'Then why do it, if it's an outright loss?'
'You just do! What can I say? A habit, and also knowing that you have to do it. I'll tell you more,' the landowner went on, leaning his elbow on the windowsill and warming to the subject. 'My son has no interest in farming. It's obvious he'll be a scholar. So there won't be anybody to carry on. And still you do it. I've just planted a garden.'
'Yes, yes,' said Levin, 'it's perfectly true. I always feel that there's no real economy in my farming, and yet I do it ... You feel a sort of responsibility towards the land.'
'Here's what I'll tell you,' the landowner went on. 'I had a merchant for a neighbour. We took a walk round my farm, my garden. "No," he says, "Stepan Vassilyich, you've got everything going in good order, but your little garden's neglected." Though my garden's in quite good order. "If it was me, I'd cut those lindens down. Only the sap must have risen. You've got a thousand lindens here, and each one would yield two good pieces of bast.[10] Bast fetches a nice price these days, and you can cut a good bit of lumber out of the lindens."'
'And he'd use the money to buy cattle or land for next to nothing and lease it out to muzhiks,' Levin finished with a smile, obviously having met with such calculations more than once. 'And he'll make a fortune. While you and I - God help us just to hang on to what's ours and leave it to our children.'
'You're married, I hear?' said the landowner.
'Yes,' Levin replied with proud satisfaction. 'Yes, it's a strange thing,' he went on. 'The way we live like this without reckoning, as if we've been appointed, like ancient vestals,[11] to tend some sort of fire.'
The landowner smiled under his white moustache.
'There are also some among us - our friend Nikolai Ivanych, for instance, or Count Vronsky, who's settled here now - they want to introduce industry into agronomy; but that hasn't led to anything yet except the destroying of capital.'
'But why don't we do as the merchants do? Cut down the lindens for bast?' said Levin, going back to a thought that had struck him.
'It's tending the fire, as you say. No, that's no business for noblemen. And our noblemen's business isn't done here at the elections, but there in our own corner. There's also the instinct of your class, what's done and what isn't done. And the muzhiks are the same, to look at them sometimes: a good muzhik just takes and rents as much land as he can. No matter how poor it is, he ploughs away. Also without reckoning. For an outright loss.'
'Just like us,' said Levin. 'It's been very, very nice to meet you again,' he added, seeing Sviyazhsky approaching them.
'And here we've just met for the first time since we were at your place,' said the landowner, 'so we fell to talking.'
'Well, have you denounced the new ways?' Sviyazhsky said with a smile.
'That, too.'
'Unburdened our souls.'
XXX
Sviyazhsky took Levin under the arm and went with him to their people.
Now it was impossible to avoid Vronsky. He stood with Stepan Arkadyich and Sergei Ivanovich and looked straight at the approaching Levin.
'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 ami cochon* with him and ask him to stand. And Count Vronsky ... I'm not going to be friends with him - he's invited me to dinner; I won't go - but he's one
* Fast friends.
of us. Why make an enemy of him? And then you ask Nevedovsky if he's going to stand. It isn't done.'
'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.
The marshal was elected by a large majority. A hubbub arose and everybody rushed headlong for the door. Snetkov came in and the nobility surrounded him, offering congratulations.
'Well, is it over now?' Levin asked Sergei Ivanovich.
'It's just beginning,' Sviyazhsky, smiling, answered for Sergei Ivanovich. 'The new candidate for marshal may get more votes.'
Again Levin had quite forgotten about that. Only now did he remember that there was some subtlety here, but he found it boring to recall what it was. He was overcome with dejection and wanted to get out of the crowd that instant.
Since no one paid any attention to him and he seemed not to be needed by anyone, he quietly went to the smaller room where refreshments were served and felt greatly relieved to see the servants again. The little old servant offered him something, and Levin accepted. After eating a cutlet with beans and discussing the servant's former masters with him, Levin, unwilling to enter the big room where he felt so uncomfortable, went for a stroll in the gallery.
The gallery was filled with smartly-dressed women who leaned over the balustrade trying not to miss a word of what was being said below. Beside the ladies sat or stood elegant lawyers, bespectacled high-school teachers and officers. The talk everywhere was about the elections, and how tormenting it was for the marshal, and how good the debate had been. In one group Levin heard his brother praised. A lady said to a lawyer:
'I'm so glad I heard Koznyshev! It was worth going without dinner. Charming! So lucid. And one can hear everything! In your courts no one ever speaks like that. Only Meidel, and even he is far less eloquent.'
Finding free space by the balustrade, Levin leaned over and began to look and listen.
All the noblemen sat behind their partitions, by districts. In the middle of the room a man in a uniform stood and announced in a loud, high voice:
'Now standing for provincial marshal of the nobility is Cavalry Staff-Captain Evgeny Ivanovich Opukhtin!'
A dead silence ensued, and one weak old man's voice was heard:
'Decline!'
'Now standing is Court Councillor Pyotr Petrovich Bohl,' the voice began a(gain.
'Decline!' a shrill young voice rang out.
The same thing again, and again a 'decline'. It went on that way for about an hour. Levin, leaning on the balustrade, looked and listened. At first he was surprised and wanted to understand what it meant; then, realizing that he was unable to understand it, he became bored. Then, remembering the agitation and anger he had seen on all faces, he felt sad. He decided to leave and went downstairs. Passing through the corridor behind the gallery, he met a dejected high-school student with puffy eyes pacing up and down. And on the stairs he met a couple: a lady running quickly on her high-heeled shoes and a light-footed assistant prosecutor.
'I told you you wouldn't be late,' the prosecutor said just as Levin stepped aside to let the lady pass.
Levin was already on the main stairway and taking the tag for his coat from his waistcoat pocket, when the secretary caught up with him. 'Please come, Konstantin Dmitrich, we're voting.' The so resolutely declining Nevedovsky was now standing as a candidate.
Levin came to the door of the big room: it was locked. The secretary knocked, the door opened, and two red-faced landowners whisked out past Levin.
'I can't stand anymore,' said one red-faced landowner.
After him, the face of the provincial marshal stuck itself out. Exhaustion and fear gave this face a dreadful look.
'I told you not to let them out!' he shouted to the doorkeeper.
'I was letting them in, your excellency!'
'Lord!' And with a heavy sigh, the provincial marshal, shuffling wearily in his white trousers, his head bowed, walked across the room to the governor's table.
Nevedovsky got the majority of votes, as had been calculated, and became the provincial marshal. Many were amused, many were pleased, happy, many were delighted, many were displeased and unhappy. The provincial marshal was in despair, which he was unable to conceal. As Nevedovsky left the big room, the crowd surrounded him and followed him out, just as it had followed the governor on the first day when he had opened the elections, and just as it had followed Snetkov when he had been elected.
XXXI
The newly elected provincial marshal and many from the victorious party of the new dined that day at Vronsky's.
Vronsky had come to the elections because he was bored in the country and had to assert his right to freedom before Anna, and in order to repay Sviyazhsky with support at the elections for all the trouble he had taken for him at the zemstvo elections, and most of all in order to strictly fulfil all the responsibilities of the position of nobleman and landowner that he had chosen for himself. But he had never expected that this business of the elections could get him so involved, could so touch him to the quick, or that he could do it so well. He was a completely new man in the circle of the noblemen, but he was obviously a success, and he was not mistaken in thinking that he had already gained influence among them. Contributing to that influence were: his wealth and high birth; his splendid lodgings in town, which his old acquaintance, Shirkov, a financial dealer who had established a flourishing bank in Kashin, allowed him to use; an excellent chef, whom Vronsky had brought along from the country; his friendship with the governor, who had been Vronsky's comrade, and a patronized comrade at that; and most of all his simple, equable treatment of everyone, which very soon made most of the noblemen change their opinion about his supposed pride. He himself felt that, apart from the crack-brained gentleman married to Kitty Shcherbatsky, who, a propos de bottes,* had told him, with ridiculous anger, heaps of totally inappropriate inanities, every nobleman whose acquaintance he had made had ended by becoming his adherent. He saw clearly, and others admitted it as well, that he had contributed greatly to Nevedovsky's success. And now, at his own table, celebrating Nevedovsky's victory, he experienced a pleasant feeling of triumph for the man of his choice. The elections themselves enticed him so much that, should he be married by the end of the three-year term, he was thinking of standing himself - in the same way as, after winning a prize through a jockey, he would always wish he had raced himself.
But now the jockey's victory was being celebrated. Vronsky sat at the head of the table; to his right sat the young governor, a general at imperial headquarters. For everyone else he was the master of the province, who had solemnly opened the elections, delivered a speech, and inspired both respect and servility in many, as Vronsky could see; but for Vronsky he was Katie Maslov - as he had been nicknamed in the Corps of Pages - who felt abashed before him and whom Vronsky tried to mettre a son aise.* To the left of him sat Nevedovsky, with his youthful, unshakable and venomous face. With him Vronsky was simple and respectful.
Sviyazhsky bore his failure cheerfully. It was not even a failure for him, as he said himself, addressing Nevedovsky with a glass: it was impossible to find a better representative of that new direction which the nobility must follow. And therefore all that was honest, as he said, stood on the side of the present success and celebrated it.
Stepan Arkadyich was also glad that he was having a merry time and that everyone was pleased. Over an excellent dinner they recalled
* Apropos of nothing.
* Set at ease.
episodes from the elections. Sviyazhsky comically imitated the marshal's tearful speech and observed, turning to Nevedovsky, that his excellency would have to find a different method, more complicated than tears, for auditing the books. Another jocular nobleman told them that stockinged lackeys had been summoned for the provincial marshal's ball, and that now they would have to be sent back, unless the new provincial marshal gave a ball with stockinged lackeys.
During dinner Nevedovsky was constantly addressed with the words 'our provincial marshal' and 'your
excellency'.
This was done with the same pleasure as when a young woman is addressed as 'madame' and with her husband's last name. Nevedovsky pretended that he was not only indifferent to but even scorned the title, yet it was obvious that he was happy and only kept a tight rein on himself so as not to express a delight unsuited to the new liberal milieu in which they all found themselves.
Over dinner several telegrams were sent to people interested in the course of the elections. And Stepan Arkadyich, who was very merry, sent Darya Alexandrovna a telegram with the following content: 'Nevedovsky won by twelve votes. Congratulations. Spread news.' He dictated it aloud, observing: 'They must share the glad tidings.' When she received the telegram, Darya Alexandrovna merely sighed over the waste of a rouble, realizing that it must have been the end of the dinner. She knew that Stiva had a weakness for faire jouer le telegraphe* at the end of a good dinner.
Everything, including the excellent dinner and the wines (not from Russian wine merchants but bottled abroad), was very noble, simple and merry. The circle of twenty people had been selected by Sviyazhsky from like-minded new liberal activists who were at the same time witty and respectable. Toasts were drunk, also half in jest, to the new provincial marshal, to the governor, to the bank director, and to 'our gentle host'.