“And if Nicolas had always had at his side” (Varvara Petrovna almost shouted) “a gentle Horatio, great in his humility⁠—another excellent expression of yours, Stepan Trofimovitch⁠—he might long ago have been saved from the sad and ‘sudden demon of irony,’ which has tormented him all his life. (‘The demon of irony’ was a wonderful expression of yours again, Stepan Trofimovitch.) But Nicolas has never had an Horatio or an Ophelia. He had no one but his mother, and what can a mother do alone, and in such circumstances? Do you know, Pyotr Stepanovitch, it’s perfectly comprehensible to me now that a being like Nicolas could be found even in such filthy haunts as you have described. I can so clearly picture now that ‘mockery’ of life. (A wonderfully subtle expression of yours!) That insatiable thirst of contrast, that gloomy background against which he stands out like a diamond, to use your comparison again, Pyotr Stepanovitch. And then he meets there a creature ill-treated by everyone, crippled, half insane, and at the same time perhaps filled with noble feelings.”

“H’m.⁠ ⁠… Yes, perhaps.”