‘Delighted! I believe I had the pleasure of meeting you ... at Princess Shcherbatsky’s,’ he said, holding out his hand to Levin.
‘Yes, I remember our meeting very well,’ said Levin and, flushing crimson, he turned away at once and began talking with his brother.
Vronsky smiled slightly and went on talking with Sviyazhsky, evidently having no wish to get into conversation with Levin; but Levin, while talking with his brother, kept looking back at Vronsky, trying to think up something to say to him to smooth over his rudeness.
‘What comes next?’ asked Levin, looking at Sviyazhsky and Vronsky.
‘Next is Snetkov. He must either refuse or accept,’ replied Sviyazhsky.
‘And what about him, has he accepted or not?’
‘The thing is that he’s done neither,’ said Vronsky.
‘And if he refuses, who’s going to stand?’ asked Levin, who kept looking at Vronsky.
‘Whoever wants to,’ said Sviyazhsky.
‘Will you?’ asked Levin.
‘Certainly not,’ said Sviyazhsky, embarrassed and casting a fearful glance at the venomous gentleman who was standing by Sergei Ivanovich.
‘Who, then? Nevedovsky?’ said Levin, feeling himself at a loss.
But that was worse still. Nevedovsky and Sviyazhsky were the two candidates.
‘Not I, in any case,’ the venomous gentleman replied.
This was Nevedovsky himself. Sviyazhsky introduced him to Levin.
‘What, has it got under your skin, too?’ said Stepan Arkadyich, winking at Vronsky. ‘It’s like a race. We could bet on it.’
‘Yes, it does get under your skin,’ said Vronsky. ‘And once you take something up, you want to go through with it. It’s a battle!’ he said, frowning and clenching his strong jaws.
‘What a mover Sviyazhsky is! Everything’s so clear to him.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Vronsky said distractedly.
Silence followed, during which Vronsky - since one had to look at something - looked at Levin, at his feet, at his uniform, then at his face, and noticing the sullen look directed at him, said, in order to say something:
‘And how is it that you are a permanent country-dweller and not a justice of the peace? You’re not wearing the uniform of a justice of the peace.’
‘Because I think the local court is an idiotic institution,’ Levin replied sullenly, though he had been waiting all along for a chance to strike up a conversation with Vronsky in order to smooth over his initial rudeness.
‘I don’t think so, on the contrary,’ Vronsky said with calm astonishment.
‘It’s a game,’ Levin interrupted him. ‘We don’t need justices of the peace. I haven’t had a single case in eight years. And when I did have one, it was decided inside-out. The justice of the peace lives twenty-five miles from me. I have to send an attorney who costs fifteen roubles on business that’s worth two.’
And he told them how a muzhik stole flour from a miller, and when the miller told him about it, the muzhik sued him for slander. This was all inappropriate and stupid, and Levin felt it himself as he spoke.
‘Oh, what an original!’ said Stepan Arkadyich with his most almond-buttery smile. ‘But come, I think they’re voting ...’
And they dispersed.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Sergei Ivanovich, who had observed his brother’s awkward escapade, ‘I don’t understand how it’s possible to be deprived of political tact to such a degree. That’s what we Russians lack. The provincial marshal is our opponent and you are
‘Ah, I don’t understand any of it! And it’s all trifles,’ Levin replied sullenly.
‘You say it’s all trifles and then you muddle everything up.’
Levin fell silent and together they went into the big room.
The provincial marshal, though he felt that a dirty trick was in the air, prepared for him, and though not everyone had asked him, still decided to stand. The whole room fell silent; the secretary announced stentoriously that Captain of the Guards Mikhail Stepanovich Snetkov was standing for provincial marshal.
The district marshals began circulating with little plates of ballots, from their own tables to the governor‘s, and the elections began.
‘Put it on the right,’ Stepan Arkadyich whispered to Levin, as he and his brother followed the marshal to the table. But just then Levin forgot the calculation that had been explained to him and feared that Stepan Arkadyich was mistaken when he said ‘to the right’. For Snetkov was the enemy. As he approached the box, he held the ballot in his right hand, but, thinking he was mistaken, he shifted it to his left hand and then, obviously, put it on the left. An expert who was standing near the box and could tell just from the movement of the elbow where the ballot had been put, winced with displeasure. There was nothing for him to exercise his perspicacity on.
Everyone kept silent and the counting of the ballots could be heard. Then a single voice announced the numbers for and against.
