After dinner Volodya went to his room to prepare his lessons. His
mother saw that the room was comfortable, that nothing was lacking in
it. No one ever disturbed Volodya here; even his mother refrained from
coming in at this time. She would come in later, to help Volodya if he
needed help.
Volodya was an industrious and even a clever pupil. But he found it
difficult to-day to apply himself. No matter what lesson he tried he
could not help remembering something unpleasant; he would recall the
teacher of each particular subject, his sarcastic or rude remark, which
propped in passings had entered in the impressionable boy’s mind.
Several of his recent lessons happened to turn out poorly; the teachers
appeared dissatisfied, and they grumbled incessantly. Their mood
communicated itself to Volodya, and his books and copy-books inspired
him at this moment with a deep confusion and unrest.
He passed hastily from the first lesson to the second and to the third;
this bother with trifles for the sake of not appearing “a blockhead”
the next day seemed to him both silly and unnecessary. The thought
perturbed him. He began to yawn from tedium and from sadness, and to
dangle his feet impatiently; he simply could not sit still.
But he knew too well that the lessons must be learnt, that this was
very important, that his future depended upon it; and so he went on
conscientiously with the tedious business.
Volodya made a blot on the copy-book, and he put his pen aside. He
looked at the blot, and decided that it could be erased with a
penknife. He was glad of the distraction.
Not finding the penknife on the table he put his hand into his pocket
and rummaged there. Among all such rubbish as is to be found in a boy’s
pocket he felt his penknife and pulled it out, together with some sort
of leaflet.
He did not see at first what the paper was he held in his hands, but on
looking at it he suddenly remembered that this was the little book with
the shadows, and quite as suddenly he grew cheerful and animated.
And there it was—that same little leaflet which he had forgotten when
he began his lessons.
He jumped briskly off his chair, moved the lamp nearer the wall, looked
cautiously at the closed door—as though afraid of some one
entering—and, turning the leaflet to the familiar page, began to study
the first drawing with great intentness, and to arrange his fingers
according to directions. The first shadow came out as a confused shape,
not at all what it should have been. Volodya moved the lamp, now here,
now there; he bent and he stretched his fingers; and he was at last
rewarded by seeing a woman’s head with a three-cornered hat.
Volodya grew cheerful. He inclined his hand somewhat and moved his
fingers very slightly—the head bowed, smiled, and grimaced amusingly.
Volodya proceeded with the second figure, then with the others. All
were hard at the beginning, but he managed them somehow in the end.
He spent a half-hour in this occupation, and forgot all about his
lessons, the school, and the whole world.
Suddenly he heard familiar footsteps behind the door. Volodya flushed;
he stuffed the leaflet into his pocket and quickly moved the lamp to
its place, almost overturning it; then he sat down and bent over his
copy-book. His mother entered.
“Let’s go and have tea, Volodenka,” she said to him.
Volodya pretended that he was looking at the blot and that he was about
to open his penknife. His mother gently put her hands on his head.
Volodya threw the knife aside and pressed his flushing face against his
mother. Evidently she noticed nothing, and this made Volodya glad.
Still, he felt ashamed, as though he had actually been caught at some
stupid prank.