A thick childhood story full of content. Tolstoy lev nikolaevich

Tolstoy Lev Nikolaevich, the story "Childhood" of which we will describe in this article, is one of the titans of classical Russian literature. This is the author of such famous works as "Anna Karenina" and "War and Peace". The path to the world of literature opened up for the writer precisely thanks to the story of interest to us, as well as to the insightful editor of Sovremennik Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov, who published Leo Tolstoy's work "Childhood" in 1852.

The history of the creation of the work

Lev Nikolaevich in 1851 went to the Caucasus together with Nikolai, his brother. At that time there were battles with the mountaineers. The atmosphere of the Caucasus inspires the young 23-year-old writer to be creative. But he creates not just a work dedicated to the war, which would be natural. Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy writes an essay of a completely different nature. The story "Childhood" is a nostalgic work created in the genre of pseudo-autobiography.

A year later, after several proofreads, the first work of a novice writer is ready. He sent his manuscript to Sovremennik, a cult magazine of the time, headed by Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov. Immediately, this experienced writer notices the talented work "Childhood" by Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy and publishes the story of an unknown writer on the pages of the magazine. This is how a great author of fiction, a prose writer, known throughout the world, appeared in our country.

The Sovremennik would later publish Boyhood (in 1854), as well as Youth (1857). They will continue the story of the formation of the personality and life of Nikolenka Irteniev, the main character. However, it was Leo Tolstoy's Childhood that was the work from which everything began.

The beginning of the story "Childhood"

The morning of August 12 was nasty for the protagonist. He was awakened by a loud bang that sounded right above his ear. It was Karl Ivanovich, the teacher, who started a fly hunt by the young master's bed. Nikolenka is terribly angry with her teacher. Karl Ivanovich is hateful to him, he does not tolerate his red cap, which the teacher wears in order not to catch a cold on his sore ears; a colorful dressing gown, fly crackers made of sugar paper and German speech.

Karl Ivanovich

Karl Ivanovich, laughing, tickles Nikolenka's heels. The sleepy intoxication dissipates, and the boy can no longer imagine how he could have hated just a few moments ago Karl Ivanovich, his kind teacher. A German has been living in their house for 12 years. He taught the boy and Volodya, his older brother, everything that he himself knows.

So in the life of Nikolenka Irteniev, another day begins. He passed three days ago ten years. The time of his childhood is described.

Representation of the Irteniev family members

Karl Ivanovich, after some preparations, takes his pupils (Volodya and Nikolenka) out to greet Natalya Nikolaevna, mother.

The protagonist remembers very well her brown kind eyes, a dry tender hand, with which she often caressed her sons, as well as a mole on her neck, located in the place where her hair begins to curl. Natalya Nikolaevna begins to pour tea into mugs. Lyubochka, Nikolenka's younger sister, plays music in the same room. Together with her there is Mimi, her governess (Marya Ivanovna), the most unpleasant person, according to the young Irteniev.

Nikolenka, having kissed her mother's hand, goes to her father's office. Pyotr Alekseevich is a large landowner. From the very morning he and Yakov, the clerk, decide agricultural matters. Nikolenka admires how handsome and tall his dad is, what a sinewy big hand and a calm, even voice. The father reminds the boy that they are going to Moscow tonight.

The writer continues his work. Below is his photo. Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy ("Childhood") tells about the following events in the life of the boys - the heroes of the work of interest to us.

Volodya and Nikolenka must go to the city

The fact is that Volodya and Nikolenka are already adults. They can no longer remain in the village. Therefore, the father will take them to the city, where they will receive a good education, learn the manners adopted in the world. The boy is happy to go to mysterious Moscow. He is saddened only by parting with Karl Ivanovich, whom he loves as much as his father, and also with his mother. Teachers are fired after years of service. The grown up Irtenievs no longer need him.

Morning lesson

The boy is not allowed to tune in to the morning experience lesson. He completely forgets the dialogue he has learned in advance, and the calligraphy notebook becomes an ink puddle because of the tears that have dripped on it. To top off this chaotic morning, Grisha appears on the threshold of the classroom - a holy fool, a frequenter of the boy's parents' estate. He knocks with a crutch, speaks incoherent predictions and, as usual, begs for lunch at Natalya Nikolaevna's.

The Irtenievs go hunting

Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy's "childhood" continues with a hunting episode. In full force, the Irteniev family sets off for nature. Nikolenka loves such trips very much. Today, moreover, their mother is with them together with the girls - Lyubochka, their sister, and Katenka, the daughter of the governess, for whom the boy has his first love feelings.

After an unsuccessful hunt (the main character inadvertently frightened off a hare), the adults take lunch, and the children begin to play Robinson. Nikolenka at this time shows awkward signs of attention to Katenka, but the girl does not indulge the courtship of the little master.

Painting

Upon returning home, the children are occupied with drawing. Only blue paint goes to Nikolenka, and he wants to depict the events of this day. The boy first draws a blue hare, after which he turns it into a bush, which, in turn, transforms into a tree, then into a stack, and finally into a cloud. As a result, the drawing is declared unfit and is thrown away.

Karl Ivanovich remains

At this time, a drama is played out in the house with Karl Ivanovich, the teacher, whom it was decided to dismiss the day before. Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy (Childhood) describes this story in this way. The German, offended, went to complain of his ingratitude to Pyotr Nikolaevich, but he became so agitated that he forgot all the words in Russian, burst into tears and promised to serve without pay, so long as he would not be separated from his pupils. Pyotr Nikolaevich, feeling sorry for the old man, decided to take a teacher to Moscow and secure the previous salary for him. Justice has been restored. The main character of the work is happy.

Friendship of two Natalies

After the events outlined above, the narrator introduces us to another inhabitant of the house of Nikolenka's parents - Natalia Savishna, the housekeeper. Once it was just a yard girl, Natasha, who lived in the village of Khabarovka, where Natalya Nikolaevna, the boy's mother, grew up. The young peasant woman, at the request of the girl's father, a clarinet player, was taken into the house. When Nikolenka's mother was born, she became her nanny. This is how the heartfelt friendship of two Natalies - a serf and a young lady - was born. And when Natalya Nikolaevna, in gratitude for the years of service, wrote to free Savishna, she burst into tears, since she did not want to leave the yard in any way.

Farewell to home

Nikolenka, looking through the years, admits that in childhood he did not appreciate Savishna's love. And today, before leaving, saying goodbye to her, he only briefly kisses the tear-stained old woman on the cap.

The boy longs to come to Moscow as soon as possible, to go towards adventure. Nikolenka, looking out of the carriage, sees her mother in a blue fluttering kerchief, which she supports with her hand. The boy did not suspect then that he saw his mother like this for the last time.

Nikolenka and Volodya in Moscow

A Moscow episode begins in the life of the young Irtenievs. And now the boys face their first alarming test - getting to know their relatives in the city. Volodya and Nikolenka first go to see their grandmother, the princess. Each of them prepares a gift for a relative. Nikolenka composes a poem for her. At first, it seems to him quite bearable, but by the time it is read in public, the boy is practically convinced that the poems turned out to be false and nasty. But this is not true! Nikolenka, of course, respects and loves her grandmother, but not at all like her mother.

Acquaintance with distant relatives, new love

The boys get acquainted in her house with distant relatives - very handsome and stately, despite the fact that he is already seventy years old, Ivan Ivanovich, a prince; as well as Kornakova, the bilious princess. Nikolenka and Volodya later also get to know their peers, brothers Ivins, take part in their games, see real dances, and Nikolenka falls in love again. The subject of his adoration is now Sonechka Valakhina.

He thinks about her every time before bed. This is serious, Nikolenka Irnetiev is convinced.

Death of mother

For six months now, the boys have been living with their grandmother in a Moscow house. Disturbing their stormy life is a letter from the village. The boys' mother writes that she is seriously ill, her days are numbered, and asks her husband to bring the children to the village as soon as possible. Pyotr Alekseevich immediately rushes to his wife. However, her relatives are already delirious. Natalya Nikolaevna does not recognize anyone, does not see anything, and dies in terrible agony on the same day.

Funeral of Natalia Nikolaevna

The funeral of his mother left the most difficult memories in Nikolenka's soul. Many people gathered at them, for some reason everyone cried, pitied the orphans, prayed. Nikolenka screams through the years that they had no right to cry about her and talk like that. After all, in fact, no one cared about their grief and her death. Yes, and Nikolenka himself could not realize what was happening. He writes, recalling the time that he despised himself for not feeling a sense of bitterness.

Nikolenka sees her mother in the coffin and cannot come to terms with the fact that this waxy and yellow face belongs to the one whom the boy loved more than anyone else in the world. A peasant girl screams in horror when she is brought to the deceased. The main character screams and runs out of the room, struck by despair before the riddle of death and the bitter truth.

A gray-haired old woman stood out among those present, who did not cry, but only knelt in the corner and silently prayed. It was Natalya Savishna, a person who truly loved the deceased. She died after a while - she died calmly and quietly, preparing for her funeral in a month. And now her grave is in the estate, not far from the place where Nikolenka's mother is buried.

End of childhood

The story "Childhood" by Leo Tolstoy ends with the following events. The whole house moves to Moscow 3 days after the funeral. After visiting the village, the boy always comes to the grave of his mother.

The life of the Irtenievs continued in the same way. In the morning they got up in their rooms, ate breakfast at the table, walked along the paths and fell asleep in warm beds as night fell. It seems that everything has remained the same as it was ... only mama is gone. Childhood went with her.

This is how Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy ends his "Childhood". The next two parts ("Adolescence" and "Youth") continue to tell about the life of the protagonist. The work (Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy, "Childhood") is part of this trilogy. It ends with "Youth", published in 1857.

"Dialectics of the Soul"

"Childhood" (Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy), the chapters of which were briefly described by us, is a work in which Tolstoy first used the technique that critics later called "the dialectic of the soul." Depicting the state of the protagonist, Lev Nikolaevich uses an internal monologue, testifying to the change in Nikolenka's moods from sadness to joy, from anger to shame and awkwardness. It is these sudden and rapid changes ("dialectics of the soul") that the author will use in his most famous works in the future. Leo Tolstoy's story "Childhood" is considered very important in the work of this writer.

Childhood
Lev Tolstoy

"Childhood. Adolescence. Youth "# 1
Childhood - What could be more interesting and more beautiful than the discovery of the world through children's eyes? It is they who are always wide open, very attentive and extremely perceptive. Therefore, Leo Tolstoy looked around with the eyes of the little nobleman Nikolenka Irteniev and once again showed the purity and baseness of feelings, sincerity and lies, beauty and ugliness ...

Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy

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 my head with a firecracker - made of sugar paper on a stick - a fly. He did it so awkwardly that he touched the icon of my angel, which was hanging on the oak headboard, and that the killed fly fell right on my head. I poked my nose out from under the blanket, stopped the little icon, which continued to swing, with my hand, threw the killed fly on the floor and, though sleepy, but angry eyes looked at Karl Ivanitch. He, in a motley 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 around the walls, aiming and clapping.

“Suppose,” I thought, “I am small, but why does he disturb me? Why doesn't he hit the flies near Volodya's bed? there are so many of them! No, Volodya is older than me; but I am the least of all: that's why he torments me. Only about that and thinks all my life, - I whispered, - how can I make trouble. He sees very well that he woke me up and frightened me, but he shows as if he does not notice ... a disgusting person! And the robe, and the cap, and the tassel - how disgusting! "

While I was thus mentally expressing my annoyance at Karl Ivanitch, he went up to his bed, glanced at the clock that hung over her in an embroidered beaded shoe, hung a cracker on a carnation and, as was noticeable, turned in the most pleasant mood. 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 snuff-box out of my pocket. sniffed, wiped his nose, snapped his fingers and then just started at me. He chuckled and began tickling my heels. "Nun, nun, Faulenzer!" he said.

As much as I feared tickling, I did not jump out of bed and did not answer him, but only hid my head deeper under the pillows, kicked my legs with all my might and tried all 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 vexed both with myself and with Karl Ivanitch, I wanted to laugh and I wanted to cry: my nerves were upset.

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

Karl Ivanitch was surprised, left my soles alone and with concern began to ask me: what am I talking about? did I not see anything bad in a dream? .. His kind German face, the sympathy with which he tried to guess the reason for 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 Ivanitch and find his dressing gown, hat and tassel disgusting; now, on the contrary, it all seemed extremely sweet to me, and even the tassel seemed to be 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 her. I invented all this, because I absolutely did not remember what I dreamed that night; but when Karl Ivanitch, touched by my story, began to console and calm me down, it seemed to me that I had definitely seen this terrible dream, and tears flowed from another reason.

When Karl Ivanitch left me and I, having raised myself on the bed, began to pull stockings on my little legs, the tears subsided a little, but gloomy thoughts about an invented dream did not leave me. Uncle Nikolai entered - a small, clean man, always serious, neat, respectful and a great friend of Karl Ivanitch. He carried our dresses and shoes. Volodya's boots, while I still have unbearable boots with bows. In his presence I would have been ashamed to cry; besides, the morning sun shone merrily through the windows, and Volodya, imitating Marya Ivanovna (his sister's governess), laughed so merrily and sonorously, standing over the washbasin, that even the serious Nikolai, with a towel on his shoulder, with soap in one hand and with a washstand in the other, smiling, he said:

Will you, Vladimir Petrovich, if you please wash.

I was completely amused.

Sind sie bald fertig? - I heard Karl Ivanitch's voice 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 dressed briskly, washed my face and, still smoothing my wet hair with a brush in my hand, came to his call.

Karl Ivanitch, with glasses 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, his own. Ours had all sorts of books - educational and non-educational: some were standing, others were lying. Only the two large volumes of Histoire des voyages, in red bindings, rested solemnly against the wall; and then came the long, thick, big and small books - crusts without books and books without crusts; you used to press everything there and stick it in when they ordered to put the library in order before the recreation, as Karl Ivanovich loudly called this shelf. The collection of books on my own, if not as large as on ours, was even more diverse. I remember three of them: a German brochure on cabbage manure - without binding, one volume of the history of the Seven Years' War - in parchment burnt from one corner, and a complete hydrostatics course. 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 lying on the shelf of Karl Ivanovich was one that most of all reminds me of him. This is a circle made of cardon, inserted into a wooden leg, in which this circle was moved by means of pins. On the mug was pasted a picture representing the caricatures of some lady and a hairdresser. Karl Ivanovich glued very well and invented this circle himself and made it in order to protect his weak eyes from bright light.

As I now see in front of me a long figure in a cotton robe and a red cap, from under which sparse gray hair can be seen. He sits beside a table on which there is a circle with a hairdresser casting a shadow over his face; in one hand he holds a book, the other rests on the arm of an armchair; beside him lie a watch with a painted huntsman on the dial, a checkered scarf, a black round snuffbox, a green spectacle case, and tongs on a tray. All this is so decorous, neatly in its place, that one can conclude from this order alone that Karl Ivanovich has a clear conscience and a calm soul.

It used to be that you ran your fill down the hall, tiptoeing upstairs, into the classroom, looking - Karl Ivanitch was sitting alone in his armchair and reading some of his favorite books with a calm stately expression. Sometimes I caught him even at such moments when he was not reading: the glasses went down on a large aquiline nose, blue half-closed eyes looked with a special expression, and his lips smiled sadly. The room is quiet; only his uniform breathing and the striking of the clock with the gamekeeper can be heard.

Sometimes he did not notice me, but I stood at the door and thought: “Poor, poor old man! There are many of us, we play, we have fun, but he is alone, and no one caresses him. The truth is he says that he is an orphan. And the story of his life is so awful! I remember how he told it to Nikolai - it's awful to be in his position! " And you will become so sorry that you would go up to him, take his hand and say: "Lieber Karl Ivanovich!" He loved it when I told him so; always caresses, and it is clear that he is moved.

On the other wall there were land maps, all almost torn, but skillfully attached by the hand of Karl Ivanitch. On the third wall, in the middle of which there was a door downward, on one side hung two rulers: one - cut, ours, the other - brand new, _own_, used by him more for encouragement than for shedding; on the other, a black board, on which our big offenses were marked with circles and small crosses. To the left of the board was a corner in which we were put on our knees.

How I remember this corner! I remember the damper in the oven, the air vent in this damper and the noise it made when it was turned. Sometimes you stood, stood in the corner, so that your knees and back ached, and you thought: "Karl Ivanovich has forgotten about me: he must be serenely sitting on an easy chair and reading his hydrostatics - but what is it like for me?" - and you will begin, to remind you of yourself, slowly open and close the shutter or pick the plaster from the wall; but if suddenly too large a piece falls with a noise on the ground - really, fear alone is worse than any punishment. If you look back at Karl Ivanitch, he is sitting there with a book in his hand, as if noticing nothing.

In the middle of the room was a table covered with a torn black oilcloth, from under which in many places the edges cut with penknives could be seen. Around the table were several unpainted, but from long-term use of varnished stools. The last wall was occupied by three windows. This is what the view was: right under the windows is a road on which every pothole, every pebble, every track has long been familiar and dear to me; behind the road there is a sheared linden alley, from behind which a wicker palisade can be seen here and there; through the alley, a meadow is visible, on one side of which there is a threshing floor, and opposite a forest; far in the forest is the watchman's hut. From the window to the right you can see a part of the terrace, on which the big ones usually sat until lunchtime. It used to be, while Karl Ivanitch was correcting a sheet of dictation, you looked in that direction, you saw the black head of mother, someone's back, and dimly heard talk and laughter from there; It will become so annoying that you cannot be there, and you think: "When will I be big, I will stop studying and will always sit not at dialogues, but with those whom I love?" The annoyance will turn into sadness, and, God knows why and about what, you will think so deeply that you don't even hear Karl Ivanovich angry for his mistakes.

Karl Ivanitch took off his dressing gown, put on a blue tailcoat with elevations and gathers on his shoulders, straightened his tie in front of the mirror and led us downstairs to greet mother.

Chapter II.

Mother was sitting in the drawing-room and pouring tea; with one hand she held the kettle, with the other the tap of the samovar, from which water flowed through the top of the kettle 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 revive the features of your beloved being in your imagination 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, slightly below the place where little hairs curl, an embroidered and white collar, a gentle dry hand who caressed me so often and which I kissed so often; but the general expression eludes me.

To the left of the sofa was an old English piano; In front of the piano sat in the black and sister, a love and pink, which was just fluttered with cold water with a noticeable voltage played by Clementi etudes. She was eleven years old; she wore a short gingham dress, white lace-trimmed knickers and octaves, and could only take arpeggio. Beside her, half-turned, sat Marya Ivanovna in a cap with pink ribbons, in a blue katsaveika and with a red, angry face, which took on 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 commanding than before.

Karl Ivanitch, paying absolutely no attention to this, as usual, with a German greeting, went straight to his mother's hand. She came to her senses, shook her head, as if wishing to ward off sad thoughts with this movement, gave her hand to Karl Ivanitch and kissed his wrinkled temple, while he kissed her hand.

Ich danke, lieber Karl Ivanovich, - and, continuing to speak German, she asked: - Did the children sleep well?

Karl Ivanitch was deaf in one ear, and now he heard nothing from the noise at the piano. He bent down closer to the sofa, leaned one hand on the table, standing on one leg, and with a smile, which then seemed to me the height of sophistication, lifted his cap over his head and said:

Excuse me, Natalya Nikolaevna? Karl Ivanovich, in order not to catch a cold to his bare head, never took off his red cap, but every time, entering the living room, he asked permission to do so.

Put it on, Karl Ivanitch ... I ask you, did the children sleep well? - said maman, moving towards him and quite loudly.

But he again did not hear anything, covered his bald head with a red cap and smiled even more charmingly.

Wait a minute, Mimi, ”said maman to Marya Ivanovna with a smile,“ you don't hear anything.

When mother smiled, no matter how good her face was, it became incomparably better, and everything around seemed 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 in one smile is what is called the beauty of the face: if a smile adds charm to the face, then the face is beautiful; if she does not change it, then it is ordinary; if it spoils it, then it is bad.

Having greeted me, maman took my head with both hands and threw it back, then she 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 an atom of a language that she knew perfectly.

Maman was no longer there, and our life went on in the same sequence: we went to bed and got up at the same hours and in the same rooms; morning and evening tea, lunch, supper — everything was at the usual time; tables, chairs were in the same places; nothing in the house and in our way of life has changed; only she wasn't there ...

It seemed to me that after such a misfortune everything should have changed; our ordinary way of life seemed to me an insult to her memory and reminded me too vividly of her absence.

On the eve of the burial, after dinner, I felt like sleeping, and I went to Natalya Savishna's room, expecting to fit on her bed, on a soft down jacket, under a warm quilt. When I entered, Natalya Savishna was lying on her bed and must have been asleep; hearing the sound of my steps, she got up, threw back the woolen shawl that covered her head from flies, and, adjusting her cap, sat down on the edge of the bed.

Since it had often happened before that after dinner I came to sleep in her room, she guessed why I had come, and said to me, getting out of bed:

What? Have you come to rest right, my dear? lie down.

What are you, Natalya Savishna? I said, holding her hand: “I’m not at all for that .... I came this way .... and you’re tired yourself: you’d better lie down.”

No, father, I have already slept, she told me (I knew that she had not slept for three days). And there’s no time for sleep now, she added with a deep sigh.

I wanted to talk to Natalia Savishna about our misfortune; I knew her sincerity and love, and therefore crying with her would have been a joy for me.

Natalya Savishna, I said, after a pause and sitting down on the bed: - did you expect this?

The old woman looked at me with bewilderment and curiosity, probably not understanding why I was asking her this.

Who could have expected this? I repeated.

Ah, my father, she said, throwing a glance at me of the most tender compassion: - not something to expect, but even now I cannot think. Well, it’s high time for me, old woman, to lay down my old bones to rest; and then this is what I happened to live up to: the old master - your grandfather, eternal memory, Prince Nikolai Mikhailovich, two brothers, sister Annushka, they buried everyone and everyone was younger than me, my father, but now, apparently, for my sins, she had to survive. His holy will! He then took her, that she was worthy, and He needed good ones there too.

This simple thought pleasantly struck me, and I moved closer to Natalya Savishna. She folded her arms over her chest and looked up; her sunken, moist eyes expressed great but calm sorrow. She firmly hoped that God did not part her for long from the one on which all the power of her love had been concentrated for so many years.

Yes, my father, how long, it seems, I nursed her, swaddled her and she called me Ours. Sometimes, she would come running to me, clasp her arms and begin to kiss and say:

My nashik, my handsome, you are my turkey.

And I used to joke - I say:

It is not true, mother, you do not love me; just let them grow big, marry and forget ours. - She used to think. No, he says, I'd rather not go married if you can't take Ours with me; I will never leave Ours. But she left and did not wait. And she loved me, deceased! Who she didn’t love, tell the truth! Yes, father, you must not forget your mother; it was not a man, but a heavenly angel. When her soul is in the kingdom of heaven, she will love you there, and there she will rejoice in you.

Why do you say, Natalya Savishna, when will be in the kingdom of heaven? I asked: - after all, I think she is already there.

No, father, said Natalya Savishna, lowering her voice and sitting closer to me on the bed: - now her soul is here.

And she was pointing up. She spoke almost in a whisper and with such feeling and conviction that I involuntarily raised my eyes upward, looked at the cornices and looked for something. "Before the soul of the righteous goes to heaven - it goes through forty more ordeals, my father, forty days and may still be in his house ..."

For a long time she spoke in the same manner, and spoke with such simplicity and confidence, as if she were telling the most ordinary things, which she herself had seen and about which no one could ever think of the slightest doubt. I listened to her, holding my breath, and, although I did not understand well what she was saying, I believed her completely.

Yes, father, now she is here, looking at us, listening, maybe what we are saying, concluded Natalya Savishna.

And, drooping her head, she fell silent. She needed a handkerchief to wipe away the falling tears; she got up, looked me straight in the face and said in a voice trembling with emotion:

The Lord moved me by this many steps. - What is left for me now? for whom should I live? whom to love?

Don't you love us? I said, reproachfully and hardly refraining from crying.

God knows how much I love you, my darlings, but I really love her as I loved her, I didn’t love anyone, and indeed I cannot love.

She could no longer speak, turned away from me and sobbed loudly.

I did not even think to sleep; we sat silently opposite each other and cried.

Fock entered the room; Noticing our position and, probably, not wanting to disturb us, he, silently and timidly glancing, stopped at the door.

Why are you, Fokasha? asked Natalya Savishna, wiping herself with a handkerchief.

One and a half raisins, four pounds of sugar and three pounds of Sarachin millet for kutya, sir.

Now, now, father, said Natalya Savishna, hastily sniffed the tobacco and with quick steps went to the chest. The last traces of the sadness our conversation had produced vanished as she took up her duty, which she considered very important.

What's four pounds for? she said grumpily, taking out and weighing the sugar on the steelyard: - and three and a half will be enough.

And she took off a few pieces from the balance.

And this is what it looks like, that yesterday only eight pounds of millet let go, again they ask: - do you like it, Foka Demidych, but I will not let go of millet. This Vanka is glad that now there is a commotion in the house: he thinks, perhaps, they will not notice. No, I won’t give any favors for the lordly good. Well, is this the case - eight pounds?

How to be, sir? he says everything worked out.

Well, on, take, on! let him take it!

I was then struck by this transition from the touching feeling with which she spoke to me, to grumbling and petty calculations. Thinking about this later, I realized that, despite what she was doing in her soul, she had enough presence of mind to go about her business, and the force of habit pulled her to ordinary activities. Grief had such a strong effect on her that she did not find it necessary to hide the fact that she could deal with extraneous subjects; she would not even understand how such a thought could come.

Vanity is the most incongruous feeling with true grief, and at the same time this feeling is so firmly grafted into the nature of man that very rarely even the most intense grief drives him out. Vanity in sorrow is expressed by the desire to appear either grieved, or unhappy, or firm; and these low desires, which we do not admit, but which almost never - even in the most powerful sorrow - do not leave us, deprive her of strength, dignity and sincerity. Natalya Savishna was so deeply struck by her misfortune that not a single desire remained in her soul, and she lived only by habit.

After giving Focke the required provisions and reminding him of the cake that had to be prepared for the clergyman's treat, she let him go, took the stocking and again sat down beside me.

The conversation began about the same thing, and we cried again and once again wiped away our tears.

Conversations with Natalya Savishna were repeated every day; her quiet tears and calm pious speeches brought me joy and relief.

But soon we were separated: three days after the funeral, we all came home to Moscow, and I was destined to never see her again.

Grandmother received the terrible news only with our arrival, and her grief was extraordinary. We were not allowed to see her, because she was unconscious for a whole week, the doctors were afraid for her life, especially since she not only did not want to take any medicine, but she did not speak to anyone, did not sleep, and did not take any food. Sometimes, sitting alone in the room, on her armchair, she suddenly began to laugh, then weep without tears, convulsions were made with her, and she screamed meaningless or terrible words in a frantic voice. It was the first intense grief that struck her, and this grief drove her to despair. She had to blame someone for her misfortune, and she spoke terrible words, threatened someone with extraordinary force, jumped up from her chair, walked around the room with quick, long steps and then fell unconscious.

Once I entered her room: she was sitting, as usual, in her armchair and seemed to be calm; but I was struck by her look. Her eyes were very open, but her gaze was vague and dull: she was looking directly at me, but she must not have seen. Her lips began to smile slowly, and she spoke in a touching, gentle voice: "Come here, my friend, come, my angel." I thought she was talking to me and came closer, but she was not looking at me. "Oh, if you only knew, my soul, how I suffered and how glad now that you have come ...." I realized that she was imagining to see maman, and stopped. “And they told me that you were not there,” she continued, frowning, “that's nonsense! Can you die before me? " and she laughed a terrible hysterical laugh.

Only people who are able to love deeply can experience intense grief; but the same need to love serves to counteract grief and heals them. From this, the moral nature of man is even more tenacious of the physical nature. Grief never kills.

After a week, the grandmother could cry and she felt better. Her first thought, when she came to, was us, and her love for us increased. We did not leave her chair; she was crying softly, talking about maman and tenderly caressing us.

It never entered anyone's head, looking at the sadness of the grandmother, so that she exaggerated it, and the expressions of this sadness were strong and touching; but I don't know why, I sympathized more with Natalya Savishna, and am still convinced that no one loved and regretted maman as sincerely and purely as this simple-minded and loving creature.

With the death of my mother, the happy period of childhood ended for me and a new era began - the era of adolescence; but since the memories of Natalia Savishna, whom I have never seen again, and who had such a strong and beneficial influence on my direction and the development of sensitivity, belongs to the first era, I will say a few more words about her and her death.

After our departure, as the people who remained in the village told me later, she was very bored from idleness. Although all the chests were still in her hands, and she did not stop rummaging through them, rearranging, hanging, unfolding; but she lacked the hustle and bustle of the lordly, lordly, country house to which she was accustomed from childhood. Grief, change in lifestyle and lack of hassle soon developed in her the senile disease to which she was prone. Exactly one year after the death of my mother, her water bottle opened up, and she went to bed.

It was hard, I think, for Natalya Savishna to live and even harder to die alone, in the big empty Petrovsky house, without relatives, without friends. Everyone in the house loved and respected Natalya Savishna; but she had no friendship with anyone and was proud of it. She believed that in her position as a housekeeper, using the power of attorney of her masters and having on her hands so many chests with every good, friendship with someone would certainly lead her to disingenuousness and criminal condescension; therefore, or, perhaps, because she had nothing to do with other servants, she retired everyone and said that she had neither godfathers nor matchmakers in her house, and that she would not give anyone a hand for lordly goodness.

Believing her feelings to God in warm prayer, she sought and found consolation; but sometimes in moments of weakness, to which we are all subject, when tears and the participation of a living creature bring the best consolation for a person, she put her little dog on her bed (which licked her hands, staring at her with her yellow eyes), spoke to her and quietly cried, caressing her. When the pug began to howl pitifully, she tried to calm her down and said: "Completely, I know without you that I will soon die."

A month before her death, she took from her chest a white calico, white muslin and pink ribbons; with the help of her girlfriend, she sewed herself a white dress and a cap and ordered everything that was needed for her funeral to the smallest detail. She, too, took apart the master's chests and, according to the inventory, handed them over to the clerk with the greatest clarity: then she took out two silk dresses, an old shawl, once given to her by her grandmother, her grandfather's military uniform, embroidered in gold, also given to her in full ownership. Thanks to her solicitude, the sewing and laces on the uniform were completely fresh, and the cloth was not touched by moths.

Before her death, she expressed a desire that one of these platyies - pink - be given to Volodya for a robe or beshmet, the other - in cages - for me, for the same use; and the shawl to Lyubochka. She bequeathed the uniform to the one of us who would be an officer before. All the rest of her property and money, excluding forty rubles, which she set aside for burial and commemoration, she left to receive to her brother. Her brother, who had long since been set free, lived in some distant province and led the most dissolute life; therefore, during her lifetime, she had no relationship with him.

When Natalia Savishna's brother came to receive an inheritance, and all the property of the deceased turned out to be worth twenty-five rubles in banknotes, he did not want to believe this and said that it could not be that the old woman, who had lived for sixty years in a rich house, had everything in her hands, all I lived my life sparingly and trembled over every rag so that it would not leave anything. But it really was.

Natalia Savishna suffered from her illness for two months and endured suffering with true Christian patience: she did not grumble, did not complain, but only, according to her habit, constantly remembered God. An hour before her death, she confessed with quiet joy, took the Holy Communion and took the unction with oil.

She asked all the households for forgiveness for the insults that she could inflict on them, and asked her confessor, Father Vasily, to convey to all of us that she did not know how to thank us for our mercies, and asks us to forgive her if she upset someone by her stupidity. something, "but I have never been a thief and I can say that I did not profit from the master's thread." It was one quality that she valued in herself.

Putting on the prepared bonnet and cap and leaning against the pillows, she did not stop talking to the priest until the very end, remembered that she had left nothing to the poor, took out ten rubles and asked him to distribute them in the parish; then she crossed herself, lay down and sighed for the last time, with a joyful smile, pronouncing the name of God.

She left life without regret, was not afraid of death and accepted it as a blessing. This is often said, but how rare it really is! Natalia Savishna could not be afraid of death, because she died with unshakable faith and fulfilling the law of the Gospel. Her whole life was pure, unselfish love and selflessness.

Well, if her beliefs could be higher, her life is directed towards a higher goal; is this pure soul less worthy of love and surprise from this?

She did the best and greatest deed in this life - she died without regret or fear.

She was buried, at her request, not far from the chapel, which stands on the grave of mother. The hillock overgrown with nettles and burdocks, under which it lies, is fenced off with a black lattice, and I never forget to approach this lattice from the chapel and put my bow down to the ground.

Sometimes I stop silently between the chapel and the black bars. Hard memories suddenly awaken in my soul. The thought comes to me: is it really that Providence only connected me with these two beings, in order to make me regret them forever? ...

I was born and spent my first childhood in the village of Yasnaya Polyana. I don't remember my mother at all. I was one and a half years old when she passed away. By a strange accident, not a single portrait of her remained ... in my imagination about her there is only her spiritual appearance, and everything that I know about her, everything is fine, and I think - not only because everyone who told me about my mother tried to say only good things about her, but because there really was a lot of this good in her ...

There were five of us children: Nikolai, Sergey, Dmitry, I am the younger and younger sister Mashenka ...

My elder brother Nikolenka was six years older than me. He was, therefore, ten or eleven, when I was four or five, just when he took us to Fanfaron Mountain. When we were young, I don’t know how it happened, we used to say “you” to him. He was an amazing boy and then an amazing person ... He had such an imagination that he could tell fairy tales or ghost stories or humorous stories ... without stopping and hesitating, for hours and with such confidence in the reality of what he was telling that it was forgotten that it was fiction.

When he was not talking or reading (he read a lot), he painted. He almost always painted devils with horns, curled mustaches, mating in a wide variety of poses with each other and engaged in a wide variety of activities. These drawings were also full of imagination and humor.

So, when my brothers and I were five, Mitenka six, Seryozha seven years old, he announced to us that he had a secret through which, when it was revealed, all people would become happy; there will be no illnesses, no troubles, no one will be angry with anyone, and everyone will love each other, everyone will become ant brothers ... And I remember that the word “ant” was especially liked, resembling ants in a hummock. We even arranged a game of ant brothers, which consisted of sitting under chairs, blocking them with boxes, covering them with handkerchiefs and sitting there, in the dark, hugging each other. I remember that I experienced a special feeling of love and tenderness and loved this game very much.

The ant brotherhood was revealed to us, but the main secret about how to make sure that all people do not know any misfortunes, never quarrel or get angry, but be constantly happy, this secret was, as he told us, written on a green stick , and this wand is buried by the road on the edge of the Old Zakaz ravine, in the place where I - since I must bury my corpse somewhere - asked, in memory of Nikolenka, to bury me. In addition to this stick, there was also some kind of Fanfaron Mountain, to which, he said that he could lead us in, if only we fulfill all the conditions laid down for that. The conditions were, first, to stand in a corner and not think about the polar bear. I remember how I stood in a corner and tried, but I could not help but think about the polar bear. I don’t remember the second condition, it’s some very difficult one ... to walk without stumbling along the crack between the floorboards, and the third is easy: not to see a hare during the year - it’s still alive, or dead, or fried. Then you have to swear not to reveal these secrets to anyone.

The one who fulfills these conditions and still others, more difficult, which he will discover afterwards, that one desire, whatever it may be, will be fulfilled. We had to say our desires. Seryozha wished to be able to sculpt horses and chickens from wax, Mitenka wished to be able to draw all sorts of things, a painter, in a large form. I couldn't think of anything except to be able to draw in a small form. All this, as happens with children, was very soon forgotten, and no one entered Fanfaron Mountain, but I remember the mysterious importance with which Nikolenka initiated us into these secrets, and our respect and awe for those amazing things that were revealed to us.

In particular, the ant brotherhood and the mysterious green stick that contacted him and should make all people happy ...

The ideal of ant brothers, clinging lovingly to each other, only not under two armchairs hung with kerchiefs, but under the entire heavenly vault of all the people of the world, remained the same for me. And as I then believed that there is that green stick on which is written what should destroy all evil in people and give them great blessing, so I believe now that there is this truth and that it will be revealed to people and give them that what she promises.

Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy

(Chapters)

Happy, happy, irreversible childhood! How not to love, not 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 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 how not to listen? Maman speaks to someone and the sounds of her voice are so sweet, so welcoming. These sounds speak so much to my heart! With drowsy eyes, I gazed intently at her face, and suddenly she became all small, small - her face was no larger than a button; but I can still clearly see it: I see how she looked at me and how she smiled. I love to see 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, try in every possible way to renew it, but in vain.

I get up, climb up with my legs and comfortably lay down on the chair.

“You’ll fall asleep again, Nikolenka,” maman says to me, “you’d better go upstairs.”

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

All have already dispersed; one candle burns in the living room; maman said that she would wake me up herself; 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 hinder her: she is not afraid to pour out all her tenderness and love on me. I do not move, but I kiss her hand 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 next to me; she touches me; I hear her scent and voice. All this makes me jump up, wrap my arms around her neck, press my head to her chest and breathlessly say:

- Oh, dear, dear mother, how I love you!

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

- 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 there, will you not forget her? won't you forget, Nikolenka?

She kisses me even more tenderly.

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

After that, as happened, you come upstairs and stand in front of the icons, in your cotton robe, what a wonderful feeling you experience, saying: "Save, Lord, papa and mamma." Repeating the prayers that for the first time babbled my childish lips for my beloved mother, love for her and love for God somehow strangely merged into one feeling.

After prayer, you would wrap yourself in a blanket; the soul is light, light and joyful; some dreams drive others - but what are they about? They are elusive, but filled with pure love and hopes for bright happiness. You would remember, it used to be, about Karl Ivanitch and his bitter fate - the only person I knew unhappy - and you will become so sorry, you will fall in love with him so that tears will flow from your eyes, and you think: “May God give him happiness, give me the opportunity to help him , ease his grief; I am ready to sacrifice everything for him. " Then you will put your favorite porcelain toy - a bunny or a dog - in the corner of a down pillow and admire how nice, 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 confused, mix, and you will fall asleep quietly, calmly, still with a face wet with tears.

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

Where are those fervent prayers? where is the best gift - those pure tears of affection? An angel-comforter flew in, wiped away these tears with a smile and brought sweet dreams to the unspoiled child's imagination.

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

The hunt is over. In the shade of young birch trees, a carpet was spread, and the whole society was sitting in a circle on the carpet. The barman Gavrilo, crushing the green juicy grass around him, grinded the plates and took out the plums and peaches wrapped in leaves from the box.

The sun shone through the green branches of young birches 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, refreshed me extremely.

When we were dressed with 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 into what? - said Lyubochka, squinting from the sun and jumping on the grass. - Let's go to Robinson.

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

Volodya was visibly important: he must have been proud of the fact 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 power of imagination to fully enjoy playing Robinson. This game consisted of a performance of scenes from "Robinson Suisse", which we read shortly before.

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

End of introductory snippet.

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Notes (edit)

"Swiss Robinson".