For a long time that night Nekhludoff could not fall asleep.  When he recalled Maslova, the decision of the Senate, and his determination to follow her; when he recalled his relinquishment of his right to the land, there suddenly appeared before him, as if in answer to these questions, the face of Mariette; her sigh and glance when she said, “When will I see you again?” and her smile—­all so distinct that she seemed to stand before him, and he smiled himself.  “Would it be proper for me to follow her to Siberia?  And would it be proper to deprive myself of my property?” he asked himself.

And the answers to these questions on that bright St. Petersburg night were indefinite.  His mind was all in confusion.  He called forth his former trend of thought, but those thoughts had lost their former power of conviction.

“And what if all my ideas are due to an over-wrought imagination, and I should be unable to live up to them?  If I should repent of what I have done?” he asked himself, and, being unable to find answers to these questions, he was stricken with such sadness and despair as he had rarely experienced before, and he fell into that deep slumber which had been habitual with him after heavy losses at cards.

CHAPTER XVI.

Nekhludoff’s first feeling on rising the following morning was that he had committed something abominable the preceding evening.

He began to recall what had happened.  There was nothing abominable; he had done nothing wrong.  He had only thought that all his present intentions—­that of marrying Katiousha, giving the land to the peasants—­artificial, unnatural, and that he must continued to live as he had lived before.

He could recall no wrong act, but he remembered what was worse than a wrong act—­there were the bad thoughts in which all bad acts have their origin.  Bad acts may not be repeated; one may repent of them, while bad thoughts give birth to bad acts.

A bad act only smooths the way to other bad acts, while bad thoughts irresistibly lead toward them.

Recalling his thoughts of the day before, Nekhludoff wondered how he could have believed them.  How so novel and difficult might be that which he intended to do, he knew that it was the only life possible to him now, and that, however easy it might be for him to return to his old mode of life, he knew that that was death, not life.  This temptation of the day before was similar to that of a man who, after a night’s sound sleep, feels like taking his ease on the soft mattress for a while, although he knows that it is time to be up and away on an important affair.

* * * * *

Nekhludoff would have left the same evening but for his promise to Mariette to visit her at the theatre.  Though he knew that it was wrong to do it, he went there, contrary to the dictates of his own conscience, considering himself bound to keep his word.  Besides his wish to see Mariette again, he also wished, as he thought, to measure himself against that world lately so near, but now so strange to him.