"A hundred and twenty-six for admission! Ninety-eight against!"

sang out the voice of the secretary, who could not pronounce the

letter _r_. Then there was a laugh; a button and two nuts were

found in the box. The nobleman was allowed the right to vote,

and the new party had conquered.

But the old party did not consider themselves conquered. Levin

heard that they were asking Snetkov to stand, and he saw that a

crowd of noblemen was surrounding the marshal, who was saying

something. Levin went nearer. In reply Snetkov spoke of the

trust the noblemen of the province had placed in him, the

affection they had shown him, which he did not deserve, as his

only merit had been his attachment to the nobility, to whom he

had devoted twelve years of service. Several times he repeated

the words: "I have served to the best of my powers with truth and

good faith, I value your goodness and thank you," and suddenly he

stopped short from the tears that choked him, and went out of the

room. Whether these tears came from a sense of the injustice

being done him, from his love for the nobility, or from the

strain of the position he was placed in, feeling himself

surrounded by enemies, his emotion infected the assembly, the

majority were touched, and Levin felt a tenderness for Snetkov.

In the doorway the marshal of the province jostled against Levin.

"Beg pardon, excuse me, please," he said as to a stranger, but

recognizing Levin, he smiled timidly. It seemed to Levin that he

would have liked to say something, but could not speak for

emotion. His face and his whole figure in his uniform with the

crosses, and white trousers striped with braid, as he moved

hurriedly along, reminded Levin of some hunted beast who sees

that he is in evil case. This expression in the marshal's face

was particularly touching to Levin, because, only the day before,

he had been at his house about his trustee business and had seen

him in all his grandeur, a kind-hearted, fatherly man. The big

house with the old family furniture; the rather dirty, far from

stylish, but respectful footmen, unmistakably old house serfs who

had stuck to their master; the stout, good-natured wife in a cap

with lace and a Turkish shawl, petting her pretty grandchild, her

daughter's daughter; the young son, a sixth form high school boy,

coming home from school, and greeting his father, kissing his big

hand; the genuine, cordial words and gestures of the old man--all

this had the day before roused an instinctive feeling of respect

and sympathy in Levin. This old man was a touching and pathetic

figure to Levin now, and he longed to say something pleasant to

him.




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