This fluttering, superficial life was that of the Yushkov family. They received the children with well-meaning effusions, lodged them and dressed them, introduced them to their acquaintances and took no further notice of them. Aunt Pelagya was very different from Aunt Aline and Aunt Toinette. A social butterfly of limited intellectual capacity, she had a kind heart, the brains of a sparrow, she harbored deep-seated resentments dating from her youth, and her aim was to enjoy herself and be popular. Sofya Andreyevna Tolstoy wrote of her, "She doted on archbishops, monasteries, and cloth-of-gold embroideries which she made and gave to churches and convents; she also loved good food, and liked to decorate her room tastefully, giving long thought to the position of a divan, for example." She had a strong sense of tradition, and wanted each of the Tolstoy boys to have his own personal serf, a boy of his own age—she thought this a charming custom. Her husband, Vladimir Ivanovich Yushkov, was a likable man, unsubstantial, witty and a woman chaser, who shone in the salons, dabbled at the piano, squeezed the servant girls' waists and feared nothing so much as to be left alone with his wife, whose looks distressed him and whose prattling drove him wild. Although he was sincerely fond of his nephews, he had no more time or inclination to guide their steps than his wife had. Little Marya was boarded out and the four brothers continued their studies in their chosen subjects. Nicholas, now seventeen years old, enrolled at the University of Kazan, where Sergey and Dmitry joined him in 1843, entering the Department of Mathematics. Leo, having suddenly decided to become a diplomat, was preparing to enter the Department of Oriental Languages. From the first, the task appeared a formidable one: the requirements for the entrance examination included—in addition to history, geography, statistics, mathematics, Russian literature, logic, Latin, French, German and English—an elementary knowledge of Arabic and Turko-Tatar. While slogging reluctantly away at these unappetizing subjects, lie endeavored to improve his external appearance and cultivate a distinguished bearing. Awed by his elder brother Nicholas, who, by virtue of his age and learning, was almost an adult, he nevertheless felt much closer to Sergey, whose good looks, high spirits and elegance had always impressed him. In order to become more like Sergey, and also to acquire the proper Yushkov tone, he endeavored to observe the proprieties in all things. Unfortunately, when he looked at himself in a mirror, he found himself still more ugly and common than when he had been a child: "The most vulgar, coarse and ugly features," he confessed, "little gray eyes that looked more stupid than clever. . . My face was that of a common muzhik, and so were my big hands and feet."2 But it ought to be possible to counterbalance them with a cultivated mind and distinguished manners. With this as his point of departure, he resolved that his goal in life would be to become, 110 longer a general, scholar or poet, but a man of distinction—cottime il faut.9 Society thereafter ceased to be divided into rich and poor, good and bad, clever and stupid, civilian and military, healthy and sick: there were only people "commc il faut" and people not "commc il faut." "My way of being comme il faut," he wrote, "consisted first of all in the perfect mastery of the
* Comme il faut was the French term Tolstoy used; its chief meaning is a combination of "proper, respectable, gentlemanly"; for him, of course, it meant something more than "what was done" or "tire thing," as opposed to "not quite the thing." (Tr. note).
Frcnch language and, in particular, the proper accent. A man who pronounced French badly aroused in me a feeling of contempt. . . . The second requirement for being comme il faut was to have fingernails that were long, well-shaped and clean; the third was to be able to bow, dance and converse; the fourth (very important) was to appear indifferent, to wear a certain air of distinguished and disdainful boredom at all times."3
The code of behavior which Leo invented proved more difficult to apply than he would have supposed. He was straining to become a fashion plate; yet, whatever he tried, all he achieved was a caricature of Sergey. On the other hand, he deemed himself far more advanced than his other brother Dmitry, a sober, pensive, determined boy who paid scant attention to his appearance, did not go out into society, did not dance and, winter and summer alike, wore a student's coat and a cravat that was too tight for him, obliging him to stick out his ncck from time to time to disengage it. Even his friends were peculiar. His brothers had made friends among the aristocracy, but Dmitry went round with Poluboyarinov, a poor student, who was so dirty and threadbare that the servants were embarrassed when he came to the door. And what was one to think of his attachment to Lyubov Sergeyevna, a girl the family had taken in out of charity? She was timid, mild and vague, and her face was swollen as though by bee-stings. Her eyes were scarcely visible between two folds of fat, and her pale scalp showed through thin black hair in patches. When the flies settled on her face in the summer, she did not even feel them. She never opened the windows or the transom in her room and the smell was suffocating. Dmitry, literally fascinated by such ugliness, developed a great affection for Lyubov Sergeyevna, regularly went to sec her in her lair, read to her and listened to her talcs of woe. Aunt Pelagya was afraid he might marry the wretched creature. But he paid no heed to teasing or chiding. Imperturbable and placid, he continued to behave as though the world outside did not exist and the soul were the only thing that counted. Occasionally, he mistreated Vanyusha, the little serf Aunt Pelagya had given him, but he repented the next moment and begged pardon of the boy, who gaped at such kindness. For Leo and Sergey, going to church was a custom to be respected but not taken seriously, but Dmitry went to every service and prayed with a fervor that could scarcely have been less comme il faut. On Orthodox holy days, he dragged the whole family to the prison church where the service was very long and very beautiful. In the nave, a glass partition with a door in it separated the faithful free from the faithful unfree. Once, one of the latter wanted to give some money to the sacristan to buy a candle. As none of the good people around would carry out his request, Dmitry pushed his way up to the partition and did what the convict had asked. He was reprimanded because it was forbidden to have any contact with the prisoners. He said nothing, but, feeling he had done no more than his duty, he repeated his gesture on the following days. This obstinacy irritated Leo, who saw it as a lack of savoir vivre. He made fun of Dmitry, said he was crazy, callcd him Noah in public and chokcd with delight when a trustee of the University of Kazan tried to persuade the young man to dance by explaining, in deadly earnest, that David had done no less before the Ark. And yet, in his heart, he envied his impossible brother for having found his way and refusing to relinquish it in the face of scoffs and taunts. Perhaps, to merit the respect of others, and especially of oneself, it was not enough to be comme il faut. As the date for his university entrance examinations drew near, Leo became increasingly convinced of the need for moral improvement.
During Holy Week he was hurrying to finish reviewing his lessons, for the examinations took place immediately after Easter. He was sixteen, and Lenten fasting and rapid growth had overtaxed his strength. His eyes continually strayed from his book to stare out the window at the blue sky and trees covered with shiny buds and the new grass coming up between the paving stones. A servant in shirtsleeves rolled up, wearing an apron, came to remove the putty and bend back the nails in the double casements. When the window was opened, the fresli-scented air flooded the room and Leo, dizzy with joy, could scarcely keep from crying out in wonder. "Everything spoke to me of beauty, happiness, virtue! . . . Everything told me that beauty and happiness and virtue were all one!"4