She won’t sleep late. As long as a drop of blood remains in my veins, my eyes can still shed tears, and God tolerates my sins, if I don’t have the strength to walk, I’ll drag myself on my knees to the church door; I’ll give up my last breath and offer up my last tear for you, my dear. I’ll pray for your health, for your honours, promotions and decorations, and for every blessing that heaven and earth can bestow upon you. Surely Our Merciful Father will not reject the prayers of a poor old woman? I want nothing for myself. Let everything be taken from me, my health, my life, strike me blind, just as long as every joy, every happiness is granted you…”

Before she could finish, tears welled up in her eyes.

Alexander sprang up from his seat.

“Mummy…” he said.

“No sit, sit!” she responded, quickly wiping away her tears. “I still have a lot left to say… Now, whatever is it I wanted to say? – it’s just slipped my mind… You see what’s happened to my memory… Oh, yes! Keep the fasts, my dear; that’s supremely important! Wednesdays and Fridays, well, God will overlook that; but Lent itself, God forbid! Take Mikhailo Mikhailych: he passes for an intelligent man, and what do we see? Whether it’s forbidden or not, he gorges on meat anyway, even during Holy Week. It positively makes your hair stand on end! All right, he helps the poor; does that make his charity acceptable to the Lord? Did you know that he once gave ten roubles to an old man, who took it but turned away and spat? Everyone is very respectful in his presence, and God knows what they say to him, but behind his back, whenever his name comes up, they cross themselves as if he were the very Devil.”

Alexander listened as patiently as he could, turning to look out of the window from time to time at the road in the distance.

She fell silent for a minute.

“Above all, take care of your health,” she went on. “If you’re taken seriously ill – God forbid! – write… and I’ll make every effort to come to you. Who will be there to look after you? They won’t scruple to rob even a sick man. Don’t walk the streets at night, and avoid anyone who looks dangerous. Don’t waste your money… please, save it for a rainy day! Spend it prudently! Money can be a curse: all evil comes from it, as well as all good. Don’t squander it, don’t cultivate extravagant tastes. You’ll be getting 2,500 roubles from me on the dot every year. Two thousand five hundred is a tidy sum! Don’t go in for luxuries of any kind, absolutely not, but don’t deny yourself anything you can afford, and don’t begrudge yourself the occasional treat. Don’t get into the habit of drinking wine – no, it’s man’s worst enemy! And another thing” – here she lowered her voice – “be careful with women! I should know! Some are so shameless that they will come and throw their arms around your neck when they see someone like you.”

She looked lovingly at her son.

“That’s enough, Mummy; what about some breakfast?” he said with an edge of annoyance.

“Right now, right now… just one more thing…

“Don’t go after married women,” she hastened to add, “there’s no greater sin! It says in the Bible: ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife.’ If some woman seems to have marriage in mind – God forbid – don’t even think about it! Once they spot someone with money, and good-looking into the bargain, they won’t let go. But if your boss or some prominent person or rich aristocrat should take a fancy to you and wants you to marry his daughter, that would be all right – but write to me, and I’ll manage somehow or other to come and look her over just to make sure that they’re not trying to saddle you with some old maid or some good-for-nothing they’re just trying to get off their hands. Anyone would be delighted to reel in a catch like you. But if you should happen to fall in love yourself and it’s with a nice young woman, then, well…” – and here she lowered her voice even further – “…we can forget about Sonyushka.” (The old lady allowed her love for her son to get the better of her scruples.) “How did Maria Karpovna ever get such an idea into her head! Her daughter is no match for you. Just a country girl. There are better candidates who would set their caps at you.”

“Sofia! No, Mummy, I will never forget her,” said Alexander.

“Never mind, my love, calm down! No need to take it seriously. You’ll find a position, you’ll come back, and the Lord will provide; there will be plenty of brides! And if you haven’t forgotten her by then – well, so be it… and so…”

She wanted to add something, but couldn’t quite bring herself to say it, and then bent towards his ear and asked him softly:

“But will you remember… your mother?”

“So that’s what you’ve been trying to say,” he said, interrupting her. “Better to order whatever there is to eat, scrambled eggs or whatever. Forget you? How could you even think it! God would punish me…”

“Stop that, Sasha, don’t place yourself in harm’s way like that! No matter what happens, if such a sin were committed, let me be the only one to suffer for it. You’re young, you’re only just beginning life, you’ll make friends, you’ll get married – your young wife will take the place of your mother, and that’s the way it is… No! May God bless you, just as I bless you.”

She kissed his forehead, thus concluding her homily.

“How come no one is coming?” she said. “No Maria Karpovna, no Anton Ivanych, not even the priest. Mass must be over by now! Ah yes, someone is coming! Anton Ivanych, I think… so it is, talk of the Devil.”

Everyone knows an Anton Ivanych. He’s like the Wandering Jew. He has been with us from time immemorial and he is everywhere, and has never become extinct. He was a guest at feasts in ancient Greece and banquets in ancient Rome; he has, of course, also partaken of the fatted calf sacrificed by a happy father to welcome the return of his prodigal son.

Here in Russia, he has assumed various forms; the form taken by this particular person was as follows: he owns twenty souls, mortgaged over and over again; he lives in what is virtually a peasant’s hut or a strange kind of structure which looks like a barn from the outside – the entrance is somewhere round the back, and you have to clamber over some logs by the wattle fence in order to enter; for twenty years, however, he has been telling everyone that, come next spring, he is going to start building a new house. He doesn’t keep house, or any servants to do it for him.