Onisim got up, went up to his master, stood over him, and twice he tugged at his own hair.
‘Wouldn’t you like to undress, sir ... you should go to bed ... you should take some raspberry tea ... don’t grieve, please your honour.... It’s only half a trouble, it’s all nothing ... it’ll be all right in the end,’ he said to him every two minutes....
But Pyetushkov did not get up from the sofa, and only twitched his shoulders now and then, and drew up his knees to his stomach....
Onisim did not leave his side all night. Towards morning Pyetushkov fell asleep, but he did not sleep long. At seven o’clock he got up from the sofa, pale, dishevelled, and exhausted, and asked for tea.
Onisim with amazing eagerness and speed brought the samovar.
‘Ivan Afanasiitch,’ he began at last, in a timid voice, ‘your honour is not angry with me?’
‘Why should I be angry with you, Onisim?’ answered poor Pyetushkov. ‘You were perfectly right yesterday, and I quite agreed with you in everything.’
‘I only spoke through my devotion to you, Ivan Afanasiitch.’
‘I know that.’
Pyetushkov was silent and hung his head.