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 of him as to how he felt, he made the same answer with an expression of vindictive reproachfulness: `I'm suffering horribly, intolerably!' 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 one another. 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, Sergei Ivanovich, and having received an answer from him, he read this letter to the sick man. Sergei Ivanovich 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 in the least!' Nikolai 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 who saw him: by the waiters, and the hotelkeeper, 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 his 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.

There was evidently coming over him that revulsion which would make him look upon death as the goal of his desires, as happiness. Hitherto each individual desire, aroused by suffering or privation, such as hunger, fatigue, thirst, had been satisfied by some bodily function giving pleasure. But now no physical craving or suffering received relief, and the effort to relieve them only caused fresh suffering. And so all desires were merged in one - the desire to be rid of all his sufferings and their source, the body. But he had no words to express this desire of deliverance, and so he did not speak of it, and from habit asked for the satisfaction of desires which could not now be satisfied. `Turn me over on the other side,' he would say, and immediately after he would ask to be turned back again as before. `Give me some broth. Take away the broth. Talk of something: why are you silent?' And directly they began to talk he would close his eyes, and would show weariness, indifference, and loathing.

On the tenth day from their arrival in the town, Kitty was unwell. She suffered from headache and sickness, and she could not get up all the morning.