Boyhood-1

BOYHOOD

By Leo Tolstoy

Translated by C.J. HOGARTH

CONTENTS

I.   A SLOW JOURNEY

II.   THE THUNDERSTORM

III.   A NEW POINT OF VIEW

IV.   IN MOSCOW V.   MY ELDER BROTHER VI.   MASHA VII.   SMALL SHOT VIII.   KARL IVANITCH’S HISTORY

IX.   CONTINUATION OF

KARL’S NARRATIVE X.   CONCLUSION

OF KARL’S NARRATIVE XI.   ONE

MARK ONLY XII.   THE

KEY XIII.   THE

TRAITRESS XIV.   THE

RETRIBUTION XV.   DREAMS

XVI.   "KEEP ON

GRINDING, AND YOU’LL HAVE FLOUR”

XVII.   HATRED XVIII.

THE MAIDSERVANTS’ ROOM XIX.   BOYHOOD XX.   WOLODA XXI.   KATENKA AND LUBOTSHKA

XXII.   PAPA XXIII.   GRANDMAMMA XXIV.   MYSELF XXV.   WOLODA’S FRIENDS

XXVI.   DISCUSSIONS

XXVII.     THE

BEGINNING OF OUR FRIENDSHIP

I. A SLOW JOURNEY

Again two carriages stood at the front door of the house at Petrovskoe. In

one of them sat Mimi, the two girls, and their maid, with the bailiff,

Jakoff, on the box, while in the other—a britchka—sat Woloda,

myself, and our servant Vassili. Papa, who was to follow us to Moscow in a

few days, was standing bareheaded on the entrance-steps. He made the sign

of the cross at the windows of the carriages, and said:

“Christ go with you! Good-bye.”

Jakoff and our coachman (for we had our own horses) lifted their caps in

answer, and also made the sign of the cross.

“Amen. God go with us!”

The carriages began to roll away, and the birch-trees of the great avenue

filed out of sight.

I was not in the least depressed on this occasion, for my mind was not so

much turned upon what I had left as upon what was awaiting me. In

proportion as the various objects connected with the sad recollections

which had recently filled my imagination receded behind me, those

recollections lost their power, and gave place to a consolatory feeling of

life, youthful vigour, freshness, and hope.

Seldom have I spent four days more—well, I will not say gaily, since

I should still have shrunk from appearing gay—but more agreeably and

pleasantly than those occupied by our journey.

No longer were my eyes confronted with the closed door of Mamma’s room

(which I had never been able to pass without a pang), nor with the covered

piano (which nobody opened now, and at which I could never look without

trembling), nor with mourning dresses (we had each of us on our ordinary

travelling clothes), nor with all those other objects which recalled to me

so vividly our irreparable loss, and forced me to abstain from any

manifestation of merriment lest I should unwittingly offend against HER

memory.

On the contrary, a continual succession of new and exciting objects and

places now caught and held my attention, and the charms of spring awakened

in my soul a soothing sense of satisfaction with the present and of

blissful hope for the future.

Very early next morning the merciless Vassili (who had only just entered

our service, and was therefore, like most people in such a position,

zealous to a fault) came and stripped off my counterpane, affirming that

it was time for me to get up, since everything was in readiness for us to

continue our journey. Though I felt inclined to stretch myself and rebel—though

I would gladly have spent another quarter of an hour in sweet enjoyment of

my morning slumber—Vassili’s inexorable face showed that he would

grant me no respite, but that he was ready to tear away the counterpane

twenty times more if necessary. Accordingly I submitted myself to the

inevitable and ran down into the courtyard to wash myself at the fountain.

In the coffee-room, a tea-kettle was already surmounting the fire which

Milka the ostler, as red in the face as a crab, was blowing with a pair of

bellows. All was grey and misty in the courtyard, like steam from a

smoking dunghill, but in the eastern sky the sun was diffusing a clear,

cheerful radiance, and making the straw roofs of the sheds around the

courtyard sparkle with the night dew. Beneath them stood our horses, tied

to mangers, and I could hear the ceaseless sound of their chewing. A

curly-haired dog which had been spending the night on a dry dunghill now

rose in lazy fashion and, wagging its tail, walked slowly across the

courtyard.

The bustling landlady opened the creaking gates, turned her meditative

cows into the street (whence came the lowing and bellowing of other

cattle), and exchanged a word or two with a sleepy neighbour. Philip, with

his shirt-sleeves rolled up, was working the windlass of a draw-well, and

sending sparkling fresh water coursing into an oaken trough, while in the

pool beneath it some early-rising ducks were taking a bath. It gave me

pleasure to watch his strongly-marked, bearded face, and the veins and

muscles as they stood out upon his great powerful hands whenever he made

an extra effort. In the room behind the partition-wall where Mimi and the

girls had slept (yet so near to ourselves that we had exchanged

confidences overnight) movements now became audible, their maid kept

passing in and out with clothes, and, at last the door opened and we were

summoned to breakfast. Woloda, however, remained in a state of bustle

throughout as he ran to fetch first one article and then another and urged

the maid to hasten her preparations.

The horses were put to, and showed their impatience by tinkling their

bells. Parcels, trunks, dressing-cases, and boxes were replaced, and we

set about taking our seats. Yet, every time that we got in, the mountain

of luggage in the britchka seemed to have grown larger than before, and we

had much ado to understand how things had been arranged yesterday, and how

we should sit now. A tea-chest, in particular, greatly inconvenienced me,

but Vassili declared that “things will soon right themselves,” and I had

no choice but to believe him.

The sun was just rising, covered with dense white clouds, and every object

around us was standing out in a cheerful, calm sort of radiance. The whole

was beautiful to look at, and I felt comfortable and light of heart.

Before us the road ran like a broad, sinuous ribbon through cornfields

glittering with dew. Here and there a dark bush or young birch-tree cast a

long shadow over the ruts and scattered grass-tufts of the track. Yet even

the monotonous din of our carriage-wheels and collar-bells could not drown

the joyous song of soaring larks, nor the combined odour of moth-eaten

cloth, dust, and sourness peculiar to our britchka overpower the fresh

scents of the morning. I felt in my heart that delightful impulse to be up

and doing which is a sign of sincere enjoyment.

As I had not been able to say my prayers in the courtyard of the inn, but

had nevertheless been assured once that on the very first day when I

omitted to perform that ceremony some misfortune would overtake me, I now

hastened to rectify the omission. Taking off my cap, and stooping down in

a corner of the britchka, I duly recited my orisons, and unobtrusively

signed the sign of the cross beneath my coat. Yet all the while a thousand

different objects were distracting my attention, and more than once I

inadvertently repeated a prayer twice over.

Soon on the little footpath beside the road became visible some slowly

moving figures. They were pilgrims. On their heads they had dirty

handkerchiefs, on their backs wallets of birch-bark, and on their feet

bundles of soiled rags and heavy bast shoes. Moving their staffs in

regular rhythm, and scarcely throwing us a glance, they pressed onwards

with heavy tread and in single file.

“Where have they come from?” I wondered to myself, “and whither are they

bound? Is it a long pilgrimage they are making?” But soon the shadows they

cast on the road became indistinguishable from the shadows of the bushes

which they passed.

Next a carriage-and-four could be seen approaching us. In two seconds the

faces which looked out at us from it with smiling curiosity had vanished.

How strange it seemed that those faces should have nothing in common with

me, and that in all probability they would never meet my eyes again!

Next came a pair of post-horses, with the traces looped up to their

collars. On one of them a young postillion-his lamb’s wool cap cocked to

one side-was negligently kicking his booted legs against the flanks of his

steed as he sang a melancholy ditty. Yet his face and attitude seemed to

me to express such perfect carelessness and indolent ease that I imagined

it to be the height of happiness to be a postillion and to sing melancholy

songs.

Far off, through a cutting in the road, there soon stood out against the

light-blue sky, the green roof of a village church. Presently the village

itself became visible, together with the roof of the manor-house and the

garden attached to it. Who lived in that house? Children, parents,

teachers? Why should we not call there and make the acquaintance of its

inmates?

Next we overtook a file of loaded waggons—a procession to which our

vehicles had to yield the road.

“What have you got in there?” asked Vassili of one waggoner who was

dangling his legs lazily over the splashboard of his conveyance and

flicking his whip about as he gazed at us with a stolid, vacant look; but

he only made answer when we were too far off to catch what he said.

“And what have YOU got?” asked Vassili of a second waggoner who was lying

at full length under a new rug on the driving-seat of his vehicle. The red

poll and red face beneath it lifted themselves up for a second from the

folds of the rug, measured our britchka with a cold, contemptuous look,

and lay down again; whereupon I concluded that the driver was wondering to

himself who we were, whence we had come, and whither we were going.

These various objects of interest had absorbed so much of my time that, as

yet, I had paid no attention to the crooked figures on the verst posts as

we passed them in rapid succession; but in time the sun began to burn my

head and back, the road to become increasingly dusty, the impedimenta in

the carriage to grow more and more uncomfortable, and myself to feel more

and more cramped. Consequently, I relapsed into devoting my whole

faculties to the distance-posts and their numerals, and to solving

difficult mathematical problems for reckoning the time when we should

arrive at the next posting-house.

“Twelve versts are a third of thirty-six, and in all there are forty-one

to Lipetz. We have done a third and how much, then?”, and so forth, and so

forth.

“Vassili,” was my next remark, on observing that he was beginning to nod

on the box-seat, “suppose we change seats? Will you?” Vassili agreed, and

had no sooner stretched himself out in the body of the vehicle than he

began to snore. To me on my new perch, however, a most interesting

spectacle now became visible—namely, our horses, all of which were

familiar to me down to the smallest detail.

“Why is Diashak on the right today, Philip, not on the left?” I asked

knowingly. “And Nerusinka is not doing her proper share of the pulling.”

“One could not put Diashak on the left,” replied Philip, altogether

ignoring my last remark. “He is not the kind of horse to put there at all.

A horse like the one on the left now is the right kind of one for the

job.”

After this fragment of eloquence, Philip turned towards Diashak and began

to do his best to worry the poor animal by jogging at the reins, in spite

of the fact that Diashak was doing well and dragging the vehicle almost

unaided. This Philip continued to do until he found it convenient to

breathe and rest himself awhile and to settle his cap askew, though it had

looked well enough before.

I profited by the opportunity to ask him to let me have the reins to hold,

until, the whole six in my hand, as well as the whip, I had attained

complete happiness. Several times I asked whether I was doing things

right, but, as usual, Philip was never satisfied, and soon destroyed my

felicity.

The heat increased until a hand showed itself at the carriage window, and

waved a bottle and a parcel of eatables; whereupon Vassili leapt briskly

from the britchka, and ran forward to get us something to eat and drink.

When we arrived at a steep descent, we all got out and ran down it to a

little bridge, while Vassili and Jakoff followed, supporting the carriage

on either side, as though to hold it up in the event of its threatening to

upset.

After that, Mimi gave permission for a change of seats, and sometimes

Woloda or myself would ride in the carriage, and Lubotshka or Katenka in

the britchka. This arrangement greatly pleased the girls, since much more

fun went on in the britchka. Just when the day was at its hottest, we got

out at a wood, and, breaking off a quantity of branches, transformed our

vehicle into a bower. This travelling arbour then bustled on to catch the

carriage up, and had the effect of exciting Lubotshka to one of those

piercing shrieks of delight which she was in the habit of occasionally

emitting.

At last we drew near the village where we were to halt and dine. Already

we could perceive the smell of the place—the smell of smoke and tar

and sheep-and distinguish the sound of voices, footsteps, and carts. The

bells on our horses began to ring less clearly than they had done in the

open country, and on both sides the road became lined with huts—dwellings

with straw roofs, carved porches, and small red or green painted shutters

to the windows, through which, here and there, was a woman’s face looking

inquisitively out. Peasant children clad in smocks only stood staring

open-eyed or, stretching out their arms to us, ran barefooted through the

dust to climb on to the luggage behind, despite Philip’s menacing

gestures. Likewise, red-haired waiters came darting around the carriages

to invite us, with words and signs, to select their several hostelries as

our halting-place.

Presently a gate creaked, and we entered a courtyard. Four hours of rest

and liberty now awaited us.

II. THE THUNDERSTORM

The sun was sinking towards the west, and his long, hot rays were burning

my neck and cheeks beyond endurance, while thick clouds of dust were

rising from the road and filling the whole air. Not the slightest wind was

there to carry it away. I could not think what to do. Neither the

dust-blackened face of Woloda dozing in a corner, nor the motion of

Philip’s back, nor the long shadow of our britchka as it came bowling

along behind us brought me any relief. I concentrated my whole attention

upon the distance-posts ahead and the clouds which, hitherto dispersed

over the sky, were now assuming a menacing blackness, and beginning to

form themselves into a single solid mass.

From time to time distant thunder could be heard—a circumstance

which greatly increased my impatience to arrive at the inn where we were

to spend the night. A thunderstorm always communicated to me an

inexpressibly oppressive feeling of fear and gloom.

Yet we were still ten versts from the next village, and in the meanwhile

the large purple cloudbank—arisen from no one knows where—was

advancing steadily towards us. The sun, not yet obscured, was picking out

its fuscous shape with dazzling light, and marking its front with grey

stripes running right down to the horizon. At intervals, vivid lightning

could be seen in the distance, followed by low rumbles which increased

steadily in volume until they merged into a prolonged roll which seemed to

embrace the entire heavens. At length, Vassili got up and covered over the

britchka, the coachman wrapped himself up in his cloak and lifted his cap

to make the sign of the cross at each successive thunderclap, and the

horses pricked up their ears and snorted as though to drink in the fresh

air which the flying clouds were outdistancing. The britchka began to roll

more swiftly along the dusty road, and I felt uneasy, and as though the

blood were coursing more quickly through my veins. Soon the clouds had

veiled the face of the sun, and though he threw a last gleam of light to

the dark and terrifying horizon, he had no choice but to disappear behind

them.

Suddenly everything around us seemed changed, and assumed a gloomy aspect.

A wood of aspen trees which we were passing seemed to be all in a tremble,

with its leaves showing white against the dark lilac background of the

clouds, murmuring together in an agitated manner. The tops of the larger

trees began to bend to and fro, and dried leaves and grass to whirl about

in eddies over the road. Swallows and white-breasted swifts came darting

around the britchka and even passing in front of the forelegs of the

horses. While rooks, despite their outstretched wings, were laid, as it

were, on their keels by the wind. Finally, the leather apron which covered

us began to flutter about and to beat against the sides of the conveyance.

The lightning flashed right into the britchka as, cleaving the obscurity

for a second, it lit up the grey cloth and silk galloon of the lining and

Woloda’s figure pressed back into a corner.

Next came a terrible sound which, rising higher and higher, and spreading

further and further, increased until it reached its climax in a deafening

thunderclap which made us tremble and hold our breaths. “The wrath of God”—what

poetry there is in that simple popular conception!

The pace of the vehicle was continually increasing, and from Philip’s and

Vassili’s backs (the former was tugging furiously at the reins) I could

see that they too were alarmed.

Bowling rapidly down an incline, the britchka cannoned violently against a

wooden bridge at the bottom. I dared not stir and expected destruction

every moment.

Crack! A trace had given way, and, in spite of the ceaseless, deafening

thunderclaps, we had to pull up on the bridge.

Leaning my head despairingly against the side of the britchka, I followed

with a beating heart the movements of Philip’s great black fingers as he

tied up the broken trace and, with hands and the butt-end of the whip,

pushed the harness vigorously back into its place.

My sense of terror was increasing with the violence of the thunder.

Indeed, at the moment of supreme silence which generally precedes the

greatest intensity of a storm, it mounted to such a height that I felt as

though another quarter of an hour of this emotion would kill me.

Just then there appeared from beneath the bridge a human being who, clad

in a torn, filthy smock, and supported on a pair of thin shanks bare of

muscles, thrust an idiotic face, a tremulous, bare, shaven head, and a

pair of red, shining stumps in place of hands into the britchka.

“M-my lord! A copeck for—for God’s sake!” groaned a feeble voice as

at each word the wretched being made the sign of the cross and bowed

himself to the ground.

I cannot describe the chill feeling of horror which penetrated my heart at

that moment. A shudder crept through all my hair, and my eyes stared in

vacant terror at the outcast.

Vassili, who was charged with the apportioning of alms during the journey,

was busy helping Philip, and only when everything had been put straight

and Philip had resumed the reins again had he time to look for his purse.

Hardly had the britchka begun to move when a blinding flash filled the

welkin with a blaze of light which brought the horses to their haunches.

Then, the flash was followed by such an ear-splitting roar that the very

vault of heaven seemed to be descending upon our heads. The wind blew

harder than ever, and Vassili’s cloak, the manes and tails of the horses,

and the carriage-apron were all slanted in one direction as they waved

furiously in the violent blast.

Presently, upon the britchka’s top there fell some large drops of rain—“one,

two, three:” then suddenly, and as though a roll of drums were being

beaten over our heads, the whole countryside resounded with the clatter of

the deluge.

From Vassili’s movements, I could see that he had now got his purse open,

and that the poor outcast was still bowing and making the sign of the

cross as he ran beside the wheels of the vehicle, at the imminent risk of

being run over, and reiterated from time to time his plea, “For-for God’s

sake!” At last a copeck rolled upon the ground, and the miserable creature—his

mutilated arms, with their sleeves wet through and through, held out

before him—stopped perplexed in the roadway and vanished from my

sight.

The heavy rain, driven before the tempestuous wind, poured down in

pailfuls and, dripping from Vassili’s thick cloak, formed a series of

pools on the apron. The dust became changed to a paste which clung to the

wheels, and the ruts became transformed into muddy rivulets.

At last, however, the lightning grew paler and more diffuse, and the

thunderclaps lost some of their terror amid the monotonous rattling of the

downpour. Then the rain also abated, and the clouds began to disperse. In

the region of the sun, a lightness appeared, and between the white-grey

clouds could be caught glimpses of an azure sky.

Finally, a dazzling ray shot across the pools on the road, shot through

the threads of rain—now falling thin and straight, as from a sieve—,

and fell upon the fresh leaves and blades of grass. The great cloud was

still louring black and threatening on the far horizon, but I no longer

felt afraid of it—I felt only an inexpressibly pleasant hopefulness

in proportion, as trust in life replaced the late burden of fear. Indeed,

my heart was smiling like that of refreshed, revivified Nature herself.

Vassili took off his cloak and wrung the water from it. Woloda flung back

the apron, and I stood up in the britchka to drink in the new, fresh,

balm-laden air. In front of us was the carriage, rolling along and looking

as wet and resplendent in the sunlight as though it had just been

polished. On one side of the road boundless oatfields, intersected in

places by small ravines which now showed bright with their moist earth and

greenery, stretched to the far horizon like a checkered carpet, while on

the other side of us an aspen wood, intermingled with hazel bushes, and

parquetted with wild thyme in joyous profusion, no longer rustled and

trembled, but slowly dropped rich, sparkling diamonds from its

newly-bathed branches on to the withered leaves of last year.

From above us, from every side, came the happy songs of little birds

calling to one another among the dripping brushwood, while clear from the

inmost depths of the wood sounded the voice of the cuckoo. So delicious

was the wondrous scent of the wood, the scent which follows a thunderstorm

in spring, the scent of birch-trees, violets, mushrooms, and thyme, that I

could no longer remain in the britchka. Jumping out, I ran to some bushes,

and, regardless of the showers of drops discharged upon me, tore off a few

sprigs of thyme, and buried my face in them to smell their glorious scent.

Then, despite the mud which had got into my boots, as also the fact that

my stockings were soaked, I went skipping through the puddles to the

window of the carriage.

“Lubotshka! Katenka!” I shouted as I handed them some of the thyme, “Just

look how delicious this is!”

The girls smelt it and cried, “A-ah!” but Mimi shrieked to me to go away,

for fear I should be run over by the wheels.

“Oh, but smell how delicious it is!” I persisted.

III. A NEW POINT OF VIEW

Katenka was with me in the britchka; her lovely head inclined as she gazed

pensively at the roadway. I looked at her in silence and wondered what had

brought the unchildlike expression of sadness to her face which I now

observed for the first time there.

“We shall soon be in Moscow,” I said at last. “How large do you suppose it

is?”

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“Well, but how large do you IMAGINE? As large as Serpukhov?”

“What do you say?”

“Nothing.”

Yet the instinctive feeling which enables one person to guess the thoughts

of another and serves as a guiding thread in conversation soon made

Katenka feel that her indifference was disagreeable to me; wherefore she

raised her head presently, and, turning round, said:

“Did your Papa tell you that we girls too were going to live at your

Grandmamma’s?”

“Yes, he said that we should ALL live there.”

“ALL live there?”

“Yes, of course. We shall have one half of the upper floor, and you the

other half, and Papa the wing; but we shall all of us dine together with

Grandmamma downstairs.”

“But Mamma says that your Grandmamma is so very grave and so easily made

angry?”

“No, she only SEEMS like that at first. She is grave, but not

bad-tempered. On the contrary, she is both kind and cheerful. If you could

only have seen the ball at her house!”

“All the same, I am afraid of her. Besides, who knows whether we—”

Katenka stopped short, and once again became thoughtful.

“What?” I asked with some anxiety.

“Nothing, I only said that—”

“No. You said, ‘Who knows whether we—‘”

“And YOU said, didn’t you, that once there was ever such a ball at

Grandmamma’s?”

“Yes. It is a pity you were not there. There were heaps of guests—about

a thousand people, and all of them princes or generals, and there was

music, and I danced—But, Katenka” I broke off, “you are not

listening to me?”

“Oh yes, I am listening. You said that you danced—?”

“Why are you so serious?”

“Well, one cannot ALWAYS be gay.”

“But you have changed tremendously since Woloda and I first went to

Moscow. Tell me the truth, now: why are you so odd?” My tone was resolute.

“AM I so odd?” said Katenka with an animation which showed me that my

question had interested her. “I don’t see that I am so at all.”

“Well, you are not the same as you were before,” I continued. “Once upon a

time any one could see that you were our equal in everything, and that you

loved us like relations, just as we did you; but now you are always

serious, and keep yourself apart from us.”

“Oh, not at all.”

“But let me finish, please,” I interrupted, already conscious of a slight

tickling in my nose—the precursor of the tears which usually came to

my eyes whenever I had to vent any long pent-up feeling. “You avoid us,

and talk to no one but Mimi, as though you had no wish for our further

acquaintance.”

“But one cannot always remain the same—one must change a little

sometimes,” replied Katenka, who had an inveterate habit of pleading some

such fatalistic necessity whenever she did not know what else to say.

I recollect that once, when having a quarrel with Lubotshka, who had

called her “a stupid girl,” she (Katenka) retorted that EVERYBODY could

not be wise, seeing that a certain number of stupid people was a necessity

in the world. However, on the present occasion, I was not satisfied that

any such inevitable necessity for “changing sometimes” existed, and asked

further:

“WHY is it necessary?”

“Well, you see, we MAY not always go on living together as we are doing

now,” said Katenka, colouring slightly, and regarding Philip’s back with a

grave expression on her face. “My Mamma was able to live with your mother

because she was her friend; but will a similar arrangement always suit the

Countess, who, they say, is so easily offended? Besides, in any case, we

shall have to separate SOME day. You are rich—you have Petrovskoe,

while we are poor—Mamma has nothing.”