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passed through his mind -- of how his illness had progressed and

grown worse. There also the further back he looked the more life



there had been. There had been more of what was good in life and

more of life itself. The two merged together. "Just as the pain



went on getting worse and worse, so my life grew worse and worse,"

he thought. "There is one bright spot there at the back, at the



beginning of life, and afterwards all becomes blacker and blacker

and proceeds more and more rapidly -- in inverse ration to the



square of the distance from death," thought Ivan Ilych. And the

example of a stone falling downwards with increasing velocity



entered his mind. Life, a series of increasing sufferings, flies

further and further towards its end -- the most terrible suffering.



"I am flying...." He shuddered, shifted himself, and tried to

resist, but was already aware that resistance was impossible, and



again with eyes weary of gazing but unable to cease seeing what was

before them, he stared at the back of the sofa and waited --



awaiting that dreadful fall and shock and destruction.

"Resistance is impossible!" he said to himself. "If I could



only understand what it is all for! But that too is impossible.

An explanation would be possible if it could be said that I have



not lived as I ought to. But it is impossible to say that," and he

remembered all the legality, correctitude, and propriety of his



life. "That at any rate can certainly not be admitted," he

thought, and his lips smiled ironically as if someone could see



that smile and be taken in by it. "There is no explanation!

Agony, death....What for?"



XI

Another two weeks went by in this way and during that



fortnight an even occurred that Ivan Ilych and his wife had

desired. Petrishchev formally proposed. It happened in the



evening. The next day Praskovya Fedorovna came into her husband's

room considering how best to inform him of it, but that very night



there had been a fresh change for the worse in his condition. She

found him still lying on the sofa but in a different position. He



lay on his back, groaning and staring fixedly straight in front of

him.



She began to remind him of his medicines, but he turned his

eyes towards her with such a look that she did not finish what she



was saying; so great an animosity, to her in particular, did that

look express.



"For Christ's sake let me die in peace!" he said.

She would have gone away, but just then their daughter came in



and went up to say good morning. He looked at her as he had done

at his wife, and in reply to her inquiry about his health said



dryly that he would soon free them all of himself. They were both

silent and after sitting with him for a while went away.



"Is it our fault?" Lisa said to her mother. "It's as if we

were to blame! I am sorry for papa, but why should we be



tortured?"

The doctor came at his usual time. Ivan Ilych answered "Yes"



and "No," never taking his angry eyes from him, and at last said:

"You know you can do nothing for me, so leave me alone."



"We can ease your sufferings."

"You can't even do that. Let me be."



The doctor went into the drawing room and told Praskovya

Fedorovna that the case was very serious and that the only resource



left was opium to allay her husband's sufferings, which must be

terrible.



It was true, as the doctor said, that Ivan Ilych's physical

sufferings were terrible, but worse than the physical sufferings



were his mental sufferings which were his chief torture.

His mental sufferings were due to the fact that that night, as



he looked at Gerasim's sleepy, good-natured face with it prominent

cheek-bones, the question suddenly occurred to him: "What if my



whole life has been wrong?"

It occurred to him that what had appeared perfectly impossible



before, namely that he had not spent his life as he should have

done, might after all be true. It occurred to him that his



scarcely perceptible attempts to struggle against what was

considered good by the most highly placed people, those scarcely



noticeable impulses which he had immediately suppressed, might have

been the real thing, and all the rest false. And his professional



duties and the whole arrangement of his life and of his family, and

all his social and official interests, might all have been false.



He tried to defend all those things to himself and suddenly felt




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