The Complete Works of Count Tolstoy/Childhood/Chapter 16
XVI.
Poetry
Almost a month after we had settled in Moscow, I was sitting at a large table up-stairs, in grandmother's house, and writing. Our teacher of drawing sat opposite me, and gave a final touch to the head of a turbaned Turk, drawn with a black crayon. Volódya, standing behind the teacher, craned his neck and looked over his shoulder. This head was Volódya's first production in black crayon, and it was that very day to be presented to grandmother, it being her name day.
"And won't you throw some shadows here?" said Volódya to the teacher, rising on tiptoes, and pointing to the Turk's neck.
"No, it is not necessary," said the teacher, putting away the crayons and the drawing-pen in a box with a sliding lid. "It is all right this way, and don't touch it again. Well, and you, Nikólenka," he added, rising, and still looking sidewise at the Turk, "tell us, at last, your secret; what are you going to offer to grandmother? Really, it would be well if you, too, gave her a head. Good-bye, young gentlemen!" He took his hat and a ticket, and went out.
That moment I thought myself that a head would be better than what I was working on. When we were told that grandmother's name day would come soon, and that we ought to prepare some presents for that day, it occurred to me to write verses for the occasion, and I immediately picked out two lines with a rhyme, and hoped shortly to find the rest. I absolutely cannot remember how such a strange idea, for a child, could have got into my head, but I recall that it gave me pleasure, and that to all questions about the matter, I answered that I should not fail to offer grandmother a present, but that I should not tell anybody what it was.
Contrary to my expectation, it soon appeared that, in spite of all my efforts, I was not able to find any other verses except the two lines which I had made up on the spur of the moment. I began to read the poems that were in our readers, but neither Dmítriev, nor Derzhávin helped me at all! On the contrary, they only convinced me of my incapacity. As I knew that Karl Ivánovich was fond of copying poems, I began quietly to rummage through his papers, and among his German poems found one Russian lyric, which, no doubt, belonged to his own pen.
Remember me near,
Remember me far,
Remember my
Even from now up to ever,
Remember me to my grave,
How faithful I can love.
— Karl Mauer.
This poem, written in a beautiful, round hand, on thin letter-paper, took my fancy on account of the stirring feeling which pervaded it. I immediately learned it by rote, and decided to take it for my model. Things now went much easier. On the name day my greeting, consisting of twelve lines, was ready, and, seating myself at the table in the class-room, I copied it on vellum paper.
Two sheets of paper were already spoiled, — not that I wished to change something, the verses seemed perfect to me, but beginning with the third line, the ends of the verses began to turn upwards more and more, so that one could see, even from a distance, that they were written crooked, and that they were not good for anything.
The third sheet was just as crooked as the other two, but I decided not to copy it again. In my poem I congratulated grandmother, and wished her to live long, and finished as follows:
And will love you like our own mother.
It did not look so bad, after all, only the last verse strangely offended my ear.
"And will love you like our own mother," mumbled I.
"What other rhyme could I get for mother? other? smother? Oh, well, it will pass anyway; it is not worse than the verses of Karl Ivánovich."
I wrote down the last verse. Then I read aloud my production, with feeling and expression, in the sleeping-room. There were lines without any measure, and that did not disconcert me; but the last verse struck me more unpleasantly still. I sat down on my bed, and fell to musing.
"Why did I write like our own mother? She was not here, so I ought not even to have mentioned her. It is true, I love grandmother, and I respect her, but still, it is not the same — why did I write that, why did I lie? To be sure this was a poem, still I ought not to have done so."
Just then the tailor entered, and brought the new half-frock coats.
"Well, it will have to remain that way!" said I, in great impatience, as I angrily shoved the poem under the pillow, and ran away to try on the Moscow clothes.
The Moscow clothes turned out to be a fine affair: the cinnamon-coloured half-frocks, with their brass buttons, were closely fitting, — not as they used to make them in the country for us, by sizes; the black trousers, tightly fitting, too, wonderfully showed the muscles, and hung over the boots.
"At last I myself have pantaloons with foot straps, and real ones!" I thought and, beside myself with pleasure, examined my legs on all sides. Although the trousers were dreadfully tight, and I felt uncomfortable in my new suit, I did not mention it to anybody, but, on the contrary, said that I felt quite at ease, and, if there was any fault in the suit, it was, that it was too loose. After that I stood for a long time before the looking-glass, combing my copiously waxed hair. No matter how much I tried, I could not smooth down the tufts on my crown: the moment I wanted to experiment on their docility, and stopped pressing them down with the brush, they rose and towered in all directions, giving my face an exceedingly funny expression.
Karl Ivánovich was dressing in the next room, and they carried through the class-room a blue dress coat to him, and with it some white appurtenances. At the door that led down-stairs was heard the voice of one of grandmother's chambermaids: I went out to discover what she wanted. She was holding in her hand a stiffly ironed shirt-front, and told me that she had brought it for Karl Ivánovich, and that she had not slept that night, in order to get it washed in time. I undertook to hand him the shirt-front, and asked whether grandmother had risen.
"Indeed, sir! She has already had her coffee, and the protopope has come. How fine you look!" she added, smiling, and surveying my new garments.
This remark made me blush. I turned around on one foot, clicked my fingers, and leaped up, to let her feel that she did not know yet what a fine fellow I really was.
When I brought the shirt-front to Karl Ivánovich, he did not need it any longer: he had put on another, and, bending over a small looking-glass, which stood on a table, was holding the superb tie of his cravat in his hands, and trying whether his smoothly shaven chin would freely go into it and come out again. Having pulled our garments into shape, and having asked Nikoláy to do the same for him, he took us to grandmother. I have to laugh when I think how strongly all three of us smelled of pomatum, as we descended the staircase.
Karl Ivánovich had in his hands a small box of his own make; Volódya had the drawing, and I the poem. We all had on our tongue a greeting with which we were to offer our presents. Just as Karl Ivánovich opened the door of the parlour, the clergyman was putting on his vestments, and the first sounds of the mass were heard.
Grandmother was in the parlour already: bending and leaning over the arm of a chair, she was standing at the wall and praying fervently. Papa stood near her. She turned around to us and smiled, when she noticed that we were hiding behind our backs the presents which we were to offer, and that we had stopped at the door, in our desire not to observed. All the effect of surprise, on which we had been counting, was lost.
When the blessing with the cross began, I suddenly felt that I was under the oppressive influence of an inconquerable, stupefying timidity, and, feeling that I should never have enough courage to make my offering to her, I hid behind Karl Ivánovich's back. He congratulated grandmother in the choicest of expressions, and, transferring the box from his right hand to his left, handed it to her, and walked off a few steps, in order to give Volódya a chance. Grandmother, so it seemed, was delighted with the box, which was bordered with gold paper, and expressed her thanks to him with a most gracious smile. It was, however, evident that she did not know where to place the box, and, probably for that reason, asked papa to see with what remarkable skill it was made.
Having satisfied his curiosity, papa handed it to the protopope who, it seemed, took a liking to the thing: he shook his head, and now looked at the box, and now at the master who had managed to produce such a beautiful object. Voldódya offered his Turk, and he also was the recipient of the most flattering praise on all sides. Then came my turn: grandmother turned to me with a smile of encouragement.
Those who have experienced bashfulness, know that the feeling increases in direct proportion with time, and that decision diminishes in the same proportion; that is, the longer that condition lasts, the harder it is to overcome the bashfulness, and the less there is left of decision.
My last courage and decision left me when Karl Ivánovich and Volódya made their offerings, and my bashfulness reached its extreme limits: I felt my heart-blood continually coursing to my head, my face alternately changing colour, and large drops of perspiration oozing on my forehead and nose. My ears were burning; I felt a chill and a perspiration over my whole body; I stood now on one foot, now on another, and I did not budge from the spot.
"Well, do show us, Nikólenka! What is it you have, a box or a drawing?" said papa to me. There was nothing to be done; with a trembling hand I gave her the crushed, fatal roll; but my voice refused to serve me, and I stopped silent before grandmother. I was beside myself, thinking that, instead of the expected drawing, they would read aloud my worthless poem and the words like my own mother which would be a clear proof that I had never loved her, and that I had forgotten her. How am I to tell the agony through which I passed, when grandmother began to read aloud my poem; when, unable to make it out, she stopped in the middle of the verse, in order to look at papa with a smile, which then seemed to me to be one of mockery; when she pronounced it differently from what I had intended it; and when, her eyes being weak, she did not finish reading it, but handed it to papa and asked him to read it from the beginning? It seemed to me that she did so because she was tired of reading such horrible and badly scrawled verses, and because she wanted papa to read the last line, which was such an evident proof of my heartlessness. I was waiting for him to snap my nose with the poem, and to say: "Naughty boy! Do not forget your mother! Take this for it!" But nothing of the kind happened; on the contrary, after it had been read, grandmother said: "Charmant!" and kissed my brow.
The box, the drawing, and the poem were put, by the side of two batiste handkerchiefs and a snuff-box with mamma's portrait, on a sort of extension table connected with the armchair in which grandmother always sat.
"Princess Várvara Ilínichna," announced one of the two huge lackeys who stood in the back of grandmother's carriage.
Grandmother was deep in thought over the portrait, which was fastened to the shell snuff-box, and did not answer.
"Does your Grace command to ask her in?" repeated the lackey.