Nekhludoff had a strong antipathy towards him because of the
vulgarity of his feelings, his assurance and narrowness, but
chiefly because of Nathalie, who managed to love him in spite of
the narrowness of his nature, and loved him so selfishly, so
sensually, and stifled for his sake all the good that had been in
her.
It always hurt Nekhludoff to think of Nathalie as the wife of
that hairy, self-assured man with the shiny, bald patch on his
head. He could not even master a feeling of revulsion towards
their children, and when he heard that she was again going to
have a baby, he felt something like sorrow that she had once more
been infected with something bad by this man who was so foreign
to him. The Rogozhinskys had come to Moscow alone, having left
their two children--a boy and a girl--at home, and stopped in the
best rooms of the best hotel. Nathalie at once went to her
mother's old house, but hearing from Agraphena Petrovna that her
brother had left, and was living in a lodging-house, she drove
there. The dirty servant met her in the stuffy passage, dark but
for a lamp which burnt there all day. He told her that the Prince
was not in.
Nathalie asked to be shown into his rooms, as she wished to leave
a note for him, and the man took her up.
Nathalie carefully examined her brother's two little rooms. She
noticed in everything the love of cleanliness and order she knew
so well in him, and was struck by the novel simplicity of the
surroundings. On his writing-table she saw the paper-weight with
the bronze dog on the top which she remembered; the tidy way in
which his different portfolios and writing utensils were placed
on the table was also familiar, and so was the large, crooked
ivory paper knife which marked the place in a French book by
Tard, which lay with other volumes on punishment and a book in
English by Henry George. She sat down at the table and wrote a
note asking him to be sure to come that same day, and shaking her
head in surprise at what she saw, she returned to her hotel.