"Three days of frightful suffering and the death! Why, that might suddenly, at any time, happen to me," he thought, and for a moment felt terrified.But -- he did not himself know how -- the customary reflection at once occurred to him that this had happened to Ivan Ilych and not to him, and that it should not and could not happen to him, and that to think that it could would be yielding to depressing which he ought not to do, as Schwartz's expression plainly showed.After which reflection Peter Ivanovich felt reassured, and began to ask with interest about the details of Ivan Ilych's death, as though death was an accident natural to Ivan Ilych but certainly not to himself.
After many details of the really dreadful physical sufferings Ivan Ilych had endured (which details he learnt only from the effect those sufferings had produced on Praskovya Fedorovna's nerves) the widow apparently found it necessary to get to business.
"Oh, Peter Ivanovich, how hard it is! How terribly, terribly hard!" and she again began to weep.
Peter Ivanovich sighed and waited for her to finish blowing her nose.When she had don so he said, "Believe me..." and she again began talking and brought out what was evidently her chief concern with him -- namely, to question him as to how she could obtain a grant of money from the government on the occasion of her husband's death.She made it appear that she was asking Peter Ivanovich's advice about her pension, but he soon saw that she already knew about that to the minutest detail, more even than he did himself.She knew how much could be got out of the government in consequence of her husband's death, but wanted to find out whether she could not possibly extract something more.Peter Ivanovich tried to think of some means of doing so, but after reflecting for a while and, out of propriety, condemning the government for its niggardliness, he said he thought that nothing more could be got.Then she sighed and evidently began to devise means of getting rid of her visitor.Noticing this, he put out his cigarette, rose, pressed her hand, and went out into the anteroom.
In the dining-room where the clock stood that Ivan Ilych had liked so much and had bought at an antique shop, Peter Ivanovich met a priest and a few acquaintances who had come to attend the service, and he recognized Ivan Ilych's daughter, a handsome young woman.She was in black and her slim figure appeared slimmer than ever.She had a gloomy, determined, almost angry expression, and bowed to Peter Ivanovich as though he were in some way to blame.
Behind her, with the same offended look, stood a wealthy young man, and examining magistrate, whom Peter Ivanovich also knew and who was her fiance, as he had heard.He bowed mournfully to them and was about to pass into the death-chamber, when from under the stairs appeared the figure of Ivan Ilych's schoolboy son, who was extremely like his father.He seemed a little Ivan Ilych, such as Peter Ivanovich remembered when they studied law together.His tear-stained eyes had in them the look that is seen in the eyes of boys of thirteen or fourteen who are not pure-minded.When he saw Peter Ivanovich he scowled morosely and shamefacedly.Peter Ivanovich nodded to him and entered the death-chamber.The service began: candles, groans, incense, tears, and sobs.Peter Ivanovich stood looking gloomily down at his feet.He did not look once at the dead man, did not yield to any depressing influence, and was one of the first to leave the room.There was no one in the anteroom, but Gerasim darted out of the dead man's room, rummaged with his strong hands among the fur coats to find Peter Ivanovich's and helped him on with it.
"Well, friend Gerasim," said Peter Ivanovich, so as to say something."It's a sad affair, isn't it?""It's God will.We shall all come to it some day," said Gerasim, displaying his teeth -- the even white teeth of a healthy peasant -- and, like a man in the thick of urgent work, he briskly opened the front door, called the coachman, helped Peter Ivanovich into the sledge, and sprang back to the porch as if in readiness for what he had to do next.
Peter Ivanovich found the fresh air particularly pleasant after the smell of incense, the dead body, and carbolic acid.
"Where to sir?" asked the coachman.
"It's not too late even now....I'll call round on Fedor Vasilievich."He accordingly drove there and found them just finishing the first rubber, so that it was quite convenient for him to cut in.
