remained doubts.

  "Oh! Oh! Oh!" he cried in various intonations. he had begun

  by screaming "I won't!" and continued screaming on the letter "O".

  For three whole days, during which time did not exist for him,

  he struggled in that black sack into which he was being thrust by

  an invisible, resistless force. He struggled as a man condemned to

  death struggles in the hands of the executioner, knowing that he

  cannot save himself. And every moment he felt that despite all his

  efforts he was drawing nearer and nearer to what terrified him. he

  felt that his agony was due to his being thrust into that black

  hole and still more to his not being able to get right into it. He

  was hindered from getting into it by his conviction that his life

  had been a good one. That very justification of his life held him

  fast and prevented his moving forward, and it caused him most

  torment of all.

  Suddenly some force struck him in the chest and side, making

  it still harder to breathe, and he fell through the hole and there

  at the bottom was a light. What had happened to him was like the

  sensation one sometimes experiences in a railway carriage when one

  thinks one is going backwards while one is really going forwards

  and suddenly becomes aware of the real direction.

  "Yes, it was not the right thing," he said to himself, "but

  that's no matter. It can be done. But what *is* the right thing?

  he asked himself, and suddenly grew quiet.

  This occurred at the end of the third day, two hours before

  his death. Just then his schoolboy son had crept softly in and

  gone up to the bedside. The dying man was still screaming

  desperately and waving his arms. His hand fell on the boy's head,

  and the boy caught it, pressed it to his lips, and began to cry.

  At that very moment Ivan Ilych fell through and caught sight

  of the light, and it was revealed to him that though his life had

  not been what it should have been, this could still be rectified.

  He asked himself, "What *is* the right thing?" and grew still,

  listening. Then he felt that someone was kissing his hand. He

  opened his eyes, looked at his son, and felt sorry for him. His

  wife camp up to him and he glanced at her. She was gazing at him

  open-mouthed, with undried tears on her nose and cheek and a

  despairing look on her face. He felt sorry for her too.

  "Yes, I am making them wretched," he thought. "They are

  sorry, but it will be better for them when I die." He wished to

  say this but had not the strength to utter it. "Besides, why

  speak? I must act," he thought. with a look at his wife he

  indicated his son and said: "Take him away...sorry for him...sorry

  for you too...." He tried to add, "Forgive me," but said "Forego"

  and waved his hand, knowing that He whose understanding mattered

  would understand.

  And suddenly it grew clear to him that what had been

  oppressing him and would not leave his was all dropping away at

  once from two sides, from ten sides, and from all sides. He was

  sorry for them, he must act so as not to hurt them: release them

  and free himself from these sufferings. "How good and how simple!"

  he thought. "And the pain?" he asked himself. "What has become of

  it? Where are you, pain?"

  He turned his attention to it.

  "Yes, here it is. Well, what of it? Let the pain be."

  "And death...where is it?"

  He sought his former accustomed fear of death and did not find

  it. "Where is it? What death?" There was no fear because there

  was no death.

  In place of death there was light.

  "So that's what it is!" he suddenly exclaimed aloud. "What

  joy!"

  To him all this happened in a single instant, and the meaning

  of that instant did not change. For those present his agony

  continued for another two hours. Something rattled in his throat,

  his emaciated body twitched, then the gasping and rattle became

  less and less frequent.

  "It is finished!" said someone near him.

  He heard these words and repeated them in his soul.

  "Death is finished," he said to himself. "It is no more!"

  He drew in a breath, stopped in the midst of a sigh, stretched

  out, and died.

 

 

 


 

  Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilych

  (Series: # )

 

 


 

 
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