oning these habits, since he
had lost the strength of conviction as well as the resolution, the
vanity and the desire to astonish people that he had possessed in his
youth. The other alternative--to reject all the arguments against
private ownership of land which he gathered from Spencer's _Social
Statics_, and of which he found confirmation in the works of Henry
George--he could follow even less.

For this reason the steward's letter was disagreeable to him.

CHAPTER IV.

Having breakfasted, Nekhludoff went to the cabinet to see for what
hour he was summoned to appear at court, and to answer the Princess'
note. In the work-room stood an easel with a half-finished painting
turned face downward, and on the wall hung studies in drawing. On
seeing that painting, on which he had worked two years, and those
drawings, he called to mind the feeling of impotence, which he
experienced of late with greatest force, to make further advance in
the art. He explained this feeling by the development of a fine
aesthetic taste, and yet this consciousness caused him unpleasant
sensations.

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