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
Letter in her hand,
Looking at him with an expression of horror, despair,
And indignation.
"What's this? this?" she asked, pointing to the letter.
And at this recollection,
Stepan Arkadyevitch, as is so often the case, was
Not so much annoyed at the fact
Itself as at the way in which he had met
His wife's words.
There happened to him at that instant what does happen to people when
They are unexpectedly caught in something very disgraceful.
He did not succeed in adapting his
Face to the position in which he was
Placed towards his wife by the
Discovery of his fault. Instead of being
Hurt, denying, defending himself, begging forgiveness, instead of
Remaining indifferent even—anything would have been better than what
He did do—his face utterly
Involuntarily (reflex spinal action, reflected
Stepan Arkadyevitch,
Who was fond of physiology)—utterly involuntarily
Assumed its habitual, good-humored, and therefore idiotic smile.
This idiotic smile he could not forgive himself.
Catching sight of that smile,
Dolly shuddered as though at physical pain,
Broke out with her characteristic
Heat into a flood of cruel words, and
Rushed out of the room. Since then she had refused to see her husband.
"It's that idiotic smile that's to blame for it all," thought Stepan
Arkadyevitch.
"But what's to be done? What's to be done?" he said to himself in
Despair, and found no answer.