It was morning. All that made it morning for Ivan Ilyitch was that Gerasim had gone away, and Pyotr the footman had come in; he had put out the candles, opened one of the curtains, and begun surreptitiously setting the room to rights. Whether it were morning or evening, Friday or Sunday, it all made no difference; it was always just the same thing. Gnawing, agonising pain never ceasing for an instant; the hopeless sense of life always ebbing away, but still not yet gone; always swooping down on him that fearful, hated death, which was the only reality, and always the same falsity. What were days, or weeks, or hours of the day to him?
“Will you have tea, sir?”
“He wants things done in their regular order. In the morning the family should have tea,” he thought, and only said—
“No.”
“Would you care to move on to the sofa?”
“He wants to make the room tidy, and I’m in his way. I’m uncleanness, disorder,” he thought, and only said—
“No, leave me alone.”
The servant still moved busily about his work. Ivan Ilyitch stretched out his hand. Pyotr went up to offer his services.
“What can I get you?”
“My watch.”
Pyotr got out the watch, which lay just under his hand, and gave it him.