'I wrote to both you and Sergei Ivanych that I don't know and don't wish to know you. What do you, what do the two of you want?'
He was quite different from the way Konstantin had imagined him. The most difficult and worst part of his character, that which made communication with him so hard, had been forgotten by Konstantin Levin when he thought about him; and now, when he saw his face, and especially that convulsive turning of the head, he remembered it all.
'I don't want anything from you,' he replied timidly. 'I simply came to see you.' Nikolai was apparently softened by his brother's timidity. He twitched
his lips.
'Ah, just like that?' he said. 'Well, come in, sit down. Want some supper? Masha, bring three portions. No, wait. Do you know who this is?' he said to his brother, pointing to the gentleman in the sleeveless jacket. 'This is Mr Kritsky, my friend from way back in Kiev, a very remarkable man. He's being sought by the police, of course, because he's not a scoundrel.'
And he looked round, as was his habit, at everyone in the room. Seeing the woman standing in the doorway make a movement as if to go, he shouted to her: 'Wait, I said.' And with that clumsiness in conversation that Konstantin knew so well, he again looked around at everybody and began telling his brother Kritsky's story: how he had been expelled from the university for starting Sunday school[37] and a society to aid poor students, how he had then become a teacher in a people's school, how he had been expelled from there as well, and how later he had been taken to court for something.
'You were at Kiev University?' Konstantin Levin said to Kritsky, in order to break the awkward silence that ensued.
'Yes, Kiev,' Kritsky began crossly, scowling.
'And this woman,' Nikolai Levin interrupted him, pointing to her, 'is my life's companion, Marya Nikolaevna. I took her from a house' - and his neck twitched as he said it. 'But I love her and respect her, and I ask everyone who wants to know me,' he added, raising his voice and frowning, 'to love and respect her. She's the same as my wife, the same. So there, you know who you're dealing with. And if you think you're lowering yourself, here's your hat and there's the door.'
And again his eyes passed questioningly over them all.
'Why should I be lowering myself? I don't understand.'
Then tell them to serve supper, Masha: three portions, some vodka and wine ... No, wait... No, never mind ... Go.'
XXV
'So you see,' Nikolai Levin went on with effort, wrinkling his brow and twitching. It was obviously hard for him to think what to say and do. 'You see ...' He pointed at some small iron bars tied with string in the corner of the room. 'See that? That's the beginning of a new business we're undertaking. This business is a manufacturing association ...'
Konstantin was almost not listening. He peered into his brother's sickly, consumptive face, felt more and more sorry for him, and was unable to make himself listen to what his brother was telling him about the association. He could see that this association was only an anchor saving him from despising himself. Nikolai Levin went on speaking:
'You know that capital oppresses the worker - the workers in our country, the muzhiks, bear all the burden of labour, and their position is such that, however much they work, they can never get out of their brutish situation. All the profits earned by their work, with which they might improve their situation, give themselves some leisure and, consequently, education, all surplus earnings are taken from them by the capitalists. And society has developed so that the more they work, the more gain there will be for the merchants and landowners, and they will always remain working brutes. And this order must be changed,' he concluded and looked inquiringly at his brother.
'Yes, of course,' said Konstantin, studying the red patches that had appeared below his brother's prominent cheekbones.
'And so we're organizing a metal-working association, in which all production and profit and, above all, the tools of production, will be common property.'
'Where will the association be located?' asked Konstantin Levin.
'In the village of Vozdryoma, Kazan province.'
'Why in a village? I think there's enough to do in the villages without that. Why have a metal-working association in a village?'
'Because the muzhiks are just as much slaves now as they were before, and that's why you and Sergei Ivanych don't like it that we want to bring them out of this slavery,' Nikolai Levin said, annoyed by the objection.
Konstantin Levin sighed, at the same time looking around the dismal and dirty room. This sigh seemed to annoy Nikolai still more.
'I know the aristocratic views you and Sergei Ivanych have. I know Lat he employs all his mental powers to justify the existing evil.'
'No why do you talk about Sergei Ivanych?' said Levin, smiling.
'Sergei Ivanych? Here's why!' Nikolai Levin cried out suddenly at the name of Sergei Ivanych. 'Here's why ... But what's there to talk about? Nothing but... Why did you come to see me? You despise all this, and that's wonderful, so go, go with God!' he shouted, getting up from his chair. 'Go, go!'
'I don't despise it in the least,' Konstantin Levin said timidly. 'I'm not even arguing.'
Just then Marya Nikolaevna came back. Nikolai Levin gave her an angry glance. She quickly went over to him and whispered something.
'I'm not well, I've become irritable,' Nikolai Levin said, calming down and breathing heavily, 'and then you tell me about Sergei Ivanych and his article. It's such nonsense, such lies, such self-deception. What can a man write about justice if he knows nothing of it? Have you read his article?' he asked Kritsky, sitting down at the table again and pushing aside some half-filled cigarettes so as to clear a space.
'No, I haven't,' Kritsky said glumly, obviously unwilling to enter the conversation.
'Why not?' Nikolai Levin now turned to Kritsky with irritation.
'Because I don't find it necessary to waste time on it.'
'Excuse me, but how do you know you'd be wasting your time? The article is inaccessible to many - that is, it's above them. But with me it's a different matter, I can see through his thought, and I know why it's weak.'
Everyone fell silent. Kritsky slowly got up and took his hat.
'You won't have supper? Well, goodbye. Come tomorrow with a metal-worker.'
As soon as Kritsky left, Nikolai Levin smiled and winked.
'He's also in a bad way,' he said. 'I do see ...'
But just then Kritsky called him from the door.
'What does he want now?' he said and went out to him in the corridor. Left alone with Marya Nikolaevna, Levin turned to her.
Have you been with my brother long?' he asked her.
*t s the second year now. His health's gone really bad. He drinks a 'lot,' she said.
'Drinks, meaning what?'
'He drinks vodka, and it's bad for him.'
Really a lot?' Levin whispered.
'Yes,' she said, glancing timidly at the doorway, in which Nikolai Levin appeared.
'What were you talking about?' he said, frowning, his frightened eyes shifting from one to the other. 'What was it?'
'Nothing,' Konstantin replied, embarrassed.
'If you don't want to say, then don't. Only there's no need for you to talk with her. She's a slut and you're a gentleman,' he said, his neck twitching. 'I see you've understood and appraised everything, and look upon my errors with regret,' he began again, raising his voice.
'Nikolai Dmitrich, Nikolai Dmitrich,' Marya Nikolaevna whispered, going up to him.
'Well, all right, all right! ... And what about supper? Ah, here it is,' he said, seeing a lackey with a tray. 'Here, put it here,' he said angrily, and at once took the vodka, poured a glass and drank it greedily. 'Want a drink?' he asked his brother, cheering up at once. 'Well, enough about Sergei Ivanych. Anyhow, I'm glad to see you. Say what you like, we're not strangers. Well, have a drink. Tell me, what are you up to?' he went on, greedily chewing a piece of bread and pouring another glass. 'How's your life going?'
/> 'I live alone in the country, as I did before, busy with farming,' Konstantin replied, looking with horror at the greediness with which his brother ate and drank, and trying not to let it show.
'Why don't you get married?'
'Haven't had a chance,' Konstantin replied, blushing.
'Why not? For me - it's all over! I've spoiled my life. I've said and still say that if I'd been given my share when I needed it, my whole life would be different.'
Konstantin Dmitrich hastened to redirect the conversation.
'You know, your Vanyushka works in my office in Pokrovskoe?' he said.
Nikolai twitched his neck and fell to thinking.
'So, tell me, how are things in Pokrovskoe? Is the house still standing, and the birches, and our schoolroom? And Filipp, the gardener, is he still alive? How I remember the gazebo and the bench! Watch out you don't change anything in the house, but get married quickly and arrange it again just as it used to be. I'll come to visit you then, if you have a nice wife.'
'Come to visit me now,' said Levin. 'We'll settle in so nicely!'
'I'd come if I knew I wouldn't find Sergei Ivanych there.' 'You won't find him there. I live quite independently from him.'
'Yes, but, say what you like, you've got to choose between me and him,' he said, looking timidly into his brother's eyes. This timidity touched Konstantin.
'If you want my full confession in that regard, I'll tell you that in your quarrel with Sergei Ivanych I don't take either side. You're both wrong. You are wrong more externally, and he more internally.'
'Ah, ah! You've grasped that, you've grasped that?' Nikolai cried joyfully.
'But, if you wish to know, I personally value my friendship with you more, because . . . '
'Why, why?'
Konstantin could not say that he valued it more because Nikolai was unhappy and in need of friendship. But Nikolai understood that he wanted to say precisely that and, frowning, resorted to his vodka again.
'Enough, Nikolai Dmitrich!' said Marya Nikolaevna, reaching out with her plump, bare arm for the decanter.
'Let go! Don't interfere! I'll beat you!' he cried.
Marya Nikolaevna smiled her meek and kindly smile, which also infected Nikolai, and took away the vodka.
'You think she doesn't understand anything?' Nikolai said. 'She understands everything better than any of us. There's something sweet and good in her, isn't there?'
'You've never been to Moscow before, miss?' Konstantin said to her, so as to say something.
'Don't call her "miss". She's afraid of it. No one, except the justice of the peace, when she stood trial for wanting to leave the house of depravity, no one ever called her "miss". My God, what is all this nonsense in the world!' he suddenly cried out. 'These new institutions, these justices of the peace, the zemstvo - what is this outrage!'
And he started telling about his encounters with the new institutions.
Konstantin Levin listened to him, and that denial of sense in all social institutions, which he shared with him and had often expressed aloud, now seemed disagreeable to him coming from his brother's mouth.
We'll understand it all in the other world,' he said jokingly.
'In the other world? Ah, I don't like that other world! No, I don't,' he said resting his frightened, wild eyes on his brother's face. 'And it might seem good to leave all this vileness and confusion, other people's and one's own, but I'm afraid of death, terribly afraid of death.' He shuddered. 'Do drink something. Want champagne? Or else let's go somewhere. Let's go to the gypsies! You know, I've come to have a great love of gypsies and Russian songs.'
His tongue began to get confused, and he jumped from one subject to another. Konstantin, with Masha's help, persuaded him not to go anywhere and put him to bed completely drunk.
Masha promised to write to Konstantin in case of need and to persuade Nikolai Levin to go and live with him.
XXVI
In the morning Konstantin Levin left Moscow and towards evening he arrived at home. On the way in the train he talked with his neighbours about politics, about the new railways, and, just as in Moscow, he was overcome by the confusion of his notions, by dissatisfaction with himself and shame at something; but when he got off at his station, recognized the one-eyed coachman, Ignat, with his caftan collar turned up, when he saw his rug sleigh [38] in the dim light coming from the station windows, his horses with their bound tails, their harness with its rings and tassels, when the coachman Ignat, while they were still getting in, told him the village news, about the contractor's visit, and about Pava having calved - he felt the confusion gradually clearing up and the shame and dissatisfaction with himself going away. He felt it just at the sight of Ignat and the horses; but when he put on the sheepskin coat brought for him, got into the sleigh, wrapped himself up and drove off, thinking over the orders he had to give about the estate and glancing at the outrunner, a former Don saddle horse, over-ridden but a spirited animal, he began to understand what had happened to him quite differently. He felt he was himself and did not want to be otherwise. He only wanted to be better than he had been before. First, he decided from that day on not to hope any more for the extraordinary happiness that marriage was to have given him, and as a consequence not to neglect the present so much. Second, he would never again allow himself to be carried away by a vile passion, the memory of which had so tormented him as he was about to propose. Then, remembering his brother Nikolai, he decided that he would never again allow himself to forget him, would watch over him and never let him out of his sight, so as to be ready to help when things went badly for him. And that would be soon, he felt. Then, too, his brother's talk about communism, which he had taken so lightly at the time now made him ponder. He regarded the reforming of economic conditions as nonsense, but he had always felt the injustice of his abundance as compared with the poverty of the people, and he now decided that, in order to feel himself fully in the right, though he had worked hard before and lived without luxury, he would now work still harder and allow himself still less luxury. And all this seemed so easy to do that he spent the whole way in the most pleasant dreams. With a cheerful feeling of hope for a new, better life, he drove up to his house between eight and nine in the evening.
Light fell on to the snow-covered yard in front of the house from the windows of the room of Agafya Mikhailovna, his old nurse, who filled the role of housekeeper for him. She was not yet asleep. Kuzma, whom she woke up, ran out sleepy and barefoot on to the porch. The pointer bitch Laska also ran out, almost knocking Kuzma off his feet, and rubbed herself against Levin's knees, stood on her hind legs and wanted but did not dare to put her front paws on his chest.
'You've come back so soon, dear,' said Agafya Mikhailovna.
'I missed it, Agafya Mikhailovna. There's no place like home,' he replied and went to his study.
The study was slowly lit up by the candle that was brought. Familiar details emerged: deer's antlers, shelves of books, the back of the stove with a vent that had long been in need of repair, his father's sofa, the big desk, an open book on the desk, a broken ashtray, a notebook with his handwriting. When he saw it all, he was overcome by a momentary doubt of the possibility of setting up that new life he had dreamed of on the way. All these traces of his life seemed to seize hold of him and say to him: 'No, you won't escape us and be different, you'll be the same as you were: with doubts, an eternal dissatisfaction with yourself, vain attempts to improve, and failures, and an eternal expectation of the happiness that has eluded you and is not possible for you.'
But that was how his things talked, while another voice in his soul said that he must not submit to his past and that it was possible to do anything with oneself. And, listening to this voice, he went to the corner where he had two thirty-six-pound dumb-bells and began lifting them, trying to cheer himself up with exercise. There was a creak of steps outside the door. He hastily set down the dumb-bells.
The steward came in and told him that everything, thank Go
d, was well, but informed him that the buckwheat had got slightly burnt in the new kiln. This news vexed Levin. The new kiln had been built and partly designed by him. The steward had always been against this kiln and now with concealed triumph announced that the buckwheat had got burnt. Levin, however, was firmly convinced that if it had got burnt, it was only because the measures he had ordered a hundred times had not been taken. He became annoyed and reprimanded the steward. But there had been one important and joyful event: Pava, his best and most valuable cow, bought at a cattle show, had calved.
'Kuzma, give me my sheepskin coat. And you have them bring a lantern,' he said to the steward. 'I'll go and take a look.'
The shed for the valuable cows was just behind the house. Crossing the yard past a snowdrift by the lilac bush, he approached the shed. There was a smell of warm, dungy steam as the frozen door opened, and the cows, surprised by the unaccustomed light of the lantern, stirred on the fresh straw. The smooth, broad, black-and-white back of a Frisian cow flashed. Berkut, the bull, lay with his ring in his nose and made as if to get up, but changed his mind and only puffed a couple of times as they passed by. The red beauty, Pava, enormous as a hippopotamus, her hindquarters turned, screened the calf from the entering men and sniffed at it.