She ate and drank as though by
compulsion.
And what was worst of all, she no longer held any opinions. She saw
and understood everything that went on around her, but she could not
form an opinion about it. She knew of nothing to talk about. And how
dreadful not to have opinions! For instance, you see a bottle, or you
see that it is raining, or you see a muzhik riding by in a wagon. But
what the bottle or the rain or the muzhik are for, or what the sense
of them all is, you cannot tell--you cannot tell, not for a thousand
rubles. In the days of Kukin and Pustovalov and then of the veterinary
surgeon, Olenka had had an explanation for everything, and would have
given her opinion freely no matter about what. But now there was the
same emptiness in her heart and brain as in her yard. It was as
galling and bitter as a taste of wormwood.
Gradually the town grew up all around. The Gypsy Road had become a
street, and where the Tivoli and the lumber-yard had been, there were
now houses and a row of side streets. How quickly time flies! Olenka's
house turned gloomy, the roof rusty, the shed slanting. Dock and
thistles overgrew the yard.
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