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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 annoy-
ance. 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 remem-
ber 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.