But Levin had forgotten that, and it was painful for him to see these good people, whom he respected, in such unpleasant, angry agitation. To rid himself of that painful feeling, he went to the other room without waiting for the end of the debate. No one was there except the servants at the buffet. Seeing the servants busily wiping platters and setting out plates and glasses, seeing their calm, animated faces, Levin experienced a sudden feeling of relief, as if he had gone from a stinking room into the fresh air. He began pacing up and down, looking with pleasure at the servants. He liked it very much when one servant with grey side-whiskers, showing his contempt for the younger ones who kept teasing him, taught them how to fold napkins. Levin was about to get into conversation with the old servant when the secretary of the noblemen’s trust, a little old man whose specialty was knowing all the noblemen of the province by name and patronymic, distracted him.
‘If you please, Konstantin Dmitrich,’ he said to him, ‘your brother is looking for you. The question is being put to the vote.’
Levin went into the room, was given a little white ball and, following his brother Sergei Ivanovich, approached the table at which Sviyazhsky stood with a significant and ironic face, gathering his beard in his fist and sniffing it. Sergei Ivanovich thrust his hand into the box, put his ballot somewhere and, yielding his place to Levin, stayed right there. Levin came up, but forgetting what it was all about and becoming embarrassed, he turned to Sergei Ivanovich and asked: ‘Where shall I put it?’ He asked it softly, while there was talk around him, and hoped his question would not be heard. But the talkers fell silent, and his improper question was heard. Sergei Ivanovich frowned.
‘That is a matter of individual conviction,’ he said sternly.
A few smiled. Levin blushed, hastily put his hand under the cloth and placed the ballot to the right, since it was in his right hand. Then he remembered that he should also have put his left hand in, and put it in as well, but too late, and, still more embarrassed, hurriedly retreated to the farthest rows.
‘One hundred and twenty-six in favour! Ninety-eight against!’ the voice of the secretary, who swallowed his rs, rang out. Laughter followed : a button and two nuts had been found in the box. The nobleman was admitted, and the new party was victorious.
But the old party did not consider itself defeated. Levin heard that Snetkov was being asked to stand, and saw a crowd of noblemen surround the provincial marshal, who was saying something. Levin went closer. In answer to the noblemen, Snetkov spoke of the confidence of the nobility, of their love for him, which he did not deserve, for his whole merit consisted in his being loyal to the nobility, to whom he had devoted twelve years of service. Several times he repeated the words: ‘I have served with all my strength, truly and loyally, I appreciate and thank you,’ and suddenly he stopped, choked by tears, and walked out of the room. Whether those tears were caused by awareness of the injustice done him, or by his love for the nobility, or by the strained position he was in, feeling himself surrounded by enemies, his emotion communicated itself, the majority of the noblemen were moved and Levin felt a tenderness for Snetkov.
In the doorway the provincial marshal ran into him.
‘I’m sorry, please excuse me,’ he said to him, as to a stranger; but recognizing Levin, he smiled timidly. It seemed to Levin that he wanted to say something, but could not because of the emotion. The expression of his face and of his whole figure in the uniform, the crosses and white trousers with galloons, the hurried way he walked, reminded Levin of a hunted beast who sees that things are going badly for him. Levin found the expression on the marshal’s face especially touching because only yesterday he had called on him at his home on the matter of the trusteeship and had seen him in all the grandeur of a good family man. The big house with its old family furniture; the unfashionable and slightly shabby but deferential old servants, apparently former house serfs who had never changed masters; the fat and good-natured wife in a lace cap and Turkish shawl, caressing a pretty little grandchild, her daughter’s daughter; the fine fellow of a son, a sixth-grade student on holiday from school, who kissed his father’s big hand in greeting; the host’s imposing, benign conversation and gestures - all this had involuntarily called up respect and sympathy in Levin the day before. Now he found the old man touching and pitiful, and he wanted to say something nice to him.
‘So you’re to be our marshal again,’ he said.
‘Hardly,’ said the marshal, looking round fearfully. ‘I’m tired and old. There are others worthier and younger than I. Let them serve.’
And the marshal disappeared through the side door.
