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.