He got up as before at eight o’clock, and after his morning tea sat down to read his old books and magazines:  he had no money for new ones.  Either because the books were old, or perhaps because of the change in his surroundings, reading exhausted him, and did not grip his attention as before.  That he might not spend his time in idleness he made a detailed catalogue of his books and gummed little labels on their backs, and this mechanical, tedious work seemed to him more interesting than reading.  The monotonous, tedious work lulled his thoughts to sleep in some unaccountable way, and the time passed quickly while he thought of nothing.  Even sitting in the kitchen, peeling potatoes with Daryushka or picking over the buckwheat grain, seemed to him interesting.  On Saturdays and Sundays he went to church.  Standing near the wall and half closing his eyes, he listened to the singing and thought of his father, of his mother, of the university, of the religions of the world; he felt calm and melancholy, and as he went out of the church afterwards he regretted that the service was so soon over.  He went twice to the hospital to talk to Ivan Dmitritch.  But on both occasions Ivan Dmitritch was unusually excited and ill-humoured; he bade the doctor leave him in peace, as he had long been sick of empty chatter, and declared, to make up for all his sufferings, he asked from the damned scoundrels only one favour—­solitary confinement.  Surely they would not refuse him even that?  On both occasions when Andrey Yefimitch was taking leave of him and wishing him good-night, he answered rudely and said: 

“Go to hell!”

And Andrey Yefimitch did not know now whether to go to him for the third time or not.  He longed to go.

In old days Andrey Yefimitch used to walk about his rooms and think in the interval after dinner, but now from dinner-time till evening tea he lay on the sofa with his face to the back and gave himself up to trivial thoughts which he could not struggle against.  He was mortified that after more than twenty years of service he had been given neither a pension nor any assistance.  It is true that he had not done his work honestly, but, then, all who are in the Service get a pension without distinction whether they are honest or not.  Contemporary justice lies precisely in the bestowal of grades, orders, and pensions, not for moral qualities or capacities, but for service whatever it may have been like.  Why was he alone to be an exception?  He had no money at all.  He was ashamed to pass by the shop and look at the woman who owned it.  He owed thirty-two roubles for beer already.  There was money owing to the landlady also.  Daryushka sold old clothes and books on the sly, and told lies to the landlady, saying that the doctor was just going to receive a large sum of money.