“Oh, I’m not talking about mistakes!  The awful grammatical howlers!  There’s not a line that’s not a personal insult to grammar!  No stops nor commas—­and the spelling . . . brrr!  ‘Earth’ has an a in it!!  And the writing!  It’s desperate!  I’m not joking, Lida. . . .  I’m surprised and appalled at your letter. . . .  You mustn’t be angry, darling, but, really, I had no idea you were such a duffer at grammar. . . .  And yet you belong to a cultivated, well-educated circle:  you are the wife of a University man, and the daughter of a general!  Tell me, did you ever go to school?”

“What next!  I finished at the Von Mebke’s boarding school. . . .”

Somov shrugs his shoulders and continues to pace up and down, sighing.  Lidotchka, conscious of her ignorance and ashamed of it, sighs too and casts down her eyes. . . .  Ten minutes pass in silence.

“You know, Lidotchka, it really is awful!” says Somov, suddenly halting in front of her and looking into her face with horror.  “You are a mother . . . do you understand?  A mother!  How can you teach your children if you know nothing yourself?  You have a good brain, but what’s the use of it if you have never mastered the very rudiments of knowledge?  There—­never mind about knowledge . . . the children will get that at school, but, you know, you are very shaky on the moral side too!  You sometimes use such language that it makes my ears tingle!”

Somov shrugs his shoulders again, wraps himself in the folds of his dressing-gown and continues his pacing. . . .  He feels vexed and injured, and at the same time sorry for Lidotchka, who does not protest, but merely blinks. . . .  Both feel oppressed and miserable . . . .  Absorbed in their woes, they do not notice how time is passing and the dinner hour is approaching.

Sitting down to dinner, Somov, who is fond of good eating and of eating in peace, drinks a large glass of vodka and begins talking about something else.  Lidotchka listens and assents, but suddenly over the soup her eyes fill with tears and she begins whimpering.

“It’s all mother’s fault!” she says, wiping away her tears with her dinner napkin.  “Everyone advised her to send me to the high school, and from the high school I should have been sure to go on to the University!”

“University . . . high school,” mutters Somov.  “That’s running to extremes, my girl!  What’s the good of being a blue stocking!  A blue stocking is the very deuce!  Neither man nor woman, but just something midway:  neither one thing nor another. . .  I hate blue stockings!  I would never have married a learned woman. . . .”

“There’s no making you out . . .”, says Lidotchka.  “You are angry because I am not learned, and at the same time you hate learned women; you are annoyed because I have no ideas in my letter, and yet you yourself are opposed to my studying. . . .”

“You do catch me up at a word, my dear,” yawns Somov, pouring out a second glass of vodka in his boredom.