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?"

"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 wa