sent him his I.O.U. to Trubin, which I paid. This is the answer he sent me.”
And Sergey Ivanovitch took a note from under a paperweight and handed it to his brother.
Levin read in the queer, familiar handwriting:
“I humbly beg you to leave me in peace. That’s the only favor I ask of my gracious brothers.— Nikolay Levin .”
Levin read it, and without raising his head stood with the note in his hands opposite Sergey Ivanovitch.
There was a struggle in his heart between the desire to forget his unhappy brother for the time, and the consciousness that it would be base to do so.
“He obviously wants to offend me,” pursued Sergey Ivanovitch; “but he cannot offend me, and I should have wished with all my heart to assist him, but I know it’s impossible to do that.”
“Yes, yes,” repeated Levin. “I understand and appreciate your attitude to him; but I shall go and see him.”
“If you want to, do; but I shouldn’t advise it,” said Sergey Ivanovitch. “As regards myself, I have no fear of your doing so; he will not make you quarrel with me; but for your own sake, I should say you would do better not to go. You can’t do him any good; still, do as you please.”
“Very likely I can’t do any good, but I feel—especially at such a moment—but that’s another thing—I feel I could not be at peace.”
“Well, that I don’t understand,” said Sergey Ivanovitch. “One thing I do understand,” he added; “it’s a lesson in humility. I have come to look very