'She is always sent away when I want her.
Mamma...'
'I'm coming!' Praskovya Mikhaylovna again interrupted herself.
'He has not had his dinner yet.
He can't eat with us.'
She went out and arranged something, and came back wiping her thin dark hands.
'So that is how I live.
I always complain and am always dissatisfied, but thank God the grandchildren are all nice and healthy, and we can still live.
But why talk about me?'
'But what do you live on?'
'Well, I earn a little.
How I used to dislike music, but how useful it is to me now!'
Her small hand lay on the chest of drawers beside which she was sitting, and she drummed an exercise with her thin fingers.
'How much do you get for a lesson?'
'Sometimes a ruble, sometimes fifty kopeks, or sometimes thirty.
They are all so kind to me.'
'And do your pupils get on well?' asked Kasatsky with a slight smile.
Praskovya Mikhaylovna did not at first believe that he was asking seriously, and looked inquiringly into his eyes.
'Some of them do.
One of them is a splendid girl—the butcher's daughter—such a good kind girl!
If I were a clever woman I ought, of course, with the connexions Papa had, to be able to get an appointment for my son-in-law.
But as it is I have not been able to do anything, and have brought them all to this—as you see.'
'Yes, yes,' said Kasatsky, lowering his head.
'And how is it, Pashenka—do you take part in Church life?'
'Oh, don't speak of it.
I am so bad that way, and have neglected it so!
I keep the fasts with the children and sometimes go to church, and then again sometimes I don't go for months.
I only send the children.'
'But why don't you go yourself?'
'To tell the truth' (she blushed) 'I am ashamed, for my daughter's sake and the children's, to go there in tattered clothes, and I haven't anything else.
Besides, I am just lazy.'
'And do you pray at home?'
'I do. But what sort of prayer is it? Only mechanical.
I know it should not be like that, but I lack real religious feeling. The only thing is that I know how bad I am...'
'Yes, yes, that's right!' said Kasatsky, as if approvingly.
'I'm coming! I'm coming!' she replied to a call from her son-in-law, and tidying her scanty plait she left the room.
But this time it was long before she returned.
When she came back, Kasatsky was sitting in the same position, his elbows resting on his knees and his head bowed.
But his wallet was strapped on his back.
When she came in, carrying a small tin lamp without a shade, he raised his fine weary eyes and sighed very deeply.
'I did not tell them who you are,' she began timidly. 'I only said that you are a pilgrim, a nobleman, and that I used to know you.
Come into the dining-room for tea.'
'No...'
'Well then, I'll bring some to you here.'
'No, I don't want anything.
God bless you, Pashenka!
I am going now.
If you pity me, don't tell anyone that you have seen me.
For the love of God don't tell anyone. Thank you.
I would bow to your feet but I know it would make you feel awkward.