She would have been horrified if she had known of
her father's sentiments on her behalf. Her instant denial of the wish to
see more people had been quite genuine. The conditions of her life, in
that respect, often seemed to her ideal. It was such a joy to be free
of people one did not care two straws about, and of all empty social
functions. Everything she had now was real--love, and nature, riding,
music, animals, and poor people. What else was worth having? She would
not have changed for anything. It often seemed to her that books and
plays about the unhappiness of women in her position were all false.
If one loved, what could one want better? Such women, if unhappy, could
have no pride; or else could not really love! She had recently been
reading "Anna Karenina," and had often said to herself: "There's
something not true about it--as if Tolstoy wanted to make us believe
that Anna was secretly feeling remorse. If one loves, one doesn't feel
remorse. Even if my baby had been taken away, I shouldn't have felt
remorse. One gives oneself to love--or one does not."
She even derived a positive joy from the feeling that her love imposed a
sort of isolation; she liked to be apart--for him. Besides, by her very
birth she was outside the fold of society, her love beyond the love of
those within it--just as her father's love had been. And her pride was
greater than theirs, too.
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