“But, however foolish I may be, Rodya, I can see for myself that you will very soon be one of the leading⁠—if not the leading man⁠—in the world of Russian thought. And they dared to think you were mad! You don’t know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures, how could they understand genius! And Dounia, Dounia was all but believing it⁠—what do you say to that? Your father sent twice to magazines⁠—the first time poems (I’ve got the manuscript and will show you) and the second time a whole novel (I begged him to let me copy it out) and how we prayed that they should be taken⁠—they weren’t! I was breaking my heart, Rodya, six or seven days ago over your food and your clothes and the way you are living. But now I see again how foolish I was, for you can attain any position you like by your intellect and talent. No doubt you don’t care about that for the present and you are occupied with much more important matters.⁠ ⁠…”

“Dounia’s not at home, mother?”