has commanded that she be wakened, if you should ask for her. Do you command me?"
"No, don't."
"Maybe I had better try some tea?" he thought.
"Yes, tea. Bring me tea."
Peter started to go out. Iván Ilích felt terribly at being alone.
"How can I keep him? Yes, the medicine."
"Peter, give me the medicine."
"Why not? Maybe the medicine will help me yet."
He took a spoonful and swallowed it.
"No, it will not help me. It is all nonsense and a deception," he decided, the moment he had the familiar, detestable, hopeless taste in his mouth. "No, I can no longer believe. But the pain, the pain, what is it for? If it would only stop for just a minute."
And he sobbed. Peter came back.
"No, go. Bring me some tea."
Peter went away. When Iván Ilích was left alone, he groaned, not so much from pain, no matter how terrible it was, as from despondency. "Always the same and the same, all these endless days and nights. If it would only come at once. What at once? Death, darkness. No, no. Anything is better than death!"
When Peter came back with the tea on a tray, Iván Ilích for a long time looked distractedly at him, being unable to make out who he was, or what he wanted. Peter was confounded by this look. When Peter looked confounded, Iván Ilích came to his senses.
"Yes," he said, "the tea; all right, put it down. Only help me to get washed, and let me have a clean shirt."
And Iván Ilích got up to wash himself. Stopping occasionally, he washed his hands and face, cleaned his teeth, began to comb his hair, and looked into the mirror. He felt terribly, especially so, because his hair lay flat over his pale brow.
