Boyhood

L >> Leo Tolstoy >> Boyhood


Praise exercises an all-potent influence, not only upon the feelings,
but also upon the intellect; so that under the influence of that
agreeable sensation I straightway felt much cleverer than before, and
thoughts began to rush with extraordinary rapidity through my head.
From egotism we passed insensibly to the theme of love, which seemed
inexhaustible. Although our reasonings might have sounded nonsensical to
a listener (so vague and one-sided were they), for ourselves they had a
profound significance. Our minds were so perfectly in harmony that not a
chord was struck in the one without awakening an echo in the other, and
in this harmonious striking of different chords we found the greatest
delight. Indeed, we felt as though time and language were insufficient
to express the thoughts which seethed within us.




XXVII. THE BEGINNING OF OUR FRIENDSHIP

From that time forth, a strange, but exceedingly pleasant, relation
subsisted between Dimitri Nechludoff and myself. Before other people he
paid me scanty attention, but as soon as ever we were alone, we would
sit down together in some comfortable corner and, forgetful both of time
and of everything around us, fall to reasoning.

We talked of a future life, of art, service, marriage, and education;
nor did the idea ever occur to us that very possibly all we said was
shocking nonsense. The reason why it never occurred to us was that the
nonsense which we talked was good, sensible nonsense, and that, so long
as one is young, one can appreciate good nonsense, and believe in it. In
youth the powers of the mind are directed wholly to the future, and
that future assumes such various, vivid, and alluring forms under the
influence of hope--hope based, not upon the experience of the past, but
upon an assumed possibility of happiness to come--that such dreams of
expected felicity constitute in themselves the true happiness of that
period of our life. How I loved those moments in our metaphysical
discussions (discussions which formed the major portion of our
intercourse) when thoughts came thronging faster and faster, and,
succeeding one another at lightning speed, and growing more and more
abstract, at length attained such a pitch of elevation that one felt
powerless to express them, and said something quite different from what
one had intended at first to say! How I liked those moments, too, when,
carried higher and higher into the realms of thought, we suddenly felt
that we could grasp its substance no longer and go no further!

At carnival time Nechludoff was so much taken up with one festivity and
another that, though he came to see us several times a day, he never
addressed a single word to me. This offended me so much that once again
I found myself thinking him a haughty, disagreeable fellow, and only
awaited an opportunity to show him that I no longer valued his company
or felt any particular affection for him. Accordingly, the first time
that he spoke to me after the carnival, I said that I had lessons to do,
and went upstairs, but a quarter of an hour later some one opened the
schoolroom door, and Nechludoff entered.

"Am I disturbing you?" he asked.

"No," I replied, although I had at first intended to say that I had a
great deal to do.

"Then why did you run away just now? It is a long while since we had a
talk together, and I have grown so accustomed to these discussions that
I feel as though something were wanting."

My anger had quite gone now, and Dimitri stood before me the same good
and lovable being as before.

"You know, perhaps, why I ran away?" I said.

"Perhaps I do," he answered, taking a seat near me. "However, though it
is possible I know why, I cannot say it straight out, whereas YOU can."

"Then I will do so. I ran away because I was angry with you--well, not
angry, but grieved. I always have an idea that you despise me for being
so young."

"Well, do you know why I always feel so attracted towards you?" he
replied, meeting my confession with a look of kind understanding, "and
why I like you better than any of my other acquaintances or than any of
the people among whom I mostly have to live? It is because I found out
at once that you have the rare and astonishing gift of sincerity."

"Yes, I always confess the things of which I am most ashamed--but only
to people in whom I trust," I said.

"Ah, but to trust a man you must be his friend completely, and we
are not friends yet, Nicolas. Remember how, when we were speaking of
friendship, we agreed that, to be real friends, we ought to trust one
another implicitly."

"I trust you in so far as that I feel convinced that you would never
repeat a word of what I might tell you," I said.

"Yet perhaps the most interesting and important thoughts of all are
just those which we never tell one another, while the mean thoughts
(the thoughts which, if we only knew that we had to confess them to
one another, would probably never have the hardihood to enter our
minds)--Well, do you know what I am thinking of, Nicolas?" he broke off,
rising and taking my hand with a smile. "I propose (and I feel sure
that it would benefit us mutually) that we should pledge our word to one
another to tell each other EVERYTHING. We should then really know each
other, and never have anything on our consciences. And, to guard against
outsiders, let us also agree never to speak of one another to a third
person. Suppose we do that?"

"I agree," I replied. And we did it. What the result was shall be told
hereafter.

Kerr has said that every attachment has two sides: one loves, and the
other allows himself to be loved; one kisses, and the other surrenders
his cheek. That is perfectly true. In the case of our own attachment it
was I who kissed, and Dimitri who surrendered his cheek--though he, in
his turn, was ready to pay me a similar salute. We loved equally because
we knew and appreciated each other thoroughly, but this did not prevent
him from exercising an influence over me, nor myself from rendering him
adoration.

It will readily be understood that Nechludoff's influence caused me
to adopt his bent of mind, the essence of which lay in an enthusiastic
reverence for ideal virtue and a firm belief in man's vocation to
perpetual perfection. To raise mankind, to abolish vice and misery,
seemed at that time a task offering no difficulties. To educate oneself
to every virtue, and so to achieve happiness, seemed a simple and easy
matter.

Only God Himself knows whether those blessed dreams of youth were
ridiculous, or whose the fault was that they never became realised.