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 "No, I am no longer a member: I have not been going and don't intend to go any more," said Levin.

"It's too bad," murmured Sergeï Ivanovitch, frowning.

Levin, in justification, described what had taken place at the meetings of his district assembly.

"But it is forever thus," exclaimed Sergeï Ivanovitch, interrupting. "We Russians are always like this. Possibly it is one of our good traits that we are willing to see our faults, but we exaggerate them; we take delight in irony, which comes natural to our language. If such rights as we have, if our provincial institutions, were given to any other people in Europe,—Germans or English,—I tell you, they would derive liberty from them; but we only turn them into sport."

"But what is to be done?" asked Levin, penitently. "It was my last attempt. I tried with all my heart; I cannot do it. I am helpless."

"Not helpless!" said Sergeï Ivanovitch; "you did not look at the matter in the right light."

"Perhaps not," replied Levin, in a melancholy tone.

"Do you know, brother Nikolaï has been in town again?"

Nikolaï was Konstantin Levin's own brother, and Sergeï Ivanovitch's half-brother, standing between them in age. He was a ruined man, who had wasted the larger part of his fortune, had mingled with the strangest and most disgraceful society, and had quarreled with his brothers.

"What did you say?" cried Levin, startled. "How did you know?"

"Prokofi saw him in the street."

"Here in Moscow? Where is he?" and Levin stood up, as if with the intention of instantly going to find him.

"I am sorry that I told you this," said Sergeï Ivanovitch, shaking his head when he saw his younger brother's emotion. "I sent out to find where he was staying; and I sent him his letter of credit on Trubin, the amount of which I paid. This is what he wrote me