a grand slam. But now every mischance upset him and plunged him
into despair. He would say to himself: "there now, just as I was

beginning to get better and the medicine had begun to take effect,
comes this accursedmisfortune, or unpleasantness..." And he was

furious with the mishap, or with the people who were causing the
unpleasantness and killing him, for he felt that this fury was

killing him but he could not restrain it. One would have thought
that it should have been clear to him that this exasperation with

circumstances and people aggravated his illness, and that he ought
therefore to ignoreunpleasant occurrences. But he drew the very

opposite conclusion: he said that he needed peace, and he watched
for everything that might disturb it and became irritable at the

slightest infringement of it. His condition was rendered worse by
the fact that he read medical books and consulted doctors. The

progress of his disease was so gradual that he could deceive
himself when comparing one day with another -- the difference was

so slight. But when he consulted the doctors it seemed to him that
he was getting worse, and even very rapidly. Yet despite this he

was continually consulting them.
That month he went to see another celebrity, who told him

almost the same as the first had done but put his questions rather
differently, and the interview with this celebrity only increased

Ivan Ilych's doubts and fears. A friend of a friend of his, a very
good doctor, diagnosed his illness again quite differently from the

others, and though he predicted recovery, his questions and
suppositions bewildered Ivan Ilych still more and increased his

doubts. A homeopathist diagnosed the disease in yet another way,
and prescribed medicine which Ivan Ilych took secretly for a week.

But after a week, not feeling any improvement and having lost
confidence both in the former doctor's treatment and in this one's,

he became still more despondent. One day a lady acquaintance
mentioned a cure effected by a wonder-working icon. Ivan Ilych

caught himself listening attentively and beginning to believe that
it had occurred. This incident alarmed him. "Has my mind really

weakened to such an extent?" he asked himself. "Nonsense! It's
all rubbish. I mustn't give way to nervous fears but having chosen

a doctor must keep strictly to his treatment. That is what I will
do. Now it's all settled. I won't think about it, but will follow

the treatmentseriously till summer, and then we shall see. From
now there must be no more of this wavering!" this was easy to say

but impossible to carry out. The pain in his side oppressed him
and seemed to grow worse and more incessant, while the taste in his

mouth grew stranger and stranger. It seemed to him that his breath
had a disgusting smell, and he was conscious of a loss of appetite

and strength. There was no deceiving himself: something terrible,
new, and more important than anything before in his life, was

taking place within him of which he alone was aware. Those about
him did not understand or would not understand it, but thought

everything in the world was going on as usual. That tormented Ivan
Ilych more than anything. He saw that his household, especially

his wife and daughter who were in a perfect whirl of visiting, did
not understand anything of it and were annoyed that he was so

depressed and so exacting, as if he were to blame for it. Though
they tried to disguise it he saw that he was an obstacle in their

path, and that his wife had adopted a definite line in regard to
his illness and kept to it regardless of anything he said or did.

Her attitude was this: "You know," she would say to her friends,
"Ivan Ilych can't do as other people do, and keep to the treatment

prescribed for him. One day he'll take his drops and keep strictly
to his diet and go to bed in good time, but the next day unless I

watch him he'll suddenly forget his medicine, eat sturgeon -- which
is forbidden -- and sit up playing cards till one o'clock in the

morning."
"Oh, come, when was that?" Ivan Ilych would ask in vexation.

"Only once at Peter Ivanovich's."
"And yesterday with shebek."

"Well, even if I hadn't stayed up, this pain would have kept
me awake."

"Be that as it may you'll never get well like that, but will
always make us wretched."

Praskovya Fedorovna's attitude to Ivan Ilych's illness, as she
expressed it both to others and to him, was that it was his own

fault and was another of the annoyances he caused her. Ivan ilych
felt that this opinion escaped her involuntarily -- but that did

not make it easier for him.
At the law courts too, Ivan Ilych noticed, or thought he

noticed, a strange attitude towards himself. It sometimes seemed
to him that people were watching him inquisitively as a man whose

place might soon be vacant. Then again, his friends would suddenly
begin to chaff him in a friendly way about his low spirits, as if

the awful, horrible, and unheard-of thing that was going on within
him, incessantly gnawing at him and irresistibly drawing him away,

was a very agreeable subject for jests. Schwartz in particular
irritated him by his jocularity, vivacity, and *savoir-faire*,

which reminded him of what he himself had been ten years ago.
Friends came to make up a set and they sat down to cards.

They dealt, bending the new cards to soften them, and he sorted the
diamonds in his hand and found he had seven. His partner said "No

trumps" and supported him with two diamonds. What more could be
wished for? It ought to be jolly and lively. They would make a

grand slam. But suddenly Ivan Ilych was conscious of that gnawing
pain, that taste in his mouth, and it seemed ridiculous that in

such circumstances he should be pleased to make a grand slam.
He looked at his partner Mikhail Mikhaylovich, who rapped the

table with his strong hand and instead of snatching up the tricks
pushed the cards courteously and indulgently towards Ivan Ilych

that he might have the pleasure of gathering them up without the
trouble of stretching out his hand for them. "Does he think I am

too weak to stretch out my arm?" thought Ivan Ilych, and forgetting
what he was doing he over-trumped his partner, missing the grand

slam by three tricks. And what was most awful of all was that he
saw how upset Mikhail Mikhaylovich was about it but did not himself

care. And it was dreadful to realize why he did not care.
They all saw that he was suffering, and said: "We can stop if

you are tired. Take a rest." Lie down? No, he was not at all
tired, and he finished the rubber. All were gloomy and silent.

Ivan Ilych felt that he had diffused this gloom over them and could
not dispel it. They had supper and went away, and Ivan Ilych was

left alone with the consciousness that his life was poisoned and
was poisoning the lives of others, and that this poison did not

weaken but penetrated more and more deeply into his whole being.
With this consciousness, and with physical pain besides the

terror, he must go to bed, often to lie awake the greater part of
the night. Next morning he had to get up again, dress, go to the

law courts, speak, and write; or if he did not go out, spend at
home those twenty-four hours a day each of which was a torture.

And he had to live thus all alone on the brink of an abyss, with no
one who understood or pitied him.

V
So one month passed and then another. Just before the New

Year his brother-in-law came to town and stayed at their house.
Ivan Ilych was at the law courts and Praskovya Fedorovna had gone

shopping. When Ivan Ilych came home and entered his study he found
his brother-in-law there -- a healthy, florid man -- unpacking his

portmanteau himself. He raised his head on hearing Ivan Ilych's
footsteps and looked up at him for a moment without a word. That

stare told Ivan Ilych everything. His brother-in-law opened his
mouth to utter an exclamation of surprise but checked himself, and

that action confirmed it all.
"I have changed, eh?"