“Mamma! Who is Kalériya Vladímirovna Esípova?” he asked his mother when they met as usual for dinner.
“Esípova? She was brought up by your grandfather. Why?”
Eugène told his mother about the letter.
“I wonder she is not ashamed to ask for it. Your father gave her so much!”
“But do we owe her this?”
“Well now, how shall I put it? It is not a debt. Papa, out of his unbounded kindness …”
“Yes, but did Papa consider it a debt?”
“I cannot say. I don’t know. I only know it is hard enough for you without that.”
Eugène saw that Mary Pávlovna did not know what to say, and was as it were sounding him.
“I see from what you say that it must be paid,” said he. “I will go to see her tomorrow and have a chat, and see if it cannot be deferred.”
“Ah, how sorry I am for you, but you know that will be best. Tell her she must wait,” said Mary Pávlovna, evidently tranquillized and proud of her son’s decision.
Eugène’s position was particularly hard because his mother, who was living with him, did not at all realize his position. She had been accustomed all her life long to live extravagantly that she could not even imagine to herself the position her son was in, that is to say, that today or tomorrow matters might shape themselves so that they would have nothing left and he would have to sell everything and live and support his