Peter Ivanovich sighed still more deeply and despondently, and Praskovya Fedorovna pressed his arm gratefully.When they reached the drawing-room, upholstered in pink cretonne and lighted by a dim lamp, they sat down at the table -- she on a sofa and Peter Ivanovich on a low pouffe, the springs of which yielded spasmodically under his weight.Praskovya Fedorovna had been on the point of warning him to take another seat, but felt that such a warning was out of keeping with her present condition and so changed her mind.As he sat down on the pouffe Peter Ivanovich recalled how Ivan Ilych had arranged this room and had consulted him regarding this pink cretonne with green leaves.The whole room was full of furniture and knick-knacks, and on her way to the sofa the lace of the widow's black shawl caught on the edge of the table.Peter Ivanovich rose to detach it, and the springs of the pouffe, relieved of his weight, rose also and gave him a push.The widow began detaching her shawl herself, and Peter Ivanovich again sat down, suppressing the rebellious springs of the pouffe under him.But the widow had not quite freed herself and Peter Ivanovich got up again, and again the pouffe rebelled and even creaked.When this was all over she took out a clean cambric handkerchief and began to weep.The episode with the shawl and the struggle with the pouffe had cooled Peter Ivanovich's emotions and he sat there with a sullen look on his face.This awkward situation was interrupted by Sokolov, Ivan Ilych's butler, who came to report that the plot in the cemetery that Praskovya Fedorovna had chosen would cost tow hundred rubles.She stopped weeping and, looking at Peter Ivanovich with the air of a victim, remarked in French that it was very hard for her.Peter Ivanovich made a silent gesture signifying his full conviction that it must indeed be so.
"Please smoke," she said in a magnanimous yet crushed voice, and turned to discuss with Sokolov the price of the plot for the grave.
Peter Ivanovich while lighting his cigarette heard her inquiring very circumstantially into the prices of different plots in the cemetery and finally decide which she would take.when that was done she gave instructions about engaging the choir.Sokolov then left the room.
"I look after everything myself," she told Peter Ivanovich, shifting the albums that lay on the table; and noticing that the table was endangered by his cigarette-ash, she immediately passed him an ash-tray, saying as she did so: "I consider it an affectation to say that my grief prevents my attending to practical affairs.On the contrary, if anything can -- I won't say console me, but -- distract me, it is seeing to everything concerning him."She again took out her handkerchief as if preparing to cry, but suddenly, as if mastering her feeling, she shook herself and began to speak calmly."But there is something I want to talk to you about."Peter Ivanovich bowed, keeping control of the springs of the pouffe, which immediately began quivering under him.
"He suffered terribly the last few days.""Did he?" said Peter Ivanovich.
"Oh, terribly! He screamed unceasingly, not for minutes but for hours.for the last three days he screamed incessantly.It was unendurable.I cannot understand how I bore it; you could hear him three rooms off.Oh, what I have suffered!""Is it possible that he was conscious all that time?" asked Peter Ivanovich.
"Yes," she whispered."To the last moment.He took leave of us a quarter of an hour before he died, and asked us to take Volodya away."The thought of the suffering of this man he had known so intimately, first as a merry little boy, then as a schoolmate, and later as a grown-up colleague, suddenly struck Peter Ivanovich with horror, despite an unpleasant consciousness of his own and this woman's dissimulation.He again saw that brow, and that nose pressing down on the lip, and felt afraid for himself.
