Sometimes a spell of fine
weather made her a little more energetic, she would rise and put on her
clothes; but before she had reached the outer room she would be 'tired'
again, and would insist on returning to her bed. The process which had
begun in her--and in her a little earlier only than it must come to all of
us--was the great and general renunciation which old age makes in
preparation for death, the chrysalis stage of life, which may be observed
wherever life has been unduly prolonged; even in old lovers who have lived
for one another with the utmost intensity of passion, and in old friends
bound by the closest ties of mental sympathy, who, after a certain year,
cease to make, the necessary journey, or even to cross the street to see
one another, cease to correspond, and know well that they will communicate
no more in this world. My aunt must have been perfectly well aware that
she would not see Swann again, that she would never leave her own house
any more, but this ultimate seclusion seemed to be accepted by her with
all the more readiness for the very reason which, to our minds, ought to
have made it more unbearable; namely, that such a seclusion was forced
upon her by the gradual and steady diminution in her strength which she
was able to measure daily, which, by making every action, every movement
'tiring' to her if not actually painful, gave to inaction, isolation and
silence the blessed, strengthening and refreshing charm of repose.
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