VIII.
It was morning. It was morning, because Gerásim went away, and Peter the lackey came in his place: he put out the candles, drew aside one curtain, and began softly to fix up the room. Whether it was morning or evening, Friday or Sunday, did not make the slightest difference,—it was all the same: the gnawing, agonizing pain, which did not subside for a minute; the consciousness of the hopelessly receding, but not yet receded life; the same impending, terrible, hateful death, which alone was reality, and still the same lie. Where could there be here days, weeks, and hours of the day?
"Do you command me to bring you tea?"
"His order demands that gentlemen should drink tea in the morning," he thought, but he said only:
"No."
"Do you not wish to go over to the divan?"
"He has to tidy up the room, and I am in his way,—I am an impurity, a nuisance," he thought, and all he said was:
"No, leave me."
The lackey bustled a little while. Iván Ilích extended his hand. Peter came up, ready to serve him.
"What do you wish?"
"The watch."
Peter got the watch which was lying under Iván Ilích's hand, and gave it to him.
"Half-past eight. Have they not got up yet?”
"Not yet, sir. Vasíli Ivánovich" (that was his son) "has gone to the gymnasium, and Praskóvya Fédorovna
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