"I thought her grown old!"
"But, Lot!..."
"I assure you, I thought her grown old! Does everything grow old then, do even the immortals grow old? I remember her as she used to be: calm, serene, imposing, white as snow, in spite of her mutilation, against a brilliant background of dark-red velvet. This time I thought her no longer imposing, no longer white as snow; she seemed pathetically crippled; and the velvet background was no longer brilliant. Everything had grown old and dull and I had a shock and felt very sad.... Soberly speaking, I think now that they ought just to clean her down one morning and renew the velvet hanging; and then, on a sunny day, if I was in a good mood, I daresay I should think her serene and white as snow again. But, as she showed herself to me, I thought her grown old; and it gave me a shock. It upset me for quite an hour, but I didn't let you see it.... For that matter, I think Paris altogether has grown very old: so dirty, so old-fashioned, so provincial; a conglomeration of quartiers and small towns huddled together; and so exactly the same as it was fifteen years ago, but older, grimier and more old-fashioned. Look! This papier-mâché chicken here"—they were in the Avenue de l'Opéra—"has been turning on that spit, as an advertisement, with the oily butter dripping from it: Elly, that chicken has been turning for fifteen years! And last night, at the Théâtre Français, I had a shock, just as I did to-day at the Venus of Milo. The Théâtre Français had grown so old, so old, with that dreadful ranting, that I asked myself, 'Was it always so old, or do I think it old because I am older myself?'..."
"But Aunt Thérèse ..."
"So you insist on going to her.... Really, we'd better not. She too has grown old; and what are we to her?... We are young still.... I also am young still, am I not?... You don't think me too old, your blasé husband?... In Italy, we shall find real enjoyment...."
"Why, everything will be still older there!"
"Yes, but everything is not growing older. That's all past, it's all the past. It's the obvious past and therefore it's so restful. It's all dead."
"But surely the country is alive?... Modern life goes on?..."
"I don't care about that. All that I see is the past; and that is so beautifully, so restfully dead. That doesn't sadden me. What saddens me is the old people and the old things that are still alive and ever so old and have gradually, gradually gone past us; but things which are restfully dead and which are so exquisitely beautiful as in Italy, they don't sadden me: they calm me and rouse my admiration for everything that was once so beautifully alive and is still so beautiful in death. Paris saddens me, because the city is dying, as all France is; Rome exhilarates me: the city, what I see of it, is dead; and I feel myself young in it still and still alive; and that makes me glad, selfishly glad, while at the same time I admire the dead, calm beauty."
"So that will be the subject of your next essay."