And let’s not forget, she’s taken your handkerchiefs to hem. ‘I won’t let anyone but me do them,’ she says, ‘and I’ll sew on the name tags.’ So you see, what more could you want? Stay here!”

He listened in silence, his head lowered, and playing with the tassel of his dressing gown.

“What will you find in St Petersburg?” she went on. “You think your life there will be the same as it is here? God only knows what things you will see, and what troubles you’ll have to contend with – cold, hunger, penury, the lot. Bad people are everywhere, but you won’t find good ones easily. When it comes to your standing, it’s the same everywhere, whether in the country or in the capital. Unless you see life in St Petersburg, it will seem to you, living here, that you’re the world’s most important person; and it’s the same in all respects, my dear! You’re well educated, smart and good. I’m an old lady: all I have left is you to gladden my eyes. God willing, you’ll get married, maybe have children, and I could look after them – your life would be free of trouble, and free of cares, and you could live it out peacefully and quietly, envying no one; but there, what if things don’t turn out well? Then you might remember my words… stay, Sashenka, please!”

He coughed and gave a sigh, but didn’t say a word.

“Just take a look outside!” she said, opening the door to the balcony. “Won’t you be sorry to leave this corner of the world? A whiff of fresh air blew into the room from the balcony. From the house, a wood of linden, dog rose, bird cherry and lilac spread as far as the eye could see. Between the trees, flowers of all colours could be glimpsed, paths ran in all directions; beyond, a lake quietly lapped its shores, bathed on one side by the golden rays of the morning sun, its surface as smooth as a mirror; on the other side, it was a deep blue, like the sky reflected in it, the surface barely ruffled. Fields sown with grain of many colours, stretching in a semicircle around the dark wood, rippled in the breeze.

Anna Pavlovna, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, pointed out these sights in turn to her son.

“Just look,” she said, “at the beauty with which God has clothed our fields! Over there you have fields of rye from which we will reap a harvest of as much as 4,000 bushels alone; over there you have wheat and buckwheat; only this year it doesn’t look as if the buckwheat will be as good as last year’s crop. And look at the wood: see how big it’s grown! Just think, how great is God’s wisdom! The firewood from our property will bring in at least a thousand. And then there’s the game as well! And it’s all yours, my son – I’m just your bailiff. Look at the lake; what a delight – truly divine! The lake is positively teeming with fish like ruff, perch and carp, enough to feed us all, including the servants; the only fish we need to buy is sturgeon. Over there, your cattle and horses are grazing. Here you alone are the master, but there, maybe everyone will be bossing you around. And here you are, wanting to run away from this heaven on earth to somewhere or other where, God forbid, you may end up floundering in some maelstrom… Stay here!”

He remained silent.

“You’re not even listening,” she said. “What is it you’re staring at so intently?”

Pensively, without saying a word, he pointed to the far distance. Anna Pavlovna looked and her face fell. In the distance between the fields a road snaked beyond the woods, a road leading to the Promised Land, to St Petersburg. Anna Pavlovna fell silent for a while until she felt strong enough to speak.

“So, that’s it!” She pronounced the words despondently. “Well, my dear, have it your way! Go, if you feel so strongly that you must leave; I won’t try to keep you! At least you won’t be able to say that your mother held you back and ruined your youth and your life.”

The poor mother! This is the reward you get for your love. Is that what you expected? Well, the fact of the matter is that mothers don’t expect rewards. There’s no rhyme or reason – they just love. Do you achieve greatness and fame, are you proud, is your name on everyone’s lips, do your deeds resound around the world? Then your mother trembles with joy, she weeps, laughs and prays long and ardently. But you, the son, rarely think of sharing your success with the woman who bore you. Are you lacking in wit or spirit, has nature denied you beauty, are your heart and body dogged by ill health, do people shun you, and is there no place for you among them? Then so much the bigger is your place in a mother’s heart, and so much more tightly does she enfold you in her arms, ill-favoured, failed creature though you are, and so much the longer and more fervently does she pray for you.

Are we to call Alexander unfeeling because he is bent on leaving home? He was twenty years old. Life has smiled on him from the cradle, his mother has coddled and pampered him, as you would expect with an only child; in his cradle his nanny crooned to him how he would be clothed in gold and never know sorrow; his teachers predicted that he would go far, and on his return home the neighbour’s daughter would favour him with her smile. Even Vaska, their old cat, was more affectionate to him than any other member of the household.

Sorrow, tears, hardship were all things he had only heard about as if they were some kind of disease which had never actually manifested itself, but was lurking somewhere among the masses.