Death, the inevitable end of all, for the first time appeared to him with irresistible force. And death was here, with this beloved brother, who groaned in his sleep, and called now upon God, now upon the devil. It was with him also: this he felt. If not to-day, then to-morrow; if not to-morrow, then in thirty years; was it not all the same? And what this inevitable death was,—not only did he not know, not only had he never before thought about it, but he had not wished, had not dared, to think about it.
"Here I am working, wanting to accomplish something, but I forgot that all must come to an end,—death."
He was lying in bed in the darkness, curled up, holding his knees, scarcely able to breathe, so great was the tension of his mind. The more he thought, the more clearly he saw that from his conception of life he had omitted nothing except this one little factor, death, which would come and end all, and that there was no help against it—not the least. Yes, this is terrible, but so it is!
"Yes, but I am still alive. Now, what can be done about it? what can be done?" he asked in despair. He lighted a candle, and softly arose, and went to the mirror, and began to look at his face and his hair. Yes! on the temples a few gray hairs were to be seen. He opened his mouth. His back teeth showed signs of decay. He doubled up his muscular arms. "Yes, there's much strength. But this poor Nikolenka, who is breathing so painfully with the little that is left of his lungs, also had at one time a healthy body." And suddenly he remembered how when they were children, and were put to bed, they would wait until Feodor Bogdanuitch got out of the door, and then begin a pillow fight, and laugh, laugh so unrestrainedly, that not even the fear of Feodor Bogdanuitch could quench this exuberant and intoxicating sense of the gayety of life. "But now there he lies in bed with his poor hollow chest—and I—ignorant why, and what will become of me." ....
