mysterious passion for writing new documents, powers of attorney,
deeds of gift, wills, whatever comes into his mind. He writes new
ones, and burns the old ones. But what can you do? We must submit
to each new fancy. We cannot contradict a sick man."

Olga Vseslavovna went back to her room. She only left her bedroom
for a few minutes that day, to hear the final word of the lights of
the medical profession, who had come together for a general
consultation in the afternoon; all the rest of the day she shut
herself up. The conclusions of the physicians, though they
differed completely in detail, were similar in the main, and far
from comforting; the life and continued suffering of the sick man
could not last more than a few days.

In the evening a telegram came from Anna Iurievna; she informed her
father that she would be with him on the following day, at five in
the afternoon.

"Shall I be able to hold out? Shall I last so long?" sighed the
sick man, all day long. And the more he was disturbed in mind, the
more threatening were his attacks of pain. He passed a bad night.
Toward morning a violent attack, much worse than any that had gone
before, almost carried him away. He could hardly breathe, owing to
the sharp suffering. Hot baths for his hands and steam inhalations
no longer had any beneficial effect, though they had alleviated his
pain hitherto.

The doctor, the Sister of Mercy, and the servant wore themselves
out. But still, as before, his wife alone was not admitted to him.
She raged with anger, trying, and not without success, to convince