Anna Karenina

evin 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
daughter’s daughter; the young son, a sixth form high school boy,
coming home from school, and greeting his father, kissing his big hand;
the genuine, cordial words and gestures of the old man—all this had the
day before roused an instinctive feeling of respect and sympathy in
Levin. This old man was a touching and pathetic figure to Levin now,
and he longed to say something pleasant to him.

“So you’re sure to be our marshal again,” he said.

“It’s not likely,” said the marshal, looking round with a scared
expression. “I’m worn out, I’m old. If there are men younger and more
deserving than I, let them serve.”

And the marshal disappeared through a side door.

The most solemn moment was at hand. They were to proceed immediately to
the election. The leaders of both parties were reckoning white and
black on their fingers.

The discussion upon Flerov had given the new party not only Flerov’s
vote, but had also gained time for them, so that they could send to
fetch three noblemen who had been rendered unable to take part in the
elections by the wiles of the other party. Two noble gentlemen, who had
a weakness for strong drink, had been made drunk by the partisans of
Snetkov, and a third had been robbed of his uniform.

On learning this, the new party had made haste, during the dispute
about Flerov, to send some of their men in a sledge to clothe the
stripped gentleman, and to bring along one of the intoxicated to the
meeting.

“I’ve brought one, drenched him with water,” said the landowner, who
had gone on this errand, to Sviazhsky. “He’s all right? he’ll do.”

“Not too drunk, he won’t fall down?” said Sviazhsky, shaking his head.

“No, he’s first-rate. If only they don’t give him any more here....
I’ve told the waiter not to give him anything on any account.”