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looked round angrily at her. She went quickly to him, and whispered
something.
“I’m not well; I’ve grown irritable,” said Nikolay Levin, getting calmer
and breathing painfully; “and then you talk to me of Sergey Ivanovitch
and his article. It’s such rubbish, such lying, such self-deception. What
can a man write of justice who knows nothing of it? Have you read his
article?” he asked Kritsky, sitting down again at the table, and moving
back off half of it the scattered cigarettes, so as to clear a space.
“I’ve not read it,” Kritsky responded gloomily, obviously not desir-
ing to enter into the conversation.
“Why not?” said Nikolay Levin, now turning with exasperation
upon Kritsky.
“Because I didn’t see the use of wasting my time over it.”
“Oh, but excuse me, how did you know it would be wasting your
time? That article’s too deep for many people—that’s to say it’s over
their heads. But with me, it’s another thing; I see through his ideas,
and I know where its weakness lies.”
Everyone was mute. Kritsky got up deliberately and reached his
cap.
“Won’t you have supper? All right, good-bye! Come round tomor-
row with the locksmith.”
Kritsky had hardly gone out when Nikolay Levin smiled and
winked.
“He’s no good either,” he said. “I see, of course...”
But at that instant Kritsky, at the door, called him...
“What do you want now?” he said, and went out to him in the
passage. Left alone with Marya Nikolaevna, Levin turned to her.
“Have you been long with my brother?” he said to her.
“Yes, more than a year. Nikolay Dmitrievitch’s health has become
very poor. Nikolay Dmitrievitch drinks a great deal,” she said.
“That is...how does he drink?”
“Drinks vodka, and it’s bad for him.”
“And a great deal?” whispered Levin.
“Yes,” she said, looking timidly towards the doorway, where Nikolay
Levin had reappeared.
“What were you talking about?” he said, knitting his brows, and
turning his scarred eyes from one to the other. “What was it?”
“Oh, nothing,” Konstantin answered in confusion.
“Oh, if you don’t want to say, don’t. Only it’s no good your talking to
her. She’s a wench, and you’re a gentleman,” he said with a jerk of the
neck. “You understand everything, I see, and have taken stock of
everything, and look with commiseration on my shortcomings,” he be-
gan again, raising his voice.
“Nikolay Dmitrievitch, Nikolay Dmitrievitch,” whispered Marya
Nikolaevna, again going up to him.
“Oh, very well, very well!... But where’s the supper? Ah, here it is,”
he said, seeing a waiter with a tray. “Here, set it here,” he added angrily,
and promptly seizing the vodka, he poured out a glassful and drank it
greedily. “Like a drink?” he turned to his brother, and at once became
better humored.
“Well, enough of Sergey Ivanovitch. I’m glad to see you, anyway.
After all’s said and done, we’re not strangers. Come, have a drink. Tell
me what you’re doing,” he went on, greedily munching a piece of bread,
and pouring out another glassful. “How are you living?”
“I live alone in the country, as I used to. I’m busy looking after the
land,” answered Konstantin, watching with horror the greediness with
which his brother ate and drank, and trying to conceal that he noticed
it.