NEKHLUDOFF.
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.
“Good-morning, Dmitri Ivanovitch.”
“Good-morning, Agraphena Petrovna. What is it you want?” Nekhludoff
asked.
“A letter from the princess; either from the mother or the daughter.
The maid brought it some time ago, and is waiting in my room,” answered
Agraphena Petrovna, handing him the letter with a significant smile.
“All right! Directly!” said Nekhludoff, taking the letter and frowning
as he noticed Agraphena Petrovna’s smile.
That smile meant that the letter was from the younger Princess
Korchagin, whom Agraphena Petrovna expected him to marry. This
supposition of hers annoyed Nekhludoff.
“Then I’ll tell her to wait?” and Agraphena Petrovna took a crumb brush
which was not in its place, put it away, and sailed out of the room.
Nekhludoff opened the perfumed note, and began reading it.
The note was written on a sheet of thick grey paper, with rough edges;
the writing looked English. It said:
Having assumed the task of acting as your memory, I take the liberty of
reminding you that on this the 28th day of April you have to appear
at the Law Courts, as juryman, and, in consequence, can on no account
accompany us and Kolosoff to the picture gallery, as, with your habitual
flightiness, you promised yesterday; _a moins que vous ne soyez dispose
a payer la cour d’assise les 300 roubles d’amende que vous vous refusez
pour votre cheval,_ for not appearing in time. I remembered it last
night after you were gone, so do not forget.
Princess M. Korchagin.
On the other side was a postscript.
_Maman vous fait dire que votre convert vous attendra jusqu’a la nuit.
Venez absolument a quelle heure que cela soit._
M. K.
Nekhludoff made a grimace. This note was a continuation of that skilful
manoeuvring which the Princess Korchagin had already practised for two
months in order to bind him closer and closer with invisible threads.
And yet, beside the usual hesitation of men past their youth to marry
unless they are very much in love, Nekhludoff had very good reasons why,
even if he did make up his mind to it, he could not propose at once. It
was not that ten years previously he had betrayed and forsaken Maslova;
he had quite forgotten that, and he would not have considered it a
reason for not marrying. No! The reason was that he had a liaison with a
married woman, and, though he considered it broken off, she did not.
Nekhludoff was rather shy with women, and his very shyness awakened in
this married woman, the unprincipled wife of the marechal de noblesse
of a district where Nekhludoff was present at an election, the desire
of vanquishing him. This woman drew him into an intimacy which entangled
him more and more, while it daily became more distasteful to him. Having
succumbed to the temptation, Nekhludoff felt guilty, and had not the
courage to break the tie without her consent. And this was the reason he
did not feel at liberty to propose to Korchagin even if he had wished to
do so. Among the letters on the table was one from this woman’s husband.
Seeing his writing and the postmark, Nekhludoff flushed, and felt his
energies awakening, as they always did when he was facing any kind of
danger.
But his excitement passed at once. The marechal do noblesse, of the
district in which his largest estate lay, wrote only to let Nekhludoff
know that there was to be a special meeting towards the end of May, and
that Nekhludoff was to be sure and come to “_donner un coup d’epaule_,”
at the important debates concerning the schools and the roads, as a
strong opposition by the reactionary party was expected.
The marechal was a liberal, and was quite engrossed in this fight, not
even noticing the misfortune that had befallen him.
Nekhludoff remembered the dreadful moments he had lived through; once
when he thought that the husband had found him out and was going to
challenge him, and he was making up his mind to fire into the air; also
the terrible scene he had with her when she ran out into the park, and
in her excitement tried to drown herself in the pond.
“Well, I cannot go now, and can do nothing until I get a reply from
her,” thought Nekhludoff. A week ago he had written her a decisive
letter, in which he acknowledged his guilt, and his readiness to atone
for it; but at the same time he pronounced their relations to be at an
end, for her own good, as he expressed it. To this letter he had as yet
received no answer. This might prove a good sign, for if she did not
agree to break off their relations, she would have written at once, or
even come herself, as she had done before. Nekhludoff had heard that
there was some officer who was paying her marked attention, and this
tormented him by awakening jealousy, and at the same time encouraged him
with the hope of escape from the deception that was oppressing him.
The other letter was from his steward. The steward wrote to tell
him that a visit to his estates was necessary in order to enter into
possession, and also to decide about the further management of his
lands; whether it was to continue in the same way as when his mother was
alive, or whether, as he had represented to the late lamented princess,
and now advised the young prince, they had not better increase their
stock and farm all the land now rented by the peasants themselves. The
steward wrote that this would be a far more profitable way of managing
the property; at the same time, he apologised for not having forwarded
the 3,000 roubles income due on the 1st. This money would be sent on by
the next mail. The reason for the delay was that he could not get the
money out of the peasants, who had grown so untrustworthy that he had
to appeal to the authorities. This letter was partly disagreeable, and
partly pleasant. It was pleasant to feel that he had power over so
large a property, and yet disagreeable, because Nekhludoff had been an
enthusiastic admirer of Henry George and Herbert Spencer. Being himself
heir to a large property, he was especially struck by the position
taken up by Spencer in Social Statics, that justice forbids private
landholding, and with the straightforward resoluteness of his age, had
not merely spoken to prove that land could not be looked upon as private
property, and written essays on that subject at the university, but had
acted up to his convictions, and, considering it wrong to hold landed
property, had given the small piece of land he had inherited from his
father to the peasants. Inheriting his mother’s large estates, and thus
becoming a landed proprietor, he had to choose one of two things: either
to give up his property, as he had given up his father’s land ten years
before, or silently to confess that all his former ideas were mistaken
and false.
He could not choose the former because he had no means but the landed
estates (he did not care to serve); moreover, he had formed luxurious
habits which he could not easily give up. Besides, he had no longer the
same inducements; his strong convictions, the resoluteness of youth, and
the ambitious desire to do something unusual were gone. As to the second
course, that of denying those clear and unanswerable proofs of the
injustice of landholding, which he had drawn from Spencer’s Social
Statics, and the brilliant corroboration of which he had at a later
period found in the works of Henry George, such a course was impossible
to him.