Anna Karenina - Part 5

"Yes, yes, so," the dying man articulated slowly at intervals.

"Wait a little." He was silent. "Right!" he pronounced all at

once reassuringly, as though all were solved for him. "O Lord!"

he murmured, and sighed deeply.

Marya Nikolaevna felt his feet. "They're getting cold," she

whispered.

For a long while, a very long while it seemed to Levin, the sick

man lay motionless. But he was still alive, and from time to

time he sighed. Levin by now was exhausted from mental strain.

He felt that, with no mental effort, could he understand what it

was that was _right_. He could not even think of the problem of

death itself, but with no will of his own thoughts kept coming to

him of what he had to do next; closing the dead man's eyes,

dressing him, ordering the coffin. And, strange to say, he felt

utterly cold, and was not conscious of sorrow nor of loss, less

still of pity for his brother. If he had any feeling for his

brother at that moment, it was envy for the knowledge the dying

man had now that he could not have.

A long time more he sat over him so, continually expecting the

end. But the end did not come. The door opened and Kitty

appeared. Levin got up to stop her. But at the moment he was

getting up, he caught the sound of the dying man stirring.

"Don't go away," said Nikolay and held out his hand. Levin gave

him his, and angrily waved to his wife to go away.

With the dying man's hand in his hand, he sat for half an hour,

an hour, another hour. He did not think of death at all now. He

wondered what Kitty was doing; who lived in the next room;

whether the doctor lived in a house of his own. He longed for

food and for sleep. He cautiously drew away his hand and felt

the feet. The feet were cold, but the sick man was still

breathing. Levin tried again to move away on tiptoe, but the

sick man stirred again and said: "Don't go."

* * * * * * * * The dawn came; the sick man's condition was unchanged. Levin

stealthily withdrew his hand, and without looking at the dying

man, went off to his own room and went to sleep. When he woke

up, instead of news of his brother's death which he expected, he

learned that the sick man had returned to his earlier condition.

He had begun sitting up again, coughing, had begun eating again,

talking again, and again had ceased to talk of death, again had

begun to express hope of his recovery, and had become more

irritable and more gloomy than ever. No one, neither his brother

nor Kitty, could soothe him. He was angry with everyone, and

said nasty things to everyone, reproached everyone for his

sufferings, and insisted that they should get him a celebrated

doctor from Moscow. To all inquiries made him as to how he felt,

he made the same answer with an expression of vindictive

reproachfulness, "I'm suffering horribly, intolerably!"