Against marriage in general was the fear, common to bachelors past their first youth, of losing freedom, and an unconscious awe before this mysterious creature, a woman.

In this particular case, in favour of marrying Missy (her name was Mary, but, as is usual among a certain set, a nickname had been given her) was that she came of good family, and differed in everything, manner of speaking, walking, laughing, from the common people, not by anything exceptional, but by her “good breeding”—­he could find no other term for this quality, though he prized it very highly—–­and, besides, she thought more of him than of anybody else, therefore evidently understood him.  This understanding of him, i.e., the recognition of his superior merits, was to Nekhludoff a proof of her good sense and correct judgment.  Against marrying Missy in particular, was, that in all likelihood, a girl with even higher qualities could be found, that she was already 27, and that he was hardly her first love.  This last idea was painful to him.  His pride would not reconcile itself with the thought that she had loved some one else, even in the past.  Of course, she could not have known that she should meet him, but the thought that she was capable of loving another offended him.  So that he had as many reasons for marrying as against it; at any rate, they weighed equally with Nekhludoff, who laughed at himself, and called himself the ass of the fable, remaining like that animal undecided which haycock to turn to.

“At any rate, before I get an answer from Mary Vasilievna (the marechal’s wife), and finish completely with her, I can do nothing,” he said to himself.  And the conviction that he might, and was even obliged, to delay his decision, was comforting.  “Well, I shall consider all that later on,” he said to himself, as the trap drove silently along the asphalt pavement up to the doors of the Court.

“Now I must fulfil my public duties conscientiously, as I am in the habit of always doing, and as I consider it right to do.  Besides, they are often interesting.”  And he entered the hall of the Law Courts, past the doorkeeper.

CHAPTER V.

The jurymen.

The corridors of the Court were already full of activity.  The attendants hurried, out of breath, dragging their feet along the ground without lifting them, backwards and forwards, with all sorts of messages and papers.  Ushers, advocates, and law officers passed hither and thither.  Plaintiffs, and those of the accused who were not guarded, wandered sadly along the walls or sat waiting.

“Where is the Law Court?” Nekhludoff asked of an attendant.

“Which?  There is the Civil Court and the Criminal Court.”

“I am on the jury.”

“The Criminal Court you should have said.  Here to the right, then to the left—­the second door.”

Nekhludoff followed the direction.