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“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 ma-
lignant 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 insti-
tution,” 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 sur-
prise.
“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 abso-
lutely devoid of political tact. That’s where we Russians are so defi-
cient. 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