# Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part One/Chapter 24

CHAPTER XXIV
"Yes, there must be something repellent, even repulsive, about me," thought Levin, as he left the Shcherbatskys', and went on foot in search of his brother. "I am not popular with men. They say it is pride. No, I am not proud; if I had been proud, I should not have put myself in my present situation."
And he imagined himself Vronsky, happy, popular, calm, witty, who had apparently never put himself in such a terrible position as he was in on that evening.
"Yes, she naturally chose him, and I have no right to complain about any one or any thing. I myself am to blame. What right had I to think that she would ever unite her life with mine? Who am I? and what am I? A man useful to no one—a good-for-nothing."
Then the memory of his brother Nikolaï came back to him.
"Was he not right in saying that everything in the world was miserable and wretched? Have we been, and are we, just in our judgment of brother Nikolaï? Of course, from the point of view of Prokofi, who saw him drunk and in ragged clothes, he is a miserable creature; but I judge him differently. I know his heart, and I know that we are alike. And I, instead of going to find him, have been out dining, and to this reception!"
Levin went to a street-lamp and read his brother's address, which was written on a slip of paper, and called an izvoshchik. All the long way he vividly recalled one by one the well-known incidents of his brother Nikolaï's life. He remembered how at the university, and for a year after his graduation, he had lived like a monk notwithstanding the ridicule of his comrades, strictly devoted to all forms of religion, services, fasts, turning his back on all pleasures, and especially women; and then how he had suddenly turned around, and fallen into the company of people of the lowest lives, and entered upon a course of dissipation and debauchery. He remembered his conduct toward a lad whom he ​had taken from the country to bring up, and whom he whipped so severely in a fit of anger that he narrowly escaped being transported for mayhem. He remembered his conduct toward a swindler to whom he owed a gambling debt and in payment of it had given him his note, and whom he had caused to be arrested on the charge of cheating him; this was, in fact, money that Sergeï Ivanuitch had just paid. Then he remembered the night spent by Nikolaï at the station-house on account of a spree. He remembered the scandalous lawsuit against his brother Sergeï Ivanuitch, because Sergeï had refused to pay his share of their mother's estate; and finally he recalled his last adventure, when, after he had gone to take a position at the Western frontier, he was dismissed for assaulting a superior. ....
All this was detestable, but it did not seem nearly so odious to Levin as it would have been to those who did not know Nikolaï, did not know his history, did not know his heart.
Levin remembered how at the time when Nikolaï was occupied with his devotions, his fastings, his priests, his ecclesiastical observances, when he was seeking to curb his passionate nature by religion, no one had aided him, but, on the contrary, every one, even himself, had made sport of him; they had mocked him, nicknamed him Noah, the monk! Then, when he had fallen, no one had helped him, but all had turned from him with horror and disgust. Levin felt that his brother Nikolaï at the bottom of his heart, in spite of all the deformity of his life, was not so very much worse than those who despised him. He was not to blame for having been born with his unrestrainable character and his peculiarities of intellect. He had always had good impulses.
"I will tell him everything, and I will make him tell me everything, and show him that I love him and therefore understand him," said Levin to himself, and about eleven o'clock in the evening he bade the driver take him to the hotel indicated on the address.
"Upstairs, No. 12 and 13," said the Swiss, in reply to Levin's question.
​"Is he at home?"
"Probably."
The door of No. 12 was half open, and from the room came the dense fumes of cheap, poor tobacco, and a voice unknown to Levin was heard speaking; but Levin instantly knew his brother was there; he recognized his cough.
When he reached the door, the unknown voice was saying:—
"All depends on whether the affair is conducted in a proper and rational manner."
Konstantin Levin glanced through the doorway, and saw that the speaker was a young man, in a peasant's sleeveless coat, and with an enormous mop of hair on his head. On the divan was sitting a young woman, with pock-marked face, and dressed in a woolen gown without collar or cuffs. His brother was not to be seen. A pain shot through Konstantin's heart to think of the strange people with whom his brother associated. No one heard him; and, while he was removing his galoshes, he listened to what the man in the sleeveless coat was saying. He was speaking of some enterprise.
"Well! the Devil take the privileged classes!" said his brother's voice, after a fit of coughing. "Masha, see if you can't get us something to eat, and bring some wine if there's any left; if not, go for some."
The woman arose, and as she came out from behind the screen she saw Konstantin.
"A gentleman here, Nikolaï Dmitritch," she cried.
"What is wanted?" said the voice of Nikolaï Levin, angrily.
"It's I," replied Konstantin, appearing at the door.
"Who's I?" repeated Nikolaï's voice, still more angrily.
Then he was heard quickly rising and stumbling against something, and Konstantin saw before him at the door his brother's well-known figure, still remarkable by reason of his shyness and ill health—infirm, tall, thin, and bent, with great startled eyes.
He was still thinner than when Konstantin had last ​seen him, three years before. He wore a short overcoat. His hands and his bony frame seemed to him more colossal than ever. His hair had grown thinner, but the same stiff mustaches hid his lips, the same eyes glared at his visitor uncannily and naïvely.
"Ah, Kostia!" he suddenly cried, recognizing his brother, and his eyes shone with joy. But the same instant he fixed his eyes on the younger man, and made a quick, convulsive motion of his head and neck, as if his cravat choked him, a gesture well known to Konstantin; and an entirely different expression, wild, and bitter, and expressive of martyrdom, came into his sunken face.
"I wrote both to you and to Sergeï Ivanuitch that I do not know you, nor wish to know you. What do you want; what does either of you want?"
He was not at all as Konstantin had imagined him. The hardest and vilest elements of his character, which had made any relations with him difficult, had faded from Konstantin Levin's memory whenever he thought about him; and now, when he saw his face and the characteristic convulsive motions of his head, he remembered it all.
"But I wanted nothing of you except to see you," he replied timidly. "I only came to see you."
His brother's diffidence apparently disarmed Nikolaï. His lips relaxed.
"Ah! did you?" said he. "Well! come in, sit down. Do you want some supper? Masha, bring enough for three. No, hold on! Do you know who this is?" he asked his brother, pointing to the young man in the peasant's coat. "This gentleman is Mr. Kritsky, a friend of mine from Kief, a very remarkable man. It seems the police are after him, because he is not a coward."
And he looked, as his habit was, at all who were in the room. Then, seeing that the woman, who stood at the door, was about to leave, he shouted:—
"Wait, I tell you."
Then, in his extravagant, incoherent manner of ​speech, which Konstantin knew so well, he began to tell his brother the whole story of Kritsky's life; how he had been driven from the university, because he had tried to found an aid society and Sunday-schools among the students; how afterwards he had been appointed teacher in one of the public schools, only to be dismissed; and how finally he had been tried for something or other.
"Were you at the University of Kief?" asked Konstantin of Kritsky, in order to break the awkward silence that followed.
"Yes, I was at Kief," replied Kritsky, curtly, with a frown.
"And this woman," cried Nikolaï Levin, pointing to the girl, "is the companion of my life, Marya Nikolayevna. I took her from a house,"—he said, stretching out his neck,—"but I love her, and I esteem her; and all who want to know me," he added, raising his voice and scowling, "must love her and esteem her. She is just the same as my wife, just the same. So now you know with whom you have to do. And if you think that you lower yourself, there's the door!" And again his eyes looked at them all questioningly.
"I do not understand how I should lower myself."
"All right, Masha, bring us up enough for three,—some vodka and wine. .... No, wait; .... no matter, though; .... go!"