Chapter 28
Levin was standing rather far off. A nobleman breathing heavily and
hoarsely at his side, and another whose thick boots were creaking,
prevented him from hearing distinctly. He could only hear the soft voice of
the marshal faintly, then the shrill voice of the malignant gentleman, and
then the voice of Sviazhsky. They were disputing, as far as he could make
out, as to the interpretation to be put on the act and the exact meaning of the
words: “liable to be called up for trial.”
The crowd parted to make way for Sergey Ivanovitch approaching the
table. Sergey Ivanovitch, waiting till the malignant gentleman had finished
speaking, said that he thought the best solution would be to refer to the act
itself, and asked the secretary to find the act. The act said that in case of
difference of opinion, there must be a ballot.
Sergey Ivanovitch read the act and began to explain its meaning, but at
that point a tall, stout, round-shouldered landowner, with dyed whiskers, in
a tight uniform that cut the back of his neck, interrupted him. He went up to
the table, and striking it with his finger ring, he shouted loudly: “A ballot!
Put it to the vote! No need for more talking!” Then several voices began to
talk all at once, and the tall nobleman with the ring, getting more and more
exasperated, shouted more and more loudly. But it was impossible to make
out what he said.
He was shouting for the very course Sergey Ivanovitch had proposed; but
it was evident that he hated him and all his party, and this feeling of hatred
spread through the whole party and roused in opposition to it the same
vindictiveness, though in a more seemly form, on the other side. Shouts
were raised, and for a moment all was confusion, so that the marshal of the
province had to call for order.
“A ballot! A ballot! Every nobleman sees it! We shed our blood for our
country!… The confidence of the monarch…. No checking the accounts of
the marshal; he’s not a cashier…. But that’s not the point…. Votes, please!
Beastly!…” shouted furious and violent voices on all sides. Looks and faces
were even more violent and furious than their words. They expressed the
most implacable hatred. Levin did not in the least understand what was the
matter, and he marveled at the passion with which it was disputed whether
or not the decision about Flerov should be put to the vote. He forgot, as
Sergey Ivanovitch explained to him afterwards, this syllogism: that it was
necessary for the public good to get rid of the marshal of the province; that
to get rid of the marshal it was necessary to have a majority of votes; that to
get a majority of votes it was necessary to secure Flerov’s right to vote; that
to secure the recognition of Flerov’s right to vote they must decide on the
interpretation to be put on the act.
“And one vote may decide the whole question, and one must be serious
and consecutive, if one wants to be of use in public life,” concluded Sergey
Ivanovitch. But Levin forgot all that, and it was painful to him to see all
these excellent persons, for whom he had a respect, in such an unpleasant
and vicious state of excitement. To escape from this painful feeling he went
away into the other room where there was nobody except the waiters at the
refreshment bar. Seeing the waiters busy over washing up the crockery and
setting in order their plates and wine-glasses, seeing their calm and cheerful
faces, Levin felt an unexpected sense of relief as though he had come out of
a stuffy room into the fresh air. He began walking up and down, looking
with pleasure at the waiters. He particularly liked the way one gray-
whiskered waiter, who showed his scorn for the other younger ones and was
jeered at by them, was teaching them how to fold up napkins properly.
Levin was just about to enter into conversation with the old waiter, when
the secretary of the court of wardship, a little old man whose specialty it
was to know all the noblemen of the province by name and patronymic,
drew him away.
“Please come, Konstantin Dmitrievitch,” he said, “your brother’s looking
for you. They are voting on the legal point.”
Levin walked into the room, received a white ball, and followed his
brother, Sergey Ivanovitch, to the table where Sviazhsky was standing with
a significant and ironical face, holding his beard in his fist and sniffing at it.
Sergey Ivanovitch put his hand into the box, put the ball somewhere, and
making room for Levin, stopped. Levin advanced, but utterly forgetting
what he was to do, and much embarrassed, he turned to Sergey Ivanovitch
with the question, “Where am I to put it?” He asked this softly, at a moment
when there was talking going on near, so that he had hoped his question
would not be overheard. But the persons speaking paused, and his improper
question was overheard. Sergey Ivanovitch frowned.
“That is a matter for each man’s own decision,” he said severely.
Several people smiled. Levin crimsoned, hurriedly thrust his hand under
the cloth, and put the ball to the right as it was in his right hand. Having put
it in, he recollected that he ought to have thrust his left hand too, and so he
thrust it in though too late, and, still more overcome with confusion, he beat
a hasty retreat into the background.
“A hundred and twenty-six for admission! Ninety-eight against!” sang
out the voice of the secretary, who could not pronounce the letter r. Then
there was a laugh; a button and two nuts were found in the box. The
nobleman was allowed the right to vote, and the new party had conquered.
But the old party did not consider themselves conquered. Levin heard
that they were asking Snetkov to stand, and he saw that a crowd of
noblemen was surrounding the marshal, who was saying something. Levin
went nearer. In reply Snetkov spoke of the trust the noblemen of the
province had placed in him, the affection they had shown him, which he did
not deserve, as his only merit had been his attachment to the nobility, to
whom he had devoted twelve years of service. Several times he repeated the
words: “I have served to the best of my powers with truth and good faith, I
value your goodness and thank you,” and suddenly he stopped short from
the tears that choked him, and went out of the room. Whether these tears
came from a sense of the injustice being done him, from his love for the
nobility, or from the strain of the position he was placed in, feeling himself
surrounded by enemies, his emotion infected the assembly, the majority
were touched, and Levin felt a tenderness for Snetkov.
In the doorway the marshal of the province jostled against Levin.
“Beg pardon, excuse me, please,” he said as to a stranger, but recognizing
Levin, he smiled timidly. It seemed to Levin that he would have liked to say
something, but could not speak for emotion. His face and his whole figure
in his uniform with the crosses, and white trousers striped with braid, as he
moved hurriedly along, reminded Levin of some hunted beast who sees that
he is in evil case. This expression in the marshal’s face was particularly
touching to Levin, because, only the day before, he had been at his house
about his trustee business and had seen him in all his grandeur, a kind-
hearted, fatherly man. The big house with the old family furniture; the
rather dirty, far from stylish, but respectful footmen, unmistakably old
house serfs who had stuck to their master; the stout, good-natured wife in a
cap with lace and a Turkish shawl, petting her pretty grandchild, her
