“How much do you get for a lesson?”
“Sometimes a ruble, sometimes fifty kopecks, or sometimes thirty. They are all so kind to me.”
“And do your pupils get on well?” asked Kasátsky with a slight smile.
Praskóvya Mikháylovna 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 connections 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 Kasátsky, lowering his head. “And how is it, Páshenka—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 Kasátsky, as if approvingly.