And, suddenly, he understood that the aversion he had lately, and particularly to-day, felt for everybody—­the Prince and Sophia Vasilievna and Corney and Missy—­was an aversion for himself.  And, strange to say, in this acknowledgement of his baseness there was something painful yet joyful and quieting.

More than once in Nekhludoff’s life there had been what he called a “cleansing of the soul.”  By “cleansing of the soul” he meant a state of mind in which, after a long period of sluggish inner life, a total cessation of its activity, he began to clear out all the rubbish that had accumulated in his soul, and was the cause of the cessation of the true life.  His soul needed cleansing as a watch does.  After such an awakening Nekhludoff always made some rules for himself which he meant to follow forever after, wrote his diary, and began afresh a life which he hoped never to change again.  “Turning over a new leaf,” he called it to himself in English.  But each time the temptations of the world entrapped him, and without noticing it he fell again, often lower than before.

Thus he had several times in his life raised and cleansed himself.  The first time this happened was during the summer he spent with his aunts; that was his most vital and rapturous awakening, and its effects had lasted some time.  Another awakening was when he gave up civil service and joined the army at war time, ready to sacrifice his life.  But here the choking-up process was soon accomplished.  Then an awakening came when he left the army and went abroad, devoting himself to art.

From that time until this day a long period had elapsed without any cleansing, and therefore the discord between the demands of his conscience and the life he was leading was greater than it had ever been before.  He was horror-struck when he saw how great the divergence was.  It was so great and the defilement so complete that he despaired of the possibility of getting cleansed.  “Have you not tried before to perfect yourself and become better, and nothing has come of it?” whispered the voice of the tempter within.  “What is the use of trying any more?  Are you the only one?—­All are alike, such is life,” whispered the voice.  But the free spiritual being, which alone is true, alone powerful, alone eternal, had already awakened in Nekhludoff, and he could not but believe it.  Enormous though the distance was between what he wished to be and what he was, nothing appeared insurmountable to the newly-awakened spiritual being.

“At any cost I will break this lie which binds me and confess everything, and will tell everybody the truth, and act the truth,” he said resolutely, aloud.  “I shall tell Missy the truth, tell her I am a profligate and cannot marry her, and have only uselessly upset her.  I shall tell Mary Vasilievna. . .  Oh, there is nothing to tell her.  I shall tell her husband that I, scoundrel that I am, have been deceiving him.  I shall dispose of the inheritance in such a way as to acknowledge the truth.  I shall tell her, Katusha, that I am a scoundrel and have sinned towards her, and will do all I can to ease her lot.  Yes, I will see her, and will ask her to forgive me.