Читать книгу A Man from the Future. 1856 - Евгений Платонов - Страница 40

The morning of the next day began early. Dmitry woke to the sound of roosters crowing and carts rumbling over the pavement. His head ached from a sleepless night full of anxious thoughts about Rodion.

But life goes on, he thought, washing in ice-cold water. I have work. The children are waiting. I can’t let them down because of my worries.

He dressed, had breakfast of black bread with tea (Praskovia Pavlovna brought him food again, not asking for money – “Pay when you get your wages, dear”), and headed to Krupov’s school.

The walk took half an hour – through narrow streets, past shops, taverns, churches. The October morning was cold and gray, but Dmitry barely noticed the cold. His thoughts were occupied with the upcoming lesson.

What will I teach them? he wondered. Reading, arithmetic – that’s clear. But you can teach them more. You can teach them to think, feel, understand. You can make them better, kinder, smarter. That’s enormous responsibility.

At the school, Krupov met him – cheerful, energetic, despite the early hour:

“Ah, Dmitry Sergeevich! Good morning! Did you sleep well? Ready to work?”

“Ready, Ivan Petrovich,” Dmitry smiled.

“Excellent! Today you’ll have your first independent lesson. The younger group – children from seven to nine years old. Teach them writing. Here are the copybooks, here are the quills, the ink. The main thing is patience and kindness. You can’t show weakness with children – they sense it.”

Krupov led him to the classroom. The children were already sitting at their desks – about fifteen, boys and three girls. When they saw the new teacher, they grew quiet, stared curiously.

“Children,” said Krupov, “this is Dmitry Sergeevich, your new teacher. Listen to him carefully, don’t misbehave. I’m going to the older students.”

He left, leaving Dmitry alone with the children. For several seconds there was silence. Dmitry looked at the children, the children looked at him.

Lord, he thought, where do I start?

“Good morning, children,” he began.

“Good morning, Dmitry Sergeevich!” the children answered in unison, standing up.

“Please sit down,” Dmitry indicated with his hand. “Let’s get to know each other. My name is Dmitry Sergeevich Komarov. I’ll be teaching you writing and reading. And what are your names?”

The children began introducing themselves – one by one, shyly, embarrassed:

“Vanya Petrov…”

“Masha Ivanova…”

“Kolya Smirnov…”

“Sashenka Volkova…”

Simple names, simple children, Dmitry thought. Children of merchants, tradespeople, minor officials. Not wealthy, but not beggars either. They have a chance to get an education, find a profession, change their fate. And I can help them.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” he said when everyone had introduced themselves. “Tell me, do you like to study?”

The children exchanged glances. One boy – the very one who’d asked yesterday if the new teacher was kind – shyly raised his hand:

“Do you really not hit us, Dmitry Sergeevich?”

“I really don’t,” Dmitry answered firmly. “Never. I promise.”

The children brightened noticeably. One girl with braids said:

“Then I’ll try hard! I want to learn to write beautifully, like ladies do!”

“And you will,” Dmitry smiled. “You’ll all learn if you try. The main thing is don’t be afraid to make mistakes. Mistakes are normal. Everyone makes them. Even adults. Even teachers.”

Even me, he added to himself. I’ve made so many mistakes in life. But here, in this time, I have a chance to fix everything.

The lesson began. Dmitry distributed copybooks to the children – notebooks with letter samples. He showed them how to hold the quill properly, how to dip it in the inkwell, how to form letters.

The children tried their hardest – tongues sticking out from effort, bent over their notebooks. Some did better, some worse. Someone got ink all over himself up to his ears, someone tore the paper with an awkward movement.

Dmitry walked between the rows, helping, correcting, encouraging:

“Good job, Vanyechka, already better!”

“Mashenka, hold the quill like this, see, it’ll be easier!”

“Kolya, don’t rush, write slowly, carefully!”

Strange, he thought, I feel happy. Despite all the problems, the poverty, the fear for Rodion – I’m happy. Because I’m doing something real. Something important. Not updating antivirus software, but teaching children. Shaping their future.

By the end of the lesson the children were tired but satisfied. They showed each other their notebooks, boasting:

“Look, mine turned out almost like the teacher’s!”

“And I don’t have a single blot!”

“And I wrote a whole line without mistakes!”

Krupov came in at the end of the lesson, looked at the children’s work, nodded approvingly:

“Good, Dmitry Sergeevich. I see you have a talent for teaching. The children listen to you, they try. That’s the main thing.”

After the lesson, when the children had run off, Krupov invited Dmitry to his office for tea.

“Tell me, Dmitry Sergeevich,” he asked, pouring tea from the samovar, “why did you decide to become a teacher? You’re an educated man, you could have found more profitable work. In some office or another.”

Dmitry thought. It was a fair question.

“You see, Ivan Petrovich,” he answered slowly, “I searched for a long time for my place in life. I tried different occupations. And I realized that money isn’t the main thing. The main thing is to feel that your work has meaning. That you’re making the world a little bit better. And a teacher – that’s exactly what he does, right?”

Krupov looked at him with respect:

“Right, Dmitry Sergeevich. Absolutely right. You know, I’ve devoted my whole life to children. I could have become a clerk, lived more comfortably. But I chose the school. And I’ve never regretted it. Because the greatest reward for a teacher is seeing your student grow up to be a good person. Educated, kind, honest. That’s true happiness.”

True happiness, Dmitry repeated to himself. In the twenty-first century people don’t talk about such happiness. There happiness is money, a car, an apartment, a vacation by the sea. But here, in the nineteenth century, people still remember that happiness is something different.

They finished their tea, talked a bit more about pedagogy, about children, about life. Krupov turned out to be a remarkable man – intelligent, kind, full of ideas. He spoke about his plans to open a bigger school where not just merchants’ children but poor children could study.

“Education should be available to everyone,” he said passionately. “It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor. Every child has the right to learn. But unfortunately not everyone understands this. The authorities think education for the lower classes is dangerous. That an educated people will rebel. But I think the opposite – an educated people will be reasonable. And reasonable people don’t rebel without cause.”

Krupov is an idealist, Dmitry thought. But such a bright, kind idealism. Not like Rodion – dark, obsessed, ready for crime. But healthy, creative. That’s who I need to show Rodion! That’s an example of how you can change the world not through destruction but through creation.

“Ivan Petrovich,” he said, “could I bring an acquaintance here? He’s an educated man too, also looking for his place in life. Maybe it would be good for him to talk with you.”

“Of course, Dmitry Sergeevich!” Krupov was delighted. “Bring him. I’m always glad to meet like-minded people.”

Yes, Dmitry decided. I’ll bring Rodion here. Let him see there’s another way. That you can be a person without committing a crime.