Apart from this lying, or because of it, what most tormented Iván Ilých was that no one pitied him as he wished to be pitied. At certain moments after prolonged suffering he wished most of all (though he would have been ashamed to confess it) for someone to pity him as a sick child is pitied. He longed to be petted and comforted. He knew he was an important functionary, that he had a beard turning grey, and that therefore what he longed for was impossible, but still he longed for it. And in Gerásim’s attitude towards him there was something akin to what he wished for, and so that attitude comforted him. Iván Ilých wanted to weep, wanted to be petted and cried over, and then his colleague Shébek would come, and instead of weeping and being petted, Iván Ilých would assume a serious, severe, and profound air, and by force of habit would express his opinion on a decision of the Court of Cassation and would stubbornly insist on that view. This falsity around him and within him did more than anything else to poison his last days.
VIII
IT was morning. He knew it was morning because Gerásim had gone, and Peter the footman had come and put out the candles, drawn back one of the curtains, and begun quietly to tidy up. Whether it was morning or evening, Friday or Sunday, made no difference, it was all just the same: the gnawing, unmitigated, agonizing pain, never ceasing for an instant, the consciousness of life inexorably waning but not yet extinguished, the approach of that ever dreaded and hateful Death which was the only reality, and always the same falsity. What were days, weeks, hours, in such a case?
‘Will you have some tea, sir?’
‘He wants things to be regular, and wishes the gentlefolk to drink tea in the morning,’ thought Iván Ilých, and only said ‘No’.
‘Wouldn’t you like to move onto the sofa, sir?’
‘He wants to tidy up the room, and I’m in the way. I am uncleanliness and disorder,’ he thought, and said only:
‘No, leave me alone.’
The man went on bustling about. Iván Ilých stretched out his hand. Peter came up, ready to help.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘My watch.’
Peter took the watch which was close at hand and gave it to his master.
‘Half-past eight. Are they up?’
‘No sir, except Vladímir Ivánich’ (the son) ‘who has gone to school. Praskóvya Fëdorovna ordered me to wake her if you asked for her. Shall I do so?’
‘No, there’s no need to.’ ‘Perhaps I’d better have some tea,’ he thought, and added aloud: ‘Yes, bring me some tea.’
Peter went to the door, but Iván Ilých dreaded being left alone. ‘How can I keep him here? Oh yes, my medicine.’ ‘Peter, give me my medicine.’ ‘Why not? Perhaps it may still do me some good.’ He took a spoonful and swallowed it. ‘No, it won’t help. It’s all tomfoolery, all deception,’ he decided as soon as he became aware of the familiar, sickly, hopeless taste. ‘No, I can’t believe in it any longer. But the pain, why this pain? If it would only cease just for a moment!’ And he moaned. Peter turned towards him. ‘It’s all right. Go and fetch me some tea.’
Peter went out. Left alone Iván Ilých groaned not so much with pain, terrible though that was, as from mental anguish. Always and for ever the same, always these endless days and nights. If only it would come quicker! If only what would come quicker? Death, darkness?… No, no! Anything rather than death!
When Peter returned with the tea on a tray, Iván Ilých stared at him for a time in perplexity, not realizing who and what he was. Peter was disconcerted by that look and his embarrassment brought Iván Ilých to himself.
‘Oh, tea! All right, put it down. Only help me to wash and put on a clean shirt.’
And Iván Ilých began to wash. With pauses for rest, he washed his hands and then his face, cleaned his teeth, brushed his hair, and looked in the glass. He was terrified by what he saw, especially by the limp way in which his hair clung to his pallid forehead.
While his shirt was being changed he knew that he would be still more frightened at the sight of his body, so he avoided looking at it. Finally he was ready. He drew on a dressing-gown, wrapped himself in a plaid, and sat down in the armchair to take his tea. For a moment he felt refreshed, but as soon as he began to drink the tea he was again aware of the same taste, and the pain also returned. He finished it with an effort, and then lay down stretching out his legs, and dismissed Peter.
Always the same. Now a spark of hope flashes up, then a sea of despair rages, and always pain; always pain, always despair, and always the same. When alone he had a dreadful and distressing desire to call someone, but he knew beforehand that with others present it would be still worse. ‘Another dose of morphine – to lose consciousness. I will tell him, the doctor, that he must think of something else. It’s impossible, impossible, to go on like this.’
An hour and another pass like that. But now there is a ring at the door bell. Perhaps it’s the doctor? It is. He comes in fresh, hearty, plump, and cheerful, with that look on his face that seems to say: ‘There now, you’re in a panic about something, but we’ll arrange it all for you directly!’ The doctor knows this expression is out of place here, but he has put it on once for all and can’t take it off – like a man who has put on a frock-coat in the morning to pay a round of calls.
The doctor rubs his hands vigorously and reassuringly.
‘Brr! How cold it is! There’s such a sharp frost; just let me warm myself!’ he says, as if it were only a matter of waiting till he was warm, and then he would put everything right.
‘Well now, how are you?’
Iván Ilých feels that the doctor would like to say: ‘Well, how are our affairs?’ but that even he feels that this would not do, and says instead: ‘What sort of a night have you had?’
Iván Ilých looks at him as much as to say: ‘Are you really never ashamed of lying?’ But the doctor does not wish to understand this question, and Iván Ilých says: ‘Just as terrible as ever. The pain never leaves me and never subsides. If only something …’