She went and quickly disappeared through the gateway.  And when after that they drove on again, Sofya Lvovna felt very sad.  Every one was silent.  She felt dispirited and weak all over.  That she should have made a nun get into a sledge and drive in a company hardly sober seemed to her now stupid, tactless, and almost sacrilegious.  As the intoxication passed off, the desire to deceive herself passed away also.  It was clear to her now that she did not love her husband, and never could love him, and that it all had been foolishness and nonsense.  She had married him from interested motives, because, in the words of her school friends, he was madly rich, and because she was afraid of becoming an old maid like Rita, and because she was sick of her father, the doctor, and wanted to annoy Volodya.

If she could have imagined when she got married, that it would be so oppressive, so dreadful, and so hideous, she would not have consented to the marriage for all the wealth in the world.  But now there was no setting it right.  She must make up her mind to it.

They reached home.  Getting into her warm, soft bed, and pulling the bed-clothes over her, Sofya Lvovna recalled the dark church, the smell of incense, and the figures by the columns, and she felt frightened at the thought that these figures would be standing there all the while she was asleep.  The early service would be very, very long; then there would be “the hours,” then the mass, then the service of the day.

“But of course there is a God—­there certainly is a God; and I shall have to die, so that sooner or later one must think of one’s soul, of eternal life, like Olga.  Olga is saved now; she has settled all questions for herself. . . .  But if there is no God?  Then her life is wasted.  But how is it wasted?  Why is it wasted?”

And a minute later the thought came into her mind again: 

“There is a God; death must come; one must think of one’s soul.  If Olga were to see death before her this minute she would not be afraid.  She is prepared.  And the great thing is that she has already solved the problem of life for herself.  There is a God . . . yes . . . .  But is there no other solution except going into a monastery?  To go into the monastery means to renounce life, to spoil it . . . .”

Sofya Lvovna began to feel rather frightened; she hid her head under her pillow.

“I mustn’t think about it,” she whispered.  “I mustn’t. . . .”

Yagitch was walking about on the carpet in the next room with a soft jingle of spurs, thinking about something.  The thought occurred to Sofya Lvovna that this man was near and dear to her only for one reason—­that his name, too, was Vladimir.  She sat up in bed and called tenderly: 

“Volodya!”

“What is it?” her husband responded.

“Nothing.”