This is the best translation, and the only to capture the exquisite beauty of the first paragraph, one of the greatest ever put down.
"No matter that men in their hundreds of thousands disfigured the land on which they swarmed, paved the ground with stones so that no green thing could grow, filled the air with fumes of coal and gas, lopped back all the trees, and drove away every animal and every bird: spring was still spring, even in the town. The sun shone warmly, the grass came to life again and showed itself wherever it was not scraped away, between the paving stones as well as on the lawns in the boulevards; the birches, the wild cherries, and the poplars unfolded their sticky and fragrant leaves, the swelling buds were bursting on the lime trees; the jackdaws, the sparrows, and the pigeons were happy and busy over their nests, and the flies, warmed by the sunshine, hummed gaily along the walls. Plants, birds, insects, and children rejoiced. But men, adult men, never ceased to cheat and harass their fellows and themselves. What men considered sacred and important was not the spring morning, not the beauty of God's world given for the enjoyment of all creatures, not the beauty which inclines the heart to peace and love and concord. What men considered sacred and important were their own devices for wielding power over their fellow men."
Tolstoy is a moralist of the highest order and this novel comes after his spiritual conversion, when his morality has reached the highest pitch of maturity. The ever-present irony in this book, where the behavior of men is continuously contrasted with what is good and right, is delightful and sobering at the same time. Compared to Resurrection, Tolstoy's more famous novels are vain and empty exercises in futility. A must read.
Also recommended: The Death of Ivan Illych and other stories, also by Tolstoy.