Chapter 30
Sviazhsky took Levin’s arm, and went with him to his own friends.
This time there was no avoiding Vronsky. He was standing with Stepan
Arkadyevitch and Sergey Ivanovitch, and looking straight at Levin as he
drew near.
“Delighted! I believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you … at Princess
Shtcherbatskaya’s,” he said, giving Levin his hand.
“Yes, I quite remember our meeting,” said Levin, and blushing crimson,
he turned away immediately, and began talking to his brother.
With a slight smile Vronsky went on talking to Sviazhsky, obviously
without the slightest inclination to enter into conversation with Levin. But
Levin, as he talked to his brother, was continually looking round at
Vronsky, trying to think of something to say to him to gloss over his
rudeness.
“What are we waiting for now?” asked Levin, looking at Sviazhsky and
Vronsky.
“For Snetkov. He has to refuse or to consent to stand,” answered
Sviazhsky.
“Well, and what has he done, consented or not?”
“That’s the point, that he’s done neither,” said Vronsky.
“And if he refuses, who will stand then?” asked Levin, looking at
Vronsky.
“Whoever chooses to,” said Sviazhsky.
“Shall you?” asked Levin.
“Certainly not I,” said Sviazhsky, looking confused, and turning an
alarmed glance at the malignant gentleman, who was standing beside
Sergey Ivanovitch.
“Who then? Nevyedovsky?” said Levin, feeling he was putting his foot
into it.
But this was worse still. Nevyedovsky and Sviazhsky were the two
candidates.
“I certainly shall not, under any circumstances,” answered the malignant
gentleman.
This was Nevyedovsky himself. Sviazhsky introduced him to Levin.
“Well, you find it exciting too?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, winking at
Vronsky. “It’s something like a race. One might bet on it.”
“Yes, it is keenly exciting,” said Vronsky. “And once taking the thing up,
one’s eager to see it through. It’s a fight!” he said, scowling and setting his
powerful jaws.
“What a capable fellow Sviazhsky is! Sees it all so clearly.”
“Oh, yes!” Vronsky assented indifferently.
A silence followed, during which Vronsky—since he had to look at
something—looked at Levin, at his feet, at his uniform, then at his face, and
noticing his gloomy eyes fixed upon him, he said, in order to say
something:
“How is it that you, living constantly in the country, are not a justice of
the peace? You are not in the uniform of one.”
“It’s because I consider that the justice of the peace is a silly institution,”
Levin answered gloomily. He had been all the time looking for an
opportunity to enter into conversation with Vronsky, so as to smooth over
his rudeness at their first meeting.
“I don’t think so, quite the contrary,” Vronsky said, with quiet surprise.
“It’s a plaything,” Levin cut him short. “We don’t want justices of the
peace. I’ve never had a single thing to do with them during eight years. And
what I have had was decided wrongly by them. The justice of the peace is
over thirty miles from me. For some matter of two roubles I should have to
send a lawyer, who costs me fifteen.”
And he related how a peasant had stolen some flour from the miller, and
when the miller told him of it, had lodged a complaint for slander. All this
was utterly uncalled for and stupid, and Levin felt it himself as he said it.
“Oh, this is such an original fellow!” said Stepan Arkadyevitch with his
most soothing, almond-oil smile. “But come along; I think they’re
voting….”
And they separated.
“I can’t understand,” said Sergey Ivanovitch, who had observed his
brother’s clumsiness, “I can’t understand how anyone can be so absolutely
devoid of political tact. That’s where we Russians are so deficient. The
marshal of the province is our opponent, and with him you’re ami cochon,
and you beg him to stand. Count Vronsky, now … I’m not making a friend
of him; he’s asked me to dinner, and I’m not going; but he’s one of our side
—why make an enemy of him? Then you ask Nevyedovsky if he’s going to
stand. That’s not a thing to do.”
“Oh, I don’t understand it at all! And it’s all such nonsense,” Levin
answered gloomily.
“You say it’s all such nonsense, but as soon as you have anything to do
with it, you make a muddle.”
Levin did not answer, and they walked together into the big room.
The marshal of the province, though he was vaguely conscious in the air
of some trap being prepared for him, and though he had not been called
upon by all to stand, had still made up his mind to stand. All was silence in
the room. The secretary announced in a loud voice that the captain of the
guards, Mihail Stepanovitch Snetkov, would now be balloted for as marshal
of the province.
The district marshals walked carrying plates, on which were balls, from
their tables to the high table, and the election began.
“Put it in the right side,” whispered Stepan Arkadyevitch, as with his
brother Levin followed the marshal of his district to the table. But Levin
had forgotten by now the calculations that had been explained to him, and
was afraid Stepan Arkadyevitch might be mistaken in saying “the right
side.” Surely Snetkov was the enemy. As he went up, he held the ball in his
right hand, but thinking he was wrong, just at the box he changed to the left
hand, and undoubtedly put the ball to the left. An adept in the business,
standing at the box and seeing by the mere action of the elbow where each
put his ball, scowled with annoyance. It was no good for him to use his
insight.
Everything was still, and the counting of the balls was heard. Then a
single voice rose and proclaimed the numbers for and against. The marshal
had been voted for by a considerable majority. All was noise and eager
movement towards the doors. Snetkov came in, and the nobles thronged
round him, congratulating him.
“Well, now is it over?” Levin asked Sergey Ivanovitch.
“It’s only just beginning,” Sviazhsky said, replying for Sergey Ivanovitch
with a smile. “Some other candidate may receive more votes than the
marshal.”
Levin had quite forgotten about that. Now he could only remember that
there was some sort of trickery in it, but he was too bored to think what it
was exactly. He felt depressed, and longed to get out of the crowd.
As no one was paying any attention to him, and no one apparently
needed him, he quietly slipped away into the little room where the
refreshments were, and again had a great sense of comfort when he saw the
waiters. The little old waiter pressed him to have something, and Levin
agreed. After eating a cutlet with beans and talking to the waiters of their
former masters, Levin, not wishing to go back to the hall, where it was all
so distasteful to him, proceeded to walk through the galleries. The galleries
were full of fashionably dressed ladies, leaning over the balustrade and
trying not to lose a single word of what was being said below. With the
ladies were sitting and standing smart lawyers, high school teachers in
spectacles, and officers. Everywhere they were talking of the election, and
of how worried the marshal was, and how splendid the discussions had
been. In one group Levin heard his brother’s praises. One lady was telling a
lawyer:
“How glad I am I heard Koznishev! It’s worth losing one’s dinner. He’s
exquisite! So clear and distinct all of it! There’s not one of you in the law
courts that speaks like that. The only one is Meidel, and he’s not so eloquent
by a long way.”
Finding a free place, Levin leaned over the balustrade and began looking
and listening.
All the noblemen were sitting railed off behind barriers according to their
districts. In the middle of the room stood a man in a uniform, who shouted
in a loud, high voice:
“As a candidate for the marshalship of the nobility of the province we
call upon staff-captain Yevgeney Ivanovitch Apuhtin!” A dead silence
followed, and then a weak old voice was heard: “Declined!”
“We call upon the privy councilor Pyotr Petrovitch Bol,” the voice began
again.
“Declined!” a high boyish voice replied.
Again it began, and again “Declined.” And so it went on for about an
hour. Levin, with his elbows on the balustrade, looked and listened. At first
he wondered and wanted to know what it meant; then feeling sure that he
could not make it out he began to be bored. Then recalling all the
excitement and vindictiveness he had seen on all the faces, he felt sad; he
made up his mind to go, and went downstairs. As he passed through the
entry to the galleries he met a dejected high school boy walking up and
down with tired-looking eyes. On the stairs he met a couple—a lady
running quickly on her high heels and the jaunty deputy prosecutor.
“I told you you weren’t late,” the deputy prosecutor was saying at the
moment when Levin moved aside to let the lady pass.
Levin was on the stairs to the way out, and was just feeling in his
waistcoat pocket for the number of his overcoat, when the secretary
overtook him.
“This way, please, Konstantin Dmitrievitch; they are voting.”
The candidate who was being voted on was Nevyedovsky, who had so
stoutly denied all idea of standing. Levin went up to the door of the room; it
was locked. The secretary knocked, the door opened, and Levin was met by
two red-faced gentlemen, who darted out.
“I can’t stand any more of it,” said one red-faced gentleman.
After them the face of the marshal of the province was poked out. His
face was dreadful-looking from exhaustion and dismay.
“I told you not to let anyone out!” he cried to the doorkeeper.
“I let someone in, your excellency!”
“Mercy on us!” and with a heavy sigh the marshal of the province walked
with downcast head to the high table in the middle of the room, his legs
staggering in his white trousers.
Nevyedovsky had scored a higher majority, as they had planned, and he
was the new marshal of the province. Many people were amused, many
were pleased and happy, many were in ecstasies, many were disgusted and
unhappy. The former marshal of the province was in a state of despair,
which he could not conceal. When Nevyedovsky went out of the room, the
crowd thronged round him and followed him enthusiastically, just as they
