Resurrection

When Nekhludoff had finished his coffee, he went to his study to

look at the summons, and find out what time he was to appear at

the court, before writing his answer to the princess. Passing

through his studio, where a few studies hung on the walls and,

facing the easel, stood an unfinished picture, a feeling of

inability to advance in art, a sense of his incapacity, came over

him. He had often had this feeling, of late, and explained it by

his too finely-developed aesthetic taste; still, the feeling was

a very unpleasant one. Seven years before this he had given up

military service, feeling sure that he had a talent for art, and

had looked down with some disdain at all other activity from the

height of his artistic standpoint. And now it turned out that he

had no right to do so, and therefore everything that reminded him

of all this was unpleasant. He looked at the luxurious fittings

of the studio with a heavy heart, and it was in no cheerful mood

that he entered his study, a large, lofty room fitted up with a

view to comfort, convenience, and elegant appearance. He found

the summons at once in a pigeon hole, labelled "immediate," of

his large writing table. He had to appear at the court at 11

o'clock.

Nekhludoff sat down to write a note in reply to the princess,

thanking her for the invitation, and promising to try and come to

dinner. Having written one note, he tore it up, as it seemed too

intimate. He wrote another, but it was too cold; he feared it

might give offence, so he tore it up, too. He pressed the button

of an electric bell, and his servant, an elderly, morose-looking

man, with whiskers and shaved chin and lip, wearing a grey cotton

apron, entered at the door.

"Send to fetch an isvostchik, please."

"Yes, sir."

"And tell the person who is waiting that I send thanks for the

invitation, and shall try to come."

"Yes, sir."

"It is not very polite, but I can't write; no matter, I shall see

her today," thought Nekhludoff, and went to get his overcoat.

When he came out of the house, an isvostchik he knew, with

india-rubber tires to his trap, was at the door waiting for him.

"You had hardly gone away from Prince Korchagin's yesterday," he

said, turning half round, "when I drove up, and the Swiss at the

door says, 'just gone.'" The isvostchik knew that Nekhludoff

visited at the Korchagins, and called there on the chance of

being engaged by him.

"Even the isvostchiks know of my relations with the Korchagins,"

thought Nekhludoff, and again the question whether he should not

marry Princess Korchagin presented itself to him, and he could

not decide it either way, any more than most of the questions

that arose in his mind at this time.