement than for shedding; on the other, a black board, on which our big misdeeds were marked with circles and small ones with crosses. To the left of the board was a corner where we were put on our knees.
How I remember this corner! I remember the damper in the oven, the vent in that damper, and the noise it made when it was turned. Sometimes you stand, stand in a corner, so that your knees and back hurt, and you think: “Karl Ivanovich forgot about me: it must be easy for him to sit on an easy chair and read his hydrostatics, but what does it feel like to me?” - and you will begin, in order to remind yourself, to slowly open and close the damper or pick the plaster from the wall; but if suddenly too large a piece falls with a noise to the ground - right, fear alone is worse than any punishment. You look back at Karl Ivanovich, and he sits with a book in his hand and seems to notice nothing.
In the middle of the room stood a table covered with a tattered black oilcloth, under which in many places one could see the edges cut with penknives. There were several unpainted stools around the table, but from long use of varnished stools. The last wall was occupied by three windows. This is what the view looked like from them: right under the windows there is a road on which every pothole, every pebble, every rut has long been familiar and dear to me; behind the road is a sheared linden alley, behind which a wicker palisade can be seen here and there; through the alley one can see a meadow, on one side of which there is a threshing floor, and opposite a forest; far away in the forest, the watchman's hut is visible. From the window to the right, a part of the terrace is visible, on which the big ones usually sat until dinner. It used to happen that while Karl Ivanovich was correcting a sheet of dictation, you looked in that direction, you saw the black head of your mother, someone's back, and you vaguely heard talking and laughter from there; It will become so annoying that you can’t be there, and you think: “When will I be big, will I stop studying and will I always sit not at dialogues, but with those whom I love?” Annoyance will turn into sadness, and, God knows why and about what, you will think so hard that you don’t hear how Karl Ivanovich is angry for mistakes.
Karl Ivanovich took off his dressing gown, put on a blue tailcoat with frills and ruffles on his shoulders, straightened his tie in front of the mirror, and led us downstairs to greet my mother.

Chapter II.
MAMAN

Mother was sitting in the drawing-room pouring out tea; with one hand she held the teapot, with the other the tap of the samovar, from which water flowed over the top of the teapot onto the tray. But although she looked intently, she did not notice it, did not notice that we entered.
So many memories of the past arise when you try to resurrect in your imagination the features of your beloved being that through these memories, as through tears, you dimly see them. These are tears of imagination. When I try to remember my mother as she was at that time, I imagine only her brown eyes, always expressing the same kindness and love, a mole on her neck, a little below the place where little hairs curl, an embroidered and white collar, a tender dry hand who caressed me so often and whom I kissed so often; but the general expression eludes me.
To the left of the sofa stood an old English grand piano; my little sister Lyubochka was sitting in front of the piano, and with her pink fingers, freshly washed in cold water, she played the Clementi etudes with noticeable tension. She was eleven; she went about in a short linen dress, in white, trimmed with lace, knickers and could only take octaves arpeggio. Near her, half turned, sat Marya Ivanovna in a cap with pink ribbons, in a blue katsaveyka, and with a red, angry face, which assumed an even more severe expression as soon as Karl Ivanovich entered. She looked menacingly at him and, not answering his bow, continued, stamping her foot, counting: "Un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois" - even louder and more commandingly than before.
Karl Ivanovich, paying absolutely no attention to this, as usual, with a German greeting, went straight to mother's hand. She came to her senses, shook her head, as if wishing by this movement to drive away sad thoughts, gave her hand to Karl Ivanitch and kissed his wrinkled temple, while he was kissing her hand.
- Ich danke, lieber Karl Ivanovich, - and, continuing to speak German, she asked: - Did the children sleep well?
Karl Ivanovich was deaf in one ear, but now he could hear nothing at all from the noise at the piano. He leaned closer to the sofa, leaned one hand on the table, standing on one leg, and with a smile that then seemed to me the height of sophistication, raised his cap above his head and said:
- Excuse me, Natalya Nikolaevna? Karl Ivanovich, in order not to catch a chill on his bare head, never took off his red cap, but every time he entered the drawing room he asked permission to do so.
- Put it on, Karl Ivanovich ... I ask you, did the children sleep well? - said maman, moving towards him and rather loudly.
But again he did not hear anything, covered his bald head with a red cap and smiled even sweeter.
“Wait a minute, Mimi,” said maman Marya Ivanovna with a smile, “nothing is heard.
When mother smiled, no matter how good her face was, it became incomparably better, and everything around seemed to be cheerful. If in the difficult moments of my life I could even catch a glimpse of this smile, I would not know what grief is. It seems to me that what is called the beauty of the face consists in one smile: if a smile adds charm to the face, then the face is beautiful; if she does not change it, then it is usual; if she spoils it, then it is bad.
Having greeted me, maman took my head with both hands and threw it back, then looked intently at me and said:
- Did you cry today?
I didn't answer. She kissed my eyes and asked in German:
- What were you crying about?
When she spoke to us in a friendly way, she always spoke in an atom language, which she knew perfectly.
“It was I who wept in my sleep, maman,” I said, recalling with all the details the fictitious dream, and involuntarily shuddering at the thought.
Karl Ivanovich confirmed my words, but kept silent about the dream. After talking more about the weather—a conversation in which Mimi also took part—mamma put six lumps of sugar on a tray for some of the honored servants, stood up and went over to the embroidery frame that stood by the window.
- Well, go now to daddy, children, but tell him to come to me without fail before he goes to the threshing floor.
Music, counting and menacing looks began again, and we went to dad. Having passed the room that kept the name from the time of the grandfather waiter's we entered the office.

Chapter III.
DAD

He stood near the desk and, pointing to some envelopes, papers and piles of money, got excited and passionately explained something to the clerk Yakov Mikhailov, who, standing in his usual place, between the door and the barometer, with his hands behind his back, was very moving his fingers quickly and in different directions.
The more excited dad got, the faster the fingers moved, and vice versa, when dad fell silent, and the fingers stopped; but when Yakov himself began to speak, his fingers became extremely restless and desperately jumped in different directions. From their movements, it seems to me, one could guess Jacob's secret thoughts; his face was always calm - it expressed the consciousness of his dignity and at the same time subservience, that is: I'm right, but by the way, your will!
When he saw us, dad just said:
- Wait, now.
And he showed the door with a movement of his head for one of us to close it.
- Oh, my God, merciful! What's the matter with you today, Jacob? - he continued to the clerk, twitching his shoulder (he had this habit). - This envelope with an investment of eight hundred rubles ...
Yakov moved the abacus, threw in eight hundred and fixed his eyes on an indefinite point, waiting for what would happen next.
- ...for savings in my absence. Understand? You should get a thousand rubles for the mill... right or not? Pledges from the treasury you must receive back eight thousand; for hay, which, according to your own calculation, you can sell seven thousand pounds - I put in forty-five kopecks - you will receive three thousand; therefore, how much money will you have? Twelve thousand... right or not?
"That's right, sir," said Yakov.
But by the rapidity of the movements of his fingers, I noticed that he wanted to object; dad interrupted him:
- Well, from this money you will send ten thousand to the Council for Petrovsky. Now the money that is in the office, - continued dad (Yakov mixed the previous twelve thousand and threw twenty-one thousand), - you will bring me and show the current number in the expense. (Yakov mixed up the bills and turned them over, indicating, probably by this, that the money twenty-one thousand will also be lost in the same way.) You are sending the same envelope with money from me to the address.
I stood close to the table and looked at the inscription. It was written: "To Karl Ivanovich Mauer."
Must have noticed that I had read something I didn't need to know, my dad put his hand on my shoulder and lightly motioned me away from the table. I did not understand whether this was a caress or a remark, just in case, I kissed the large sinewy hand that lay on my shoulder.
"I'm listening, sir," said Yakov. - And what order will be about the Khabarovsk money? Khabarovka was the village of maman.
“Leave it in the office and never use it anywhere without my order.
Jacob was silent for a few seconds; then suddenly his fingers twirled with increased speed, and he, changing the expression of obedient stupidity with which he listened to his master's orders, into an expression of roguish sharpness characteristic of him, drew the abacus towards him and began to say:
“Allow me to report to you, Pyotr Alexandritch, that, as you please, it is impossible to pay the Council by the due date. You deign to say, - he continued with an arrangement, - that money should come from pledges, from a mill and hay. (Calculating these articles, he threw them on the bones.) So I'm afraid that we might make a mistake in our calculations, ”he added, after a pause and a thoughtful glance at papa.
- From what?
- But if you please see: about the mill, so, the miller has already come to me twice to ask for a respite and swore by Christ the God that he had no money ... yes, he is here now: so would you like to talk to him yourself ?
- What does he say? asked papa, making a sign with his head that he did not want to talk to the miller.
- Yes, it is known that, he says that there was no grinding at all, that what kind of money there were, he put everything in the dam. Well, if we take it off, sir, so again, can we find a calculation here? As for collaterals, you deigned to speak, so I seem to have already reported to you that our money has landed there and soon it will not be necessary to receive it. The other day I sent a load of flour and a note about this matter to Ivan Afanasich in the city: so they again answer that I would be glad to try for Pyotr Alexandritch, but the matter is not in my hands, and that, as everything shows, it is unlikely and in two months you will receive your receipt. As for the hay, they deigned to talk, let's say that it will be sold for three thousand ...
He threw three thousand into the accounts and was silent for a minute, looking first at the accounts, then into dad's eyes with this expression: “You yourself see how little this is! Yes, and again we will trade in the hay, if we sell it now, you yourself deign to know ... "
It was evident that he still had a large supply of arguments; that must have been why dad interrupted him.
- I will not change my orders, - he said, - but if there really is a delay in receiving this money, then there is nothing to do, you will take from Khabarovsk as much as you need.
- I'm listening.
From the expression on Yakov's face and fingers it was evident that the last order gave him great pleasure.
Yakov was a serf, a very diligent and devoted man; he, like all good clerks, was extremely stingy for his master and had the strangest ideas about the advantages of the master. He was always concerned about the increment of his master's property at the expense of his mistress's property, trying to prove that it was necessary to use all the income from her estates in Petrovsky (the village in which we lived). At the present moment, he was triumphant, because he had completely succeeded in this.
Having greeted each other, dad said that he would beat us back in the village, that we had ceased to be small and that it was time for us to study seriously.
“You already know, I think that I am going to Moscow tonight and taking you with me,” he said. - You will live with your grandmother, and maman with the girls will stay here. And you know this, that there will be one consolation for her - to hear that you study well and that you are satisfied.
Although we were already expecting something extraordinary from the preparations that had been noticeable for several days, this news shocked us terribly. Volodya blushed and in a trembling voice conveyed his mother's instructions.
“So this is what my dream foreshadowed! I thought. “God forbid that there was nothing worse.”
I felt very, very sorry for my mother, and at the same time the thought that we had definitely become big pleased me.
“If we are going today, then, it’s true, there will be no classes; it's nice! I thought. - However, I feel sorry for Karl Ivanych. They would probably let him go, because otherwise they would not have prepared an envelope for him ... It would be better to study for a century and not leave, not to part with my mother and not offend poor Karl Ivanovich. He is already very unhappy!”
These thoughts flashed through my head; I did not move from my seat and gazed intently at the black bows of my shoes.
Having said a few more words with Karl Ivanovich about lowering the barometer and ordering Yakov not to feed the dogs, in order to go out after dinner to listen to the young hounds, dad, against my expectation, sent us to study, consoling, however, with a promise to take him hunting.
On the way up, I ran to the terrace. At the door, in the sun, closing his eyes, lay his father's favorite greyhound dog - Milka.
- My dear, - I said, caressing her and kissing her face, - we are going now: goodbye! never see you again.
I got emotional and cried.

Chapter IV.
CLASSES

Karl Ivanovich was very out of sorts. You could see it in his knitted eyebrows and the way he threw his frock coat into the chest of drawers, and how angrily he girded himself, and how hard he scribbled on the book of dialogues with his fingernail to indicate the place to which we had to confirm. Volodya studied decently; I was so upset that there was absolutely nothing I could do. For a long time I stared senselessly at the book of dialogues, but because of the tears that filled my eyes at the thought of the impending separation, I could not read; when the time came to say them to Karl Ivanovich, who, closing his eyes, listened to me (this was a bad sign), exactly at the place where one says: “Wo kommen sie her?” , and the other answers: "Ich komme vom Kaffe-Hause" - I could no longer hold back tears and from sobs I could not say: "Haben sie die Zeitung nicht gelesen?" . When it came to calligraphy, from the tears that fell on the paper, I made such blots as if I had written with water on wrapping paper.
Karl Ivanovich got angry, put me on my knees, kept repeating that this was stubbornness, a puppet comedy (that was his favorite word), threatened with a ruler and demanded that I ask for forgiveness, while I could not utter a word from tears; Finally, probably feeling his own injustice, he went into Nikolai's room and slammed the door.
From the classroom, a conversation was heard in the uncle's room.
- Have you heard, Nikolai, that the children are going to Moscow? - said Karl Ivanovich, entering the room.
- How, sir, I heard.
Nikolai must have wanted to get up, because Karl Ivanovich said: "Sit down, Nikolai!" And then he closed the door. I stepped out of the corner and went to the door to eavesdrop.
- No matter how much you do good to people, no matter how attached, it is clear that gratitude cannot be expected, Nikolai? said Karl Ivanovich with feeling.
Nikolai, sitting by the window at shoemaking, nodded his head in the affirmative.
“I have been living in this house for twelve years and I can say before God, Nikolai,” continued Karl Ivanovich, raising his eyes and the snuffbox to the ceiling, “that I loved them and took care of them more than if they were my own children. Do you remember, Nikolai, when Volodenka had a fever, do you remember how I sat at his bedside for nine days without closing my eyes. Yes! then I was kind, dear Karl Ivanovich, then I was needed; and now,” he added, smiling ironically, “now children have become big: they need to study seriously. Surely they don't study here, Nikolai?
- How else to learn, it seems, - said Nikolai, putting down the awl and holding out the drapes with both hands.
- Yes, now I have become unnecessary, I must be driven away; where are the promises? where is the gratitude? I respect and love Natalya Nikolaevna, Nikolay, - he said, putting his hand to his chest, - but what is she? .. her will in this house is the same as this, - at the same time, with an expressive gesture, he threw a piece of skin on the floor. - I know whose things these are and why I became unnecessary: because I do not flatter and do not indulge in everything, like other people. I'm used to always and in front of everyone to tell the truth, - he said proudly. - God be with them! Because I will not be, they will not get rich, and I, God is merciful, will find myself a piece of bread ... is not it, Nikolai?
Nikolai raised his head and looked at Karl Ivanovich as if he wanted to make sure whether he really could find a piece of bread, but said nothing.
Karl Ivanovich talked a lot and for a long time in this spirit: he talked about how better they knew how to appreciate his merits with some general, where he used to live (it was very painful for me to hear this), spoke about Saxony, about his parents, about his friend tailor Schönheit, etc. etc.

Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy

TEACHER KARL IVANYCH

“Suppose,” I thought, “I am small, but why does he disturb me? Why doesn't he kill flies near Volodya's bed? there are so many! No, Volodya is older than me; but I am least of all: that is why he torments me. All his life he thinks only about that, - I whispered, - how would I make trouble. He sees very well that he woke me up and frightened me, but he shows it as if he does not notice ... a nasty person! And the dressing gown, and the hat, and the tassel - how nasty!

Auf Kinder auf! sniffed, wiped his nose, snapped his fingers, and only then set to work on me. He, laughing, began to tickle my heels. “Nun, nun, Faulenzer!” he said.

“How kind he is and how he loves us, and I could think so badly of him!”

I was annoyed both with myself and with Karl Ivanovich, I wanted to laugh and I wanted to cry: my nerves were upset.

Ach, lassen sie, Karl Ivanovich! I cried with tears in my eyes, sticking my head out from under the pillows.

Karl Ivanovich was surprised, left my soles alone and began to ask me with anxiety: what am I talking about? didn’t I see something bad in my dream? His kind German face, the concern with which he tried to guess the cause of my tears, made them flow even more profusely: I was ashamed, and I did not understand how, a minute before, I could not love Karl Ivanovich and find his dressing gown, cap and tassel disgusting; now, on the contrary, all this seemed to me exceedingly sweet, and even the tassel seemed a clear proof of his kindness. I told him that I was crying because I had a bad dream - as if maman had died and they were carrying her to bury. I invented all this, because I absolutely did not remember what I dreamed that night; but when Karl Ivanovich, touched by my story, began to comfort and reassure me, it seemed to me that I had definitely seen this terrible dream, and tears were shed for another reason.

When Karl Ivanovich left me and I, rising up on the bed, began to pull the stockings over my small legs, the tears subsided a little, but gloomy thoughts about a fictitious dream did not leave me. Uncle Nikolai came in - a small, clean little man, always serious, neat, respectful and a great friend of Karl Ivanovich. He carried our dresses and shoes. Volodya boots, and I still have unbearable shoes with bows. With him, I would be ashamed to cry; moreover, the morning sun shone merrily through the windows, and Volodya, mimicking Marya Ivanovna (the sister's governess), laughed so cheerfully and sonorously, standing over the washbasin, that even serious Nikolai, with a towel on his shoulder, with soap in one hand and with a washstand in the other, smiling, he said:

It will be for you, Vladimir Petrovich, if you please, wash your face.

I was quite amused.

Sind sie bald fertig? - I heard the voice of Karl Ivanych from the classroom.

Karl Ivanitch, with spectacles on his nose and a book in his hand, was sitting in his usual place, between the door and the window. To the left of the door were two shelves: one - ours, children's, the other - Karl Ivanych, his own. On ours there were all sorts of books - educational and non-educational: some were standing, others were lying. Only two large volumes of "Histoire des voyages", in red bindings, decorously rested against the wall; and then came the long, thick, large and small books, the crusts without books and the books without crusts; you used to press and stick everything in the same place when they were ordered to put the library in order before the recreation, as Karl Ivanovich loudly called this shelf. The collection of books on our own, if not as large as on ours, was even more diverse. I remember three of them: a German pamphlet on the manure of cabbage gardens - without binding, one volume of the history of the Seven Years' War - in parchment burned from one corner, and a complete course in hydrostatics. Karl Ivanovich spent most of his time reading, even ruining his eyesight with it; but apart from these books and the Northern Bee, he read nothing.

Among the items that lay on the shelf of Karl Ivanovich, there was one that reminds me of him most of all. This is a circle made of cardboard, inserted into a wooden leg, in which this circle moved by means of pegs. A picture was pasted on the mug, representing caricatures of some lady and a hairdresser. Karl Ivanovich glued it very well, and he himself invented and made this circle in order to protect his weak eyes from bright light.

Tolstoy read childhood work. L.N. Tolstoy. The story "Childhood". Analysis of selected chapters. Genre and direction

Chapter II. MAMAN

Chapter III. DAD

Chapter IV. CLASSES

Chapter II.
MAMAN

Chapter III.
DAD

Chapter IV.
CLASSES