| PART 1
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
 so 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. |