Chapter 17

           

           Natáshawascalmerbutnohappier.Shenotmerelyavoidedallexternalformsofpleasure—balls,promenades,concerts,andtheaters—butsheneverlaughedwithoutasoundoftearsinherlaughter.Shecouldnotsing.Assoonasshebegantolaugh,ortriedtosingbyherself,tearschokedher:tearsofremorse,tearsattherecollectionofthosepuretimeswhichcouldneverreturn,tearsofvexationthatsheshouldsouselesslyhaveruinedheryounglifewhichmighthavebeensohappy.Laughterandsinginginparticularseemedtoherlikeablasphemy,infaceofhersorrow.Withoutanyneedofself-restraint,nowishtocoqueteverenteredherhead.ShesaidandfeltatthattimethatnomanwasmoretoherthanNastásyaIvánovna,thebuffoon.Somethingstoodsentinelwithinherandforbadehereveryjoy.Besides,shehadlostalltheoldinterestsofhercarefreegirlishlifethathadbeensofullofhope.Thepreviousautumn,thehunting,“Uncle,”andtheChristmasholidaysspentwithNicholasatOtrádnoewerewhatsherecalledoftenestandmostpainfully.Whatwouldshenothavegiventobringbackevenasingledayofthattime!Butitwasgoneforever.Herpresentimentatthetimehadnotdeceivedher—thatthatstateoffreedomandreadinessforanyenjoymentwouldnotreturnagain.Yetitwasnecessarytoliveon.

           Itcomfortedhertoreflectthatshewasnotbetterasshehadformerlyimagined,butworse,muchworse,thananybodyelseintheworld.Butthiswasnotenough.Sheknewthat,andaskedherself,“Whatnext?”Buttherewasnothingtocome.Therewasnojoyinlife,yetlifewaspassing.

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