Anna Karenina - Part 5

The sick man was suffering more and more, especially from

bedsores, which it was impossible now to remedy, and grew more

and more angry with everyone about him, blaming them for

everything, and especially for not having brought him a doctor

from Moscow. Kitty tried in every possible way to relieve him,

to soothe him; but it was all in vain, and Levin saw that she

herself was exhausted both physically and morally, though she

would not admit it. The sense of death, which had been evoked in

all by his taking leave of life on the night when he had sent for

his brother, was broken up. Everyone knew that he must

inevitably die soon, that he was half dead already. Everyone

wished for nothing but that he should die as soon as possible,

and everyone, concealing this, gave him medicines, tried to find

remedies and doctors, and deceived him and themselves and each

other. All this was falsehood, disgusting, irreverent deceit.

And owing to the bent of his character, and because he loved the

dying man more than anyone else did, Levin was most painfully

conscious of this deceit.

Levin, who had long been possessed by the idea of reconciling his

brothers, at least in face of death, had written to his brother,

Sergey Ivanovitch, and having received an answer from him, he

read this letter to the sick man. Sergey Ivanovitch wrote that

he could not come himself, and in touching terms he begged his

brother's forgiveness.

The sick man said nothing.

"What am I to write to him?" said Levin. "I hope you are not

angry with him?"

"No, not the least!" Nikolay answered, vexed at the question.

"Tell him to send me a doctor."

Three more days of agony followed; the sick man was still in the

same condition. The sense of longing for his death was felt by

everyone now at the mere sight of him, by the waiters and the

hotel-keeper and all the people staying in the hotel, and the

doctor and Marya Nikolaevna and Levin and Kitty. The sick man

alone did not express this feeling, but on the contrary was

furious at their not getting him doctors, and went on taking

medicine and talking of life. Only at rare moments, when the

opium gave him an instant's relief from the never-ceasing pain,

he would sometimes, half asleep, utter what was ever more intense

in his heart than in all the others: "Oh, if it were only the

end!" or: "When will it be over?"

His sufferings, steadily growing more intense, did their work and

prepared him for death. There was no position in which he was

not in pain, there was not a minute in which he was unconscious

of it, not a limb, not a part of his body that did not ache and

cause him agony. Even the memories, the impressions, the

thoughts of this body awakened in him now the same aversion as

the body itself. The sight of other people, their remarks, his

own reminiscences, everything was for him a source of agony.

Those about him felt this, and instinctively did not allow

themselves to move freely, to talk, to express their wishes

before him. All his life was merged in the one feeling of

suffering and desire to be rid of it.