His brother got into bed, and whether he slept or did not sleep, tossed about like a sick man, coughed, and when he could not get his throat clear, mumbled something.  Sometimes when his breathing was painful, he said, “Oh, my God!” Sometimes when he was choking he muttered angrily, “Ah, the devil!” Levin could not sleep for a long while, hearing him.  His thoughts were of the most various, but the end of all his thoughts was the same—­ death.  Death, the inevitable end of all, for the first time presented itself to him with irresistible force.  And death, which was here in this loved brother, groaning half asleep and from habit calling without distinction on God and the devil, was not so remote as it had hitherto seemed to him.  It was in himself too, he felt that.  If not today, tomorrow, if not tomorrow, in thirty years, wasn’t it all the same!  And what was this inevitable death—­he did not know, had never thought about it, and what was more, had not the power, had not the courage to think about it.

“I work, I want to do something, but I had forgotten it must all end; I had forgotten—­death.”

He sat on his bed in the darkness, crouched up, hugging his knees, and holding his breath from the strain of thought, he pondered.  But the more intensely he thought, the clearer it became to him that it was indubitably so, that in reality, looking upon life, he had forgotten one little fact—­that death will come, and all ends; that nothing was even worth beginning, and that there was no helping it anyway.  Yes, it was awful, but it was so.

“But I am alive still.  Now what’s to be done? what’s to be done?” he said in despair.  He lighted a candle, got up cautiously and went to the looking-glass, and began looking at his face and hair.  Yes, there were gray hairs about his temples.  He opened his mouth.  His back teeth were beginning to decay.  He bared his muscular arms.  Yes, there was strength in them.  But Nikolay, who lay there breathing with what was left of lungs, had had a strong, healthy body too.  And suddenly he recalled how they used to go to bed together as children, and how they only waited till Fyodor Bogdanitch was out of the room to fling pillows at each other and laugh, laugh irrepressibly, so that even their awe of Fyodor Bogdanitch could not check the effervescing, overbrimming sense of life and happiness.  “And now that bent, hollow chest...and I, not knowing what will become of me, or wherefore...”

“K...ha!  K...ha!  Damnation!  Why do you keep fidgeting, why don’t you go to sleep?” his brother’s voice called to him.

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m not sleepy.”

“I have had a good sleep, I’m not in a sweat now.  Just see, feel my shirt; it’s not wet, is it?”

Levin felt, withdrew behind the screen, and put out the candle, but for a long while he could not sleep.  The question how to live had hardly begun to grow a little clearer to him, when a new, insoluble question presented itself—­death.