Resurrection

When Maslova, wearied out by the long walk, reached the building,

accompanied by two soldiers, Prince Dmitri Ivanovitch Nekhludoff,

who had seduced her, was still lying on his high bedstead, with a

feather bed on the top of the spring mattress, in a fine, clean,

well-ironed linen night shirt, smoking a cigarette, and

considering what he had to do to-day, and what had happened

yesterday.

Recalling the evening he had spent with the Korchagins, a wealthy

and aristocratic family, whose daughter every one expected he

would marry, he sighed, and, throwing away the end of his

cigarette, was going to take another out of the silver case; but,

changing his mind, he resolutely raised his solid frame, and,

putting down his smooth, white legs, stepped into his slippers,

threw his silk dressing gown over his broad shoulders, and passed

into his dressing-room, walking heavily and quickly. There he

carefully cleaned his teeth, many of which were filled, with

tooth powder, and rinsed his mouth with scented elixir. After

that he washed his hands with perfumed soap, cleaned his long

nails with particular care, then, from a tap fixed to his marble

washstand, he let a spray of cold water run over his face and

stout neck. Having finished this part of the business, he went

into a third room, where a shower bath stood ready for him.

Having refreshed his full, white, muscular body, and dried it

with a rough bath sheet, he put on his fine undergarments and his

boots, and sat down before the glass to brush his black beard and

his curly hair, that had begun to get thin above the forehead.

Everything he used, everything belonging to his toilet, his

linen, his clothes, boots, necktie, pin, studs, was of the best

quality, very quiet, simple, durable and costly.

Nekhludoff dressed leisurely, and went into the dining-room. A

table, which looked very imposing with its four legs carved in

the shape of lions' paws, and a huge side-board to match, stood

in the oblong room, the floor of which had been polished by three

men the day before. On the table, which was covered with a fine,

starched cloth, stood a silver coffeepot full of aromatic coffee,

a sugar basin, a jug of fresh cream, and a bread basket filled

with fresh rolls, rusks, and biscuits; and beside the plate lay

the last number of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, a newspaper, and

several letters.

Nekhludoff was just going to open his letters, when a stout,

middle-aged woman in mourning, a lace cap covering the widening

parting of her hair, glided into the room. This was Agraphena

Petrovna, formerly lady's maid to Nekhludoff's mother. Her

mistress had died quite recently in this very house, and she

remained with the son as his housekeeper. Agraphena Petrovna had

spent nearly ten years, at different times, abroad with

Nekhludoff's mother, and had the appearance and manners of a

lady. She had lived with the Nekhludoffs from the time she was a

child, and had known Dmitri Ivanovitch at the time when he was

still little Mitinka.