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1、Anna Karenina安娜卡列尼娜By Leo Tolstoy 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 s
2、he 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 two days, and not only the husband and wife themselves, but all the members of their family and the household, were painfully conscious of it. All the members of the fa
3、mily and the household felt that there was no sense in their living together, and that even stray people brought together by chance in any inn had more in common with one another than they, the members of the family and the household of the Oblonskys. The wife did not leave her own apartments; the h
4、usband had not been home for two 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 employ for her; the man cook had walked off the day before just at dinnertime; the kitchenmaid and the coachma
5、n had given warning. Two days after the quarrel, Prince Stepan Arkadyevich Oblonsky- Stiva, as he was called in the fashionable world- woke up at his usual hour, that is, at eight oclock in the morning, not in his wifes bedroom, but on the leather-covered sofa in his study. He turned over his stout,
6、 well-cared-for person on the springy sofa, as though he would sink into a long sleep again; he vigorously embraced the pillow on its 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 drea
7、m. Yes, how was it? Yes! 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- no, not Il mio tesoro, but something better, and there were some
8、sort of little decanters on the table, and, at the same time, these decanters were women, he recalled. Stepan Arkadyevichs eyes twinkled gaily, and he pondered with a smile. Yes, it was jolly, very jolly. There was a great deal more that was delightful, only theres no putting it into words, or even
9、expressing it in ones waking thoughts. And noticing a gleam of light peeping in beside one of the woolen-cloth 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 moro
10、cco. And, as he used to do for the last nine years, he stretched out his hand, without getting up, toward the place where his dressing gown always hung in the bedroom. And thereupon he suddenly remembered that he was not sleeping in his wifes room, but in his study, as well as the reason; the smile
11、vanished from his face and he knit 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 wont forgive me, an
12、d she cant forgive me. And the most awful thing about it is that its all my fault- all my fault, though Im not to blame. Thats the point of the whole tragedy, he reflected. Oh, oh, oh! he kept repeating in despair, as he remembered the acutely painful sensations caused him by this quarrel. Most unpl
13、easant of all was the first minute when, on coming from the theater, good-humored and lighthearted, with a huge pear in his hand for his wife, he had not found his wife in the drawing room, to his surprise, nor in the study, but saw her at last in her bedroom, clutching the unlucky letter that revea
14、led everything. She, his Dolly, forever fussing and worrying over household details, and limited in her ideas, as he considered, was sitting motionless with the letter in her hand, looking at him with an expression of horror, despair and indignation. What is this? This? she asked, pointing to the le
15、tter. And at this recollection, Stepan Arkadyevich, 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 wifes words. There happened to him at that instant that which happens to people when they are unexpectedly caught in something very disgracefu
16、l. He did not succeed in adapting his face to the situation in which he was placed toward 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 without his volition (cerebral reflexes, mused Stepan Arkadyevich, who was f
