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posed; 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 oppo-
sition 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,” con-
cluded 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 unex-
pected 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 over-
heard. 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!”