PART ONE
Chapter 1
Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own
way.
Everything was in confusion in the Oblonskys’ house. The wife had
discovered that the husband was carrying on an intrigue with a French girl,
who had been a governess in their family, and she had announced to her
husband that she could not go on living in the same house with him. This
position of affairs had now lasted three days, and not only the husband and
wife themselves, but all the members of their family and household, were
painfully conscious of it. Every person in the house felt that there was no
sense in their living together, and that the stray people brought together by
chance in any inn had more in common with one another than they, the
members of the family and household of the Oblonskys. The wife did not
leave her own room, the husband had not been at home for three days. The
children ran wild all over the house; the English governess quarreled with
the housekeeper, and wrote to a friend asking her to look out for a new
situation for her; the man-cook had walked off the day before just at dinner
time; the kitchen-maid, and the coachman had given warning.
Three days after the quarrel, Prince Stepan Arkadyevitch Oblonsky—
Stiva, as he was called in the fashionable world—woke up at his usual hour,
that is, at eight o’clock in the morning, not in his wife’s bedroom, but on the
leather-covered sofa in his study. He turned over his stout, well-cared-for
person on the springy sofa, as though he would sink into a long sleep again;
he vigorously embraced the pillow on the other side and buried his face in
it; but all at once he jumped up, sat up on the sofa, and opened his eyes.
“Yes, yes, how was it now?” he thought, going over his dream. “Now,
how was it? To be sure! Alabin was giving a dinner at Darmstadt; no, not
Darmstadt, but something American. Yes, but then, Darmstadt was in
America. Yes, Alabin was giving a dinner on glass tables, and the tables
sang, Il mio tesoro—not Il mio tesoro though, but something better, and
there were some sort of little decanters on the table, and they were women,
too,” he remembered.
Stepan Arkadyevitch’s eyes twinkled gaily, and he pondered with a smile.
“Yes, it was nice, very nice. There was a great deal more that was
delightful, only there’s no putting it into words, or even expressing it in
one’s thoughts awake.” And noticing a gleam of light peeping in beside one
of the serge curtains, he cheerfully dropped his feet over the edge of the
sofa, and felt about with them for his slippers, a present on his last birthday,
worked for him by his wife on gold-colored morocco. And, as he had done
every day for the last nine years, he stretched out his hand, without getting
up, towards the place where his dressing-gown always hung in his bedroom.
And thereupon he suddenly remembered that he was not sleeping in his
wife’s room, but in his study, and why: the smile vanished from his face, he
knitted his brows.
“Ah, ah, ah! Oo!…” he muttered, recalling everything that had happened.
And again every detail of his quarrel with his wife was present to his
imagination, all the hopelessness of his position, and worst of all, his own
fault.
“Yes, she won’t forgive me, and she can’t forgive me. And the most
awful thing about it is that it’s all my fault—all my fault, though I’m not to
blame. That’s the point of the whole situation,” he reflected. “Oh, oh, oh!”
he kept repeating in despair, as he remembered the acutely painful
sensations caused him by this quarrel.
Most unpleasant of all was the first minute when, on coming, happy and
good-humored, from the theater, with a huge pear in his hand for his wife,
he had not found his wife in the drawing-room, to his surprise had not
found her in the study either, and saw her at last in her bedroom with the
unlucky letter that revealed everything in her hand.
She, his Dolly, forever fussing and worrying over household details, and
limited in her ideas, as he considered, was sitting perfectly still with the
