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.