Page 567 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

a rich sensibility. But her will was mistress of her life; there
was something gallant in the way she kept going. It was as if
she had learned the secret of it-as if the art of life were some
clever trick she had guessed. Isabel, as she herself grew old-
er, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there
were days when the world looked black and she asked herself
with some sharpness what it was that she was pretending to
live for. Her old habit had been to live by enthusiasm, to fall
in love with suddenly-perceived possibilities, with the idea
of some new adventure. As a younger person she had been
used to proceed from one little exaltation to the other: there
were scarcely any dull places between. But Madame Mer-
le had suppressed enthusiasm; she fell in love now-a-days
with nothing; she lived entirely by reason and by wisdom.
There were hours when Isabel would have given anything
for lessons in this art; if her brilliant friend had been near
she would have made an appeal to her. She had become
aware more than before of the advantage of being like that-
of having made one’s self a firm surface, a sort of corselet
of silver.
But, as I say, it was not till the winter during which we
lately renewed acquaintance with our heroine that the per-
sonage in question made again a continuous stay in Rome.
Isabel now saw more of her than she had done since her
marriage; but by this time Isabel’s needs and inclinations
had considerably changed. It was not at present to Ma-
dame Merle that she would have applied for instruction;
she had lost the desire to know this lady’s clever trick. If
she had troubles she must keep them to herself, and if life

567