Anna Karenina - LimpidSoft

PART FIVE CHAPTER 20
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!”
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?”
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