Seven years before he had retired from active service he decided that his true vocation in life was painting, and from the height of his artistic activity he looked down upon all other occupations.  And now it appeared that he had no right to do so, and every recollection of it was disagreeable to him.  He looked on all the luxurious appointments of the work-room with heavy heart, and walked into the cabinet in ill humor.  The cabinet was a high room, profusely ornamented, and containing every imaginable device of comfort and necessity.

He produced from one of the drawers of a large table the summons, and, ascertaining that he must appear at eleven o’clock, he sat down and wrote to the Princess, thanking her for the invitation, and saying that he should try to call for dinner.  The tone of the note seemed to him too intimate, and he tore it up; he wrote another, but that was too formal, almost offensive.  Again he tore it up, and touched a button on the wall.  A servant, morose, with flowing side-whiskers and in a gray apron, entered.

“Please send for a carriage.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And tell the Korchagins’ maid that I thank them; I will try to call.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It is impolite, but I cannot write.  But I will see her to-day,” thought Nekhludoff, and started to dress himself.

When he emerged from the house a carriage with rubber tires awaited him.

“You had scarcely left Prince Korchagin’s house yesterday when I called for you,” said the driver, half-turning his stout, sun-burned neck in the white collar of his shirt, “and the footman said that you had just gone.”

“Even the drivers know of my relations to the Korchagins,” thought Nekhludoff, and the unsolved question which continually occupied his mind of late—­whether or not he ought to marry Princess Korchagin—­again occurred to him, and, like most questions that he was called upon to decide at that time, it remained unsolved.

He had many reasons for, and as many against, marriage.  There was the pleasure of domestic life, which made it possible to lead a moral life, as he called married life; then, and principally, the family and children would infuse his present aimless life with a purpose.  This was for marriage generally.  On the other hand there was, first, the loss of freedom which all elderly bachelors fear so much; and, second, an unconscious awe of that mysterious creature, woman.

However, in favor of marrying Missy in particular (Korchagin’s name was Maria, but, as usual in families of the higher classes, she received a nickname) there was, first, the fact that she came of good stock, and was in everything, from her dress to her manner of speaking, walking and laughing, distinguished not by any exceptional qualities, but by “good breeding”—­he knew no other expression for the quality which he prized very highly.  Second, she valued him above all other men, hence, he thought she understood him.