THE TUTOR, KARL IVANITCH
On the 12th of August, 18-- (just three days after my tenth
birthday, when I had been given such wonderful presents), I was
awakened at seven o'clock in the morning by Karl Ivanitch
slapping the wall close to my head with a fly-flap made of sugar
paper and a stick. He did this so roughly that he hit the image
of my patron saint suspended to the oaken back of my bed, and the
dead fly fell down on my curls. I peeped out from under the
coverlet, steadied the still shaking image with my hand, flicked
the dead fly on to the floor, and gazed at Karl Ivanitch with
sleepy, wrathful eyes. He, in a parti-coloured wadded dressing-
gown fastened about the waist with a wide belt of the same
material, a red knitted cap adorned with a tassel, and soft
slippers of goat skin, went on walking round the walls and taking
aim at, and slapping, flies.
"Suppose," I thought to myself," that I am only a small boy,
yet why should he disturb me? Why does he not go killing flies
around Woloda's bed? No; Woloda is older than I, and I am the
youngest of the family, so he torments me. That is what he thinks
of all day long--how to tease me. He knows very well that he has
woken me up and frightened me, but he pretends not to notice it.
Disgusting brute! And his dressing-gown and cap and tassel too--
they are all of them disgusting."
While I was thus inwardly venting my wrath upon Karl Ivanitch, he
had passed to his own bedstead, looked at his watch (which hung
suspended in a little shoe sewn with bugles), and deposited the
fly-flap on a nail, then, evidently in the most cheerful mood
possible, he turned round to us.
"Get up, children! It is quite time, and your mother is already
in the drawing-room," he exclaimed in his strong German accent.
Then he crossed over to me, sat down at my feet, and took his
snuff-box out of his pocket. I pretended to be asleep. Karl
Ivanitch sneezed, wiped his nose, flicked his fingers, and began
amusing himself by teasing me and tickling my toes as he said
with a smile, "Well, well, little lazy one!"
For all my dread of being tickled, I determined not to get out of
bed or to answer him,. but hid my head deeper in the pillow,
kicked out with all my strength, and strained every nerve to keep
from laughing.
"How kind he is, and how fond of us!" I thought to myself,
Yet to think that I could be hating him so just now!"
I felt angry, both with myself and with Karl Ivanitch, I wanted
to laugh and to cry at the same time, for my nerves were all on
edge.
"Leave me alone, Karl!" I exclaimed at length, with tears in my
eyes, as I raised my head from beneath the bed-clothes.
Karl Ivanitch was taken aback, He left off tickling my feet, and
asked me kindly what the matter was, Had I had a disagreeable
dream? His good German face and the sympathy with which he sought
to know the cause of my tears made them flow the faster. I felt
conscience-stricken, and could not understand how, only a minute
ago, I had been hating Karl, and thinking his dressing-gown and
cap and tassel disgusting. On the contrary, they looked eminently
lovable now. Even the tassel seemed another token of his
goodness. I replied that I was crying because I had had a bad
dream, and had seen Mamma dead and being buried. Of course it was
a mere invention, since I did not remember having dreamt anything
at all that night, but the truth was that Karl's sympathy as he
tried to comfort and reassure me had gradually made me believe
that I HAD dreamt such a horrible dream, and so weep the more--
though from a different cause to the one he imagined
When Karl Ivanitch had left me, I sat up in bed and proceeded to
draw my stockings over my little feet. The tears had quite dried
now, yet the mournful thought of the invented dream was still
haunting me a little. Presently Uncle [This term is often applied
by children to old servants in Russia] Nicola came in--a neat
little man who was always grave, methodical, and respectful, as
well as a great friend of Karl's, He brought with him our
clothes and boots--at least, boots for Woloda, and for myself the
old detestable, be-ribanded shoes. In his presence I felt ashamed
to cry, and, moreover, the morning sun was shining so gaily
through the window, and Woloda, standing at the washstand as he
mimicked Maria Ivanovna (my sister's governess), was laughing so
loud and so long, that even the serious Nicola--a towel over his
shoulder, the soap in one hand, and the basin in the other--could
not help smiling as he said, "Will you please let me wash you,
Vladimir Petrovitch?" I had cheered up completely.
"Are you nearly ready?" came Karl's voice from the schoolroom.
The tone of that voice sounded stern now, and had nothing in it of
the kindness which had just touched me so much. In fact, in the
schoolroom Karl was altogether a different man from what he was
at other times. There he was the tutor. I washed and dressed
myself hurriedly, and, a brush still in my hand as I smoothed my
wet hair, answered to his call. Karl, with spectacles on nose
and a book in his hand, was sitting, as usual, between the door
and one of the windows. To the left of the door were two shelves--
one of them the children's (that is to say, ours), and the other
one Karl's own. Upon ours were heaped all sorts of books--lesson
books and play books--some standing up and some lying down. The
only two standing decorously against the wall were two large
volumes of a Histoire des Voyages, in red binding. On that shelf
could be seen books thick and thin and books large and small, as
well as covers without books and books without covers, since
everything got crammed up together anyhow when play time arrived
and we were told to put the "library" (as Karl called these
shelves) in order The collection of books on his own shelf was,
if not so numerous as ours, at least more varied. Three of them
in particular I remember, namely, a German pamphlet (minus a
cover) on Manuring Cabbages in Kitchen-Gardens, a History of the
Seven Years' War (bound in parchment and burnt at one corner),
and a Course of Hydrostatics. Though Karl passed so much of his
time in reading that he had injured his sight by doing so, he
never read anything beyond these books and The Northern Bee.
Another article on Karl's shelf I remember well. This was a
round piece of cardboard fastened by a screw to a wooden stand,
with a sort of comic picture of a lady and a hairdresser glued to
the cardboard. Karl was very clever at fixing pieces of cardboard
together, and had devised this contrivance for shielding his weak
eyes from any very strong light.
I can see him before me now--the tall figure in its wadded
dressing-gown and red cap (a few grey hairs visible beneath the
latter) sitting beside the table; the screen with the
hairdresser shading his face; one hand holding a book, and the
other one resting on the arm of the chair. Before him lie his
watch, with a huntsman painted on the dial, a check cotton
handkerchief, a round black snuff-box, and a green spectacle-
case, The neatness and orderliness of all these articles show
clearly that Karl Ivanitch has a clear conscience and a quiet
mind.
Sometimes, when tired of running about the salon downstairs, I
would steal on tiptoe to the schoolroom and find Karl sitting
alone in his armchair as, with a grave and quiet expression on
his face, he perused one of his favourite books. Yet sometimes,
also, there were moments when he was not reading, and when the
spectacles had slipped down his large aquiline nose, and the
blue, half-closed eyes and faintly smiling lips seemed to be
gazing before them with a curious expression, All would be quiet
in the room--not a sound being audible save his regular breathing
and the ticking of the watch with the hunter painted on the dial.
He would not see me, and I would stand at the door and think:
"Poor, poor old man! There are many of us, and we can play
together and be happy, but he sits there all alone, and has
nobody to be fond of him. Surely he speaks truth when he says
that he is an orphan. And the story of his life, too--how terrible
it is! I remember him telling it to Nicola, How dreadful to be in
his position!" Then I would feel so sorry for him that I would
go to him, and take his hand, and say, "Dear Karl Ivanitch!" and
he would be visibly delighted whenever I spoke to him like this,
and would look much brighter.
On the second wall of the schoolroom hung some maps--mostly torn,
but glued together again by Karl's hand. On the third wall (in
the middle of which stood the door) hung, on one side of the
door, a couple of rulers (one of them ours--much bescratched, and
the other one his--quite a new one), with, on the further side of
the door, a blackboard on which our more serious faults were
marked by circles and our lesser faults by crosses. To the left
of the blackboard was the corner in which we had to kneel when
naughty. How well I remember that corner--the shutter on the
stove, the ventilator above it, and the noise which it made when
turned! Sometimes I would be made to stay in that corner till my
back and knees were aching all over, and I would think to myself.
"Has Karl Ivanitch forgotten me? He goes on sitting quietly in
his arm-chair and reading his Hydrostatics, while I--!" Then, to
remind him of my presence, I would begin gently turning the
ventilator round. Or scratching some plaster off the wall; but if
by chance an extra large piece fell upon the floor, the fright of
it was worse than any punishment. I would glance round at Karl,
but he would still be sitting there quietly, book in hand, and
pretending that he had noticed nothing.
In the middle of the room stood a table, covered with a torn
black oilcloth so much cut about with penknives that the edge of
the table showed through. Round the table stood unpainted chairs
which, through use, had attained a high degree of polish. The
fourth and last wall contained three windows, from the first of
which the view was as follows, Immediately beneath it there ran a
high road on which every irregularity, every pebble, every rut
was known and dear to me. Beside the road stretched a row of
lime-trees, through which glimpses could be caught of a wattled
fence, with a meadow with farm buildings on one side of it and a
wood on the other--the whole bounded by the keeper's hut at the
further end of the meadow, The next window to the right
overlooked the part of the terrace where the "grownups" of the
family used to sit before luncheon. Sometimes, when Karl was
correcting our exercises, I would look out of that window and see
Mamma's dark hair and the backs of some persons with her, and
hear the murmur of their talking and laughter. Then I would feel
vexed that I could not be there too, and think to myself, "When
am I going to be grown up, and to have no more lessons, but sit
with the people whom I love instead of with these horrid
dialogues in my hand?" Then my anger would change to sadness,
and I would fall into such a reverie that I never heard Karl when
he scolded me for my mistakes.
At last, on the morning of which I am speaking, Karl Ivanitch
took off his dressing-gown, put on his blue frockcoat with its
creased and crumpled shoulders, adjusted his tie before the
looking-glass, and took us down to greet Mamma.
