{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_53720/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_53720","id":"gutenberg_53720","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53720","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Gender & Sexuality Studies","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Love"],"text":"ON LOVE\n\n\n\n\n\n                               STENDHAL\n\n                             (HENRY BEYLE)\n\n\n\n                                ON LOVE\n\n\n                      TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH\n\n\n                    WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES\n\n                                  BY\n\n                          PHILIP SIDNEY WOOLF\n\n                                  AND\n\n                     CECIL N. SIDNEY WOOLF, M. A.\n\n                 FELLOW OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE\n\n\n\nThat you should be made a fool of by a young woman, why, it is many an\n                          honest man's case.\n\n                             _The Pirate._\n\n\n\n                               NEW YORK\n\n                              BRENTANO'S\n\n\n\n\n\n                               TO B. K.\n\n                               FOR WHOM\n\n                            THE TRANSLATION\n\n                               WAS BEGUN\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                        _First Published 1915_\n\n                           _Reprinted 1920_\n\n\n                      Printed in Great Britain at\n\n     _The Mayflower Press, Plymouth_. William Brendon & Son, Ltd.\n\n\n\n[Pg v]\n                INTRODUCTORY PREFACE TO THE TRANSLATION\n\n\nStendhal's three prefaces to this work on Love are not an encouraging\nopening. Their main theme is the utter incomprehensibility of the book\nto all but a very select few--\"a hundred readers only\": they are rather\nwarnings than introductions. Certainly, the early life of Stendhal's\n_De l'Amour_ justifies this somewhat distant attitude towards the\npublic. The first and second editions were phenomenal failures--not\neven a hundred readers were forthcoming. But Stendhal, writing in\nthe early part of the nineteenth century, himself prophesied that\nthe twentieth would find his ideas at least more comprehensible. The\nideas of genius in one age are the normal spiritual food for superior\nintellect in the next. Stendhal is still something of a mystery to\nthe general public; but the ideas, which he agitated, are at present\nregarded as some of the most important subjects for immediate enquiry\nby many of the keenest and most practical minds of Europe.\n\nA glance at the headings of the chapters gives an idea of the breadth\nof Stendhal's treatment of love. He touches on every side of the\nsocial relationship between man and woman; and while considering the\ndisposition of individual nations towards love, gives us a brilliant,\nif one-sided, general criticism of these nations, conscious throughout\nof the intimate connexion in any given age between its conceptions of\nlove and the status of woman.\n\nStendhal's ideal of love has various names: it is generally\n\"passion-love,\" but more particularly \"love\n\n[Pg vi]\n_\u00e0 l'italienne._\"[1] The thing in itself is always the same--it is the\nlove of a man and a woman, not as husband and wife, not as mistress\nand lover, but as two human beings, who find the highest possible\npleasure, not in passing so many hours of the day or night together,\nbut in living one life. Still more, it is the attachment of two free\nfellow-creatures--not of master and slave.\n\nStendhal was born in 1783--eight years before Olympe de Gouges, the\nFrench Mary Wollstonecraft, published her _D\u00e9claration des Droits\ndes Femmes_. That is to say, by the time Stendhal had reached mental\nmaturity, Europe had for some time been acquainted with the cry for\nWomen's Rights, and heard the earliest statement of the demands, which\nhave broadened out into what our age glibly calls the \"Woman Question.\"\nHow, may we ask, does Stendhal's standpoint correspond with his\nchronological position between the French Revolution and the \"Votes for\nWomen\" campaign of the present day?\n\nStendhal is emphatically a champion of Women's Rights. It is true that\nthe freedom, which Stendhal demands, is designed for other ends than\nare associated to-day with women's claims. Perhaps Stendhal, were he\nalive now, would cry out against what he would call a distortion of\nthe movement he championed. Men, and still more women, must be free,\nStendhal holds, in order to love; his chapters in this book on the\neducation of women are all an earnest and brilliant plea to prove\nthat an educated woman is not necessarily a pedant; that she is, on\nthe contrary, far more _lovable_ than the uneducated woman, whom our\ngrandfathers brought up on the piano, needlework and the Catechism; in\nfine, that intellectual sympathy is the true basis of happiness in the\nrelations of the two sexes. Modern exponents of Women's Rights will say\nthat this is true, but only half the truth. It would be more correct to\nsay that Stendhal\n\n[Pg vii]\nsaw the whole truth, but forbore to follow it out to its logical\nconclusion with the blind _intransigeance_ of the modern propagandist.\nBe that as it may, Stendhal certainly deserves more acknowledgment, as\none of the pioneers in the movement, than he generally receives from\nits present-day supporters.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nStendhal was continually lamenting his want of ability to write.\nAccording to him, a perusal of the _Code Civil_, before composition,\nwas the best way he had found of grooming his style. This may well have\nsomething to do with the opinion, handed on from one history of French\nliterature to another, that Stendhal, like Balzac--it is usually put\nin these very words--_had no style_. It is not, correctly speaking,\nwhat the critics themselves mean: to have no style would be to chop and\nchange from one method of expression to another, and nothing could be\nless truly said of either of these writers. They mean that he had a bad\nstyle, and that is certainly a matter of taste. Perhaps the critics,\nwhile condemning, condemn themselves. It is the severe beauty of the\n_Code Civil_ which, makes them uncomfortable. An eye for an eye and a\nspade for a spade is Stendhal's way. He is suspicious of the slightest\nadornment: everything that is thought clearly can be written simply.\nOther writers have had as simplified a style--Montesquieu or Voltaire,\nfor example--but there is scant merit in telling simply a simple\nlie, and Voltaire, as Stendhal himself says, was afraid of things\nwhich are difficult to put into words. This kind of daintiness is not\nStendhal's simplicity: he is merely uncompromising and blunt. True,\nhis bluntness is excessive. A nice balance between the severity of the\n_Code Civil_ and the \"drums and tramplings\" of Elizabethan English\ncomes as naturally to an indifferent pen, whipped into a state of false\nenthusiasm, as it is foreign to the warmth\n\n[Pg viii]\nof genuine conviction. Had Stendhal been a little less vehement and a\nlittle less hard-headed, there might have been fewer modifications, a\nfew less repetitions, contradictions, ellipses--but then so much the\nless Stendhal. In that case he might have trusted himself: as it was he\nknew his own tendency too well and took fright. Sometimes in reading\nCarlyle, one wishes that he had felt the same kind of modesty: he,\ncertainly, could never have kept to the thin centre line, and we should\nhave had another great writer \"without a style.\" Effect meant little\nto Stendhal, hard fact and clearness everything. Perhaps, he would\noften have made his meaning clearer, if he had been less suspicious of\nstudied effect and elaborate writing. Not infrequently he succeeds in\nbeing colloquial and matter-of-fact, without being definite.\n\nStendhal was beset with a horror of being artistic. Was it not he who\nsaid of an artist, whose dress was particularly elaborate: \"Depend upon\nit, a man who adorns his person will also adorn his work\"? Stendhal was\na soldier first, then a writer--Salviati[2] is a soldier. Certainly\nit is his contempt for the type of person--even commoner, perhaps,\nin 1914 than in 1814--who carries his emotions on his sleeve, which\naccounts for Stendhal's naive disclaimer of personal responsibility,\nthe invention of Lisio[3] and Salviati, mythical authors of this work\non love--all a thin screen to hide his own obsession, which manages,\nnone the less, to break through unmasked on almost every page.\n\nThe translation makes no attempt to hide these peculiarities or even\nto make too definite a sense from a necessarily doubtful passage.[4]\nIts whole aim is to reproduce\n\n[Pg ix]\nStendhal's essay in English, just as it stands in French. No\nother English translation of the whole work exists: only a selection\nof its maxims translated piece-meal.[5] Had a translation existed,\nwe should certainly not have undertaken another. As it is, we have\nrelied upon a great sympathy with the author, and a studied adhesion\nto what he said, in order to reconstruct this essay--encouraged by the\nconviction that the one is as necessary as the other in order to obtain\na satisfactory result. Charles Cotton's _Montaigne_ seems to us the\npattern of all good translations.\n\n                   *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn spite of the four prefaces of the original, we felt it advisable\nto add still another to the English translation. Stendhal said that\nno book stood in greater need of a word of introduction. That was\nin Paris--here it is a foreigner, dressed up, we trust, quite _\u00e0\nl'anglaise_, but still, perhaps, a little awkward, and certainly in\nneed of something more than the chilly announcement of the title\npage--about as encouraging as the voice of the flunkey, who bawls out\nyour name at a party over the heads of the crowd already assembled.\nTrue, the old English treatment of foreigners has sadly degenerated:\nmore bows than brickbats are their portion, now London knows the charm\nof _cabarets, revues_ and cheap French cooking.[6]\n\nThe work in itself is conspicuous, if not unique. Books on Love are\nlegion: how could it be otherwise? It was probably the first topic\nof conversation, and none has since been found more interesting. But\nStendhal has devised a new treatment of the subject. His method is\nanalytical and scientific, but, at the same time,\n\n[Pg x]\nthere is no attempt at bringing the subject into line with a science;\nit is no part of erotology--there is no\n\n    Greek ending with a little passing bell\n    That signifies some faith about to die.[7]\n\nHis faith is unimpeachable and his curiosity and honesty unbounded:\nthis is what makes him conspicuous. In claiming to be scientific,\nStendhal meant nothing more than that his essay was based purely upon\nunbiassed observation; that he accepted nothing upon vague hearsay\nor from tradition; that even the finer shades of sentiment could be\nobserved with as much disinterested precision, if not made to yield\nas definite results, as any other natural phenomena. \"The man who has\nknown love finds all else unsatisfying\"--is, properly speaking, a\nscientific fact.\n\nAnalytical, however, is the best word to characterise the Stendhalian\nmethod. Scientific suggests, perhaps, more naturally the broader\ntreatment of love, which is familiar in Greek literature, lives all\nthrough the Middle Ages, is typified in Dante, and survives later in\na host of Renaissance dialogues and treatises on Love. This love--see\nit in the _Symposium_ of Plato, in Dante or in the _Dialoghi_ of Leone\nEbreo--is more than a human passion, it is also the _amor che muove il\nsole e le altre stelle_, the force of attraction which, combined with\nhate, the force of repulsion, is the cause of universal movement. In\nthis way love is not only scientifically treated, it embraces all other\nsciences within it. Scientists will smile, but the day of Science and\nArt with a contemptuous smile for each other is over. True, the feeling\nunderlying this cosmic treatment of love is very human, very simple--a\nconviction that love, as a human passion, is all-important, and a\ndesire to justify its importance by finding it a place in a larger\norder of\n\n[Pg xi]\nthings, in the \"mystical mathematics of the kingdom of Heaven.\" Weaker\nheads than Plato are also pleased to call love divine, without knowing\nvery clearly what they mean by divinity. Their ignorance is relative;\nthe allegorical representation of Eros--damned and deified alternately\nby the poets--is in motive, perhaps, not so far from what we have\ncalled the scientific, but, perhaps, might better have named the\ncosmic, treatment.\n\nIn a rough classification of books on Love one can imagine a large\nnumber collected under the heading--\"Academic.\" One looks for something\nto express that want of plain dealing, of _terre-\u00e0-terre_ frankness,\nwhich is so deplorable in the literature of Love, and is yet the\ndistinctive mark of so much of it. \"Academic\" comprehends a wide range\nof works all based on a more or less set or conventional theory of the\npassions. It includes the average modern novel, in which convention is\nsupreme and experience negligible--just a traditional, lifeless affair,\nin which there is not even a pretence of curiosity or love of truth.\nAnd, at the same time, \"academic\" is the label for the kind of book in\nwhich convention is rather on the surface, rather in the form than in\nthe matter. Tullia of Aragon, for example, was no tyro in the theory\nand practice of love, but her _Dialogo d'Amore_ is still distinctly\nacademic. Of course it is easy to be misled by a stiff varnish of\nold-fashioned phrase; the reader in search of sincerity will look for\nit in the thought expressed, not in the manner of expression. There is\nmore to be learnt about love from Werther, with all his wordy sorrows,\nthan from the slick tongue of Yorick, who found it a singular blessing\nof his life \"to be almost every hour of it miserably in love with\nsomeone.\" But, then, just because Werther is wordy, all his feelings\ncome out, expressed one way or another. With Tullia, and others like\nher, one feels that so much is suppressed, because it did not fit the\nconventional\n\n[Pg xii]\nframe. What she says she felt, but she must have felt so much more or\nhave known that others felt more.\n\nThis suppression of truth has, of course, nothing to do with the\npartial treatment of love necessary often in purely imaginative\nliterature. No one goes to poetry for an anatomy of love. Not love, but\npeople in love, are the business of a playwright or a novelist. The\ndifference is very great. The purely imaginative writer is dealing with\nsituations first, and then with the passions that cause them.\n\nHere it is interesting to observe that Stendhal, in gathering his\nevidence, makes use of works of imagination as often as works based\nupon fact or his own actual experience.[8] Characters from Scott are\ncalled in as witnesses, side by side with Mademoiselle de Lespinasse or\nMariana Alcaforado.\n\nThe books mentioned by Stendhal are of two distinct kinds. There are\nthose, from which he draws evidence and support for his own theories,\nand in which the connexion with love is only incidental (Shakespeare's\nPlays, for example, _Don Juan_ or the _Nouvelle H\u00e9lo\u00efse_), and\nothers whose authors are really his forerunners, such as Andr\u00e9 le\nChapelain.[9] Stendhal gives some account of this curious writer, who\nperhaps comes nearer his own analytical method than any later writer.\nIn fact, we have called Stendhal unique perhaps too rashly--there are\nothers he does not mention, who, in a less sustained and intentional\nway, have attempted an analytical, and still imaginative, study of\nlove. Stendhal makes no mention of a short essay on Love by Pascal,\nwhich certainly falls in the same category as his own. It is less\nilluminating than one might expect, but to read it is to appreciate\nstill more the restraint, which Stendhal has consciously forced upon\nhimself. Others also since\n\n[Pg xiii]\nStendhal--Baudelaire, for instance--have made casual and valuable\ninvestigations in the Stendhalian method. Baudelaire has here and there\na maxim which, in brilliance and exactitude, equals almost anything in\nthis volume.[10]\n\nAnd then--though this is no place for a bibliography of love--there\nis Hazlitt's _Liber Amoris_. Stendhal would have loved that patient,\nimpartial chronicle of love's ravages: instead of Parisian _salons_ and\nDuchesses it is all servant-girls and Bloomsbury lodging-houses; but\nthe _Liber Amoris_ is no less pitiful and, if possible, more real than\nthe diary of Salviati.\n\nThere are certain books which, for the frequency of their mention\nin this work, demand especial attention of the reader--they are its\ncommentary and furnish much of the material for its ideas.\n\nIn number CLXV of \"Scattered Fragments\" (below, p. 328) Stendhal gives\nthe list as follows:--\n\n  The _Autobiography_ of Benvenuto Cellini.\n  The novels of Cervantes and Scarron.\n  _Manon Lescaut_ and _Le Doyen de Killerine_, by the Abb\u00e9 Pr\u00e9v\u00f4t.\n  The Latin Letters of H\u00e9lo\u00efse to Abelard.\n  _Tom Jones._\n  _Letters of a Portuguese Nun._\n  Two or three stories by Auguste La Fontaine.\n  Pignotti's _History of Tuscany_.\n  Werther.\n  Brant\u00f4me.\n  _Memoirs_ of Carlo Gozzi (Venice, 1760)--only the eighty pages on\n      the history of his love affairs.\n  The _Memoirs_ of Lauzun, Saint-Simon, d'\u00c9pinay, de Sta\u00ebl, Marmontel,\n      Bezenval, Roland, Duclos, Horace Walpole, Evelyn, Hutchinson.\n  Letters of Mademoiselle Lespinasse.\n\n\n[Pg xiv]\nAll these are more or less famous works, with which, at least by name,\nthe general reader is familiar. Brant\u00f4me's witty and entertaining\nwritings, the _Letters of a Portuguese Nun_ and those of Mademoiselle\nde Lespinasse, perhaps the sublimest letters that have ever been\nwritten, are far less read than they deserve. The rest--excepting\nperhaps Scarron, Carlo Gozzi, Auguste La Fontaine, and one or two of\nthe less-known Memoirs--are the common reading of a very large public.\n\nThis list of books is mentioned as the select library of Lisio\nVisconti, who \"was anything but a great reader.\" Lisio Visconti is one\nof the many imaginary figures, behind which hides Stendhal himself; we\nhave already suggested one reason for this curious trait. Besides Lisio\nVisconti and Salviati, we meet Del Rosso, Scotti, Delfante, Pignatelli,\nZilietti, Baron de Bottmer, etc. etc. Often these phantom people are\nmentioned side by side with a character from a book or a play or with\nsomeone Stendhal had actually met in life. General Teuli\u00e9[11] is a\nreal person--Stendhal's superior officer on his first expedition in\nItaly: Schiassetti is a fiction. In the same way the dates, which the\nreader will often find appended to a story or a note, sometimes give\nthe date of a real event in Stendhal's life, while at other times it\ncan be proved that, at the particular time given, the event mentioned\ncould not have taken place. This falsification of names and dates was a\nmania with Stendhal. To most of his friends he gave a name completely\ndifferent from their real one, and adopted with each of them a special\npseudonym for himself. The list of Stendhal's pseudonyms is extensive\nand amusing.[12] But he was not always thorough in his system of\ndisguise: he is even known to have written from Italy a letter in\ncypher, enclosing at the same time the key to the cypher!\n\n\n[Pg xv]\nWe have only to make a few additions to Lisio Visconti's list of books\nalready mentioned, in order to have a pretty fair account of the main\nsources of reference and suggestion, to which Stendhal turned in\nwriting his _De l'Amour_.[13] There are Rousseau's _Nouvelle H\u00e9lo\u00efse_\nand _\u00c9mile_. Stendhal holds that, except for very green youth, the\n_Nouvelle H\u00e9lo\u00efse_ is unreadable. Yet in spite of its affectation,\nit remained for him one of the most important works for the study of\ngenuine passion. Then we must add the _Liaisons Dangereuses_--a work\nwhich bears certain resemblances to Stendhal's _De l'Amour_. Both\nare the work of a soldier and both have a soldierly directness; for\nperfect balance and strength of construction few books have come near\nthe _Liaisons Dangereuses_--none have ever surpassed it. There is the\n_Princesse de Cl\u00e8ves_ of Madame de Lafayette and _Corinne_ by Madame\nde Sta\u00ebl, whose typically German and extravagant admiration for Italy\ntouched a weak spot in Stendhal. After Chateaubriand's _G\u00e9nie du\nChristianisme_, which Stendhal also refers to more than once, the works\nof Madame de Sta\u00ebl were, perhaps, the greatest working influence in the\nrise of Romanticism. What wonder, then, that Stendhal was interested?\nTo the letters of Mlle. de Lespinasse and of the Portuguese Nun we\nmust add the letters of Mirabeau, written during his imprisonment at\nVincennes, to Sophie de Monnier. Further, we must add the writings of\ncertain moral teachers whose names occur frequently in the following\npages: Helv\u00e9tius, whom Clar\u00e9tie[14] amusingly calls the _enfant\nterrible_ of the philosophers; de Tracy[15]; Volney, author of the once\ncelebrated _Ruines_, traveller and philosopher. These names are only\nthe most important. Stendhal's reading was\n\n[Pg xvi]\nextensive, and we might swell the list with the names of Montesquieu,\nCondillac, Condorcet, Chamfort, Diderot--to name only the moralists.\n\nIt is noticeable that almost all these books, mentioned as the\nfavourite authorities of Stendhal, are eighteenth-century works.\nThe fact will seem suspicious to those inclined to believe that the\neighteenth century was a time of pretty ways and gallantry _\u00e0 la_\nWatteau, or of windy mouthings about Cause and Effect, Duties and\nPrinciples, Reason and Nature. But, to begin with, neither estimate\ncomes near the mark; and, moreover, Stendhal hated Voltaire almost\nas much as Blake did. It was not an indiscriminate cry of Rights and\nLiberty which interested Stendhal in the eighteenth century. The old\n_r\u00e9gime_ was, of course, politically uncongenial to him, the liberal\nand Bonapartist, and he could see the stupidity and injustice and\nhollowness of a society built up on privilege. But even if Stendhal,\nlike the happy optimist of to-day, had mistaken the hatred of past\nwrongs for a proof of present well-being, how could a student of Love\nfail to be fascinated by an age such as that of Lewis XV? It was the\nleisure for loving, which, as he was always remarking, court-life\nand only court-life makes possible, that reconciled him to an age he\nreally despised. Moreover, the mass of memoirs and letters of the\ndistinguished men and women of the eighteenth century, offering as\nit does material for the study of manners unparalleled in any other\nage, inevitably led him back to the court-life of the _ancien r\u00e9gime_.\nBesides, as has been already suggested, the contradiction in Stendhal\nwas strong. In spite of his liberalism, he was pleased in later life\nto add the aristocratic \"de\" to the name of Beyle. With Lord Byron,\ndivided in heart between the generous love of liberty which led him\nto fight for the freedom of Greece, and disgust at the vulgarity of\nthe Radical party, which he had left behind in England, Stendhal found\nhimself closely in sympathy\n\n[Pg xvii]\nwhen they met in Italy. It was the originality[16] of the men of the\nsixteenth century which called forth his genuine praises; even the\nstatesmen-courtiers and soldiers of the heroic age of Lewis XIV awoke\nhis admiration;[17] the gallant courtiers and incompetent statesmen of\nLewis XV awoke at least his interest.\n\n                   *       *       *       *       *\n\nStendhal's _De l'Amour_, and in less degree his novels, have had\nto struggle for recognition, and the cause has largely been the\npeculiarity of his attitude--his scepticism, the exaggerated severity\nof his treatment of idyllic subjects, together with an unusual\ncomplement of sentiment and appreciation of the value of sentiment for\nthe understanding of life. It is his manner of thinking, much rather\nthan the strangeness of his thoughts themselves, which made the world\nhesitate to give Stendhal the position which it now accords him. But at\nleast one great discovery the world did find in _De l'Amour_--a novelty\nquite apart from general characteristics, apart from its strange\nabruptness and stranger truth of detail. Stendhal's discovery is\n\"Crystallisation\"; it is the central idea of his book. The word was his\ninvention, though the thought, which it expresses so decisively, is to\nbe found, like most so-called advanced ideas, hidden away in a corner\nof Montaigne's Essays.[18] Crystallisation is the\n\n[Pg xviii]\nprocess by which we love an object for qualities, which primarily\nexist in our fancy and which we lend to it, that is to say, imaginary\nor unreal qualities. While Montaigne, and others no doubt, had seen\nin this a peculiarity of love, Stendhal saw in it love's essential\ncharacteristic--one might say, its explanation, if love were capable of\nbeing explained. Besides, in this book Stendhal is seeking the _how_\nnot the _why_ of love. And he goes beyond love: he recognises the\ninfluence of crystallisation upon other sides of life besides love.\nCrystallisation has become an integral part of the world's equipment\nfor thought and expression.\n\nThe crisis in Stendhal's posthumous history is Sainte-Beuve's\n_Causeries des Lundis_ of January 2nd and 9th, 1854, of which Stendhal\nwas the subject. Stendhal died in 1842. It is sometimes said that his\nreputation is a fictitious reputation, intentionally worked up by\npartisanship and without regard to merit, that in his lifetime he was\npoorly thought of. This is untrue. His artistic activities, like his\nmilitary, were appreciated by those competent to judge them. He was\ncomplimented by Napoleon on his services prior to the retreat from\nMoscow; Balzac, who of all men was capable of judging a novel and,\nstill more, a direct analysis of a passion, was one of his admirers,\nand particularly an admirer of _De l'Amour_. From the general public\nhe met to a great extent with mistrust, and for a few years after his\ndeath his memory was honoured with apathetic silence. The few, a chosen\npublic and some faithful friends--M\u00e9rim\u00e9e and others--still cherished\nhis reputation. In 1853, owing in great measure to the efforts of\nRomain Colomb and Louis Crozet, a complete edition of his works was\npublished by Michel-L\u00e9vy. And then, very appropriately, early in the\nnext year was heard the impressive judgment of Sainte-Beuve. Perhaps\nthe justest remark in that just appreciation is where he gives Stendhal\nthe merit of being one of the first Frenchmen to travel _litt\u00e9rairement\n\n[Pg xix]\nparlant_.[19] Stendhal came back from each of his many and frequent\nvoyages, like the happy traveller in Joachim du Bellay's sonnet, _plein\nd'usage et raison_--knowing the ways of men and full of ripe wisdom.\nAnd this is true not only of his travels over land and sea, but also of\nthose into the thoughtful world of books.\n\nAn equally true--perhaps still truer--note was struck by Sainte-Beuve,\nwhen he insisted on the important place in Stendhal's character played\nby _la peur d'\u00eatre dupe_--the fear of being duped. Stendhal was always\nand in all situations beset by this fear; it tainted his happiest\nmoments and his best qualities. We have already remarked on the effect\non his style of his mistrust of himself--it is the same characteristic.\nA sentimental romantic by nature, he was always on his guard against\nthe follies of a sentimental outlook; a sceptic by education and the\neffect of his age, he was afraid of being the dupe of his doubts; he\nwas sceptical of scepticism itself. This tended to make him unreal and\naffected, made him often defeat his own ends in the oddest way. In\norder to avoid the possibility of being carried away too far along a\ncourse, in which instinct led him, he would choose a direction approved\ninstead by his intellect, only to find out too late that he was cutting\ntherein a sorry figure. Remember, as a boy he made his entrance into\nthe world \"with the fixed intention of being a seducer of women,\" and\nthat, late in life, he made the melancholy confession that his normal\nrole was that of the lover crossed in love. Here lies the commentary on\nnot a little in Stendhal's life and works.\n\nThe facts of his life can be told very briefly.\n\n                   *       *       *       *       *\n\nHenry Beyle, who wrote under the name of Stendhal, was born at Grenoble\nin 1783, and was educated in his\n\n[Pg xx]\nnative town. In 1799 he came to Paris and was placed there under the\nprotection of Daru, an important officer under Napoleon, a relative and\npatron of his family. But he showed no fitness for the various kinds\nof office work to which he was put. He tried his hand at this time,\nunsuccessfully also, at painting.\n\nIn 1800, still under the protection of Daru, he went to Italy, and,\nhaving obtained a commission in the 6th regiment of Dragoons, had\nhis first experience of active service. By 1802 he had distinguished\nhimself as a soldier, and it was to the general surprise of all who\nknew him, that he returned to France on leave, handed in his papers and\nreturned to Grenoble.\n\nHe soon returned to Paris, there to begin serious study. But in 1806,\nhe was once more with Daru and the army,--present at the triumphal\nentry of Napoleon into Berlin. It was directly after this that he was\nsent to Brunswick as assistant _commissaire des guerres_.\n\nHe left Brunswick in 1809, but after a flying visit to Paris, he was\nagain given official employment in Germany. He was with the army at\nVienna. After the peace of Schoenbrunn he returned once more to Paris\nin 1810.\n\nIn 1812, he saw service once more--taking an active and distinguished\npart in the Russian campaign of that year. He was complimented by\nNapoleon on the way he had discharged his duties in the commissariat.\nHe witnessed the burning of Moscow and shared in the horrors and\nhardships of the retreat.\n\nIn 1813 his duties brought him to Segan in Silesia, and in 1814 to his\nnative town of Grenoble.\n\nThe fall of Napoleon in the same year deprived him of his position and\nprospects. He went to Milan and stayed there with little interruption\ntill 1821; only leaving after these, the happiest, years of his life,\nthrough fear of being implicated in the Carbonari troubles.\n\nIn 1830, he was appointed to the consulate of Trieste; but Metternich,\nwho, no doubt, mistrusted his liberal\n\n[Pg xxi]\ntendencies, refused to ratify his appointment, and he was transferred\nto Civita Vecchia. This unhealthy district tried his health, and\nfrequent travel did not succeed in repairing it.\n\nIn 1841, he was on leave in Paris, where he died suddenly in the\nfollowing year.\n\n                   *       *       *       *       *\n\nStendhal's best-known books are his two novels: _La Chartreuse de\nParme_ and _Le Rouge et le Noir_. Besides these there are his works of\ntravel--_Promenades dans Rome_ and _Rome, Florence et Naples_; _M\u00e9moire\nd'un Touriste_; his history of Italian painting; his lives of Haydn,\nMozart and Rossini; _L'Abbesse de Castro_ and other minor works of\nfiction; finally a number of autobiographical works, of which _La Vie\nde Henri Brulard_, begun in his fiftieth year and left incomplete, is\nthe most important.\n\nBut _De l'Amour_, Stendhal himself considered his most important work;\nit was written, as he tells us, in his happy years in Lombardy. It was\npublished on his return to Paris in 1822, but it had no success, and\ncopies of this edition are very rare. Recently it has been reprinted\nby Messrs. J. M. Dent and Sons (in _Chef d'\u0152uvres de la Litt\u00e9rature\nFran\u00e7aise_, London and Paris, 1912). The second edition (1833) had no\nmore success than the first and is equally difficult to find. Stendhal\nwas preparing a third edition for the press when he died in 1842. In\n1853 the work made a new appearance in the edition of Stendhal's works\npublished by Michel-L\u00e9vy, since reprinted by Calmann-L\u00e9vy. It contains\ncertain additions, some of which Stendhal probably intended for the new\nedition, which he was planning at the time of his death.\n\nWithin the last year have appeared the first volumes of a new French\nedition of Stendhal's works, published by Messrs. Honor\u00e9 and Edouard\nChampion of Paris.\n\n[Pg xxii]\nIt will be the most complete edition of Stendhal's works yet published\nand is the surest evidence that Stendhal's position in French\nliterature is now assured. The volume containing _De l'Amour_ has not\nyet appeared.\n\nThe basis of this translation is the first edition, to which we have\nonly added three prefaces, written by Stendhal at various, subsequent\ndates and all well worth perusal. Apart from these, we have preferred\nto leave the book just as it appeared in the two editions, which were\npublished in Stendhal's own lifetime.\n\nWe may, perhaps, add a word with regard to our notes at the end of\nthe book. We make no claim that they are exhaustive: we intended only\nto select some few points for explanation or illustration, with the\nEnglish reader in view. Here and there in this book are sentences and\nallusions which we can no more explain than could Stendhal himself,\nwhen in 1822 he was correcting the proof-sheets: as he did, we have\nleft them, preferring to believe with him that \"the fault lay with\nthe self who was reading, not with the self who had written.\" But,\nthese few enigmas aside--and they are very few--to make an exhaustive\ncollection of notes on this book would be to write another volume--one\nof those volumes of \"Notes and Appendices,\" under which scholars bury a\nPindar or Catullus. That labour we will gladly leave to others--to be\naccomplished, we hope, a thousand years hence, when French also is a\n\"dead\" language.\n\nIn conclusion we should like to express our thanks to our friend\nMr. W. H. Morant, of the India Office, who has helped us to see the\ntranslation through the Press.\n\nP. and C. N. S. W.\n\n\n[1] See p. 195, below.\n\n[2] See below, Chap. XXXI.\n\n[3] See note at end of Chap. I, p. 21, below; also p. XIV and p. 157,\nn. 3, below.\n\n[4] Stendhal confesses that he went so far \"as to print several\npassages which he did not understand himself.\" (See p. 4, below.)\n\n[5] _Maxims of Love_ (Stendhal). (Royal Library, Arthur Humphreys,\nLondon, 1906).\n\n[6] Lady Holland told Lord Broughton in 1815, that she remembered \"when\nit used to be said on the invitation cards: 'No foreigners dine with\nus.'\" (_Recollections of a Long Life_, Vol. I, p. 327).\n\n[7] He does call it, once or twice, a \"Physiology of Love,\" and\nelsewhere a \"_livre d'id\u00e9ologie_,\" but apologises for its singular form\nat the same time. (See Fourth Preface, p. 11, and Chap. III, p. 27, n.\n1).\n\n[8] See p. 63, n. 1, below.\n\n[9] See p. 339, below.\n\n[10] See Translators' note 11, p. 343, below.\n\n[11] See p. 309, below.\n\n[12] The list may be found in _Les plus belles pages de Stendhal_\n(Mercure de France, Paris, 1908, pp. 511-14).\n\n[13] On p. 7, below, Stendhal refers to some of the \"best\" books on\nLove.\n\n[14] _Histoire de la Litt\u00e9rature Fran\u00e7aise_ (800-1900), Paris, 1907.\n\n[15] See Translators' note 47, p. 353, below.\n\n[16] See Chap. XLI, p. 159, below.\n\n[17] See Chap. XLI, p. 160, n. 4, below.\n\n[18] \"Like the passion of Love that lends Beauties and Graces to\nthe Person it does embrace; and that makes those who are caught\nwith it, with a depraved and corrupt Judgment, consider the\nthing they love other and more perfect than it is.\"--Montaigne's\n_Essays_, Bk. II, Chapter XVII (Cotton's translation.) This is\n\"crystallisation\"--Stendhal could not explain it better.\n\nWe cannot here forgo quoting one more passage from Montaigne, which\nbears distinctly upon other important views of Stendhal. \"I say that\nMales and Females are cast in the same Mould and that, Education and\nUsage excepted, the Difference is not great.... It is much more easy\nto accuse one Sex than to excuse the other. 'Tis according to the\nProverb--'Ill may Vice correct Sin.'\" (Bk. Ill, Chap. V).\n\n[19] \"In a literary sense.\"\n\n\n\n[Pg xxiii]\n\n\n                             CONTENTS\n                                                                  Page\nIntroductory Preface to the Translation                              v\n\nAuthor's Preface.   I. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   1\n                   II. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   2\n                  III. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  10\n                   IV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  11\n\n                              BOOK I\n\nCHAPTER\n\n      I. Of Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  19\n     II. Of the Birth of Love. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  22\n    III. Of Hope . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  26\n     IV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  29\n      V. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  30\n     VI. The Crystals of Salzburg. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  31\n    VII. Differences between the Birth of Love in the Two Sexes. .  33\n   VIII. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  35\n     IX. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  39\n      X. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  40\n     XI. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  43\n    XII. Further Consideration of Crystallisation. . . . . . . . .  45\n   XIII. Of the First Step; Of the Fashionable World;\n            Of Misfortunes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  47\n[Pg xxiv]\n    XIV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  49\n     XV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  52\n    XVI. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  53\n   XVII. Beauty Dethroned by Love. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  55\n  XVIII. Limitations of Beauty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  57\n    XIX. Limitations of Beauty (_continued_) . . . . . . . . . . .  59\n     XX. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  62\n    XXI. Love at First Sight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  63\n   XXII. Of Infatuation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  66\n  XXIII. The Thunderbolt from the Blue . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  67\n   XXIV. Voyage in an Unknown Land . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  71\n    XXV. The Introduction. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  78\n   XXVI. Of Modesty. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  81\n  XXVII. The Glance. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  89\n XXVIII. Of Feminine Pride . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  90\n   XXIX. Of Women's Courage. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  98\n    XXX. A Peculiar and Mournful Spectacle . . . . . . . . . . . . 102\n   XXXI. Extract from the Diary of Salviati. . . . . . . . . . . . 103\n  XXXII. Of Intimate Intercourse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112\n XXXIII. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118\n  XXXIV. Of Confidences. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119\n   XXXV. Of Jealousy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123\n  XXXVI. Of Jealousy (_continued_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129\n XXXVII. Roxana. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132\nXXXVIII. Of Self-Esteem Piqued . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134\n  XXXIX. Of Quarrelsome Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141\n  XXXIX. (Part II) Remedies against Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146\n  XXXIX. (Part III). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149\n\n[Pg xxv]\n                              BOOK II\n\n     XL. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155\n    XLI. Of Nations with regard to Love--France. . . . . . . . . . 158\n   XLII. France (_continued_). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162\n  XLIII. Italy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166\n   XLIV. Rome. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170\n    XLV. England . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173\n   XLVI. England (_continued_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177\n  XLVII. Spain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182\n XLVIII. German Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184\n   XLIX. A Day in Florence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190\n      L. Love in the United States . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197\n     LI. Love in Provence up to the Conquest of Toulouse, in 1328,\n            by the Barbarians from the North . . . . . . . . . . . 200\n    LII. Provence in the Twelfth Century . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206\n   LIII. Arabia--Fragments gathered and translated from an Arab\n            collection entitled_ The Divan of Love_. . . . . . . . 213\n    LIV. Of the Education of Women . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222\n     LV. Objections to the Education of Women. . . . . . . . . . . 227\n    LVI. Objections to the Education of Women (_continued_). . . . 236\n    LVI. (Part II) On Marriage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241\n   LVII. Of Virtue, so Called. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243\n  LVIII. State of Europe with regard to Marriage.--\n                 Switzerland and the Oberland. . . . . . . . . . . 245\n    LIX. Werther and Don Juan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254\n\n                             BOOK III\n\nScattered Fragments. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267\n\n[Pg xxvi]\n                             APPENDIX\n\nOn the Courts of Love. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 332\nCode of Love of the Twelfth Century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 336\nNote on Andr\u00e9 le Chapelain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 339\nTranslators' Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341\n\n\n_Note:_ All the footnotes to the Translation, except those within\nsquare brackets, which are the work of the Translators, are by Stendhal\nhimself. The Translators' notes at the end of the book are referred to\nby numerals enclosed within round brackets.\n\n\n[Pg 1]\n                              PREFACE[1]\n\n\nIt is in vain that an author solicits the indulgence of his public--the\nprinted page is there to give the lie to his pretended modesty. He\nwould do better to trust to the justice, patience and impartiality\nof his readers, and it is to this last quality especially that the\nauthor of the present work makes his appeal. He has often heard people\nin France speak of writings, opinions or sentiments as being \"truly\nFrench\"; and so he may well be afraid that, by presenting facts truly\nas they are, and showing respect only for sentiments and opinions that\nare universally true, he may have provoked that jealous exclusiveness,\nwhich, in spite of its very doubtful character, we have seen of late\nset up as a virtue. What, I wonder, would become of history, of ethics,\nof science itself or of literature, if they had to be truly German,\ntruly Russian or Italian, truly Spanish or English, as soon as they had\ncrossed the Rhine, the Alps or the Channel? What are we to say to this\nkind of justice, to this ambulatory truth? When we see such expressions\nas \"devotion truly Spanish,\" \"virtues truly English,\" seriously\nemployed in the speeches of patriotic foreigners, it is high time to\nsuspect this sentiment, which expresses itself in very similar terms\nalso elsewhere. At Constantinople or among savages, this blind and\nexclusive partiality for one's own country is a rabid thirst for blood;\namong civilised peoples, it is a morbid, unhappy, restless vanity, that\nis ready to turn on you for a pinprick.[2]\n\n[1] [To the first edition, 1822.--Tr.]\n\n[2] Extract from the Preface to M. Simond's _Voyage en Suisse_, pp. 7,\n8.\n\n\n[Pg 2]\n                              PREFACE[1]\n\n\nThiS work has had no success: it has been found unintelligible--not\nwithout reason. Therefore in this new edition the author's primary\nintention has been to render his ideas with clearness. He has\nrelated how they came to him, and he has made a preface and an\nintroduction--all in order to be clear. Yet, in spite of so much care,\nout of a hundred who have read _Corinne_, there are not four readers\nwho will understand this volume.\n\nAlthough it deals with Love, this little book is no novel, and still\nless is it diverting like a novel. 'Tis simply and solely an exact\nscientific description of a kind of madness which is very rarely to be\nfound in France. The Empire of propriety, growing day by day wider,\nunder the influence of our fear of ridicule much more than through the\npurity of our morals, has made of the word, which serves as title to\nthis work, an expression, of which outspoken mention is avoided and\nwhich at times seems even to give offence. I have been forced to make\nuse of it, but the scientific austerity of the language shelters me, I\nthink, in this respect, from all reproach.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI know one or two Secretaries of Legation who will, at their return,\nbe able to tender me their services. Till then what can I say to the\npeople who deny the facts of my narration? Beg them not to listen to it.\n\n\n[Pg 3]\nThe form I have adopted may be reproached with egoism. A traveller is\nallowed to say: \"_I_ was at New York, thence _I_ embarked for South\nAmerica, _I_ made my way back as far as Santa-F\u00e9-de-Bogota. The gnats\nand mosquitoes made _my_ life a misery during the journey, and for\nthree days _I_ couldn't use _my_ right eye.\"\n\nThe traveller is not accused of loving to talk of himself: all his\n_me's_ and _my's_ are forgiven; for that is the clearest and most\ninteresting manner of telling what he has seen.\n\nIt is in order, if possible, to be clear and picturesque, that the\nauthor of the present voyage into the little-known regions of the\nhuman heart says: \"I went with Mme. Gherardi to the salt mines of\nHallein.... Princess Crescenzi said to me at Rome.... One day at\nBerlin I saw handsome Capt. L....\" All these little things really\nhappened to the author, who passed fifteen years in Germany and Italy.\nBut more observant than sensitive, he never encountered the least\nadventure himself, never experienced a single personal sentiment\nworthy of narration. Even supposing that he had the pride to believe\nthe contrary, a still greater pride would have prevented him from\npublishing his heart and selling it on the market for six francs, like\nthose people who in their lifetime publish their memoirs.\n\nCorrecting in 1822 the proofs of this kind of moral voyage in Italy and\nGermany, the author, who had described the objects the day that he had\nseen them, treated the manuscript, containing the detailed description\nof all the phases of this malady of the soul called Love, with that\nblind respect, shown by a scholar of the fourteenth century for a newly\nunearthed manuscript of Lactantius or Quintius Curtius. When the author\nmet some obscure passage (and often, to say the truth, that happened),\nhe always believed that the fault lay with the self who was reading,\nnot with the self who had written. He confesses that his respect for the\n\n[Pg 4]\nearly manuscript carried him so far as to print several passages, which\nhe did not understand himself. Nothing more foolish for anyone who\nhad thought of the good graces of the public; but the author, seeing\nParis again after long travels, came to the conclusion that without\ngrovelling before the Press a success was not to be had. Well, let him\nwho brings himself to grovel keep that for the minister in power! A\nso-called success being out of the question, the author was pleased\nto publish his thoughts exactly as they had come to him. This was\nonce upon a time the procedure of those philosophers of Greece, whose\npractical wisdom filled him with rapturous admiration.\n\nIt requires years to gain admittance to the inner circle of Italian\nsociety. Perhaps I shall have been the last traveller in that country.\nFor since the _Carbonari_ and the Austrian invasion, no foreigner will\never be received as a friend in the _salons_, where such reckless\ngaiety reigned. The traveller will see the monuments, streets and\npublic places of a city, never the society--he will always be held in\nfear: the inhabitants will suspect that he is a spy, or fear that he\nis laughing at the battle of Antrodoco and at the degradations, which,\nin that land, are the one and only safeguard against the persecution\nof the eight or ten ministers or favourites who surround the Prince.\nPersonally, I really loved the inhabitants and could see the truth.\nSometimes for ten months together I never spoke a word of French, and\nbut for political troubles and the _Carbonari_ I would never have\nreturned to France. Good-nature is what I prize above all things.\n\nIn spite of great care to be clear and lucid, I cannot perform\nmiracles: I cannot give ears to the deaf nor eyes to the blind. So the\npeople of great fortunes and gross pleasures, who have made a hundred\nthousand francs in the year preceding the moment they open this book,\nhad better quickly shut it, especially if they are\n\n[Pg 5]\nbankers, manufacturers, respectable industrial folk--that's to\nsay, people with eminently positive ideas. This book would be less\nunintelligible to anyone who had made a large sum of money on the Stock\nExchange or in a lottery. Such winnings may be found side by side with\nthe habit of passing hours together in day-dreams, in the enjoyment of\nthe emotion evoked by a picture of Prud'hon, a phrase of Mozart, still\nmore, a certain peculiar look of a woman who is often in your thoughts.\n'Tis not in this way that these people \"waste their time,\" who pay\nten thousand workmen at the end of each week: their minds work always\ntowards the useful and the positive. The dreamer, of whom I speak, is\nthe man they would hate, if they had time; 'tis him they like to make\nthe butt of their harmless jokes. The industrial millionaire feels\nconfusedly that such a man has more _estime_ for a thought than for a\nbag of money.\n\nI invite the studious young man to withdraw, if in the same year as\nthe industrial gained a hundred thousand francs, he has acquired the\nknowledge of modern Greek, and is so proud of it that already he\naspires to Arabic. I beg not to open this book every man, who has\nnot been unhappy for imaginary reasons, reasons to which vanity is\nstranger, and which he would be very ashamed to see divulged in the\n_salons_.\n\nI am sure to displease those women who capture the consideration of\nthese very _salons_ by an affectation that never lapses for an instant.\nSome of these for a moment I have surprised in good earnest, and so\nastonished, that, asking themselves the question, they could no longer\ntell whether such and such a sentiment, as they had just expressed, was\nnatural or affected. How could such women judge of the portraiture of\nreal feelings? In fact this work has been their _b\u00eate noire_: they say\nthat the author must be a wretch.\n\nTo blush suddenly at the thought of certain youthful doings; to have\ncommitted follies through sensibility\n\n[Pg 6]\nand to suffer for them, not because you cut a silly figure in the eyes\nof the _salon_, but in the eyes of a certain person in the _salon_;\nto be in love at the age of twenty-six in good earnest with a woman\nwho loves another, or even (but the case is so rare that I scarcely\ndare write it, for fear of sinking again into the unintelligible, as\nin the first edition)--or even to enter the _salon_ where the woman\nis whom you fancy that you love, and to think only of reading in her\neyes her opinion of you at the moment, without any idea of putting on\na love-lorn expression yourself--these are the antecedents I shall ask\nof my reader. The description of many of these rare and subtle feelings\nhas appeared obscure to people with positive ideas. How manage to be\nclear in their eyes? Tell them of a rise of fifty centimes or a change\nin the tariff of Columbia.[2]\n\nThe book before you explains simply and mathematically, so to speak,\nthe curious feelings which succeed each other and form a whole called\nthe Passion of Love.\n\nImagine a fairly complicated geometrical figure, drawn with white chalk\non a large blackboard. Well, I am going to explain that geometrical\nfigure, but on one condition--that it exists already on the blackboard,\nfor I personally cannot draw it. It is this impossibility that makes\nit so difficult to write on Love a book which is not a novel. In order\nto follow with interest a philosophic examination of this feeling,\nsomething is wanted in the reader besides understanding: it is\nabsolutely necessary that Love has been seen by him. But then where can\na passion be seen?\n\nThis is a cause of obscurity that I shall never be able to eliminate.\n\n[Pg 7]\nLove resembles what we call the Milky Way in heaven, a gleaming mass\nformed by thousands of little stars, each of which may be a nebula.\nBooks have noted four or five hundred of the little feelings hanging\ntogether and so hard to recognise, which compose this passion. But\neven in these, the least refined, they have often blundered and taken\nthe accessory for the principal. The best of these books, such as\nthe _Nouvelle H\u00e9lo\u00efse_, the novels of Madame Cottin, the Letters of\nMademoiselle de Lespinasse and _Manon Lescaut_, have been written in\nFrance, where the plant called Love is always in fear of ridicule, is\novergrown by the demands of vanity, the national passion, and reaches\nits full height scarcely ever.\n\nWhat is a knowledge of Love got from novels? After seeing it\ndescribed--without ever feeling it--in hundreds of celebrated volumes,\nwhat is to be said of seeking in mine the explanation of this madness?\nI answer like an echo: \"'Tis madness.\"\n\nPoor disillusioned young lady, would you enjoy again that which busied\nyou so some years ago, which you dared mention to no one, which almost\ncost you your honour? It is for you that I have refashioned this book\nand tried to make it clearer. After reading it, never speak of it\nwithout a little scornful turn, and throw it in your citron bookcase\nbehind the other books--I should even leave a few pages uncut.\n\n'Tis not only a few pages that will be left uncut by the imperfect\ncreature, who thinks himself philosopher, because he has remained\nalways stranger to those reckless emotions, which cause all our\nhappiness of a week to depend upon a glance. Some people, coming to\nthe age of discretion, use the whole force of their vanity to forget\nthat there was a day when they were able to stoop so low as to court a\nwoman and expose themselves to the humiliation of a refusal: this book\nwill win their hatred. Among the many clever people, whom I have seen\ncondemn this work, for different reasons but all angrily,\n\n[Pg 8]\nthose only seemed to me ridiculous, who had the twofold conceit to\npretend always to have been above the weakness of sensibility, and yet\nto possess enough penetration to judge _a priori_ of the degree of\nexactitude of a philosophic treatise, which is nothing but an ordered\ndescription of these weaknesses.\n\nThe grave persons, who enjoy in society their reputation as safe men\nwith no romantic nonsense, are far nearer to the understanding of a\nnovel, however impassioned, than of a book of philosophy, wherein the\nauthor describes coldly the various stages of the malady of the soul\ncalled Love. The novel moves them a little; but before the philosophic\ntreatise these sensible people are like blind men, who getting a\ndescription of the pictures in a museum read out to them, would say to\nthe author: \"You must agree, sir, that your work is horribly obscure.\"\nWhat is to happen if these blind men chance to be wits, established\nlong since in possession of that title and with sovereign claims to\nclairvoyance? The poor author will be treated prettily. In fact, it is\nwhat happened to him at the time of the first edition. Several copies\nwere actually burnt through the raging vanity of very clever people.\nI do not speak of insults all the more flattering for their fury: the\nauthor was proclaimed to be coarse, immoral, a writer for the people,\na suspicious character, etc. In countries outworn by monarchy, these\ntitles are the surest reward for whoever thinks good to write on morals\nand does not dedicate his book to the Mme. Dubarry of the day. Blessed\nliterature, if it were not in fashion, and interested those alone for\nwhom it was written!\n\nIn the time of the _Cid_, Corneille was nothing for M. le Marquis de\nDanjeau[3] but \"a good fellow.\" Today the whole world thinks itself\nmade to read M. de Lamartine: so much the better for his publisher, but\nso much the worse, and a hundred times the worse, for\n\n[Pg 9]\nthat great poet. In our days genius offers accommodation to people to\nwhom, under penalty of losing caste, it should never so much as give a\nthought.\n\nThe laborious and active, very estimable and very positive life of a\ncounsellor of State, of a manufacturer of cotton goods or of a banker\nwith a keen eye for loans finds its reward in millions, not in tender\nsensation. Little by little the heart of these gentlemen ossifies:\nthe positive and the useful are for them everything, and their soul\nis closed to that feeling, which of all others has the greatest need\nof our leisure and makes us most unfit for any rational and steady\noccupation.\n\nThe only object of this preface is to proclaim that this book has the\nmisfortune of being incomprehensible to all who have not found time to\nplay the fool. Many people will feel offended and I trust they will go\nno further.\n\n\n[1] [May, 1826.--Tr.]\n\n[2] \"Cut this passage out,\" say my friends. \"Nothing could be truer,\nbut beware of the men of business: they'll cry out on the aristocrat.\"\nIn 1812 I was not afraid of the Treasury: so why should I be afraid\nof the millionaire in 1820? The ships supplied to the Pasha of Egypt\nhave opened my eyes in their direction, and I fear nothing but what I\nrespect.\n\n[3] _Vide_ p. 120 of _M\u00e9moires de Danjeau_ (\u00c9dition Genlis).\n\n\n[Pg 10]\n                              PREFACE[1]\n\n\nI write for a hundred readers only and of these unhappy charming\nbeings, without hypocrisy or moral cant, whom I would please, I know\nscarcely a couple. Of such as lie to gain consideration as writers, I\ntake little heed. Certain fine ladies should keep to the accounts of\ntheir cook and the fashionable preacher of the day, be it Massillon\nor Mme. Necker, to be able to talk on these topics with the women of\nimportance who mete out consideration. And to be sure, in France this\nnoble distinction is always to be won by turning high priest of any fad.\n\nTo anyone who would read this book I would say: In all your life have\nyou been unhappy six months for love?\n\nOr, was your soul ever touched by sorrow not connected with the thought\nof a lawsuit, with failure at the last election, or with having cut a\nless brilliant figure than usual last season at Aix? I will continue\nmy indiscretions and ask if in the year you have read any of those\nimpudent works, which compel the reader to think? For example, _\u00c9mile_\nof J. J. Rousseau, or the six volumes of Montaigne? If, I should say,\nyou have never suffered through this infirmity of noble minds, if you\nhave not, in defiance of nature, the habit of thinking as you read,\nthis book will give you a grudge against its author: for it will make\nyou suspect that there exists a certain happiness, unknown to you and\nknown to Mlle. de Lespinasse.\n\n\n[1] [May, 1834.--Tr.\n\n\n\n[Pg 11]\n                              PREFACE[1]\n\n\nI come to beg indulgence of the reader for the peculiar form of\nthis Physiology of Love. It is twenty-eight years (in 1842) since\nthe turmoil, which followed the fall of Napoleon, deprived me of my\nposition. Two years earlier chance threw me, immediately after the\nhorrors of the retreat from Russia, into the midst of a charming town,\nwhere I had the enchanting prospect of passing the rest of my days.\nIn happy Lombardy, at Milan, at Venice, the great, or rather only,\nbusiness of life is pleasure. No attention, there, to the deeds and\nmovements of your neighbour; hardly a troubled thought for what is\nto happen to you. If a man notice the existence of his neighbour, it\ndoes not enter his head to hate him. Take away from the occupations\nof a French provincial town jealousy--and what is left? The absence,\nthe impossibility of that cruel jealousy forms the surest part of that\nhappiness, which draws all the provincials to Paris.\n\nFollowing the masked balls of Carnival, which in 1820 was more\nbrilliant than usual, the noise of five or six completely reckless\nproceedings occupied the society of Milan an entire month; although\nthey are used over there to things which in France would pass for\nincredible. The fear of ridicule would in this country paralyse such\nfantastic actions: only to speak of them I need great courage.\n\nOne evening people were discussing profoundly the\n\n[Pg 12]\neffects and the causes of these extravagances, at the house of the\ncharming Mme. Pietra Grua(6), who happened, extraordinarily enough,\nnot to be mixed up with these escapades. The thought came to me that\nperhaps in less than a year I should have nothing left of all those\nstrange facts, and of the causes alleged for them, but a recollection,\non which I could not depend. I got hold of a concert programme, and\nwrote a few words on it in pencil. A game of faro was suggested: we\nwere thirty seated round a card-table, but the conversation was so\nanimated that people forgot to play. Towards the close of the evening\ncame in Col. Scotti, one of the most charming men in the Italian army:\nhe was asked for his quantum of circumstances relative to the curious\nfacts with which we were busy, and, indeed, his story of certain\nthings, which chance had confided to his knowledge, gave them an\nentirely new aspect. I took up my concert programme and added these new\ncircumstances.\n\nThis collection of particulars on Love was continued in the same way,\nwith pencil and odd scraps of paper, snatched up in the _salons_, where\nI heard the anecdotes told. Soon I looked for a common rule by which\nto recognise different degrees in them. Two months later fear of being\ntaken for a _Carbonaro_ made me return to Paris--only for a few months\nI hoped, but never again have I seen Milan, where I had passed seven\nyears.\n\nPining with boredom at Paris, I conceived the idea of occupying myself\nagain with the charming country from which fear had driven me. I strung\ntogether my scraps of paper and presented the book to a publisher.\nBut soon a difficulty was raised: the printer declared that it was\nimpossible to work from notes written in pencil and I could see that he\nfound such copy beneath his dignity. The printer's young apprentice,\nwho brought me back my notes, seemed quite ashamed of the more than\ndoubtful compliment, which had been put into\n\n[Pg 13]\nhis mouth: he knew how to write and I dictated to him my pencil notes.\n\nI understood, too, that discretion required me to change the proper\nnames, and, above all, abridge the anecdotes. Although no one reads in\nMilan, the book, if ever it reached there, might have seemed a piece of\nwicked mischief.\n\nSo I brought out an ill-fated volume. I have the courage to own that I\ndespised at that period elegance in style. I saw the young apprentice\nwholly taken up with avoiding sentence-endings that were unmusical and\nodd sounds in the arrangement of words. In return, he made throughout\nno scruple of changing details of fact, difficult to express: Voltaire\nhimself is afraid of things which are difficult to tell.\n\nThe Essay on Love had no claim to merit except the number of the fine\nshades of feeling, which I begged the reader to verify among his\nmemories, if he were happy enough to have any. But in all this there\nwas something much worse: I was then, as ever, very inexperienced in\nthe department of literature and the publisher, to whom I had presented\nthe MS., printed it on bad paper and in an absurd _format_. In fact a\nmonth later, when I asked him for news of the book--\"On peut dire qu'il\nest sacr\u00e9,\"[2] he said, \"For no one comes near it.\"\n\nIt had never even crossed my mind to solicit articles in the papers:\nsuch a thing would have seemed to me an ignominy. And yet no work was\nin more pressing need of recommendation to the patience of the reader.\nUnder the menace of becoming unintelligible at the very outset, it was\nnecessary to bring the public to accept the new word \"crystallisation,\"\nsuggested as a lively expression for that collection of strange\nfancies, which we weave round our idea of the loved one, as true and\neven indubitable realities.\n\n\n[Pg 14]\nAt that time wholly absorbed in my love for the least details, which\nI had lately observed in the Italy of my dreams, I avoided with care\nevery concession, every amenity of style, which might have rendered the\nEssay on Love less peculiarly fantastic in the eyes of men of letters.\n\nFurther, I was not flattering to the public. Literature at that time,\nall defaced by our great and recent misfortunes, seemed to have no\nother interest than the consolation of our unhappy pride: it used to\nrhyme \"_gloire_\" with \"_victoire_,\" \"_guerriers_\" with \"_lauriers_,\"[3]\netc. The true circumstances of the situations, which it pretends to\ntreat, seem never to have any attraction for the tedious literature of\nthat period: it looks for nothing but an opportunity of complimenting\nthat people, enslaved to fashion, whom a great man had called a great\nnation, forgetting that they were only great on condition that their\nleader was himself.\n\nAs the result of my ignorance of the exigencies of the humblest\nsuccess, I found no more than seventeen readers between 1822 and 1833:\nit is doubtful whether the Essay on Love has been understood after\ntwenty years of existence by a hundred connoisseurs. A few have had the\npatience to observe the various phases of this disease in the people\ninfected with it in their circle; for we must speak of it as a disease,\nin order to understand that passion which in the last thirty years our\nfear of ridicule has taken so much trouble to hide--it is this way\nwhich sometimes leads to its cure.\n\nNow and now only, after half a century of revolutions, engrossing one\nafter another our whole attention, now and now only after five complete\nchanges in the form and the tendencies of our government, does the\nrevolution just begin to show itself in our way of living. Love, or\nthat which commonly appropriates Love's name and fills its place, was\nall-powerful in the France of\n\n[Pg 15]\nLewis XV. Colonels were created by the ladies of the court; and that\ncourt was nothing less than the fairest place in the kingdom. Fifty\nyears after, the court is no more; and the gift of a licence to sell\ntobacco in the meanest provincial town is beyond the power of the most\nsurely established ladies of the reigning _bourgeoisie_ or of the\npouting nobility.\n\nIt must be owned, women are out of fashion. In our brilliant _salons_\nthe young men of twenty affect not to address them; they much prefer to\nstand round the noisy talker dealing, in a provincial accent, with the\nquestion of the right to vote, and to try and slip in their own little\nword. The rich youths, who, to keep up a show of the good-fellowship of\npast times, take a pride in seeming frivolous, prefer to talk horses\nand play high in the circles where women are excluded. The deadly\nindifference which seems to preside over the relations of young men and\nthe women of five-and-twenty, for whose presence society has to thank\nthe boredom of marriage, will bring, perhaps, a few wise spirits to\naccept this scrupulously exact description of the successive phases of\nthe malady called Love.\n\nSeeing the terrible change which has plunged us into the stagnation of\nto-day, and makes unintelligible to us the society of 1778, such as\nwe find it in the letters of Diderot to Mlle. Voland, his mistress,\nor in the Memoirs of Madame d'\u00c9pinay, a man might ask the question,\nwhich of our successive governments has killed in us the faculty of\nenjoying ourselves, and drawn us nearer to the gloomiest people on\nthe face of the earth? The only passable thing which that people have\ninvented--parliament and the honesty of their parties--we are unable\neven to copy. In return, the stupidest of their gloomy conceptions, the\nspirit of dignity, has come among us to take the place of our French\ngaiety, which is to be found now only in the five hundred balls in the\noutskirts of Paris or in the south of France, beyond Bordeaux.\n\n\n[Pg 16]\nBut which of our successive governments has cost us the fearful\nmisfortune of anglicisation? Must we accuse that energetic government\nof 1793, which prevented the foreigners from coming to pitch their camp\nin Montmartre--that government which in a few years will seem heroic in\nour eyes and forms a worthy prelude to that, which under Napoleon, went\nforth to carry our name into all the capitals of Europe?\n\nWe shall pass over the well-meaning stupidity of the _Directoire_,\nillustrated by the talents of Carnot and the immortal campaign of\n1796-1797 in Italy.\n\nThe corruption of the court of Barras still recalled something of the\ngaiety of the old order; the graces of Madame Bonaparte proved that we\nhad no aptitude at that time for the churlishness and charnel-house of\nthe English.\n\nThe profound respect, which despite the jealousy of the faubourg\nSaint-Germain, we could not but feel for the First Consul's method\nof government, and the men whose superior merit adorned the society\nof Paris--such as the Cretets and the Darus--relieves the Empire of\nthe burden of responsibility for the remarkable change which has been\neffected, in the first half of the nineteenth century, in the character\nof the French.\n\nUnnecessary to carry my investigation further: the reader will reflect\nand be quite able to draw his own conclusions.\n\n\n[1] [1842. As Stendhal died early in that year, this probably is his\nlast writing.--Tr.]\n\n[2] [\"One might say it's taboo...\" \"Taboo\" is a poor equivalent for\n\"sacr\u00e9,\" which means \"cursed\" as well as \"blessed.\"--Tr.]\n\n[3] [\"Glory with victory, warrior with laurel.\"--Tr.\n\n\n[Pg 17]\n                                BOOK I\n\n[Pg 18]\n[Pg 19]\n\n\n                                ON LOVE\n\n\n                               CHAPTER I\n\n                                OF LOVE\n\n\nMy aim is to comprehend that passion, of which every sincere\ndevelopment has a character of beauty.\n\nThere are four kinds of love.\n\n1. Passion-love--that of the Portuguese nun(1), of H\u00e9lo\u00efse for Abelard,\nof Captain de V\u00e9sel, of Sergeant de Cento.\n\n2. Gallant love--that which ruled in Paris towards 1760, to be found\nin the memoirs and novels of the period, in Cr\u00e9billon, Lauzun, Duclos,\nMarmontel, Chamfort, Mme. d'\u00c9pinay, etc. etc.\n\n'Tis a picture in which everything, to the very shadows, should be\nrose-colour, in which may enter nothing disagreeable under any pretext\nwhatsoever, at the cost of a lapse of etiquette, of good taste, of\nrefinement, etc. A man of breeding foresees all the ways of acting,\nthat he is likely to adopt or meet with in the different phases of\nthis love. True love is often less refined; for that in which there\nis no passion and nothing unforeseen, has always a store of ready\nwit: the latter is a cold and pretty miniature, the former a picture\nby the Carracci. Passion-love carries us away in defiance of all our\ninterests, gallant love manages always to respect them. True, if we\ntake from this poor love its vanity, there is very little left: once\nstripped, it is like a tottering convalescent, scarcely able to drag\nhimself along.\n\n3. Physical love. Out hunting--a fresh, pretty country\n\n[Pg 20]\ngirl crosses your path and escapes into the wood. Everyone knows the\nlove founded on this kind of pleasure: and all begin that way at\nsixteen, however parched and unhappy the character.\n\n4. Vanity-love. The vast majority of men, especially in France, desire\nand have a fashionable woman, in the same way as a man gets a fine\nhorse, as something which the luxury of a young man demands. Their\nvanity more or less flattered, more or less piqued, gives birth to\ntransports of feelings. Sometimes there is also physical love, but by\nno means always: often there is not so much as physical pleasure. A\nduchess is never more than thirty for a bourgeois, said the Duchesse\nde Chaulnes, and those admitted to the Court of that just man, king\nLewis of Holland, recall with amusement a pretty woman from the Hague,\nwho could not help finding any man charming who was Duke or Prince.\nBut true to the principle of monarchy, as soon as a Prince arrived at\nCourt, the Duke was dismissed: she was, as it were, the decoration of\nthe diplomatic body.\n\nThe happiest case of this uninspiring relationship is that in which\nto physical pleasure is added habit. In that case store of memories\nmakes it resemble love a little; there is the pique of self-esteem\nand sadness on being left; then, romance forces upon us its ideas and\nwe believe that we are in love and melancholy, for vanity aspires to\ncredit itself with a great passion. This, at least, is certain that,\nwhatever kind of love be the source of pleasure, as soon as the soul\nis stirred, the pleasure is keen and its memory alluring, and in this\npassion, contrary to most of the others, the memory of our losses seems\nalways to exceed the bounds of what we can hope for in the future.\n\nSometimes, in vanity-love habit or despair of finding better produces a\nkind of friendship, of all kinds the least pleasant: it prides itself\non its security, etc.[1]\n\n\n[Pg 21]\nPhysical pleasure, being of our nature, is known to everybody, but it\ntakes no more than a subordinate position in the eyes of tender and\npassionate souls. If they raise a laugh in the salons, if often they\nare made unhappy in the intrigues of society, in return the pleasure\nwhich they feel must remain always inaccessible to those hearts, whose\nbeat only vanity and gold can quicken.\n\nA few virtuous and sensitive women have scarcely a conception of\nphysical pleasures: they have so rarely risked them, if one may use the\nexpression, and even then the transports of passion-love caused bodily\npleasure almost to be forgotten.\n\nThere are men victims and instruments of diabolical pride, of a pride\nin the style of Alfieri. Those people who, perhaps, are cruel because,\nlike Nero, judging all men after the pattern of their own heart, they\nare always a-tremble--such people, I say, can attain physical pleasure\nonly in so far as it is accompanied by the greatest possible exercise\nof pride, in so far, that is to say, as they practise cruelties on the\ncompanion of their pleasures. Hence the horrors of _Justine_(2). At any\nrate such men have no sense of security.\n\nTo conclude, instead of distinguishing four different forms of love,\nwe can easily admit eight or ten shades of difference. Perhaps mankind\nhas as many ways of feeling as of seeing; but these differences of\nnomenclature alter in no degree the judgments which follow. Subject to\nthe same laws, all forms of love, which can be seen here below, have\ntheir birth, life and death or ascend to immortality.[2]\n\n\n[1] Well-known dialogue of Pont de Veyle with Madame du Deffant, at the\nfireside.\n\n[2] This book is a free translation of an Italian MS. of M. Lisio\nVisconti, a young man of the highest distinction, who died recently at\nVolterra, the place of his birth. The day of his sudden death he gave\nthe translator permission to publish his Essay on Love, if means were\nfound to shape it to a decorous form. Castel Fiorentino, June 10th,\n1819.\n\n\n[Pg 22]\n                              CHAPTER II\n\n                         OF THE BIRTH OF LOVE\n\n\nThis is what takes place in the soul:--\n\n1. Admiration.\n\n2. A voice within says: \"What pleasure to kiss, to be kissed.\"\n\n3. Hope(3).\n\nWe study her perfections: this is the moment at which a woman should\nyield to realise the greatest possible physical pleasure. In the case\neven of the most reserved women, their eyes redden at the moment when\nhope is conceived: the passion is so strong, the pleasure so keen, that\nit betrays itself by striking signs.\n\n4. Love is born.\n\nTo love--that is to have pleasure in seeing, touching, feeling, through\nall the senses and as near as possible, an object to be loved and that\nloves us.\n\n5. The first crystallisation begins.\n\nThe lover delights in decking with a thousand perfections the woman of\nwhose love he is sure: he dwells on all the details of his happiness\nwith a satisfaction that is boundless. He is simply magnifying a superb\nbounty just fallen to him from heaven,--he has no knowledge of it but\nthe assurance of its possession.\n\nLeave the mind of a lover to its natural movements for twenty-four\nhours, and this is what you will find.\n\nAt the salt mines of Salzburg a branch stripped of its leaves by winter\nis thrown into the abandoned depths of the mine; taken out two or three\nmonths later it is covered with brilliant crystals; the smallest twigs,\nthose\n\n[Pg 23]\nno stouter than the leg of a sparrow, are arrayed with an infinity\nof sparkling, dazzling diamonds; it is impossible to recognise the\noriginal branch.\n\nI call crystallisation the operation of the mind which, from everything\nwhich is presented to it, draws the conclusion that there are new\nperfections in the object of its love.\n\nA traveller speaks of the freshness of the orange groves at Genoa, on\nthe sea coast, during the scorching days of summer.--What pleasure to\nenjoy that freshness with her!\n\nOne of your friends breaks his arm in the hunting-field.--How sweet\nto be nursed by a woman you love! To be always with her, to see every\nmoment her love for you, would make pain almost a blessing: and\nstarting from the broken arm of your friend, you conclude with the\nabsolute conviction of the angelic goodness of your mistress. In a\nword, it is enough to think of a perfection in order to see it in that\nwhich you love.\n\nThis phenomenon, which I venture to call crystallisation, is the\nproduct of human nature, which commands us to enjoy and sends warm\nblood rushing to our brain; it springs from the conviction that the\npleasures of love increase with the perfections of its object, and from\nthe idea: \"She is mine.\" The savage has no time to go beyond the first\nstep. He is delighted, but his mental activity is employed in following\nthe flying deer in the forest, and with the flesh with which he must\nas soon as possible repair his forces, or fall beneath the axe of his\nenemy.\n\nAt the other pole of civilisation, I have no doubt that a sensitive\nwoman may come to the point of feeling no physical pleasure but with\nthe man she loves.[1] It is the opposite with the savage. But among\ncivilised peoples, woman has leisure at her disposal, while the savage\nis so pressed with necessary occupations that he is forced to\n\n[Pg 24]\ntreat his female as a beast of burden. If the females of many animals\nare more fortunate, it is because the subsistence of the males is more\nassured.\n\nBut let us leave the backwoods again for Paris. A man of passion sees\nall perfections in that which he loves. And yet his attention may still\nbe distracted; for the soul has its surfeit of all that is uniform,\neven of perfect bliss.[2]\n\nThis is what happens to distract his attention:--\n\n6. Birth of Doubt.\n\nAfter ten or twelve glances, or some other series of actions, which\ncan last as well several days as one moment, hopes are first given and\nlater confirmed. The lover, recovered from his first surprise and,\naccustomed to his happiness or guided by theory, which, always based on\nthe most frequent cases, must only take light women into account--the\nlover, I say, demands more positive proofs and wishes to press his good\nfortune.\n\nHe is parried with indifference,[3] coldness, even anger, if he show\ntoo much assurance--in France a shade of irony, which seems to say:\n\"You are not quite as far as you think.\"\n\nA woman behaves in this way, either because she wakes up from a moment\nof intoxication, and obeys the word of modesty, which she trembles to\nhave infringed, or simply through prudence or coquetry.\n\n[Pg 25]\nThe lover comes to doubt of the happiness, to which he looked forward:\nhe scans more narrowly the reasons that he fancied he had for hope.\n\nHe would like to fall back upon the other pleasures of life, and finds\nthem annihilated. He is seized with the fear of a terrible disaster,\nand at the same time with a profound preoccupation.\n\n7. Second crystallisation.\n\nHere begins the second crystallisation, which forms diamonds out of the\nproofs of the idea--\"She loves me.\"\n\nThe night which follows the birth of doubts, every quarter of an hour,\nafter a moment of fearful unhappiness, the lover says to himself--\"Yes,\nshe loves me\"--and crystallisation has its turn, discovering new\ncharms. Then doubt with haggard eye grapples him and brings him to\na standstill, blank. His heart forgets to beat--\"But does she love\nme?\" he says to himself. Between these alternatives, agonising and\nrapturous, the poor lover feels in his very soul: \"She would give me\npleasures, which she alone can give me and no one else.\"\n\nIt is the palpability of this truth, this path on the extreme\nedge of a terrible abyss and within touch, on the other hand, of\nperfect happiness, which gives so great a superiority to the second\ncrystallisation over the first.\n\nThe lover wanders from moment to moment between these three ideas:--\n\n1. She has every perfection.\n\n2. She loves me.\n\n3. What means of obtaining the greatest proof of her love?\n\nThe most agonising moment of love, still young, is when it sees\nthe false reasoning it has made, and must destroy a whole span of\ncrystallisation.\n\nDoubt is the natural outcome of crystallisation.\n\n\n[1] If this peculiarity is not observed in the case of man, the reason\nis that on his side there is no modesty to be for a moment sacrificed.\n\n[2] That is to say, that the same tone of existence can give but one\ninstant of perfect happiness; but with a man of passion, his mood\nchanges ten times a day.\n\n[3] The _coup de foudre_ (thunderbolt from the blue), as it was called\nin the novels of the seventeenth century, which disposes of the fate of\nthe hero and his mistress, is a movement of the soul, which for having\nbeen abused by a host of scribblers, is experienced none the less in\nreal life. It comes from the impossibility of this defensive manoeuvre.\nThe woman who loves finds too much happiness in the sentiment, which\nshe feels, to carry through successful deception: tired of prudence,\nshe neglects all precaution and yields blindly to the passion of\nloving. Diffidence makes the _coup de foudre_ impossible.\n\n\n[Pg 26]\n                              CHAPTER III\n\n                                OF HOPE\n\n\nA very small degree of hope is enough to cause the birth of love.\n\nIn the course of events hope may fail--love is none the less born. With\na firm, daring and impetuous character, and in an imagination developed\nby the troubles of life, the degree of hope may be smaller: it can come\nsooner to an end, without killing love.\n\nIf a lover has had troubles, if he is of a tender, thoughtful\ncharacter, if he despairs of other women, and if his admiration is\nintense for her whom he loves, no ordinary pleasure will succeed in\ndistracting him from the second crystallisation. He will prefer to\ndream of the most doubtful chance of pleasing her one day, than to\naccept from an ordinary woman all she could lavish.\n\nThe woman whom he loves would have to kill his hope at that period, and\n(note carefully, not later) in some inhuman manner, and overwhelm him\nwith those marks of patent contempt, which make it impossible to appear\nagain in public.\n\nFar longer delays between all these periods are compatible with the\nbirth of love.\n\nIt demands much more hope and much more substantial hope, in the case\nof the cold, the phlegmatic and the prudent. The same is true of people\nno longer young.\n\nIt is the second crystallisation which ensures love's duration, for\nthen every moment makes it clear that the question is--be loved or die.\nLong months of love have\n\n[Pg 27]\nturned into habit this conviction of our every moment--how find means\nto support the thought of loving no more? The stronger the character\nthe less is it subject to inconstancy.\n\nThis second crystallisation is almost entirely absent from the passions\ninspired by women who yield too soon.\n\nAfter the crystallisations have worked--especially the second, which\nis far the stronger--the branch is no longer to be recognised by\nindifferent eyes, for:--\n\n(1) It is adorned with perfections which they do not see.\n\n(2) It is adorned with perfections which for them are not perfections\nat all.\n\nThe perfection of certain charms, mentioned to him by an old friend of\nhis love, and a certain hint of liveliness noticed in her eye, are a\ndiamond in the crystallisation[1]\n\n[Pg 28]\nof Del Rosso. These ideas, conceived during the evening, keep him\ndreaming all the night.\n\nAn unexpected answer, which makes me see more clearly a tender,\ngenerous, ardent, or, as it is popularly called, romantic[2] soul,\npreferring to the happiness of kings the simple pleasures of a walk\nwith the loved one at midnight in a lonely wood, gives me food for\ndreams[3] for a whole night.\n\nLet him call my mistress a prude: I shall call his a whore.\n\n\n[1] I have called this essay a book of Ideology. My object was to\nindicate that, though it is called \"Love,\" it is not a novel and still\nless diverting like a novel. I apologise to philosophers for having\ntaken the word Ideology: I certainly did not intend to usurp a title\nwhich is the right of another. If Ideology is a detailed description\nof ideas and all the parts which can compose ideas, the present book\nis a detailed description of all the feelings which can compose the\npassion called Love. Proceeding, I draw certain consequences from this\ndescription: for example, the manner of love's cure. I know no word to\nsay in Greek \"discourse on ideas.\" I might have had a word invented by\none of my learned friends, but I am already vexed enough at having to\nadopt the new word crystallisation, and, if this essay finds readers,\nit is quite possible that they will not allow my new word to pass. To\navoid it, I own, would have been the work of literary talent: I tried,\nbut without success. Without this word, which expresses, according to\nme, the principal phenomenon of that madness called Love--madness,\nhowever, which procures for man the greatest pleasures which it is\ngiven to the beings of his species to taste on earth--without the use\nof this word, which it were necessary to replace at every step by a\nparaphrase of considerable length, the description, which I give of\nwhat passes in the head and the heart of a man in love, would have\nbecome obscure, heavy and tedious, even for me who am the author: what\nwould it have been for the reader?\n\nI invite, therefore, the reader, whose feelings the word\ncrystallisation shocks too much, to close the book. To be read by many\nforms no part of my prayers--happily, no doubt, for me. I should love\ndearly to give great pleasure to thirty or forty people of Paris,\nwhom I shall never see, but for whom, without knowing, I have a blind\naffection. Some young Madame Roland, for example, reading her book\nin secret and precious quickly hiding it, at the least noise, in the\ndrawers of her father's bench--her father the engraver of watches. A\nsoul like that of Madame Roland will forgive me, I hope, not only the\nword crystallisation, used to express that act of madness which makes\nus perceive every beauty, every kind of perfection, in the woman whom\nwe begin to love, but also several too daring ellipses besides. The\nreader has only to take a pencil and write between the lines the five\nor six words which are missing.\n\n[2] All his actions had at first in my eyes that heavenly air, which\nmakes of a man a being apart, and differentiates him from all others. I\nthought that I could read in his eyes that thirst for a happiness more\nsublime, that unavowed melancholy, which yearns for something better\nthan we find here below, and which in all the trials that fortune and\nrevolution can bring upon a romantic soul,\n\n    ... still prompts the celestial sight\n    For which we wish to live or dare to die.\n\n(Last letter of Bianca to her mother. Forl\u00ec, 1817.)\n\n[3] It is in order to abridge and to be able to paint the interior\nof the soul, that the author, using the formula of the first person,\nalleges several feelings to which he is a stranger: personally, he\nnever had any which would be worth quoting.\n\n\n[Pg 29]\n                              CHAPTER IV\n\n\nIn a soul completely detached--a girl living in a lonely castle in the\ndepth of the country--the slightest astonishment may bring on a slight\nadmiration, and, if the faintest hope intervene, cause the birth of\nlove and crystallisation(4).\n\nIn this case love delights, to begin with, just as a diversion.\n\nSurprise and hope are strongly supported by the need, felt at the age\nof sixteen, of love and sadness. It is well known that the restlessness\nof that age is a thirst for love, and a peculiarity of thirst is not to\nbe extremely fastidious about the kind of draught that fortune offers.\n\nLet us recapitulate the seven stages of love. They are:--\n\n1. Admiration.\n\n2. What pleasure, etc.\n\n3. Hope.\n\n4. Love is born.\n\n5. First crystallisation.\n\n6. Doubt appears.\n\n7. Second crystallisation.\n\nBetween Nos. 1 and 2 may pass one year. One month between Nos. 2 and 3;\nbut if hope does not make haste in coming, No. 2 is insensibly resigned\nas a source of unhappiness.\n\nA twinkling of the eye between Nos. 3 and 4.\n\nThere is no interval between Nos. 4 and 5. The sequence can only be\nbroken by intimate intercourse.\n\nSome days may pass between Nos. 5 and 6, according to the degree to\nwhich the character is impetuous and used to risk, but between Nos. 6\nand 7 there is no interval.\n\n\n[Pg 30]\n                               CHAPTER V\n\n\nMan is not free to avoid doing that which gives him more pleasure to do\nthan all other possible actions.[1]\n\nLove is like the fever(5), it is born and spends itself without the\nslightest intervention of the will. That is one of the principal\ndifferences between gallant-love and passion-love. And you cannot give\nyourself credit for the fair qualities in what you really love, any\nmore than for a happy chance.\n\nFurther, love is of all ages: observe the passion of Madame du Deffant\nfor the graceless Horace Walpole. A more recent and more pleasing\nexample is perhaps still remembered in Paris.\n\nIn proof of great passions I admit only those of their consequences,\nwhich are exposed to ridicule: timidity, for example, proves love. I am\nnot speaking of the bashfulness of the enfranchised schoolboy.\n\n\n[1] As regards crime, it belongs to good education to inspire remorse,\nwhich, foreseen, acts as a counterbalance.\n\n\n[Pg 31]\n                              CHAPTER VI\n\n                       THE CRYSTALS OF SALZBURG\n\n\nCrystallisation scarcely ceases at all during love. This is its\nhistory: so long as all is well between the lover and the loved, there\nis crystallisation by imaginary solution; it is only imagination which\nmake him sure that such and such perfection exists in the woman he\nloves. But after intimate intercourse, fears are continually coming to\nlife, to be allayed only by more real solutions. Thus his happiness is\nonly uniform in its source. Each day has a different bloom.\n\nIf the loved one yields to the passion, which she shares, and falls\ninto the enormous error of killing fear by the eagerness of her\ntransports,[1] crystallisation ceases for an instant; but when love\nloses some of its eagerness, that is to say some of its fears, it\nacquires the charm of entire abandon, of confidence without limits: a\nsense of sweet familiarity comes to take the edge from all the pains of\nlife, and give to fruition another kind of interest.\n\nAre you deserted?--Crystallisation begins again; and every glance of\nadmiration, the sight of every happiness which she can give you, and\nof which you thought no longer, leads up to this agonising reflexion:\n\"That happiness, that charm, I shall meet it no more. It is lost and\nthe fault is mine!\" You may look for happiness in sensations of another\nkind. Your heart refuses to feel them. Imagination depicts for you well\nenough the physical situation, mounts you well enough on a fast hunter\nin\n\n[Pg 32]\nDevonshire woods.[2] But you feel quite certain that there you would\nfind no pleasure. It is the optical illusion produced by a pistol shot.\n\nGaming has also its crystallisation, provoked by the use of the sum of\nmoney to be won.\n\nThe hazards of Court life, so regretted by the nobility, under the\nname of Legitimists, attached themselves so dearly only by the\ncrystallisation they provoked. No courtier existed who did not dream of\nthe rapid fortune of a Luynes or a Lauzun, no charming woman who did\nnot see in prospect the duchy of Madame de Polignac. No rationalist\ngovernment can give back that crystallisation. Nothing is so\n_anti-imagination_ as the government of the United States of America.\nWe have noticed that to their neighbours, the savages, crystallisation\nis almost unknown. The Romans scarcely had an idea of it, and\ndiscovered it only for physical love.\n\nHate has its crystallisation: as soon as it is possible to hope for\nrevenge, hate begins again.\n\nIf every creed, in which there is absurdity and inconsequence, tends\nto place at the head of the party the people who are most absurd, that\nis one more of the effects of crystallisation. Even in mathematics\n(observe the Newtonians in 1740) crystallisation goes on in the\nmind, which cannot keep before it at every moment every part of the\ndemonstration of that which it believes.\n\nIn proof, see the destiny of the great German philosophers, whose\nimmortality, proclaimed so often, never manages to last longer than\nthirty or forty years.\n\nIt is the impossibility of fathoming the \"why?\" of our feelings, which\nmakes the most reasonable man a fanatic in music.\n\nIn face of certain contradictions it is not possible to be convinced at\nwill that we are right.\n\n\n[1] Diane de Poitiers, in the _Princesse de Cl\u00e8ves_, by Mme. de\nLafayette.\n\n[2] If you could imagine being happy in that position, crystallisation\nwould have deferred to your mistress the exclusive privilege of giving\nyou that happiness.\n\n\n[Pg 33]\n                              CHAPTER VII\n\n        DIFFERENCES BETWEEN THE BIRTH OF LOVE IN THE TWO SEXES\n\n\nWomen attach themselves by the favours they dispense. As\nnineteen-twentieths of their ordinary dreams are relative to love,\nafter intimate intercourse these day-dreams group themselves round\na single object; they have to justify a course so extraordinary, so\ndecisive, so contrary to all the habits of modesty. Men have no such\ntask; and, besides, the imagination of women has time to work in detail\nupon the sweetness of such moments.\n\nAs love casts doubts upon things the best proved, the woman who, before\nshe gave herself, was perfectly sure that her lover was a man above the\ncrowd, no sooner thinks she has nothing left to refuse him, than she is\nall fears lest he was only trying to put one more woman on his list.\n\nThen, and then only appears the second crystallisation, which, being\nhand in hand with fear, is far the stronger.[1]\n\nYesterday a queen, to-day she sees herself a slave. This state of soul\nand mind is encouraged in a woman by the nervous intoxication resulting\nfrom pleasures, which are just so much keener as they are more rare.\nBesides, a woman before her embroidery frame--insipid work which only\noccupies the hand--is thinking about her lover; while he is galloping\nwith his squadron over the\n\n[Pg 34]\nplain, where leading one wrong movement would bring him under arrest.\n\nI should think, therefore, that the second crystallisation must be far\nstronger in the case of women, because theirs are more vivid fears;\ntheir vanity and honour are compromised; distraction at least is more\ndifficult.\n\nA woman cannot be guided by the habit of being reasonable, which I,\nMan, working at things cold and reasonable for six hours every day,\ncontract at my office perforce. Even outside love, women are inclined\nto abandon themselves to their imagination and habitual high spirits:\nfaults, therefore, in the object of their love ought more rapidly to\ndisappear.\n\nWomen prefer emotion to reason--that is plain: in virtue of the\nfutility of our customs, none of the affairs of the family fall on\ntheir shoulders, so that reason is of no use to them and they never\nfind it of any practical good.\n\nOn the contrary, to them it is always harmful; for the only object of\nits appearance is to scold them for the pleasures of yesterday, or\nforbid them others for tomorrow.\n\nGive over to your wife the management of your dealings with the\nbailiffs of two of your farms--I wager the accounts will be kept\nbetter than by you, and then, sorry tyrant, you will have the _right_\nat least to complain, since to make yourself loved you do not possess\nthe talent. As soon as women enter on general reasonings, they are\nunconsciously making love. But in matters of detail they take pride in\nbeing stricter and more exact than men. Half the small trading is put\ninto the hands of women, who acquit themselves of it better than their\nhusbands. It is a well-known maxim that, if you are speaking business\nwith a woman, you cannot be too serious.\n\nThis is because they are at all times and in all places greedy of\nemotion.--Observe the pleasures of burial rites in Scotland.\n\n\n[1] This second crystallisation is wanting in light women, who are far\naway from all these romantic ideas.\n\n\n[Pg 35]\n                             CHAPTER VIII\n\nThis was her favoured fairy realm, and here she erected her aerial\npalaces.--_Bride of Lammermoor_, Chap. III.\n\n\nA girl of eighteen has not enough crystallisation in her power,\nforms desires too limited by her narrow experiences of the things of\nlife, to be in a position to love with as much passion as a woman of\ntwenty-eight(4).\n\nThis evening I was exposing this doctrine to a clever woman, who\nmaintains the contrary. \"A girl's imagination being chilled by no\ndisagreeable experience, and the prime of youth burning with all its\nforce, any man can be the motive upon which she creates a ravishing\nimage. Every time that she meets her lover, she will enjoy, not what\nhe is in reality, but that image of delight which she has created for\nherself.\n\n\"Later, she is by this lover and by all men disillusioned, experience\nof the dark reality has lessened in her the power of crystallisation,\nmistrust has clipped the wings of imagination. At the instance of no\nman on earth, were he a very prodigy, could she form so irresistible\nan image: she could love no more with the same fire of her first\nyouth. And as in love it is only the illusion formed by ourselves\nwhich we enjoy, never can the image, which she may create herself at\ntwenty-eight, have the brilliance and the loftiness on which first\nlove was built at sixteen: the second will always seem of a degenerate\nspecies.\"\n\n\"No, madam. Evidently it is the presence of mistrust, absent at\nsixteen, which must give to this second love a different colour. In\nearly youth love is like an immense stream, which sweeps all before it\nin its course,\n\n[Pg 36]\nand we feel that we cannot resist it. Now at twenty-eight a gentle\nheart knows itself: it knows that, if it is still to find some\nhappiness in life, from love it must be claimed; and this poor, torn\nheart becomes the seat of a fearful struggle between love and mistrust.\nCrystallisation proceeds gradually; but the crystallisation, which\nemerges triumphant from this terrible proof, in which the soul in all\nits movements never loses sight of the most awful danger, is a thousand\ntimes more brilliant and more solid than crystallisation at sixteen, in\nwhich everything, by right of age, is gaiety and happiness.\"\n\n\"In this way love should be less gay and more passionate.\"[1]\n\nThis conversation (Bologna, 9 March, 1820), bringing into doubt a\npoint which seemed to me so clear, makes me believe more and more,\nthat a man can say practically nothing with any sense on that which\nhappens in the inmost heart of a woman of feeling: as to a coquet it is\ndifferent--_we_ also have senses and vanity.\n\nThe disparity between the birth of love in the two sexes would seem to\ncome from the nature of their hopes, which are different. One attacks,\nthe other defends; one asks, the other refuses; one is daring, the\nother timid.\n\nThe man reflects: \"Can I please her? Will she love me?\"\n\nThe woman: \"When he says he loves me, isn't it for sport? Is his\na solid character? Can he answer to himself for the length of his\nattachments?\" Thus it is that many women regard and treat a young man\nof twenty-three as a child. If he has gone through six campaigns, he\nfinds everything different--he is a young hero.\n\nOn the man's side, hope depends simply on the actions of that which he\nloves--nothing easier to interpret. On the side of woman, hope must\nrest on moral considerations--very difficult rightly to appreciate.\n\n[Pg 37]\nMost men demand such a proof of love, as to their mind dissipates\nall doubts; women are not so fortunate as to be able to find such a\nproof. And there is in life this trouble for lovers--that what makes\nthe security and happiness of one, makes the danger and almost the\nhumiliation of the other.\n\nIn love, men run the risk of the secret torture of the soul--women\nexpose themselves to the scoffs of the public; they are more timid,\nand, besides, for them public opinion means much more.--\"Sois\nconsid\u00e9r\u00e9e, il le faut.\"[2]\n\nThey have not that sure means of ours of mastering public opinion by\nrisking for an instant their life.\n\nWomen, then, must naturally be far more mistrustful. In virtue of their\nhabits, all the mental movements, which form periods in the birth of\nlove, are in their case more mild, more timid, more gradual and less\ndecided. There is therefore a greater disposition to constancy; they\nwill less easily withdraw from a crystallisation once begun.\n\nA woman, seeing her lover, reflects with rapidity, or yields to\nthe happiness of loving--happiness from which she is recalled in a\ndisagreeable manner, if he make the least attack; for at the call to\narms all pleasures must be abandoned.\n\nThe lover's part is simpler--he looks in the eyes of the woman he\nloves; a single smile can raise him to the zenith of happiness, and he\nlooks continually for it.[3]\n\n[Pg 38]\nThe length of the siege humiliates a man; on the contrary it makes a\nwoman's glory.\n\nA woman is capable of loving and, for an entire year, not saying more\nthan ten or twelve words to the man whom she loves. At the bottom of\nher heart she keeps note how often she has seen him--twice she went\nwith him to the theatre, twice she sat near him at dinner, three times\nhe bowed to her out walking.\n\nOne evening during some game he kissed her hand: it is to be noticed\nthat she allows no one since to kiss it under any pretext, at the risk\neven of seeming peculiar.\n\nIn a man, L\u00e9onore(6) remarked to me, such conduct would be called a\nfeminine way of love.\n\n\n[1] Epicurus said that discrimination is necessary to participation in\npleasure.\n\n[2] Remember the maxim of Beaumarchais: \"Nature has said to woman: 'Be\nfair if you can, wise if you wish, but be _estimed_--you must.' No\nadmiration in France without _estime_--equally no love.\"\n\n[3] Quando leggemmo il disiato riso\n    Esser baciato da cotanto amante,\n    Costui che mai da me non fia diviso,\n    La bocca mi bacci\u00f2 tutto tremante.\n\n             Dante, _Inf._, Cant. V.\n\n[\"When we read how the desired smile was kissed by such a lover,\nhe, who never from me shall be divided, on my mouth kissed me all\ntrembling.\"--Tr.]\n\n\n[Pg 39]\n                              CHAPTER IX\n\n\nI make every possible effort to be dry. I would impose silence upon my\nheart, which feels that it, has much to say. When I think that I have\nnoted a truth, I always tremble lest I have written only a sigh.\n\n\n[Pg 40]\n                               CHAPTER X\n\n\nIn proof of crystallisation I shall content myself with recalling the\nfollowing anecdote. A young woman hears that Edward, her relation, who\nis to return from the Army, is a youth of great distinction; she is\nassured that he loves her on her reputation; but he will want probably\nto see her, before making a proposal and asking her of her parents. She\nnotices a young stranger at church, she hears him called Edward, she\nthinks of nothing but him--she is in love with him. Eight days later\nthe real Edward arrives; he is not the Edward of church. She turns pale\nand will be unhappy for ever, if she is forced to marry him.\n\nThat is what the poor of understanding call an example of the\nsenselessness of love.\n\nA man of generosity lavishes the most delicate benefits upon a girl\nin distress. No one could have more virtues, and love was about to be\nborn; but he wears a shabby hat, and she notices that he is awkward in\nthe saddle. The girl confesses with a sigh that she cannot return the\nwarm feelings, which he evidently has for her.\n\nA man pays his attentions to a lady of the greatest respectability.\nShe hears that this gentleman has had physical troubles of a comical\nnature: she finds him intolerable. And yet she had no intention of\ngiving herself to him, and these secret troubles in no way blighted his\nunderstanding or amiability. It is simply that crystallisation was made\nimpossible.\n\nIn order that a human being may delight in deifying an object to be\nloved, be it taken from the Ardennes forest or picked up at a Bal de\nCoulon, that it seems to\n\n[Pg 41]\nhim perfect is the first necessity--perfect by no means in every\nrelation, but in every relation in which it is seen at the time.\nPerfect in all respects it will seem only after several days of the\nsecond crystallisation. The reason is simple--then it is enough to have\nthe idea of a perfection in order to see it in the object of our love.\n\nBeauty is only thus far necessary to the birth of love--ugliness\nmust not form an obstacle. The lover soon comes to find his mistress\nbeautiful, such as she is, without thinking of ideal beauty.\n\nThe features which make up the ideally beautiful would promise, if he\ncould see them, a quantity of happiness, if I may use the expression,\nwhich I would express by the number one; whereas the features of his\nmistress, such as they are, promise him one thousand units of happiness.\n\nBefore the birth of love beauty is necessary as advertisement: it\npredisposes us towards that passion by means of the praises, which we\nhear given to the object of our future love. Very eager admiration\nmakes the smallest hope decisive.\n\nIn gallant-love, and perhaps in passion-love during the first five\nminutes, a woman, considering a possible lover, gives more weight to\nthe way in which he is seen by other women, than to the way in which\nshe sees him herself.\n\nHence the success of princes and officers.[1] The pretty women of the\nCourt of old king Lewis XIV were in love with that sovereign.\n\n[Pg 42]\nGreat care should be taken not to offer facilities to hope, before it\nis certain that admiration is there. It might give rise to dullness,\nwhich makes love for ever impossible, and which, at any rate, is only\nto be cured by the sting of wounded pride.\n\nNo one feels sympathy for the simpleton, nor for a smile which\nis always there; hence the necessity in society of a veneer of\nrakishness--that is, the privileged manner. From too debased a plant we\nscorn to gather even a smile. In love, our vanity disdains a victory\nwhich is too easy; and in all matters man is not given to magnifying\nthe value of an offering.\n\n\n[1] Those who remarked in the countenance of this young hero a\ndissolute audacity mixed with extreme haughtiness and indifference to\nthe feelings of others, could not yet deny to his countenance that sort\nof comeliness, which belongs to an open set of features well formed\nby nature, modelled by art to the usual rules of courtesy, yet so far\nfrank and honest that they seemed as if they disclaimed to conceal the\nnatural working of the soul. Such an expression is often mistaken for\nmanly frankness, when in truth it arises from the reckless indifference\nof a libertine disposition, conscious of superiority of birth and\nwealth, or of some other adventitious advantage totally unconnected\nwith personal merit.\n\n_Ivanhoe_, Chap. VIII\n\n\n[Pg 43]\n                              CHAPTER XI\n\n\nCrystallisation having once begun, we enjoy with delight each new\nbeauty discovered in that which we love.\n\nBut what is beauty? It is the appearance of an aptitude for giving you\npleasure.\n\nThe pleasures of all individuals are different and often opposed to one\nanother; which explains very well how that, which is beauty for one\nindividual, is ugliness for another. (Conclusive example of Del Rosso\nand Lisio, 1st January, 1820.)\n\nThe right way to discover the nature of beauty is to look for the\nnature of the pleasures of each individual. Del Rosso, for example,\nneeds a woman who allows a certain boldness of movement, and who by her\nsmiles authorises considerable licence; a woman who at each instant\nholds physical pleasures before his imagination, and who excites in him\nthe power of pleasing, while giving him at the same time the means of\ndisplaying it.\n\nApparently, by love Del Rosso understands physical love, and Lisio\npassion-love. Obviously they are not likely to agree about the word\nbeauty.[1]\n\nThe beauty then, discovered by you, being the appearance of an aptitude\nfor giving you pleasure, and pleasure being different from pleasure as\nman from man, the crystallisation formed in the head of each individual\nmust bear the colour of that individual's pleasures.\n\n[Pg 44]\nA man's crystallisation of his mistress, or her _beauty_, is no other\nthing than the collection of all the satisfactions of all the desires,\nwhich he can have felt successively at her instance.\n\n\n[1] _My Beauty_, promise of a character useful to _my_ soul, is above\nthe attraction of the senses; that attraction is only one particular\nkind of attraction(7). 1815.\n\n\n[Pg 45]\n                              CHAPTER XII\n\n               FURTHER CONSIDERATION OF CRYSTALLISATION\n\n\nWhy do we enjoy with delight each new beauty, discovered in that which\nwe love?\n\nIt is because each new beauty gives the full and entire satisfaction of\na desire. You wish your mistress gentle--she is gentle; and then you\nwish her proud like Emilie in Corneille, and although these qualities\nare probably incompatible, instantly she appears with the soul of a\nRoman. That is the moral reason which makes love the strongest of the\npassions. In all others, desires must accommodate themselves to cold\nrealities; here it is realities which model themselves spontaneously\nupon desires. Of all the passions, therefore, it is in love that\nviolent desires find the greatest satisfaction.\n\nThere are certain general conditions of happiness, whose influence\nextends over every fulfilment of particular desires:--\n\n1. She seems to belong to you, for you only can make her happy.\n\n2. She is the judge of your worth. This condition was very important\nat the gallant and chivalrous Courts of Francis I and Henry II, and at\nthe elegant Court of Lewis XV. Under a constitutional and rationalist\ngovernment women lose this range of influence entirely.\n\n3. For a romantic heart--The loftier her soul, the more sublime will be\nthe pleasures that await her in your arms, and the more purified of the\ndross of all vulgar considerations.\n\n[Pg 46]\nThe majority of young Frenchmen are, at eighteen, disciples of\nRousseau; for them this condition of happiness is important.\n\nIn the midst of operations so apt to mislead our desire of happiness,\nthere is no keeping cool.\n\nFor, the moment he is in love, the steadiest man sees no object such\nas it is. His own advantages he minimises, and magnifies the smallest\nfavours of the loved one. Fears and hopes take at once a tinge of the\nromantic. (Wayward.) He no longer attributes anything to chance; he\nloses the perception of probability; in its effect upon his happiness a\nthing imagined is a thing existent.[1]\n\nA terrible symptom that you are losing your head:--you think of some\nlittle thing which is difficult to make out; you see it white, and\ninterpret that in favour of your love; a moment later you notice that\nactually it is black, and still you find it conclusively favourable to\nyour love.\n\nThen indeed the soul, a prey to mortal uncertainties, feels keenly the\nneed of a friend. But there is no friend for the lover. The Court knew\nthat; and it is the source of the only kind of indiscretion which a\nwoman of delicacy might forgive.\n\n\n[1] There is a physical cause--a mad impulse, a rush of blood to the\nbrain, a disorder in the nerves and in the cerebral centre. Observe\nthe transitory courage of stags and the spiritual state of a soprano.\nPhysiology, in 1922, will give us a description of the physical side of\nthis phenomenon. I recommend this to the attention of Dr. Edwards(8).\n\n\n[Pg 47]\n                             CHAPTER XIII\n\n      OF THE FIRST STEP; OF THE FASHIONABLE WORLD; OF MISFORTUNES\n\n\nThat which is most surprising in the passion of love is the first\nstep--the extravagance of the change, which comes over a man's brain.\n\nThe fashionable world, with its brilliant parties, is of service to\nlove in favouring this first step.\n\nIt begins by changing simple admiration (i) into tender admiration\n(ii)--what pleasure to kiss her, etc.\n\nIn a _salon_ lit by thousands of candles a fast valse throws a fever\nupon young hearts, eclipses timidity, swells the consciousness of\npower--in fact, gives them the daring to love. For to see a lovable\nobject is not enough: on the contrary, the fact that it is extremely\nlovable discourages a gentle soul--he must see it, if not in love with\nhim,[1] at least despoiled of its majesty.\n\nWho takes it into his head to become the paramour of a queen unless the\nadvances are from her?[2]\n\nThus nothing is more favourable to the birth of love than a life of\nirksome solitude, broken now and again by a long-desired ball. This is\nthe plan of wise mothers who have daughters.\n\nThe real fashionable world, such as was found at the\n\n[Pg 48]\nCourt of France,[3] and which since 1780,[4] I think, exists no more,\nwas unfavourable to love, because it made the solitude and the leisure,\nindispensable to the work of crystallisation, almost impossible.\n\nCourt life gives the habit of observing and making a great number of\nsubtle distinctions, and the subtlest distinction may be the beginning\nof an admiration and of a passion.[5]\n\nWhen the troubles of love are mixed with those of another kind (the\ntroubles of vanity--if your mistress offend your proper pride, your\nsense of honour or personal dignity--troubles of health, money and\npolitical persecution, etc.), it is only in appearance that love is\nincreased by these annoyances. Occupying the imagination otherwise,\nthey prevent crystallisation in love still hopeful, and in happy love\nthe birth of little doubts. When these misfortunes have departed, the\nsweetness and the folly of love return.\n\nObserve that misfortunes favour the birth of love in light and\nunsensitive characters, and that, after it is born, misfortunes,\nwhich existed before, are favourable to it; in as much as the\nimagination, recoiling from the gloomy impressions offered by all the\nother circumstances of life, throws itself wholly into the work of\ncrystallisation.\n\n\n[1] Hence the possibility of passions of artificial origin--those of\nBenedict and of Beatrice (Shakespeare).\n\n[2] Cf. the fortunes of Struensee in Brown's _Northern Courts_, 3\nvols., 1819.\n\n[3] See the letters of Madame du Deffant, Mademoiselle de Lespinasse,\nBezenval, Lauzun, the Memoirs of Madame d'\u00c9pinay, the _Dictionnaire\ndes \u00c9tiquettes_ of Madame de Genlis, the Memoirs of Danjeau and Horace\nWalpole.\n\n[4] Unless, perhaps, at the Court of Petersburg.\n\n[5] See Saint-Simon and Werther. However gentle and delicate are the\nsolitary, their soul is distracted, and part of their imagination is\nbusy in foreseeing the world of men. Force of character is one of the\ncharms which most readily seduces the truly feminine heart. Hence\nthe success of serious young officers. Women well know how to make\nthe distinction between force of character and the violence of those\nmovements of passion, the possibility of which they feel strongly in\ntheir own hearts. The most distinguished women are sometimes duped by\na little charlatanism in this matter. It can be used without fear, as\nsoon as crystallisation is seen to have begun.\n\n\n[Pg 49]\n                              CHAPTER XIV\n\n\nThe following point, which will be disputed, I offer only to\nthose--shall I say unhappy enough?--to have loved with passion during\nlong years, and loved in the face of invincible obstacles:--\n\nThe sight of all that is extremely beautiful in nature and in art\nrecalls, with the swiftness of lightning, the memory of that which\nwe love. It is by the process of the jewelled branch in the mines of\nSalzburg, that everything in the world which is beautiful and lofty\ncontributes to the beauty of that which we love, and that forthwith a\nsudden glimpse of delight fills the eyes with tears. In this way, love\nand the love of beauty give life mutually to one another.\n\nOne of life's miseries is that the happiness of seeing and talking to\nthe object of our love leaves no distinct memories behind. The soul,\nit seems, is too troubled by its emotions for that which causes or\naccompanies them to impress it. The soul and its sensations are one\nand the same. It is perhaps because these pleasures cannot be used up\nby voluntary recollection, that they return again and again with such\nforce, as soon as ever some object comes to drag us from day-dreams\ndevoted to the woman we love, and by some new connexion[1] to bring her\nstill more vividly to our memory.\n\nA dry old architect used to meet her in society every evening.\nFollowing a natural impulse, and without paying attention to what I\nwas saying to her,[2] I one day sang his praises in a sentimental and\npompous strain,\n\n[Pg 50]\nwhich made her laugh at me. I had not the strength to say to her: \"He\nsees you every evening.\"\n\nSo powerful is this sensation that it extends even to the person of my\nenemy, who is always at her side. When I see her, she reminds me of\nL\u00e9onore so much, that at the time I cannot hate her, however much I try.\n\nIt looks as if, by a curious whim of the heart, the charm, which\nthe woman we love can communicate, were greater than that which she\nherself possesses. The vision of that distant city, where we saw her a\nmoment,[3] throws us into dreams sweeter and more profound than would\nher very presence. It is the effect of harsh treatment.\n\nThe day-dreams of love cannot be scrutinised. I have observed that I\ncan re-read a good novel every three years with the same pleasure. It\ngives me feelings akin to the kind of emotional taste, which dominates\nme at the moment, or if my feelings are nil, makes for variety in my\nideas. Also, I can listen with pleasure to the same music, but, in\nthis, memory must not intrude. The imagination should be affected and\nnothing else; if, at the twentieth representation, an opera gives more\npleasure, it is either because the music is better understood, or\nbecause it also brings back the feeling it gave at the first.\n\nAs to new lights, which a novel may throw upon our knowledge of the\nhuman heart, I still remember clearly the old ones, and am pleased even\nto find them noted in the margin. But this kind of pleasure pertains\nto the novels, in so far as they advance me in the knowledge of man,\nand not in the least to day-dreaming--the veritable pleasure of novels.\nSuch day-dreaming is inscrutable. To watch it is for the present to\nkill it, for you fall into a philosophical analysis of pleasure; and it\n\n[Pg 51]\nis killing it still more certainly for the future, for nothing is surer\nto paralyse the imagination than the appeal to memory(9). If I find in\nthe margin a note, depicting my feelings on reading _Old Mortality_\nthree years ago in Florence, I am plunged immediately into the history\nof my life, into an estimate of the degree of happiness at the two\nepochs, in short, into the deepest problems of philosophy--and then\ngood-bye for a long season to the unchecked play of tender feelings.\n\nEvery great poet with a lively imagination is timid, he is afraid of\nmen, that is to say, for the interruptions and troubles with which they\ncan invade the delight of his dreams. He fears for his concentration.\nMen come along with their gross interests to drag him from the gardens\nof Armida, and force him into a fetid slough: only by irritating him\ncan they fix his attention on themselves. It is this habit of feeding\nhis soul upon touching dreams and this horror of the vulgar which draws\na great artist so near to love.\n\nThe more of the great artist a man has in him, the more must he wish\nfor titles and honours as a bulwark.\n\n\n[1] Scents.\n\n[2] See note 2, p. 28.\n\n[3]\n\n    Nessun maggior dolore\n    Che ricordarsi del tempo felice\n    Nella miseria.--Dante, _Inf._, V (Francesca).\n\n[No greater sorrow than to remember happy times in misery.--Tr.]\n\n\n[Pg 52]\n                              CHAPTER XV\n\n\nSuddenly in the midst of the most violent and the most thwarted passion\ncome moments, when a man believes that he is in love no longer--as it\nwere a spring of fresh water in the middle of the sea. To think of his\nmistress is no longer very much pleasure, and, although he is worn-out\nby the severity of her treatment, the fact that everything in life\nhas lost its interest is a still greater misery. After a manner of\nexistence which, fitful though it was, gave to all nature a new aspect,\npassionate and absorbing, now follows the dreariest and most despondent\nvoid.\n\nIt may be that your last visit to the woman, whom you love, left you\nin a situation, from which, once before, your imagination had gathered\nthe full harvest of sensation. For example, after a period of coldness,\nshe has treated you less badly, letting you conceive exactly the\nsame degree of hope and by the same external signs as on a previous\noccasion--all this perhaps unconsciously. Imagination picks up memory\nand its sinister warnings by the way, and instantly crystallisation[1]\nceases.\n\n\n[1] First, I am advised to cut out this word; next, if I fail in this\nfor want of literary power, to repeat again and again that I mean by\ncrystallisation a certain fever in the imagination, which transforms\npast recognition what is, as often as not, a quite ordinary object,\nand makes of it a thing apart. A man who looks to excite this fever in\nsouls, which know no other path but vanity to reach their happiness,\nmust tie his necktie well and constantly give his attention to a\nthousand details, which preclude all possibility of unrestraint.\nSociety women own to the effect, denying at the same time or not seeing\nthe cause.\n\n\n[Pg 53]\n                              CHAPTER XVI\n\n   In a small port, the name of which I forget, near Perpignan, 25th\n                          February, 1822.[1]\n\n\nThis evening I have just found out that music, when it is perfect, puts\nthe heart into the same state as it enjoys in the presence of the loved\none--that is to say, it gives seemingly the keenest happiness existing\non the face of the earth.\n\nIf this were so for all men, there would be no more favourable\nincentive to love.\n\nBut I had already remarked at Naples last year that perfect music, like\nperfect pantomime, makes me think of that which is at the moment the\nobject of my dreams, and that the ideas, which it suggests to me, are\nexcellent: at Naples, it was on the means of arming the Greeks.\n\nNow this evening I cannot deceive myself--I have the misfortune _of\nbeing too great an admirer of milady L_.[2]\n\nAnd perhaps the perfect music, which I have had the luck to hear again,\nafter two or three months of privation, although going nightly to the\nOpera, has simply had the effect, which I recognised long ago--I mean\nthat of producing lively thoughts on what is already in the heart.\n\nMarch 4th--eight days later.\n\nI dare neither erase nor approve the preceding observation. Certain it\nis that, as I wrote it, I read it in my heart. If to-day I bring it\ninto question, it is\n\n[Pg 54]\nbecause I have lost the memory of what I saw at that time.\n\nThe habit of hearing music and dreaming its dreams disposes towards\nlove. A sad and gentle air, provided it is not too dramatic, so that\nthe imagination is forced to dwell on the action, is a direct stimulant\nto dreams of love and a delight for gentle and unhappy souls: for\nexample, the drawn-out passage on the clarionet at the beginning of the\nquartet in _Bianca and Faliero_(10), and the recitative of La Camporesi\ntowards the middle of the quartet.\n\nA lover at peace with his mistress enjoys to distraction Rossini's\nfamous duet in _Armida and Rinaldo_, depicting so justly the little\ndoubts of happy love and the moments of delight which follow its\nreconciliations. It seems to him that the instrumental part, which\ncomes in the middle of the duet, at the moment when Rinaldo wishes\nto fly, and represents in such an amazing way the conflict of the\npassions, has a physical influence upon his heart and touches it in\nreality. On this subject I dare not say what I feel; I should pass for\na madman among people of the north.\n\n\n[1] Copied from the diary of Lisio.\n\n[2] [Written thus in English by Stendhal,--Tr.]\n\n\n[Pg 55]\n                             CHAPTER XVII\n\n                       BEAUTY DETHRONED BY LOVE\n\n\nAlberic meets in a box at the theatre a woman more beautiful than his\nmistress (I beg to be allowed here a mathematical valuation)--that\nis to say, her features promise three units of happiness instead of\ntwo, supposing the quantity of happiness given by perfect beauty to be\nexpressed by the number four.\n\nIs it surprising that he prefers the features of his mistress, which\npromise a hundred units of happiness _for him_? Even the minor defects\nof her face, a small-pox mark, for example, touches the heart of the\nman who loves, and, when he observes them even in another woman, sets\nhim dreaming far away. What, then, when he sees them in his mistress?\nWhy, he has felt a thousand sentiments in presence of that small-pox\nmark, sentiments for the most part sweet, and all of the greatest\ninterest; and now, such as they are, they are evoked afresh with\nincredible vividness by the sight of this sign, even in the face of\nanother woman.\n\nIf ugliness thus comes to be preferred and loved, it is because in\nthis case ugliness is beauty.[1] A man was passionately in love with a\nwoman, very thin and scarred with small-pox: death bereft him of her.\nAt Rome, three years after, he makes friends with two women, one more\nlovely than the day, the other thin, scarred with\n\n[Pg 56]\nsmall-pox, and thereby, if you will, quite ugly. There he is,\nat the end of a week, in love with the ugly one--and this week he\nemploys in effacing her ugliness with his memories; and with a very\npardonable coquetry the lesser beauty did not fail to help him in the\noperation with a slight whip-up of the pulse.[2] A man meets a woman\nand is offended by her ugliness; soon, if she is unpretentious, her\nexpression makes him forget the defects of her features; he finds her\namiable--he conceives that one could love her. A week later he has\nhopes; another week and they are taken from him; another and he's mad.\n\n\n[1] Beauty is only the promise of happiness. The happiness of a\nGreek was different to that of a Frenchman of 1822. See the eyes of\nthe Medici Venus and compare them with the eyes of the Magdalen of\nPordenone (in the possession of M. de Sommariva.)\n\n[2] If one is sure of the love of a woman, one examines to see if she\nis more or less beautiful; if one is uncertain of her heart, there is\nno time to think of her face.\n\n\n[Pg 57]\n                             CHAPTER XVIII\n\n                         LIMITATIONS OF BEAUTY\n\n\nAn analogy is to be seen at the theatre in the reception of the\npublic's favourite actors: the spectators are no longer conscious of\nthe beauty or ugliness which the actors have in reality. Lekain, for\nall his remarkable ugliness, had a harvest of broken hearts--Garrick\nalso. There are several reasons for this; the principal being that it\nwas no longer the actual beauty of their features or their ways which\npeople saw, but emphatically that which imagination was long since used\nto lend them, as a return for, and in memory of, all the pleasure they\nhad given it. Why, take a comedian--his face alone raises a laugh as he\nfirst walks on.\n\nA girl going for the first time to the Fran\u00e7ais would perhaps feel some\nantipathy to Lekain during the first scene; but soon he was making her\nweep or shiver--and how resist him as Tancr\u00e8de[1] or Orosmane?\n\nIf his ugliness were still a little visible to her eyes, the fervour\nof an entire audience, and the nervous effect produced upon a young\nheart,[2] soon managed to eclipse\n\n[Pg 58]\nit. If anything was still heard about his ugliness, it was mere talk;\nbut not a word of it--Lekain's lady enthusiasts could be heard to\nexclaim \"He's lovely!\"\n\nRemember that beauty is the expression of character, or, put\ndifferently, of moral habits, and that consequently it is exempt from\nall passion. Now it is passion that we want. Beauty can only supply us\nwith probabilities about a woman, and probabilities, moreover, based on\nher capacity for self-possession; while the glances of your mistress\nwith her small-pox scars are a delightful reality, which destroys all\nthe probabilities in the world.\n\n\n[1] See Madame de Sta\u00ebl in _Delphine_, I think; there you have the\nartifice of plain women.\n\n[2] I should be inclined to attribute to this nervous sympathy the\nprodigious and incomprehensible effect of fashionable music. (Sympathy\nat Dresden for Rossini, 1821.) As soon as it is out of fashion, it\nbecomes no worse for that, and yet it ceases to have any effect upon\nperfectly ingenuous girls. Perhaps it used to please them, as also\nstimulating young men to fervour.\n\nMadame de S\u00e9vign\u00e9 says to her daughter (Letter 202, May 6, 1672):\n\"Lully surpassed himself in his royal music; that beautiful _Miserere_\nwas still further enlarged: there was a _Libera_ at which all eyes were\nfull of tears.\"\n\nIt is as impossible to doubt the truth of this effect, as to refuse wit\nor refinement to Madame de S\u00e9vign\u00e9. Lully's music, which charmed her,\nwould make us run away at present; in her day, his music encouraged\ncrystallisation--it makes it impossible in ours.\n\n\n[Pg 59]\n                              CHAPTER XIX\n\n                 LIMITATIONS OF BEAUTY--(_continued_)\n\n\nA woman of quick fancy and tender heart, but timid and cautious in her\nsensibility, who the day after she appears in society, passes in review\na thousand times nervously and painfully all that she may have said or\ngiven hint of--such a woman, I say, grows easily used to want of beauty\nin a man: it is hardly an obstacle in rousing her affection.\n\nIt is really on the same principle that you care next to nothing for\nthe degree of beauty in a mistress, whom you adore and who repays you\nwith harshness. You have very nearly stopped crystallising her beauty,\nand when your _friend in need_ tells you that she isn't pretty, you are\nalmost ready to agree. Then he thinks he has made great way.\n\nMy friend, brave Captain Trab, described to me this evening his\nfeelings on seeing Mirabeau once upon a time. No one looking upon that\ngreat man felt a disagreeable sensation in the eyes--that is to say,\nfound him ugly. People were carried away by his thundering words; they\nfixed their attention, they delighted in fixing their attention, only\non what was beautiful in his face. As he had practically no beautiful\nfeatures (in the sense of sculpturesque or picturesque beauty)\nthey minded only what beauty he had of another kind, the beauty of\nexpression.[1]\n\n[Pg 60]\nWhile attention was blind to all traces of ugliness, picturesquely\nspeaking, it fastened on the smallest passable details with\nfervour--for example, the beauty of his vast head of hair. If he had\nhad horns, people would have thought them lovely.[2]\n\n[Pg 61]\nThe appearance every evening of a pretty dancer forces a little\ninterest from those poor souls, blas\u00e9 or bereft of imagination, who\nadorn the balcony of the opera. By her graceful movements, daring and\nstrange, she awakens their physical love and procures them perhaps\nthe only crystallisation of which they are still capable. This is the\nway by which a young scarecrow, who in the street would not have been\nhonoured with a glance, least of all from people the worse for wear,\nhas only to appear frequently on the stage, and she manages to get\nherself handsomely supported. Geoffroy used to say that the theatre is\nthe pedestal of woman. The more notorious and the more dilapidated a\ndancer, the more she is worth; hence the green-room proverb: \"Some get\nsold at a price who wouldn't be taken as a gift.\" These women steal\npart of their passions from their lovers, and are very susceptible of\nlove from pique.\n\nHow manage not to connect generous or lovable sentiments with the face\nof an actress, in whose features there is nothing repugnant, whom for\ntwo hours every evening we see expressing the most noble feelings,\nand whom otherwise we do not know? When at last you succeed in being\nreceived by her, her features recall such pleasing feelings, that the\nentire reality which surrounds her, however little nobility it may\nsometimes possess, is instantly invested with romantic and touching\ncolours.\n\n\"Devotee, in the days of my youth, of that boring French tragedy,[3]\nwhenever I had the luck of supping with Mlle. Olivier, I found myself\nevery other moment overbrimming with respect, in the belief that I was\nspeaking to a queen; and really I have never been quite sure whether,\nin her case, I had fallen in love with a queen or a pretty tart.\"\n\n\n[1] That is the advantage of being _\u00e0 la mode_. Putting aside the\ndefects of a face which are already familiar, and no longer have any\neffect upon the imagination, the public take hold of one of the three\nfollowing ideas of beauty:--\n\n(1) The people--of the idea of wealth.\n\n(2) The upper classes--of the idea of elegance, material or moral.\n\n(3) The Court--of the idea: \"My object is to please the women.\"\n\nAlmost all take hold of a mixture of all three. The happiness attached\nto the idea of riches is linked to a refinement in the pleasure which\nthe idea of elegance suggests, and the whole comes into touch with\nlove. In one way or another the imagination is led on by novelty. It\nis possible in this way to be interested in a very ugly man without\nthinking of his ugliness,[*] and in good time his ugliness becomes\nbeauty. At Vienna, in 1788, Madame Vigan\u00f2, a dancer and _the_ woman\nof the moment, was with child--very soon the ladies took to wearing\nlittle _Ventres \u00e0 la Vigan\u00f2_. For the same reason reversed, nothing\nmore fearful than a fashion out of date! Bad taste is a confusion of\nfashion, which lives only by change, with the lasting beauty produced\nby such and such a government, guided by such and such a climate. A\nbuilding in fashion to-day, in ten years will be out of fashion. It\nwill be less displeasing in two hundred years, when its fashionable day\nwill be forgotten. Lovers are quite mad to think about their dress; a\nwoman has other things to do, when seeing the object of her love, than\nto bother about his get-up; we look at our lover, we do not examine\nhim, says Rousseau. If this examination takes place, we are dealing\nwith gallant-love and not passion-love. The brilliance of beauty is\nalmost offensive in the object of our love; it is none of our business\nto see her beautiful, we want her tender and languishing. Adornment has\neffect in love only upon girls, who are so rigidly guarded in their\nparents' house, that they often lose their hearts through their eyes.\n(L.'s words. September 15, 1820.)\n\n* Le petit Germain, _M\u00e9moires de Grammont_.\n\n[2] For their polish or their size or their form! In this way, or by\nthe combination of sentiments (see above, the small-pox scars) a woman\nin love grows used to the faults of her lover. The Russian Princess\nC. has actually become used to a man who literally has no nose. The\npicture of his courage, of his pistol loaded to kill himself in despair\nat his misfortune, and pity for the bitter calamity, enhanced by the\nidea that he will recover and is beginning to recover, are the forces\nwhich have worked this miracle. The poor fellow with his wound must\nappear not to think of his misfortune. (Berlin, 1807.)\n\n[3] Improper expression copied from the Memoirs of my friend, the\nlate Baron de Bottmer. It is by the same trick that Feramorz pleases\nLalla-Rookh. See that charming poem.\n\n\n[Pg 62]\n                              CHAPTER XX\n\n\nPerhaps men who are not susceptible to the feelings of passion-love are\nthose most keenly sensitive to the effects of beauty: that at least is\nthe strongest impression which such men can receive of women.\n\nHe who has felt his heart beating at a distant glimpse of the white\nsatin hat of the woman he loves, is quite amazed by the chill left upon\nhim by the approach of the greatest beauty in the world. He may even\nhave a qualm of distress, to observe the excitement of others.\n\nExtremely lovely women cause less surprise the second day. 'Tis a great\nmisfortune, it discourages crystallisation. Their merit being obvious\nto all and public property, they are bound to reckon more fools in the\nlist of their lovers than princes, millionaires, etc.[1]\n\n[1] It is quite clear that the author is neither prince nor\nmillionaire. I wanted to steal that sally from the reader.\n\n\n[Pg 63]\n                              CHAPTER XXI\n\n                          LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT\n\n\nImaginative souls are sensitive and also mistrustful, even the most\ningenuous,[1]--I maintain. They may be suspicious without knowing it:\nthey have had so many disappointments in life. Thus everything set-out\nand official, when a man is first introduced, scares the imagination\nand drives away the possibility of crystallisation; the romantic is\nthen, on the contrary, love's triumph.\n\nNothing simpler--for in the supreme astonishment, which keeps the\nthoughts busy for long upon something out of the ordinary, is already\nhalf the mental exercise necessary to crystallisation.\n\nI will quote the beginning of the Amours of S\u00e9raphine (_Gil Blas_, Bk.\nIV, Chap. X). It is Don Fernando who tells the story of his flight,\nwhen pursued by the agents of the inquisition....\n\n After crossing several walks I came to a drawing-room, the door\n of which was also left open. I entered, and when I had observed all\n its magnificence.... One side of the room a door stood ajar; I partly\n opened it and saw a suite of apartments\n\n[Pg 64]\n whereof only the furthest was lighted. \"What is to be done now?\"\n I asked myself.... I could not resist my curiosity.... Advancing\n boldly, I went through all the rooms and reached one where there\n was a light--to wit, a taper upon a marble table in a silver-gilt\n candlestick.... But soon afterwards, casting my eyes upon a bed, the\n curtains of which were partly drawn on account of the heat, I perceived\n an object which at once engrossed my attention: a young lady, fast\n asleep in spite of the noise of the thunder, which had just been\n bursting forth. I softly drew near her. My mind was suddenly troubled\n at the sight. Whilst I feasted my eyes with the pleasure of beholding\n her, she awoke.\n\n Imagine her surprise at seeing in her room at midnight a man who was\n an utter stranger to her! She trembled on beholding me and shrieked\n aloud.... I took pains to reassure her and throwing myself on my knees\n before her, said--\"Madam, have no fear.\" She called her women.... Grown\n a little braver by his (an old servant's) presence, she haughtily asked\n me who was, etc. etc.\"[2]\n\nThere is an introduction not easily to be forgotten! On the other hand,\ncould there be anything sillier in our customs of to-day than the\nofficial, and at the same time almost sentimental, introduction of the\nyoung wooer to his future wife: such legal prostitution goes so far as\nto be almost offensive to modesty.\n\n\"I have just been present this afternoon, February 17th, 1790,\" says\nChamfort, \"at a so-called family function. That is to say, men of\nrespectable reputation and a decent company were congratulating on\nher good fortune Mlle. de Marille, a young person of beauty, wit and\nvirtue, who is to be favoured with becoming the wife of M. R.--an\nunhealthy dotard, repulsive, dishonest, and mad, but rich: she has\nseen him for the third time to-day, when signing the contract. If\nanything characterises an age of infamy, it is the jubilation on an\noccasion like this, it is the folly of such joy and--looking ahead--the\nsanctimonious cruelty, with which the same society will heap contempt\nwithout reserve upon\n\n[Pg 65]\nthe pettiest imprudence of a poor young woman in love.\"\n\nCeremony of all kinds, being in its essence something affected and\nset-out beforehand, in which the point is to act \"properly,\" paralyses\nthe imagination and leaves it awake only to that which is opposed\nto the object of the ceremony, e. g. something comical--whence the\nmagic effect of the slightest joke. A poor girl, struggling against\nnervousness and attacks of modesty during the official introduction of\nher _fianc\u00e9_, can think of nothing but the part she is playing, and\nthis again is a certain means of stifling the imagination.\n\nModesty has far more to say against getting into bed with a man whom\nyou have seen but twice, after three Latin words have been spoken in\nchurch, than against giving way despite yourself to the man whom for\ntwo years you have adored. But I am talking double Dutch.\n\nThe fruitful source of the vices and mishaps, which follow our\nmarriages nowadays, is the Church of Rome. It makes liberty for girls\nimpossible before marriage, and divorce impossible, when once they have\nmade their mistake, or rather when they find out the mistake of the\nchoice forced on them. Compare Germany, the land of happy marriages: a\ndelightful princess (Madame la Duchesse de Sa----) has just married in\nall good faith for the fourth time, and has not failed to ask to the\nwedding her three first husbands, with whom she is on the best terms.\nThat is going too far; but a single divorce, which punishes a husband\nfor his tyranny, prevents a thousand cases of unhappy wedded life.\nWhat is amusing is that Rome is one of the places where you see most\ndivorces.\n\nLove goes out at first sight towards a face, which reveals in a man at\nonce something to respect and something to pity.\n\n\n[1] _The Bride of Lammermoor_, Miss Ashton.\n\nA man who has lived finds in his memory numberless examples of\n\"affairs,\" and his only trouble is to make his choice. But if he\nwishes to write, he no longer knows where to look for support. The\nanecdotes of the particular circles he has lived in are unknown to the\npublic, and it would require an immense number of pages to recount them\nwith the necessary circumstantiality. I quote for that reason from\ngenerally-known novels, but the ideas which I submit to the reader I do\nnot ground upon such empty fictions, calculated for the most part with\nan eye to the picturesque rather than the true effect.\n\n[2] [Translation of Henri van Laun.--Tr.]\n\n\n[Pg 66]\n                             CHAPTER XXII\n\n                            OF INFATUATION\n\n\nThe most fastidious spirits are very given to curiosity and\nprepossession: this is to be seen, especially, in beings in which that\nsacred fire, the source of the passions, is extinct--in fact it is one\nof the most fatal symptoms. There is also the infatuation of schoolboys\njust admitted to society. At the two poles of life, with too much or\ntoo little sensibility, there is little chance of simple people getting\nthe right effect from things, or feeling the genuine sensation which\nthey ought to give. These beings, either too ardent or excessive in\ntheir ardour, amorous on credit, if one may use the expression, throw\nthemselves at objects instead of awaiting them.\n\nFrom afar off and without looking they enfold things in that imaginary\ncharm, of which they find a perennial source within themselves, long\nbefore sensation, which is the consequence of the object's nature, has\nhad time to reach them. Then, on coming to close quarters, they see\nthese things not such as they are, but as they have made them; they\nthink they are enjoying such and such an object, while, under cover of\nthat object, they are enjoying themselves. But one fine day a man gets\ntired of keeping the whole thing going; he discovers that his idol is\n_not playing the game_; infatuation collapses and the resulting shock\nto his self-esteem makes him unfair to that which he appreciated too\nhighly.\n\n\n[Pg 67]\n                             CHAPTER XXIII\n\n                   THE THUNDERBOLT FROM THE BLUE(11)\n\n\nSo ridiculous an expression ought to be changed, yet the thing exists.\nI have seen the amiable and noble Wilhelmina, the despair of the\nbeaux of Berlin, making light of love and laughing at its folly. In\nthe brilliance of youth, wit, beauty and all kinds of good luck--a\nboundless fortune, giving her the opportunity of developing all her\nqualities, seemed to conspire with nature to give the world an example,\nrarely seen, of perfect happiness bestowed upon an object perfectly\nworthy. She was twenty-three years old and, already some time at Court,\nhad won the homage of the bluest blood. Her virtue, unpretentious but\ninvulnerable, was quoted as a pattern. Henceforth the most charming\nmen, despairing of their powers of fascination, aspired only to make\nher their friend. One evening she goes to a ball at Prince Ferdinand's:\nshe dances for ten minutes with a young Captain.\n\n\"From that moment,\" she writes subsequently to a friend,[1] \"he was\nmaster of my heart and of me, and this to a degree that would have\nfilled me with terror, if the happiness of seeing Herman had left me\ntime to think of the rest of existence. My only thought was to observe\nwhether he gave me a little notice.\n\n\"To-day the only consolation that I might find for my fault is to nurse\nthe illusion within me, that it is through a superior power that I am\nlost to reason and to myself. I have no word to describe, in a way that\ncomes at all near the reality, the degree of disorder and turmoil\n\n[Pg 68]\nto which the mere sight of him could bring my whole being. I blush to\nthink of the rapidity and the violence with which I was drawn towards\nhim. If his first word, when at last he spoke to me, had been 'Do you\nadore me?'--truly I should not have had the power to have answered\nanything but 'yes.' I was far from thinking that the effect of a\nfeeling could be at once so sudden and so unforeseen. In fact, for an\ninstant, I believed that I had been poisoned.\n\n\"Unhappily you and the world, my dear friend, know how well I have\nloved Herman. Well, after quarter of an hour he was so dear to me that\nhe cannot have become dearer since. I saw then all his faults and I\nforgave them all, provided only he would love me.\n\n\"Soon after I had danced with him, the king left: Herman, who belonged\nto the suite, had to follow him. With him, everything in nature\ndisappeared. It is no good to try to depict the excess of weariness\nwith which I felt weighed down, as soon as he was out of my sight. It\nwas equal only to the keenness of my desire to be alone with myself.\n\n\"At last I got away. No sooner the door of my room shut and bolted than\nI wanted to resist my passion. I thought I should succeed. Ah, dear\nfriend, believe me I paid dear that evening and the following days for\nthe pleasure of being able to credit myself with some virtue.\"\n\nThe preceding lines are the exact story of an event which was the topic\nof the day; for after a month or two poor Wilhelmina was unfortunate\nenough for people to take notice of her feelings. Such was the origin\nof that long series of troubles by which she perished so young and so\ntragically--poisoned by herself or her lover. All that we could see in\nthis young Captain was that he was an excellent dancer; he had plenty\nof gaiety and still more assurance, a general air of good nature and\nspent his time with prostitutes; for the rest, scarcely a nobleman,\nquite poor and not seen at Court.\n\n[Pg 69]\nIn these cases it is not enough to have no misgivings--one must be sick\nof misgivings--have, so to speak, the impatience of courage to face\nlife's chances.\n\nThe soul of a woman, grown tired, without noticing it, of living\nwithout loving, convinced in spite of herself by the example of other\nwomen--all the fears of life surmounted and the sorry happiness of\npride found wanting--ends in creating unconsciously a model, an ideal.\nOne day she meets this model: crystallisation recognises its object by\nthe commotion it inspires and consecrates for ever to the master of its\nfortunes the fruit of all its previous dreams.[2]\n\nWomen, whose hearts are open to this misfortune, have too much grandeur\nof soul to love otherwise than with passion. They would be saved if\nthey could stoop to gallantry.\n\nAs \"thunderbolts\" come from a secret lassitude in what the catechism\ncalls Virtue, and from boredom brought on by the uniformity of\nperfection, I should be inclined to think that it would generally be\nthe privilege of what is known in the world as \"a bad lot\" to bring\nthem down. I doubt very much whether rigidity _\u00e0 la_ Cato has ever been\nthe occasion of a \"thunderbolt.\"\n\nWhat makes them so rare is that if the heart, thus disposed to love\nbeforehand, has the slightest inkling of its situation, there is no\nthunderbolt.\n\nThe soul of a woman, whom troubles have made mistrustful, is not\nsusceptible of this revolution.\n\nNothing facilitates \"a thunderbolt\" like praise, given in advance and\nby women, to the person who is to occasion it.\n\nFalse \"thunderbolts\" form one of the most comic sources of love\nstories. A weary woman, but one without much feeling, thinks for a\nwhole evening that she is in love for life. She is proud of having\nfound at last one of those great commotions of the soul, which used to\n\n[Pg 70]\nallure her imagination. The next day she no longer knows where to hide\nher face and, still more, how to avoid the wretched object she was\nadoring the night before.\n\nClever people know how to spot, that is to say, make capital out of\nthese \"thunderbolts.\"\n\nPhysical love also has its \"thunderbolts.\" Yesterday in her carriage\nwith the prettiest and most easy-going woman in Berlin, we saw her\nsuddenly blush. She became deeply absorbed and preoccupied. Handsome\nLieutenant Findorff had just passed. In the evening at the play,\naccording to her own confession to me, she was out of her mind, she\nwas beside herself, she could think of nothing but Findorff, to whom\nshe had never spoken. If she had dared, she told me, she would have\nsent for him--that pretty face bore all the signs of the most violent\npassion. The next day it was still going on. After three days, Findorff\nhaving played the blockhead, she thought no more about it. A month\nlater she loathed him.\n\n\n[1] Translated _ad litteram_ from the Memoirs of Bottmer.\n\n[2] Several phrases taken from Cr\u00e9billon.\n\n\n[Pg 71]\n                             CHAPTER XXIV\n\n                       VOYAGE IN AN UNKNOWN LAND\n\n\nI advise the majority of people born in the North to skip the present\nchapter. It is an obscure dissertation upon certain phenomena\nrelative to the orange-tree, a plant which does not grow or reach its\nfull height except in Italy and Spain. In order to be intelligible\nelsewhere, I should have had to cut down the facts.\n\nI should have had no hesitation about this, if for a single moment\nI had intended to write a book to be generally appreciated. But\nHeaven having refused me the writer's gift, I have thought solely of\ndescribing with all the ill-grace of science, but also with all its\nexactitude, certain facts, of which I became involuntarily the witness\nthrough a prolonged sojourn in the land of the orange-tree. Frederick\nthe Great, or some such other distinguished man from the North, who\nnever had the opportunity of seeing the orange-tree growing in the\nopen, would doubtless have denied the facts which follow--and denied in\ngood faith. I have an infinite respect for such good faith and can see\nits _wherefore_.\n\nAs this sincere declaration may seem presumption, I append the\nfollowing reflexion:--\n\nWe write haphazard, each one of us what we think true, and each gives\nthe lie to his neighbour. I see in our books so many tickets in a\nlottery and in reality they have no more value. Posterity, forgetting\nsome and reprinting others, declares the lucky numbers. And in so far,\neach one of us having written as best he can, what he thinks true, has\nno right to laugh at his neighbour--except\n\n[Pg 72]\nwhere the satire is amusing. In that case he is always right,\nespecially if he writes like M. Courrier to Del Furia(12).\n\nAfter this preamble, I am going bravely to enter into the examination\nof facts which, I am convinced, have rarely been observed at Paris. But\nafter all at Paris, superior as of course it is to all other towns,\norange-trees are not seen growing out in the open, as at Sorrento,\nand it is there that Lisio Visconti observed and noted the following\nfacts--at Sorrento, the country of Tasso, on the Bay of Naples in a\nposition half-way down to the sea, still more picturesque than that of\nNaples itself, but where no one reads the _Miroir_.\n\nWhen we are to see in the evening the woman we love, the suspense, the\nexpectation of so great a happiness makes every moment, which separates\nus from it, unbearable.\n\nA devouring fever makes us take up and lay aside twenty different\noccupations. We look every moment at our watch--overjoyed when we see\nthat we have managed to pass ten minutes without looking at the time.\nThe hour so longed-for strikes at last, and when we are at her door\nready to knock--we would be glad not to find her in. It is only on\nreflexion that we would be sorry for it. In a word, the suspense before\nseeing her produces an unpleasant effect.\n\nThere you have one of the things which make good folk say that love\ndrives men silly.\n\nThe reason is that the imagination, violently withdrawn from dreams of\ndelight in which every step forward brings happiness, is brought back\nface to face with severe reality.\n\nThe gentle soul knows well that in the combat which is to begin the\nmoment he sees her, the least inadvertency, the least lack of attention\nor of courage will be paid for by a defeat, poisoning, for a long time\nto come, the dreams of fancy and of passion, and humiliating to a man's\npride, if he try to find consolation outside the\n\n[Pg 73]\nsphere of passion. He says to himself: \"I hadn't the wit, I hadn't\nthe pluck\"; but the only way to have pluck before the loved one is by\nloving her a little less.\n\nIt is a fragment of attention, torn by force with so much trouble\nfrom the dreams of crystallisation, which allows the crowd of things\nto escape us during our first words with the woman we love--things\nwhich have no sense or which have a sense contrary to what we mean--or\nelse, what is still more heartrending, we exaggerate our feelings and\nthey become ridiculous in our own eyes. We feel vaguely that we are\nnot paying enough attention to our words and mechanically set about\npolishing and loading our oratory. And, also, it is impossible to hold\none's tongue--silence would be embarrassing and make it still less\npossible to give one's thoughts to her. So we say in a feeling way a\nhost of things that we do not feel, and would be quite embarrassed to\nrepeat, obstinately keeping our distance from the woman before us, in\norder more really to be with her. In the early hours of my acquaintance\nwith love, this oddity which I felt within me, made me believe that I\ndid not love.\n\nI understand cowardice and how recruits, to be delivered of their fear,\nthrow themselves recklessly into the midst of the fire. The number of\nsilly things I have said in the last two years, in order not to hold my\ntongue, makes me mad when I think of them.\n\nAnd that is what should easily mark in a woman's eyes the difference\nbetween passion-love and gallantry, between the gentle soul and the\nprosaic.[1]\n\nIn these decisive moments the one gains as much as the other loses: the\nprosaic soul gets just the degree of warmth which he ordinarily wants,\nwhile excess of feeling drives mad the poor gentle heart, who, to crown\nhis troubles, really means to hide his madness. Completely taken up\nwith keeping his own transports in check, he is miles away from the\nself-possession necessary in order to seize opportunities,\n\n[Pg 74]\nand leaves in a muddle after a visit, in which the prosaic soul would\nhave made a great step forward. Directly it is a question of advancing\nhis too violent passion, a gentle being with pride cannot be eloquent\nunder the eye of the woman whom he loves: the pain of ill-success is\ntoo much for him. The vulgar being, on the contrary, calculates nicely\nthe chances of success: he is stopped by no foretastes of the suffering\nof defeat, and, proud of that which makes him vulgar, laughs at the\ngentle soul, who, with all the cleverness he may have, is never quite\nenough at ease to say the simplest things and those most certain to\nsucceed. The gentle soul, far from being able to grasp anything by\nforce, must resign himself to obtaining nothing except through the\n_charity_ of her whom he loves. If the woman one loves really has\nfeelings, one always has reason to regret having wished to put pressure\non oneself in order to make love to her. One looks shame-faced, looks\nchilly, would look deceitful, did not passion betray itself by other\nand surer signs. To express what we feel so keenly, and in such detail,\nat every moment of the day, is a task we take upon our shoulders\nbecause we have read novels; for if we were natural, we would never\nundertake anything so irksome. Instead of wanting to speak of what we\nfelt a quarter of an hour ago, and of trying to make of it a general\nand interesting topic, we would express simply the passing fragment of\nour feelings at the moment. But no! we put the most violent pressure\nupon ourselves for a worthless success, and, as there is no evidence of\nactual sensation to back our words, and as our memory cannot be working\nfreely, we approve at the time of things to say--and say them--comical\nto a degree that is more than humiliating.\n\nWhen at last, after an hour's trouble, this extremely painful effort\nhas resulted in getting away from the enchanted gardens of the\nimagination, in order to enjoy quite simply the presence of what you\nlove, it often happens--that you've got to take your leave.\n\n[Pg 75]\nAll this looks like extravagance, but I have seen better still. A\nwoman, whom one of my friends loved to idolatry, pretending to take\noffence at some or other want of delicacy, which I was never allowed\nto learn, condemned him all of a sudden to see her only twice a month.\nThese visits, so rare and so intensely desired, meant an attack of\nmadness, and it wanted all Salviati's strength of character to keep it\nfrom being seen by outward signs.\n\nFrom the very first, the idea of the visit's end is too insistent for\none to be able to take pleasure in the visit. One speaks a great deal,\ndeaf to one's own thoughts, saying often the contrary of what one\nthinks. One embarks upon discourses which have got suddenly to be cut\nshort, because of their absurdity--if one manage to rouse oneself and\nlisten to one's thoughts within. The effort we make is so violent that\nwe seem chilly. Love hides itself in its excess.\n\nAway from her, the imagination was lulled by the most charming\ndialogues: there were transports the most tender and the most touching.\nAnd thus for ten days or so you think you have the courage to speak;\nbut two days before what should have been our day of happiness, the\nfever begins, and, as the terrible instant draws near, its force\nredoubles.\n\nJust as you come into her _salon_, in order not to do or say some\nincredible piece of nonsense, you clutch in despair at the resolution\nof keeping your mouth shut and your eyes on her--in order at least to\nbe able to remember her face. Scarcely before her, something like a\nkind of drunkenness comes over your eyes; you feel driven like a maniac\nto do strange actions; it is as if you had two souls--one to act and\nthe other to blame your actions. You feel, in a confused way, that to\nturn your strained attention to folly would temporarily refresh the\nblood, and make you lose from sight the end of the visit and the misery\nof parting for a fortnight.\n\n[Pg 76]\nIf some bore be there, who tells a pointless story, the poor lover, in\nhis inexplicable madness, as if he were nervous of losing moments so\nrare, becomes all attention. That hour, of which he drew himself so\nsweet a picture, passes like a flash of lightning and yet he feels,\nwith unspeakable bitterness, all the little circumstances which show\nhow much a stranger he has become to her whom he loves. There he is in\nthe midst of indifferent visitors and sees himself the only one who\ndoes not know her life of these past days, in all its details. At last\nhe goes: and as he coldly says good-bye, he has the agonising feeling\nof two whole weeks before another meeting. Without a doubt he would\nsuffer less never to see the object of his love again. It is in the\nstyle, only far blacker, of the Duc de Policastro, who every six months\ntravelled a hundred leagues to see for a quarter of an hour at Lecce a\nbeloved mistress guarded by a jealous husband.\n\nHere you can see clearly Will without influence upon Love.\n\nOut of all patience with one's mistress and oneself, how furious the\ndesire to bury oneself in indifference! The only good of such visits is\nto replenish the treasure of crystallisation.\n\nLife for Salviati was divided into periods of two weeks, which took\ntheir colour from the last evening he had been allowed to see Madame\n----. For example, he was in the seventh heaven of delight the 21st of\nMay, and the 2nd of June he kept away from home, for fear of yielding\nto the temptation of blowing out his brains.\n\nI saw that evening how badly novelists have drawn the moment of\nsuicide. Salviati simply said to me: \"I'm thirsty, I must take this\nglass of water.\" I did not oppose his resolution, but said good-bye:\nthen he broke down.\n\nSeeing the obscurity which envelops the discourse of lovers, it would\nnot be prudent to push too far conclusions drawn from an isolated\ndetail of their conversation.\n\n[Pg 77]\nThey give a fair glimpse of their feelings only in sudden\nexpressions--then it is the cry of the heart. Otherwise it is from the\ncomplexion of the bulk of what is said that inductions are to be drawn.\nAnd we must remember that quite often a man, who is very moved, has no\ntime to notice the emotion of the person who is the cause of his own.\n\n\n[1] The word was one of L\u00e9onore's.\n\n\n[Pg 78]\n                              CHAPTER XXV\n\n                           THE INTRODUCTION\n\n\nTo see the subtlety and sureness of judgment with which women grasp\ncertain details, I am lost in admiration: but a moment later, I see\nthem praise a blockhead to the skies, let themselves be moved to tears\nby a piece of insipidity, or weigh gravely a fatuous affectation, as if\nit were a telling characteristic. I cannot conceive such simplicity.\nThere must be some general law in all this, unknown to me.\n\nAttentive to one merit in a man and absorbed by one detail, women feel\nit deeply and have no eyes for the rest. All the nervous fluid is used\nup in the enjoyment of this quality: there is none left to see the\nothers.\n\nI have seen the most remarkable men introduced to very clever women;\nit was always a particle of bias which decided the effect of the first\ninspection.\n\nIf I may be allowed a familiar detail, I shall tell the story how\ncharming Colonel L. B---- was to be introduced to Madame de Struve of\nKoenigsberg--she a most distinguished woman. \"_Far\u00e0 colpo?_\"[1]--we\nasked each other; and a wager was made as a result. I go up to\nMadame de Struve, and tell her the Colonel wears his ties two days\nrunning--the second he turns them--she could notice on his tie the\ncreases downwards. Nothing more palpably untrue!\n\nAs I finish, the dear fellow is announced. The silliest little Parisian\nwould have made more effect. Observe that Madame de Struve was one who\ncould love. She is\n\n[Pg 79]\nalso a respectable woman and there could have been no question of\ngallantry between them.\n\nNever were two characters more made for each other. People blamed\nMadame de Struve for being romantic, and there was nothing could touch\nL. B. but virtue carried to the point of the romantic. Thanks to her,\nhe had a bullet put through him quite young.\n\nIt has been given to women admirably to feel the fine shades of\naffection, the most imperceptible variations of the human heart, the\nlightest movements of susceptibility.\n\nIn this regard they have an organ which in us is missing: watch them\nnurse the wounded.\n\nBut, perhaps, they are equally unable to see what mind consists in--as\na moral composition. I have seen the most distinguished women charmed\nwith a clever man, who was not myself, and, at the same time and almost\nwith the same word, admire the biggest fools. I felt caught like a\nconnoisseur, who sees the loveliest diamonds taken for paste, and paste\npreferred for being more massive.\n\nAnd so I concluded that with women you have to risk everything. Where\nGeneral Lassale came to grief, a captain with moustaches and heavy\noaths succeeded.[2] There is surely a whole side in men's merit which\nescapes them. For myself, I always come back to physical laws. The\nnervous fluid spends itself in men through the brain and in women\nthrough the heart: that is why they are more sensitive. Some great and\nobligatory work, within the profession we have followed all our life,\nis our consolation, but for them nothing can console but distraction.\n\nAppiani, who only believes in virtue as a last resort, and with whom\nthis evening I went routing out ideas (exposing meanwhile those of this\nchapter) answered:--\n\n\"The force of soul, which Eponina used with heroic\n\n[Pg 80]\ndevotion, to keep alive her husband in a cavern underground and to keep\nhim from sinking into despair, would have helped her to hide from him a\nlover, if they had lived at Rome in peace. Strong souls must have their\nnourishment.\"\n\n\n[1] [Will he impress her?--Tr.]\n\n[2] Posen, 1807.\n\n\n[Pg 81]\n                             CHAPTER XXVI\n\n                              OF MODESTY\n\n\nIn Madagascar, a woman exposes without a thought what is here most\ncarefully hidden, but would die of shame sooner than show her arm.\nClearly three-quarters of modesty come from example. It is perhaps the\none law, daughter of civilisation, which produces only happiness.\n\nPeople have noticed that birds of prey hide themselves to drink; the\nreason being that, obliged to plunge their head in the water, they are\nat that moment defenceless. After a consideration of what happens at\nTahiti,[1] I see no other natural basis for modesty.\n\nLove is the miracle of civilisation. There is nothing but a physical\nlove of the coarsest kind among savage or too barbarian peoples.\n\nAnd modesty gives love the help of imagination--that is, gives it life.\n\nModesty is taught little girls very early by their mothers with such\njealous care, that it almost looks like fellow-feeling; in this way\nwomen take measures in good time for the happiness of the lover to come.\n\nThere can be nothing worse for a timid, sensitive woman than the\ntorture of having, in the presence of a man, allowed herself something\nfor which she thinks she ought to blush; I am convinced that a woman\nwith a\n\n[Pg 82]\nlittle pride would sooner face a thousand deaths. A slight liberty,\nwhich touches a soft corner in the lover's heart, gives her a moment\nof lively pleasure.[2] If he seem to blame it, or simply not to enjoy\nit to the utmost, it must leave in the soul an agonising doubt. And\nso a woman above the common sort has everything to gain by being very\nreserved in her manner. The game is not fair: against the chance of\na little pleasure or the advantage of seeming a little more lovable,\na woman runs the risk of a burning remorse and a sense of shame,\nwhich must make even the lover less dear. An evening gaily passed, in\ncare-devil thoughtless fashion, is dearly paid for at the price. If a\nwoman fears she has made this kind of mistake before her lover, he must\nbecome for days together hateful in her sight. Can one wonder at the\nforce of a habit, when the lightest infractions of it are punished by\nsuch cruel shame?\n\nAs for the utility of modesty--she is the mother of love: impossible,\ntherefore, to doubt her claims. And for the mechanism of the\nsentiment--it's simple enough. The soul is busy feeling shame instead\nof busy desiring. You deny yourself desires and your desires lead to\nactions.\n\nEvidently every woman of feeling and pride--and, these two things being\ncause and effect, one can hardly go without the other--must fall into\nways of coldness, which the people whom they disconcert call prudery.\n\nThe accusation is all the more specious because of the extreme\ndifficulty of steering a middle course: a woman has only to have little\njudgment and a lot of pride, and very soon she will come to believe\nthat in modesty one cannot go too far. In this way, an Englishwoman\ntakes it as an insult, if you pronounce before her the name of certain\ngarments. An Englishwoman must be very careful, in the country, not to\nbe seen in the evening\n\n[Pg 83]\nleaving the drawing-room with her husband; and, what is still more\nserious, she thinks it an outrage to modesty, to show that she\nis enjoying herself a little in the presence of anyone _but_ her\nhusband.[3] It is perhaps due to such studied scrupulousness that the\nEnglish, a people of judgment, betray signs of such boredom in their\ndomestic bliss. Theirs the fault--why so much pride?[4]\n\nTo make up for this--and to pass straight from Plymouth to Cadiz and\nSeville--I found in Spain that the warmth of climate and passions\ncaused people to overlook a little the necessary measure of restraint.\nThe very tender caresses, which I noticed could be given in public, far\nfrom seeming touching, inspired me with feelings quite the reverse:\nnothing is more distressing.\n\nWe must expect to find incalculable the force of habits, which\ninsinuate themselves into women under the pretext of modesty. A common\nwoman, by carrying modesty to extremes, feels she is getting on a level\nwith a woman of distinction.\n\nSuch is the empire of modesty, that a woman of feeling betrays her\nsentiments for her lover sooner by deed than by word.\n\nThe prettiest, richest and most easy-going woman of Bologna has just\ntold me, how yesterday evening a fool of a Frenchman, who is here\ngiving people a strange idea of his nation, thought good to hide under\nher bed. Apparently he did not want to waste the long string of absurd\ndeclarations, with which he has been pestering her for a month. But the\ngreat man should have had more presence of mind. He waited all right\ntill Madame M---- sent away her maid and had got to bed, but he had not\nthe patience to give the household time to go to sleep. She seized hold\nof the bell and had him thrown\n\n[Pg 84]\nout ignominiously, in the midst of the jeers and cuffs of five or six\nlackeys. \"And if he had waited two hours?\" I asked her. \"I should have\nbeen very badly off. 'Who is to doubt,' he would have said, 'that I am\nhere by your orders?'\"[5]\n\nAfter leaving this pretty woman's house, I went to see a woman more\nworthy of being loved than any I know. Her extremely delicate nature is\nsomething greater, if possible, than her touching beauty. I found her\nalone, told the story of Madame M---- and we discussed it. \"Listen,\"\nwas what she said; \"if the man, who will go as far as that, was lovable\nin the eyes of that woman beforehand, he'll have her pardon, and, all\nin good time, her love.\" I own I was dumbfounded by this unexpected\nlight thrown on the recesses of the human heart. After a short silence\nI answered her--\"But will a man, who loves, dare go to such violent\nextremities?\"\n\nThere would be far less vagueness in this chapter had a woman written\nit. Everything relating to women's haughtiness or pride, to their\nhabits of modesty and its excesses, to certain delicacies, for the most\npart dependent wholly on associations of feelings,[6] which cannot\nexist for men, and often delicacies not founded on Nature--all these\nthings, I say, can only find their way here so far as it is permissible\nto write from hearsay.\n\nA woman once said to me, in a moment of philosophical frankness,\nsomething which amounts to this:--\n\n\"If ever I sacrificed my liberty, the man whom I should happen to\nfavour would appreciate still more my\n\n[Pg 85]\naffection, by seeing how sparing I had always been of favours--even\nof the slightest.\" It is out of preference for this lover, whom\nperhaps she will never meet, that a lovable woman will offer a cold\nreception to the man who is speaking to her at the moment. That is the\nfirst exaggeration of modesty; that one can respect. The second comes\nfrom women's pride. The third source of exaggeration is the pride of\nhusbands.\n\nTo my idea, this possibility of love presents itself often to the fancy\nof even the most virtuous woman--and why not? Not to love, when given\nby Heaven a soul made for love, is to deprive yourself and others of a\ngreat blessing. It is like an orange-tree, which would not flower for\nfear of committing a sin. And beyond doubt a soul made for love can\npartake fervently of no other bliss. In the would-be pleasures of the\nworld it finds, already at the second trial, an intolerable emptiness.\nOften it fancies that it loves Art and Nature in its grander aspects,\nbut all they do for it is to hold out hopes of love and magnify it, if\nthat is possible; until, very soon, it finds out that they speak of a\nhappiness which it is resolved to forego.\n\nThe only thing I see to blame in modesty is that it leads to\nuntruthfulness, and that is the only point of vantage, which light\nwomen have over women of feeling. A light woman says to you: \"As soon,\nmy friend, as you attract me, I'll tell you and I'll be more delighted\nthan you; because I have a great respect for you.\"\n\nThe lively satisfaction of Constance's cry after her lover's victory!\n\"How happy I am, not to have given myself to anyone, all these eight\nyears that I've been on bad terms with my husband!\"\n\nHowever comical I find the line of thought, this joy seems to me full\nof freshness.\n\nHere I absolutely must talk about the sort of regrets, felt by a\ncertain lady of Seville who had been deserted by her lover. I ought to\nremind the reader that, in love.\n\n[Pg 86]\neverything is a sign, and, above all, crave the benefit of a little\nindulgence for my style.[7]\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\nAs a man, I think my eye can distinguish nine points in modesty.\n\n1. Much is staked against little; hence extreme reserve; hence often\naffectation. For example, one doesn't laugh at what amuses one the\nmost. Hence it needs a great deal of judgment to have just the right\namount of modesty.[8] That is why many women have not enough in\nintimate gatherings, or, to put it more exactly, do not insist on the\nstories told them being sufficiently disguised, and only drop their\nveils according to the degree of their intoxication or recklessness.[9]\n\nCould it be an effect of modesty and of the deadly dullness it must\nimpose on many women, that the majority of them respect nothing in a\nman so much as impudence? Or do they take impudence for character?\n\n2. Second law: \"My lover will think the more of me for it.\"\n\n3. Force of habit has its way, even at the moments of greatest passion.\n\n4. To the lover, modesty offers very flattering pleasures; it makes him\nfeel what laws are broken for his sake.\n\n5. And to women it offers more intoxicating pleasures, which, causing\nthe fall of a strongly established habit, throw the soul into greater\nconfusion. The Comte de Valmont finds himself in a pretty woman's\nbedroom at\n\n[Pg 87]\nmidnight. The thing happens every week to him; to her perhaps every\nother year. Thus continence and modesty must have pleasures infinitely\nmore lively in store for women.[10]\n\n6. The drawback of modesty is that it is always leading to falsehood.\n\n7. Excess of modesty, and its severity, discourages gentle and timid\nhearts from loving[11]--just those made for giving and feeling the\nsweets of love.\n\n8. In sensitive women, who have not had several lovers, modesty is a\nbar to ease of manner, and for this reason they are rather apt to let\nthemselves be led by those friends, who need reproach themselves with\nno such failing.[12] They go into each particular case, instead of\nfalling back blindly on habit. Delicacy and modesty give their actions\na touch of restraint; by being natural they make\n\n[Pg 88]\nthemselves appear unnatural; but this awkwardness is akin to heavenly\ngrace.\n\nIf familiarity in them sometimes resembles tenderness, it is because\nthese angelic souls are coquettes without knowing it. They are\ndisinclined to interrupt their dreams, and, to save themselves the\ntrouble of speaking and finding something both pleasant and polite to\nsay to a friend (which would end in being nothing but polite), they\nfinish by leaning tenderly on his arm.[13]\n\n9. Women only dare be frank by halves; which is the reason why they\nvery rarely reach the highest, when they become authors, but which also\ngives a grace to their shortest note. For them to be frank means going\nout without a _fichu_. For a man nothing more frequent than to write\nabsolutely at the dictate of his imagination, without knowing where he\nis going.\n\n                               _R\u00e9sum\u00e9_\n\nThe usual fault is to treat woman as a kind of man, but more generous,\nmore changeable and with whom, above all, no rivalry is possible. It is\nonly too easy to forget that there are two new and peculiar laws, which\ntyrannise over these unstable beings, in conflict with all the ordinary\nimpulses of human nature--I mean:--\n\nFeminine pride and modesty, and those often inscrutable habits born of\nmodesty.\n\n\n[1] See the Travels of Bougainville, Cook, etc. In some animals, the\nfemale seems to retract at the moment she gives herself. We must expect\nfrom comparative anatomy some of the most important revelations about\nourselves.\n\n[2] Shows one's love in a new way.\n\n[3] See the admirable picture of these tedious manners at the end of\n_Corinne_; and Madame de Sta\u00ebl has made a flattering portrait.\n\n[4] The Bible and Aristocracy take a cruel revenge upon people who\nbelieve that duty is everything.\n\n[5] I am advised to suppress this detail--\"You take me for a very\ndoubtful woman, to dare tell such stories in my presence.\"\n\n[6] Modesty is one of the sources of taste in dress: by such and such\nan arrangement, a woman engages herself in a greater or less degree.\nThis is what makes dress lose its point in old age.\n\nA provincial, who puts up to follow the fashion in Paris, engages\nherself in an awkward way, which makes people laugh. A woman coming\nto Paris from the provinces ought to begin by dressing as if she were\nthirty.\n\n[7] P. 84, note 5.\n\n[8] See the tone of society at Geneva, above all in the \"best\"\nfamilies--use of a Court to correct the tendency towards prudery by\nlaughing at it--Duclos telling stories to Madame de Rochefort--\"Really,\nyou take us for too virtuous.\" Nothing in the world is so nauseous as\nmodesty not sincere.\n\n[9] \"Ah, my dear Fronsac, there are twenty bottles of champagne between\nthe story, that you're beginning to tell us, and our talk at this time\nof day.\"\n\n[10] It is the story of the melancholy temperament and the sanguine.\nConsider a virtuous woman (even the mercenary virtue of certain of the\nfaithful--virtue to be had for a hundredfold reward in Paradise) and\na blas\u00e9 debauchee of forty. Although the Valmont(13) of the _Liaisons\nDangereuses_ is not as far gone as that, the Pr\u00e9sidente de Tourvel(13)\nis happier than he all the way through the book: and if the author,\nwith all his wit, had had still more, that would have been the moral of\nhis ingenious novel.\n\n[11] Melancholy temperament, which may be called the temperament of\nlove. I have seen women, the most distinguished and the most made for\nlove, give the preference, for want of sense, to the prosaic, sanguine\ntemperament. (Story of Alfred, Grande Chartreuse, 1810.)\n\nI know no thought which incites me more to keep what is called bad\ncompany.\n\n(Here poor Visconti loses himself in the clouds.)\n\nFundamentally all women are the same so far as concerns the movements\nof the heart and passion: the forms the passions take are different.\nConsider the difference made by greater fortune, a more cultivated\nmind, the habit of higher thoughts, and, above all, (and more's the\npity) a more irritable pride.\n\nSuch and such a word irritates a princess, but would not in the very\nleast shock an Alpine shepherdess. Only, once their anger is up, the\npassion works in princess and shepherdess the same). (The Editor's only\nnote.)\n\n[12] M.'s remark.\n\n[13] Vol. _Guarna_.\n\n\n[Pg 89]\n                             CHAPTER XXVII\n\n                              THE GLANCE\n\n\nThis is the great weapon of virtuous coquetry. With a glance, one may\nsay everything, and yet one can always deny a glance; for it cannot be\nrepeated textually.\n\nThis reminds me of Count G----, the Mirabeau of Rome. The delightful\nlittle government of that land has taught him an original way of\ntelling stories by a broken string of words, which say everything--and\nnothing. He makes his whole meaning clear, but repeat who will his\nsayings word for word, it is impossible to compromise him. Cardinal\nLante told him he had stolen this talent from women--yes, and\nrespectable women, I add. This roguery is a cruel, but just, reprisal\non man's tyranny.\n\n\n[Pg 90]\n                            CHAPTER XXVIII\n\n                           OF FEMININE PRIDE\n\n\nAll their lives women hear mention made by men of things claiming\nimportance--large profits, success in war, people killed in duels,\nfiendish or admirable revenges, and so on. Those of them, whose heart\nis proud, feel that, being unable to reach these things, they are not\nin a position to display any pride remarkable for the importance of\nwhat it rests on. They feel a heart beat in their breast, superior\nby the force and pride of its movements to all which surrounds them,\nand yet they see the meanest of men esteem himself above them. They\nfind out, that all their pride can only be for little things, or at\nleast for things, which are without importance except for sentiment,\nand of which a third party cannot judge. Maddened by this desolating\ncontrast between the meanness of their fortune and the conscious worth\nof their soul, they set about making their pride worthy of respect by\nthe intensity of its fits or by the relentless tenacity with which they\nhold by its dictates. Before intimate intercourse women of this kind\nimagine, when they see their lover, that he has laid siege to them.\nTheir imagination is absorbed in irritation at his endeavours, which,\nafter all, cannot do otherwise than witness to his love--seeing that\nhe does love. Instead of enjoying the feelings of the man of their\npreference, their vanity is up in arms against him; and it comes to\nthis, that, with a soul of the tenderest, so long as its sensibility is\nnot centred on a special object, they have only to love, in\n\n[Pg 91]\norder, like a common flirt, to be reduced to the barest vanity.\n\nA woman of generous character will sacrifice her life a thousand times\nfor her lover, but will break with him for ever over a question of\npride--for the opening or shutting of a door. Therein lies their point\nof honour. Well! Napoleon came to grief rather than yield a village.\n\nI have seen a quarrel of this kind last longer than a year. It was a\nwoman of the greatest distinction who sacrificed all her happiness,\nsooner than give her lover the chance of entertaining the slightest\npossible doubt of the magnanimity of her pride. The reconciliation\nwas the work of chance, and, on my friend's side, due to a moment of\nweakness, which, on meeting her lover, she was unable to overcome.\nShe imagined him forty miles away, and found him in a place, where\ncertainly he did not expect to see her. She could not hide the first\ntransports of delight; her lover was more overcome than she; they\nalmost fell at each other's feet and never have I seen tears flow so\nabundantly--it was the unlooked-for appearance of happiness. Tears are\nthe supreme smile.\n\nThe Duke of Argyll gave a fine example of presence of mind, in not\ndrawing Feminine Pride into a combat, in the interview he had at\nRichmond with Queen Caroline.[1] The more nobility in a woman's\ncharacter, the more terrible are these storms--\n\n        As the blackest sky\n    Foretells the heaviest tempest.\n\n                                    (_Don Juan_.)\n\nCan it be that the more fervently, in the normal course of life, a\nwoman delights in the rare qualities of her lover, the more she tries,\nin those cruel moments, when sympathy seems turned to the reverse, to\nwreak her vengeance on what usually she sees in him superior\n\n[Pg 92]\nto other people? She is afraid of being confounded with them.\n\nIt is a precious long time since I read that boring _Clarissa_; but I\nthink it is through feminine pride that she lets herself die, and does\nnot accept the hand of Lovelace.\n\nLovelace's fault was great; but as she did love him a little, she could\nhave found pardon in her heart for a crime, of which the cause was love.\n\nMonime, on the contrary, seems to me a touching model of feminine\ndelicacy. What cheek does not blush with pleasure to hear from the lips\nof an actress worthy of the part:--\n\n    That fatal love which I had crushed and conquered,\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Your wiles detected, and I cannot now\n    Disown what I confess'd; you cannot raze\n    Its memory; the shame of that avowal,\n    To which you forced me, will abide for ever\n    Present before my mind, and I should think\n    That you were always of my faith uncertain.\n    The grave itself to me were less abhorrent\n    Than marriage bed shared with a spouse, who took\n    Cruel advantage of my simple trust,\n    And, to destroy my peace for ever, fann'd\n    A flame that fired my cheek for other love\n    Than his.[2]\n\nI can picture to myself future generations saying: \"So that's what\nMonarchy[3] was good for--to produce that sort of character and their\nportrayal by great artists. \"\n\nAnd yet I find an admirable example of this delicacy even in the\nrepublics of the Middle Ages; which seems to destroy my system of the\ninfluence of governments on the passions, but which I shall cite in\ngood faith.\n\n[Pg 93]\nThe reference is to those very touching verses of Dante:\n\n    Deh! quando tu sarai tomato al mondo\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Ricordati di me, che son la Pia;\n    Siena mi f\u00e8; disfecemi Maremma;\n    Salsi colui, che inanellata pria\n    Disposando, m'avea con la sua gemma.\n\n                     _Purgatorio_, Cant. V.[4]\n\nThe woman, who speaks with so much restraint, had suffered in secret\nthe fate of Desdemona, and, by a word, could make known her husband's\ncrime to the friends, whom she had left on earth.\n\nNello della Pietra won the hand of Madonna Pia(14), sole heiress of the\nTolomei, the richest and noblest family of Sienna. Her beauty, which\nwas the admiration of Tuscany, sowed in her husband's heart the seed\nof jealousy, which, envenomed by false reports and suspicions ever and\nanon rekindled, led him to a heinous project. It is difficult, at this\nhour, to decide whether his wife was altogether innocent, but Dante\nrepresents her as such.\n\nHer husband carried her off into the fens of Volterra, famous then, as\nnow, for the effects of the _aria cattiva_. Never would he tell his\nunhappy wife the reason of her exile in so dangerous a place. His pride\ndid not deign to utter complaint or accusation. He lived alone with her\nin a deserted tower, the ruins of which by the edge of the sea I have\nbeen myself to visit. There he never broke his scornful silence, never\nanswered his young wife's questions, never listened to her prayers.\nColdly he waited at her side for the pestilential air to have its\neffect. The exhalations of these morasses were not long in withering\nthose features--the loveliest, it is said,\n\n[Pg 94]\nwhich, in that century, the world had seen. In a few months she died.\nSome chroniclers of those remote times report that Nello used the\ndagger to hasten her end. She died in the fens in some horrible way;\nbut the kind of death was a mystery even to her contemporaries. Nello\ndella Pietra survived to pass the rest of his days in a silence which\nhe never broke.\n\nNothing nobler and more delicate than the way in which young la Pia\naddresses Dante. She wishes to be recalled to the memory of the\nfriends, whom she had left on earth so young; and yet, telling who she\nis and giving the name of her husband, she will not allow herself the\nslightest complaint against a piece of cruelty unheard of, but for the\nfuture irreparable; she only points out that he knows the story of her\ndeath.\n\nThis constancy in pride's revenge is not met, I think, except in the\ncountries of the South.\n\nIn Piedmont I happened to be the involuntary witness of something very\nnearly parallel; though at the time I did not know the details. I was\nsent with twenty-five dragoons into the woods along the Sesia, to\nintercept contraband. Arriving in the evening at this wild and desolate\nspot, I caught sight between the trees of the ruins of an old castle.\nI went up to it and to my great surprise--it was inhabited. I found\nwithin a nobleman of the country, of sinister appearance, a man six\nfoot high and forty years old. He gave me two rooms with a bad grace.\nI passed my time playing music with my quartermaster; after some days,\nwe discovered that our friend kept a woman in the background, whom\nwe used to call Camille, laughingly; but we were far from suspecting\nthe fearful truth. Six weeks later she was dead. I had the morbid\ncuriosity to see her in the coffin, paying a monk, who was watching, to\nintroduce me into the chapel towards midnight, under pretext of going\nto sprinkle holy water. There I found one of those superb faces, which\nare beautiful even in the arms of death;\n\n[Pg 95]\nshe had a large aquiline nose--the nobility and delicacy of its outline\nI shall never forget. Then I left that deadly spot. Five years later,\na detachment of my regiment accompanying the Emperor to his coronation\nas King of Italy(15), I had the whole story told me. I learnt that the\njealous husband, Count ----, had found one morning fastened to his\nwife's bed an English watch, belonging to a young man of the small town\nin which they lived. That very day he carried her off to the ruined\ncastle in the midst of the woods of the Sesia. Like Nello della Pietra,\nhe never uttered a single word. If she made him any request, he coldly\nand silently presented to her the English watch, which he carried\nalways with him. Almost three years passed, spent thus alone with her.\nAt last she died of despair, in the flower of life. Her husband tried\nto put a knife into the proprietor of the watch, missed him, passed on\nto Genoa, took ship and no one has heard of him since. His property has\nbeen divided.\n\nAs for these women with feminine pride, if you take their injuries with\na good grace, which the habits of a military life make easy, you annoy\nthese proud souls; they take you for a coward, and very soon become\noutrageous. Such lofty characters yield with pleasure to men whom they\nsee overbearing with other men. That is, I fancy, the only way--you\nmust often pick a quarrel with your neighbour in order to avoid one\nwith your mistress.\n\nOne day Miss Cornel, the celebrated London actress, was surprised by\nthe unexpected appearance of the rich colonel, whom she found useful.\nShe happened to be with a little lover, whom she just liked--and\nnothing more. \"Mr. So-and-so,\" says she in great confusion to the\ncolonel, \"has come to see the pony I want to sell.\" \"I am here for\nsomething very different,\" put in proudly the little lover who was\nbeginning to bore her, but whom, from the moment of that answer, she\nstarted\n\n[Pg 96]\nto love again madly.[5] Women of that kind sympathise with their\nlover's haughtiness, instead of exercising at his expense their own\ndisposition to pride.\n\nThe character of the Duc de Lauzun (that of 1660[6]), if they can\nforgive the first day its want of grace, is very fascinating for\nsuch women, and perhaps for all women of distinction. Grandeur on a\nhigher plane escapes them; they take for coldness the calm gaze which\nnothing escapes, but which a detail never disturbs. Have I not heard\nwomen at the Court of Saint-Cloud maintain that Napoleon had a dry and\nprosaic character?[7] A great man is like an eagle: the higher he rises\nthe less he is visible, and he is punished for his greatness by the\nsolitude of his soul.\n\nFrom feminine pride arises what women call want of refinement. I fancy,\nit is not at all unlike what kings call _l\u00e8se majest\u00e9_, a crime all the\nmore dangerous, because\n\n[Pg 97]\none slips into it without knowing. The tenderest lover may be accused\nof wanting refinement, if he is not very sharp, or, what is sadder, if\nhe dares give himself up to the greatest charm of love--the delight of\nbeing perfectly natural with the loved one and of not listening to what\nhe is told.\n\nThese are the sort of things, of which a well-born heart could have no\ninkling; one must have experience, in order to believe in them; for\nwe are misled by the habit of dealing justly and frankly with our men\nfriends.\n\nIt is necessary to keep in mind incessantly that we have to do with\nbeings, who can, however wrongly, think themselves inferior in vigour\nof character, or, to put it better, can think that others believe they\nare inferior.\n\nShould not a woman's true pride reside in the power of the feeling\nshe inspires? A maid of honour to the queen and wife of Francis I was\nchaffed about the fickleness of her lover, who, it was said, did not\nreally love her. A little time after, this lover had an illness and\nreappeared at Court--dumb. Two years later, people showing surprise one\nday that she still loved him, she turned to him, saying: \"Speak.\" And\nhe spoke.\n\n\n[1] _The Heart of Midlothian_.\n\n[2] Racine, _Mithridates_, Act IV, Sc. 4. [From the Metrical English\nversion of R. B. Boswell. (Bohn's Standard Library.--Tr.)]\n\n[3] Monarchy without charter and without chambers.\n\n[4] Ah! when you are returned to the world of the living, give me a\npassing thought. I am la Pia. Sienna gave me life, death took me in our\nfens. He who, wedding me, gave me his ring, knows my story.\n\n[5] I always come back from Miss Cornel's full of admiration and\nprofound views on the passions laid bare. Her very imperious way of\ngiving orders to her servants has nothing of despotism in it: she\nmerely sees with precision and rapidity what has to be done.\n\nIncensed against me at the beginning of the visit, she thinks no more\nabout it at the end. She tells me in detail of the economy of her\npassion for Mortimer. \"I prefer seeing him in company than alone with\nme.\" A woman of the greatest genius could do no better, for she has\nthe courage to be perfectly natural and is unhampered by any theory.\n\"I'm happier an actress than the wife of a peer.\"--A great soul whose\nfriendship I must keep for my enlightenment.\n\n[6] Loftiness and courage in small matters, but a passionate care for\nthese small matters.--The vehemence of the choleric temperament.--His\nbehaviour towards Madame de Monaco (Saint-Simon, V. 383) and adventure\nunder the bed of Madame de Montespan while the king was there.--Without\nthe care for small matters, this character would remain invisible to\nthe eye of women.\n\n[7] When Minna Troil heard a tale of woe or of romance, it was\nthen her blood rushed to her cheeks and showed plainly how warm it\nbeat, notwithstanding the generally serious, composed and retiring\ndisposition which her countenance and demeanour seemed to exhibit.\n(_The Pirate_, Chap. III.)\n\nSouls like Minna Troil, in whose judgment ordinary circumstances are\nnot worth emotion, by ordinary people are thought cold.\n\n\n[Pg 98]\n                             CHAPTER XXIX\n\n                          OF WOMEN'S COURAGE\n\n I tell thee, proud Templar, that not in thy fiercest battles hast thou\n displayed more of thy vaunted courage than has been shewn by women,\n when called upon to suffer by affection or duty. (_Ivanhoe_.)\n\n\nI remember meeting the following phrase in a book of history: \"All\nthe men lost their head: that is the moment when women display an\nincontestable superiority.\"\n\nTheir courage has a reserve which that of their lover wants; he acts\nas a spur to their sense of worth. They find so much pleasure in being\nable, in the fire of danger, to dispute the first place for firmness\nwith the man, who often wounds them by the proudness of his protection\nand his strength, that the vehemence of that enjoyment raises them\nabove any kind of fear, which at the moment is the man's weak point.\nA man, too, if the same help were given him at the same moment, would\nshow himself superior to everything; for fear never resides in the\ndanger, but in ourselves.\n\nNot that I mean to depreciate women's courage--I have seen them, on\noccasions, superior to the bravest men. Only they must have a man to\nlove. Then they no longer feel except through him; and so the most\nobvious and personal danger becomes, as it were, a rose to gather in\nhis presence.[1]\n\nI have found also in women, who did not love, intrepidity,\n\n[Pg 99]\nthe coldest, the most surprising and the most exempt from nerves.\n\nIt is true, I have always imagined that they are so brave, only because\nthey do not know the tiresomeness of wounds!\n\nAs for moral courage, so far superior to the other, the firmness of a\nwoman who resists her love is simply the most admirable thing, which\ncan exist on earth. All other possible marks of courage are as nothing\ncompared to a thing so strongly opposed to nature and so arduous.\nPerhaps they find a source of strength in the habit of sacrifice, which\nis bred in them by modesty.\n\nHard on women it is that the proofs of this courage should always\nremain secret and be almost impossible to divulge.\n\nStill harder that it should always be employed against their own\nhappiness: the Princesse de Cl\u00e8ves would have done better to say\nnothing to her husband and give herself to M. de Nemours.\n\nPerhaps women are chiefly supported by their pride in making a fine\ndefence, and imagine that their lover is staking his vanity on having\nthem--a petty and miserable idea. A man of passion, who throws himself\nwith a light heart into so many ridiculous situations, must have a lot\nof time to be thinking of vanity! It is like the monks who mean to\ncatch the devil and find their reward in the pride of hair-shirts and\nmacerations.\n\nI should think that Madame de Cl\u00e8ves would have repented, had she come\nto old age,--to the period at which one judges life and when the joys\nof pride appear in all their meanness. She would have wished to have\nlived like Madame de la Fayette.[2]\n\n[Pg 100]\nI have just re-read a hundred pages of this essay: and a pretty poor\nidea I have given of true love, of love which occupies the entire\nsoul, fills it with fancies, now the happiest, now heart-breaking--but\nalways sublime--and makes it completely insensible to all the rest\nof creation. I am at a loss to express what I see so well; I have\nnever felt more painfully the want of talent. How bring into relief\nthe simplicity of action and of character, the high seriousness, the\nglance that reflects so truly and so ingenuously the passing shade\nof feeling, and above all, to return to it again, that inexpressible\n_What care I?_ for all that is not the woman we love? A yes or a no\nspoken by a man in love has an _unction_ which is not to be found\nelsewhere, and is not found in that very man at other times. This\nmorning (August 3rd) I passed on horseback about nine o'clock in front\nof the lovely English garden of Marchese Zampieri, situated on the\nlast crests of those tree-capped hills, on which Bologna rests, and\nfrom which so fine a view is enjoyed over Lombardy rich and green--the\nfairest country in the world. In a copse of laurels, belonging to the\nGiardino Zampieri, which dominates the path I was taking, leading to\nthe cascade of the Reno at Casa Lecchio, I saw Count Delfante. He was\nabsorbed in thought and scarcely returned my greeting, though we had\npassed the night together till two o'clock in the morning. I went to\nthe cascade, I crossed the Reno; after which, passing again, at least\nthree hours later, under the copse of the Giardino Zampieri, I saw him\nstill there. He was precisely in the same position, leaning against a\ngreat pine, which rises above the copse of laurels--but this detail I\nam afraid will be found too simple and pointless. He came up to me with\ntears in his eyes, asking me not to go telling people of his trance.\nI was touched, and suggested retracing my steps and going with him to\nspend the day in the country. At the end of two hours he had told me\neverything. His is a fine soul,\n\n[Pg 101]\nbut oh! the coldness of these pages, compared to his story.\n\nFurthermore, he thinks his love is not returned--which is not my\nopinion. In the fair marble face of the Contessa Ghigi, with whom we\nspent the evening, one can read nothing. Only now and then a light and\nsudden blush, which she cannot check, just betrays the emotions of\nthat soul, which the most exalted feminine pride disputes with deeper\nemotions. You see the colour spread over her neck of alabaster and as\nmuch as one catches of those lovely shoulders, worthy of Canova. She\nsomehow finds a way of diverting her black and sombre eyes from the\nobservation of those, whose penetration alarms her woman's delicacy;\nbut last night, at something which Delfante was saying and of which she\ndisapproved, I saw a sudden blush spread all over her. Her lofty soul\nfound him less worthy of her.\n\nBut when all is said, even if I were mistaken in my conjectures on\nthe happiness of Delfante, vanity apart, I think him happier than I,\nin my indifference, although I am in a thoroughly happy position, in\nappearance and in reality.\n\nBologna, _August 3rd_, 1818.\n\n\n[1] Mary Stuart speaking of Leicester, after the interview with\nElizabeth, where she had just met her doom. (Schiller.)\n\n[2] It is well known that that celebrated woman was the author,\nprobably in company with M. de la Rochefoucauld, of the novel, _La\nPrincesse de Cl\u00e8ves_, and that the two authors passed together in\nperfect friendship the last twenty years of their life. That is exactly\nlove _\u00e0 l'Italienne_.\n\n\n[Pg 102]\n                              CHAPTER XXX\n\n                   A PECULIAR AND MOURNFUL SPECTACLE\n\n\nWomen with their feminine pride visit the iniquities of the fools upon\nthe men of sense, and those of the prosaic, prosperous and brutal upon\nthe noble-minded. A very pretty result--you'll agree!\n\nThe petty considerations of pride and worldly proprieties are the\ncause of many women's unhappiness, for, through pride, their parents\nhave placed them in their abominable position. Destiny has reserved\nfor them, as a consolation far superior to all their misfortunes, the\nhappiness of loving and being loved with passion, when suddenly one\nfine day they borrow from the enemy this same mad pride, of which they\nwere the first victims--all to kill the one happiness which is left\nthem, to work their own misfortune and the misfortune of him, who loves\nthem. A friend, who has had ten famous intrigues (and by no means\nall one after another), gravely persuades them that if they fall in\nlove, they will be dishonoured in the eyes of the public, and yet this\nworthy public, who never rises above low ideas, gives them generously a\nlover a year; because that, it says, \"is the thing.\" Thus the soul is\nsaddened by this odd spectacle: a woman of feeling, supremely refined\nand an angel of purity, on the advice of a low t----, runs away from\nthe boundless, the only happiness which is left to her, in order to\nappear in a dress of dazzling white, before a great fat brute of a\njudge, whom everyone knows has been blind a hundred years, and who\nbawls out at the top of his voice: \"She is dressed in black!\"\n\n\n[Pg 103]\n                             CHAPTER XXXI\n\n                  EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF SALVIATI\n\n  Ingenium nobis ipsa puella facit.\n                   (_Propertius_, II, I.)\n\n\nBologna, _April 29th_, 1818.\n\nDriven to despair by the misfortune to which love has reduced me, I\ncurse existence. I have no heart for anything. The weather is dull; it\nis raining, and a late spell of cold has come again to sadden nature,\nwho after a long winter was hurrying to meet the spring.\n\nSchiassetti, a half-pay colonel, my cold and reasonable friend, came to\nspend a couple of hours with me \"You should renounce your love.\"\n\n\"How? Give me back my passion for war.\"\n\n\"It is a great misfortune for you to have known her.\"\n\nI agree very nearly--so low-spirited and craven do I feel--so much has\nmelancholy taken possession of me to-day. We discuss what interest\ncan have led her friend to libel me, but find nothing but that old\nNeapolitan proverb: \"Woman, whom love and youth desert, a nothing\npiques.\" What is certain is that that cruel woman is _enraged_ with\nme--it is the expression of one of her friends. I could revenge myself\nin a fearful way, but, against her hatred, I am without the smallest\nmeans of defence. Schiassetti leaves me. I go out into the rain, not\nknowing what to do with myself. My rooms, this drawing-room, which I\nlived in during the first days of our acquaintance, and when I saw her\nevery evening, have become insupportable to me. Each engraving, each\npiece of furniture, brings up again the\n\n[Pg 104]\nhappiness I dreamed of in their presence--which now I have lost for\never.\n\nI tramped the streets through a cold rain: chance, if I can call it\nchance, made me pass under her windows. Night was falling and I went\nalong, my eyes full of tears fixed on the window of her room. Suddenly\nthe curtains were just drawn aside, as if to give a glimpse into the\nsquare, then instantly closed again. I felt within me a physical\nmovement about the heart. I was unable to support myself and took\nrefuge under the gateway of the next house. A thousand feelings crowd\nupon my soul. Chance may have produced this movement of the curtains;\nbut oh! if it was her hand that had drawn them aside.\n\nThere are two misfortunes in the world: passion frustrated and the\n\"dead blank.\"\n\nIn love--I feel that two steps away from me exists a boundless\nhappiness, something beyond all my prayers, which depends upon nothing\nbut a word, nothing but a smile.\n\nPassionless like Schiassetti, on gloomy days I see happiness nowhere, I\ncome to doubt if it exists for me, I fall into depression. One ought to\nbe without strong passions and have only a little curiosity or vanity.\n\nIt is two o'clock in the morning; I have seen that little movement of\nthe curtain; at six o'clock I paid some calls and went to the play, but\neverywhere, silent and dreaming, I passed the evening examining this\nquestion: \"After so much anger with so little foundation (for after\nall did I wish to offend her and is there a thing on earth which the\nintention does not excuse?)--has she felt a moment of love?\"\n\nPoor Salviati, who wrote the preceding lines on his Petrarch, died a\nshort time after. He was the intimate friend of Schiassetti and myself;\nwe knew all his thoughts, and it is from him that I have all the\ntearful part of this essay. He was imprudence incarnate; moreover,\n\n[Pg 105]\nthe woman, for whom he went to such wild lengths, is the most\ninteresting creature that I have met. Schiassetti said to me: \"But do\nyou think that that unfortunate passion was without advantages for\nSalviati? To begin with, the most worrying of money troubles that can\nbe imagined came upon him. These troubles, which reduced him to a very\nmiddling fortune after his dazzling youth, and would have driven him\nmad with anger in any other circumstances, crossed his mind not once in\ntwo weeks.\n\n\"And then--a matter of importance of a quite different kind for a mind\nof his range--that passion is the first true course of logic, which\nhe ever had. That may seem peculiar in a man who has been at Court;\nbut the fact is explained by his extreme courage. For example, he\npassed without winking the day of ----, the day of his undoing; he was\nsurprised then, as in Russia(16), not to feel anything extraordinary.\nIt is an actual fact, that his fear of anything had never gone so far\nas to make him think about it for two days together. Instead of this\ncallousness, the last two years he was trying every minute to be brave.\nBefore he had never seen danger.\n\n\"When as a result of his imprudence and his faith in the generosity of\ncritics,[1] he had managed to get condemned to not seeing the woman he\nwas in love with, except twice a month, we would see him pass those\nevenings, talking to her as if intoxicated with joy, because he had\nbeen received with that noble frankness which he worshipped. He held\nthat Madame ---- and he were two souls without their like, who should\nunderstand each other with a glance. It was beyond him to grasp that\nshe should pay the least attention to petty bourgeois comments, which\ntried to make a criminal of him. The result of this fine confidence in\na woman, surrounded by his enemies, was to find her door closed to him.\n\n\"'With M----,' I used to say to him, 'you forget\n\n[Pg 106]\nyour maxim--that you mustn't believe in greatness of soul, except in\nthe last extremity.'\n\n\"'Do you think,' he answered, 'that the world contains another heart\nwhich is more suited to hers? True, I pay for this passionate way of\nbeing, which L\u00e9onore, in anger, made me see on the horizon in the line\nof the rocks of Poligny, with the ruin of all the practical enterprises\nof my life--a disaster which comes from my lack of patient industry and\nimprudence due to the force of momentary impressions.'\" One can see the\ntouch of madness!\n\nFor Salviati life was divided into periods of a fortnight, which took\ntheir hue from the last interview, which he had been granted. But\nI noticed often, that the happiness he owed to a welcome, which he\nthought less cold, was far inferior in intensity to the unhappiness\nwith which a hard reception overwhelmed him.[2] At times Madame\n---- failed to be quite honest with him; and these are the only two\ncriticisms I ever dared offer him. Beyond the more intimate side of his\nsorrow, of which he had the delicacy never to speak even to the friends\ndearest to him and most devoid of envy, he saw in a hard reception\nfrom L\u00e9onore the triumph of prosaic and scheming beings over the\nopen-hearted and the generous. At those times he lost faith in virtue\nand, above all, in glory. It was his way to talk to his friends only\nof sad notions, to which it is true his passion led up, but notions\ncapable besides of having some interest in the eyes of philosophy. I\nwas curious to observe that uncommon soul. Ordinarily passion-love is\nfound in people, a little simple in the German way.[3] Salviati, on the\ncontrary, was among the firmest and sharpest men I have known.\n\nI seemed to notice that, after these cruel visits, he had\n\n[Pg 107]\nno peace until he had found a justification for L\u00e9onore's severities.\nSo long as he felt that she might have been wrong in ill-using him, he\nwas unhappy. Love, so devoid of vanity, I should never have thought\npossible.\n\nHe was incessantly singing us the praises of love.\n\n\"If a supernatural power said to me: Break the glass of that watch and\nL\u00e9onore will be for you, what she was three years ago, an indifferent\nfriend--really I believe I would never as long as I live have the\ncourage to break it.\" I saw in these discourses such signs of madness,\nthat I never had the courage to offer my former objections.\n\nHe would add: \"Just as Luther's Reformation at the end of the Middle\nAges, shaking society to its base, renewed and reconstructed the world\non reasonable foundations, so is a generous character renewed and\nretempered by love.\n\n\"It is only then, that he casts off all the baubles of life; without\nthis revolution he would always have had in him a pompous and\ntheatrical _something_. It is only since I began to love that I have\nlearnt to put greatness into my character--such is the absurdity of\neducation at our military academy.\n\n\"Although I behaved well, I was a child at the Court of Napoleon and at\nMoscow. I did my duty, but I knew nothing of that heroic simplicity,\nthe fruit of entire and whole-hearted sacrifice. For example, it is\nonly this last year, that my heart takes in the simplicity of the\nRomans in Livy. Once upon a time, I thought them cold compared to our\nbrilliant colonels. What they did for their Rome, I find in my heart\nfor L\u00e9onore. If I had the luck to be able to do anything for her, my\nfirst desire would be to hide it. The conduct of a Regulus or a Decius\nwas something confirmed beforehand, which had no claim to surprise\nthem. Before I loved, I was small, precisely because I was tempted\nsometimes to think myself great; I felt a certain effort, for which I\napplauded myself.\n\n[Pg 108]\n\"And, on the side of affection, what do we not owe to love? After\nthe hazards of early youth, the heart is closed to sympathy. Death\nand absence remove our early companions, and we are reduced to\npassing our life with lukewarm partners, measure in hand, for ever\ncalculating ideas of interest and vanity. Little by little all the\nsensitive and generous region of the soul becomes waste, for want of\ncultivation, and at less than thirty a man finds his heart steeled to\nall sweet and gentle sensations. In the midst of this arid desert,\nlove causes a well of feelings to spring up, fresher and more abundant\neven than that of earliest youth. In those days it was a vague hope,\nirresponsible and incessantly distracted[4]--no devotion to one thing,\nno deep and constant desire; the soul, at all times light, was athirst\nfor novelty and forgot to-day its adoration of the day before. But,\nthan the crystallisation of love nothing is more concentrated, more\nmysterious, more eternally single in its object. In those days only\nagreeable things claimed to please and to please for an instant: now\nwe are deeply touched by everything which is connected with the loved\none--even by objects the most indifferent. Arriving at a great town,\na hundred miles from that which L\u00e9onore lives in, I was in a state of\nfear and trembling; at each street corner I shuddered to meet Alviza,\nthe intimate friend of Madame ----, although I did not know her. For me\neverything took a mysterious and sacred tint. My heart beat fast, while\ntalking to an old scholar; for I could not hear without blushing the\nname of the city gate, near which the friend of L\u00e9onore lives.\n\n\"Even the severities of the woman we love have an infinite grace, which\nthe most flattering moments in the company of other women cannot offer.\nIt is like the great shadows in Correggio's pictures, which far from\nbeing, as in other painters, passages less pleasant, but necessary in\norder to give effect to the lights and relief to the figures,\n\n[Pg 109]\nhave graces of their own which charm and throw us into a gentle\nreverie.[5]\n\n\"Yes, half and the fairest half of life is hidden from the man, who has\nnot loved with passion.\"\n\nSalviati had need of the whole force of his dialectic powers, to hold\nhis own against the wise Schiassetti, who was always saying to him:\n\"You want to be happy, then be content with a life exempt from pains\nand with a small quantity of happiness every day. Keep yourself from\nthe lottery of great passions.\"\n\n\"Then give me your curiosity,\" was Salviati's answer.\n\nI imagine there were not a few days, when he would have liked to be\nable to follow the advice of our sensible colonel; he made a little\nstruggle and thought he was succeeding; but this line of action was\nabsolutely beyond his strength. And yet what strength was in that soul!\n\nA white satin hat, a little like that of Madame ----, seen in the\ndistance in the street, made his heart stop beating, and forced him\nto rest against the wall. Even in his blackest moments, the happiness\nof meeting her gave him always some hours of intoxication, beyond the\nreach of all misfortune and all reasoning.[6] For the rest, at the time\nof his death[7] his character had certainly contracted more than one\nnoble habit, after two years of\n\n[Pg 110]\nthis generous and boundless passion; and, in so far at least, he judged\nhimself correctly. Had he lived, and circumstances helped him a little,\nhe would\n\n[Pg 111]\nhave made a name for himself. Maybe also, just through his simplicity,\nhis merit would have passed on this earth unseen.\n\n                         O lasso\n    Quanti dolci pensier, quanto desio\n    Men\u00f2 costui al doloroso passo!\n    Biondo era, e bello, e di gentile aspetto;\n    Ma l'un de' cigli un colpo avea diviso.\n\n                                        (_Dante._)[8]\n\n\n[1] Sotto l'usbergo del sentirsi pura. [Under the shield of conscious\npurity.--Tr.] (Dante, _Inf._, XXVIII, 117.)\n\n[2] That is a thing which I have often seemed to notice in love--that\npropensity to reap more unhappiness from what is unhappy than happiness\nfrom what is happy.\n\n[3] Don Carlos,(17) Saint-Preux,(17) Racine's _Hippolyte_ and _Bajazet_.\n\n[4] Mordaunt Mertoun, _Pirate_, Vol. I.\n\n[5] As I have mentioned Correggio, I will add that in the sketch of an\nangel's head in the gallery of the museum at Florence, is to be seen\nthe glance of happy love, and at Parma in the Madonna crowned by Jesus\nthe downcast eyes of love.\n\n[6]      Come what sorrow can\n    It cannot countervail the exchange of joy\n    That one short moment gives me in her sight.--(_Romeo and Juliet_.)\n\n[7] Some days before the last he made a little ode, which has the merit\nof expressing just the sentiments, which formed the subject of our\nconversations:--.\n\n               L'ULTIMO DI.\n               Anacreontica.\n                A ELVIRA.\n\n    Vedi tu dove il rio\n        Lambendo un mirto va,\n        L\u00e0 del riposo mio\n        La pietra surger\u00e0.\n    Il passero amoroso,\n        E il nobile usignuol\n        Entro quel mirto ombroso\n        Raccoglieranno il vol.\n    Vieni, diletta Elvira,\n        A quella tomba vien,\n        E sulla muta lira,\n        Appoggia il bianco sen.\n    Su quella bruna pietra,\n        Le tortore verran,\n        E intorno alia mia cetra,\n        Il nido intrecieran.\n    E ogni anno, il di che offendere\n        M'osasti tu infedel,\n        Faro la su discendere\n        La folgore del ciel.\n    Odi d'un uom che muore\n        Odi l'estremo suon\n        Questo appassito fiore\n        Ti lascio, Elvira, in don\n    Quanto prezioso ei sia\n        Saper tu il devi appien\n        Il di che fosti mia,\n        Te l'involai dal sen.\n    Simbolo allor d'affetto\n        Or pegno di dolor\n        Torno a posarti in petto\n        Quest' appassito fior.\n    E avrai nel cuor scolpito\n        Se crudo il cor non \u00e8,\n        Come ti fu rapito,\n        Come fu reso a te.--(_S. Radael._)*\n\n* [Lo! where the passing stream laps round the myrtle-tree, raise\nthere the stone of my resting-place. The amorous sparrow and the noble\nnightingale within the shade of that myrtle will rest from flight.\nCome, beloved Elvira, come to that tomb and press my mute lyre to your\nwhite bosom. Turtles shall perch on that dark stone and will twine\ntheir nest about my harp. And every year on the day when you did dare\ncruelly betray me, on this spot will I make the lightning of heaven\ndescend. Listen, listen to the last utterances of a dying man. This\nfaded flower, Elvira, is the gift I leave you. How precious it is you\nmust know full well: from your bosom I stole it the day you became\nmine. Then it was a symbol of love; now as a pledge of suffering I\nwill put it back in your bosom--this faded flower. And you shall\nhave engraved on your heart, if a woman's heart you have, how it was\nsnatched from you, how it was returned.]\n\n[8] \"Poor wretch, how many sweet thoughts, what constancy brought him\nto his last hour. He was fair and beautiful and gentle of countenance,\nonly a noble scar cut through one of his eyebrows.\"\n\n\n[Pg 112]\n                             CHAPTER XXXII\n\n                        OF INTIMATE INTERCOURSE\n\n\nThe greatest happiness that love can give--'tis first joining your hand\nto the hand of a woman you love.\n\nThe happiness of gallantry is quite otherwise--far more real, and far\nmore subject to ridicule.\n\nIn passion-love intimate intercourse is not so much perfect delight\nitself, as the last step towards it.\n\nBut how depict a delight, which leaves no memories behind?\n\nMortimer returned from a long voyage in fear and trembling; he adored\nJenny, but Jenny had not answered his letters. On his arrival in\nLondon, he mounts his horse and goes off to find her at her country\nhome. When he gets there, she is walking in the park; he runs up to\nher, with beating heart, meets her and she offers him her hand and\ngreets him with emotion; he sees that she loves him. Roaming together\nalong the glades of the park, Jenny's dress became entangled in an\nacacia bush. Later on Mortimer won her; but Jenny was faithless. I\nmaintain to him that Jenny never loved him and he quotes, as proof of\nher love, the way in which she received him at his return from the\nContinent; but he could never give me the slightest details of it. Only\nhe shudders visibly directly he sees an acacia bush: really, it is the\nonly distinct remembrance he succeeded in preserving of the happiest\nmoment of his life.[1]\n\nA sensitive and open man, a former _chevalier_, confided\n\n[Pg 113]\nto me this evening (in the depth of our craft buffeted by a high sea\non the Lago di Garda[2]) the history of his loves, which I in my turn\nshall not confide to the public. But I feel myself in a position to\nconclude from them that the day of intimate intercourse is like those\nfine days in May, a critical period for the fairest flowers, a moment\nwhich can be fatal and wither in an instant the fairest hopes.\n\n                   *       *       *       *       *[3]\n\n_Naturalness_ cannot be praised too highly. It is the only coquetry\npermissible in a thing so serious as love _\u00e0 la_ Werther; in which a\nman has no idea where he is going, and in which at the same time by a\nlucky chance for virtue, that is his best policy. A man, really moved,\nsays charming things unconsciously; he speaks a language which he does\nnot know himself.\n\nWoe to the man the least bit affected! Given he were in love, allow him\nall the wit in the world, he loses three-quarters of his advantages.\nLet him relapse for an instant into affectation--a minute later comes a\nmoment of frost.\n\nThe whole art of love, as it seems to me, reduces itself to saying\nexactly as much as the degree of intoxication at the moment allows of,\nthat is to say in other terms, to listen to one's heart. It must not be\nthought, that this is so easy; a man, who truly loves, has no longer\nstrength to speak, when his mistress says anything to make him happy.\n\n[Pg 114]\nThus he loses the deeds which his words[4] would have given birth to.\nIt is better to be silent than say things too tender at the wrong\ntime, and what was in point ten seconds ago, is now no longer--in fact\nat this moment it makes a mess of things. Every time that I used to\ninfringe this rule[5] and say something, which had come into my head\nthree minutes earlier and which I thought pretty, L\u00e9onore never failed\nto punish me. And later I would say to myself, as I went away--\"She is\nright.\" This is the sort of thing to upset women of delicacy extremely;\nit is indecency of sentiment. Like tasteless rhetoricians, they are\nreadier to admit a certain degree of weakness and coldness. There being\nnothing in the world to alarm them but the falsity of their lover, the\nleast little insincerity of detail, be it the most innocent in the\nworld, robs them instantly of all delight and puts mistrust into their\nheart.\n\nRespectable women have a repugnance to what is vehement and unlooked\nfor--those being none the less characteristics of passion--and,\nfurthermore, that vehemence alarms their modesty; they are on the\ndefensive against it.\n\nWhen a touch of jealousy or displeasure has occasioned some chilliness,\nit is generally possible to begin subjects, fit to give birth to the\nexcitement favourable to love, and, after the first two or three\nphrases of introduction, as long as a man does not miss the opportunity\nof saying exactly what his heart suggests, the pleasure he will give to\nhis loved one will be keen. The fault of most men is that they want to\nsucceed in saying something, which they think either pretty or witty or\ntouching--instead of\n\n[Pg 115]\nreleasing their soul from the false gravity of the world, until a\ndegree of intimacy and _naturalness_ brings out in simple language what\nthey are feeling at the moment. The man, who is brave enough for this,\nwill have instantly his reward in a kind of peacemaking.\n\nIt is this reward, as swift as it is involuntary, of the pleasure one\ngives to the object of one's love, which puts this passion so far above\nthe others.\n\nIf there is perfect _naturalness_ between them, the happiness of two\nindividuals comes to be fused together.[6] This is simply the greatest\nhappiness which can exist, by reason of sympathy and several other laws\nof human nature.\n\nIt is quite easy to determine the meaning of this word\n_naturalness_--essential condition of happiness in love.\n\nWe call _natural_ that which does not diverge from an habitual way of\nacting. It goes without saying that one must not merely never lie to\none's love, but not even embellish the least bit or tamper with the\nsimple outline of truth. For if a man is embellishing, his attention\nis occupied in doing so and no longer answers simply and truly, as\nthe keys of a piano, to the feelings mirrored in his eye. The woman\nfinds it out at once by a certain chilliness within her, and she, in\nher turn, falls back on coquetry. Might not here be found hidden the\ncause why it is impossible to love a woman with a mind too far below\none's own--the reason being that, in her case, one can make pretence\nwith impunity, and, as that course is more convenient, one abandons\noneself to unnaturalness by force of habit? From that moment love is no\nlonger love; it sinks to the level of an ordinary transaction--the only\ndifference being that, instead of money, you get pleasure or flattery\nor a mixture of both. It is hard not to feel a shade of contempt for a\nwoman, before whom one can with impunity act a part, and\n\n[Pg 116]\nconsequently, in order to throw her over, one only needs to come across\nsomething better in her line. Habit or vow may hold, but I am speaking\nof the heart's desire, whose nature it is to fly to the greatest\npleasure.\n\nTo return to this word _natural_--natural and habitual are two\ndifferent things. If one takes these words in the same sense, it is\nevident that the more sensibility in a man, the harder it is for him\nto be natural, since the influence of _habit_ on his way of being and\nacting is less powerful, and he himself is more powerful at each new\nevent. In the life-story of a cold heart every page is the same: take\nhim to-day or take him to-morrow, it is always the same dummy.\n\nA man of sensibility, so soon as his heart is touched, loses all traces\nof habit to guide his action; and how can he follow a path, which he\nhas forgotten all about?\n\nHe feels the enormous weight attaching to every word which he says to\nthe object of his love--it seems to him as if a word is to decide his\nfate. How is he not to look about for the right word? At any rate,\nhow is he not to have the feeling that he is trying to say \"the right\nthing\"? And then, there is an end of candour. And so we must give up\nour claim to candour, that quality of our being, which never reflects\nupon itself. We are the best we can be, but we feel what we are.\n\nI fancy this brings us to the last degree of _naturalness_, to which\nthe most delicate heart can pretend in love.\n\nA man of passion can but cling might and main, as his only refuge in\nthe storm, to the vow never to change a jot or tittle of the truth\nand to read the message of his heart correctly. If the conversation\nis lively and fragmentary, he may hope for some fine moments of\n_naturalness_: otherwise he will only be perfectly natural in hours\nwhen he will be a little less madly in love.\n\nIn the presence of the loved one, we hardly retain _naturalness_ even\nin our movements, however deeply such habits are rooted in the muscles.\nWhen I gave my\n\n[Pg 117]\narm to L\u00e9onore, I always felt on the point of stumbling, and I wondered\nif I was walking properly. The most one can do is never to be affected\nwillingly: it is enough to be convinced that want of _naturalness_ is\nthe greatest possible disadvantage, and can easily be the source of the\ngreatest misfortunes. For the heart of the woman, whom you love, no\nlonger understands your own; you lose that nervous involuntary movement\nof sincerity, which answers the call of sincerity. It means the loss of\nevery way of touching, I almost said of winning her. Not that I pretend\nto deny, that a woman worthy of love may see her fate in that pretty\nimage of the ivy, which \"dies if it does not cling\"--that is a law of\nNature; but to make your lover's happiness is none the less a step that\nwill decide your own. To me it seems that a reasonable woman ought not\nto give in completely to her lover, until she can hold out no longer,\nand the slightest doubt thrown on the sincerity of your heart gives her\nthere and then a little strength--enough at least to delay her defeat\nstill another day.[7]\n\nIs it necessary to add that to make all this the last word in absurdity\nyou have only to apply it to gallant-love?\n\n\n[1] _Life of Haydn_(18).\n\n[2] 20 September, 1811.\n\n[3] At the first quarrel Madame Ivernetta gave poor Bariac his _cong\u00e9_.\nBariac was truly in love and this _cong\u00e9_ threw him into despair; but\nhis friend Guillaume Balaon, whose life we are writing, was of great\nhelp to him and managed, finally, to appease the severe Ivernetta.\nPeace was restored, and the reconciliation was accompanied by\ncircumstances so delicious, that Bariac swore to Balaon that the hour\nof the first favours he had received from his mistress had not been\nas sweet as that of this voluptuous peacemaking. These words turned\nBalaon's head; he wanted to know this pleasure, of which his friend had\njust given him a description, etc. etc. (_Vie de quelques Troubadours_,\nby Nivernois, Vol. I, p. 32.)\n\n[4] It is this kind of timidity which is decisive, and which is proof\nof passion-love in a clever man.\n\n[5] Remember that, if the author uses sometimes the expression \"I,\"\nit is an attempt to give the form of this essay a little variety. He\ndoes not in the least pretend to fill the readers' ears with the story\nof his own feelings. His aim is to impart, with as little monotony as\npossible, what he has observed in others.\n\n[6] Resides in exactly the same actions.\n\n[7] Haec autem ad acerbam rei memoriam, amara quadam dulcedine,\nscribere visum est--ut cogitem nihil esse debere quod amplius mihi\nplaceat in hac vita. (_Petrarch_, Ed. Marsand.) [These things, to be\na painful reminder, yet not without a certain bitter charm, I have\nseen good to write--to remind me that nothing any longer can give me\npleasure in this life.--Tr.\n\n15 January, 1819.\n\n\n[Pg 118]\n                            CHAPTER XXXIII\n\n\nAlways a little doubt to allay--that is what whets our appetite\nevery moment, that is what makes the life of happy love. As it is\nnever separated from fear, so its pleasures can never tire. The\ncharacteristic of this happiness is its high seriousness.\n\n\n[Pg 119]\n                             CHAPTER XXXIV\n\n                            OF CONFIDENCES\n\n\nThere is no form of insolence so swiftly punished as that which leads\nyou, in passion-love, to take an intimate friend into your confidence.\nHe knows that, if what you say is true, you have pleasures a thousand\ntimes greater than he, and that your own make you despise his.\n\nIt is far worse between women--their lot in life being to inspire a\npassion, and the _confidante_ having commonly also displayed her charms\nfor the advantage of the lover.\n\nOn the other hand, for anyone a prey to this fever, there is no moral\nneed more imperative than that of a friend, before whom to dilate on\nthe fearful doubts which at every instant beset his soul; for in this\nterrible passion, always a thing imagined is a thing existent.\n\n\"A great fault in Salviati's character,\" he writes in 1817, \"--in this\npoint how opposed to Napoleon's!--is that when, in the discussion of\ninterests in which passion is concerned, something is at last morally\nproved, he cannot resolve to take that as a fact once and for all\nestablished and as a point to start from. In spite of himself and\ngreatly to his hurt, he brings it again and again under discussion.\"\nThe reason is that, in the field of ambition, it is easy to be brave.\nCrystallisation, not being subjected to the desire of the thing to be\nwon, helps to fortify our courage; in love it is wholly in the service\nof the object against which our courage is wanted.\n\nA woman may find an unfaithful friend, she also may find one with\nnothing to do.\n\n[Pg 120]\nA princess of thirty-five,[1] with nothing to do and dogged by the need\nof action, of intrigue, etc. etc., discontented with a lukewarm lover\nand yet unable to hope to sow the seeds of another love, with no use to\nmake of the energy which is consuming her, with no other distraction\nthan fits of black humour, can very well find an occupation, that is\nto say a pleasure, and a life's work, in accomplishing the misfortune\nof a true passion--passion which someone has the insolence to feel for\nanother than herself, while her own lover falls to sleep at her side.\n\nIt is the only case in which hate produces happiness; the reason being\nthat it procures occupation and work.\n\nJust at first, the pleasure of doing something, and, as soon as the\ndesign is suspected by society, the prick of doubtful success add\na charm to this occupation. Jealousy of the friend takes the mask\nof hatred for the lover; otherwise how would it be possible to hate\nso madly a man one has never set eyes on? You cannot recognise the\nexistence of envy, or, first, you would have to recognise the existence\nof merit; and there are flatterers about you who only hold their place\nat Court by poking fun at your good friend.\n\nThe faithless _confidante_, all the while she is indulging in\nvillainies of the deepest dye, may quite well think herself solely\nanimated by the desire not to lose a precious friendship. A woman with\nnothing to do tells herself that even friendship languishes in a heart\ndevoured by love and its mortal anxieties. Friendship can only hold its\nown, by the side of love, by the exchange of confidences; but then what\nis more odious to envy than such confidences?\n\nThe only kind of confidences well received between women are those\naccompanied in all its frankness by a statement of the case such as\nthis:--\"My dear friend, in this war, as absurd as it is relentless,\nwhich the prejudices,\n\n[Pg 121]\nbrought into vogue by our tyrants, wage upon us, you help me\nto-day--to-morrow it will be my turn.\"[2]\n\nBeyond this exception there is another--that of true friendship born in\nchildhood and not marred since by any jealousy...\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe confidences of passion-love are only well received between\nschoolboys in love with love, and girls eaten up with unemployed\ncuriosity and tenderness or led on perhaps by the instinct,[3] which\nwhispers to them that there lies the great business of their life, and\nthat they cannot look after it too early.\n\nWe have all seen little girls of three perform quite creditably the\nduties of gallantry. Gallant-love is inflamed, passion-love chilled by\nconfidences.\n\nApart from the danger, there is the difficulty of confidences. In\npassion-love, things one cannot express (because the tongue is too\ngross for such subtleties) exist none the less; only, as these are\nthings of extreme delicacy, we are more liable in observing them to\nmake mistakes.\n\nAlso, an observer in a state of emotion is a bad observer; he won't\nallow for chance.\n\nPerhaps the only safe way is to make yourself your own confidant. Write\ndown this evening, under borrowed\n\n[Pg 122]\nnames, but with all the characteristic details, the dialogue you had\njust now with the woman you care for, and the difficulty which troubles\nyou. In a week, if it is passion-love, you will be a different man, and\nthen, rereading your consultation, you will be able to give a piece of\ngood advice to yourself.\n\nIn male society, as soon as there are more than two together, and envy\nmight make its appearance, politeness allows none but physical love\nto be spoken of--think of the end of dinners among men. It is Baffo's\nsonnets[4] that are quoted and which give such infinite pleasure;\nbecause each one takes literally the praises and excitement of his\nneighbour, who, quite often, merely wants to appear lively or polite.\nThe sweetly tender words of Petrarch or French madrigals would be out\nof place.\n\n\n[1] Venice, 1819.\n\n[2] Memoirs of Madame d'\u00c9pinay, Geliotte.\n\nPrague, Klagenfurth, all Moravia, etc. etc. Their women are great wits\nand their men are great hunters. Friendship is very common between the\nwomen. The country enjoys its fine season in the winter; among the\nnobles of the province a succession of hunting parties takes place,\neach lasting from fifteen to twenty days. One of the cleverest of these\nnobles said to me one day that Charles V had reigned legitimately over\nall Italy, and that, consequently, it was all in vain for the Italians\nto want to revolt. The wife of this good man read the Letters of Mlle.\nde Lespinasse. (Znaym, 1816.)\n\n[3] Important point. It seems to me that independent of their\neducation, which begins at eight or ten months, there is a certain\namount of instinct.\n\n[4] The Venetian dialect boasts descriptions of physical love which\nfor vivacity leave Horace, Propertius, La Fontaine and all the poets\na hundred miles behind. M. Buratti of Venice is at the moment the\nfirst satirical poet of our unhappy Europe. He excels above all in\nthe description of the physical grotesqueness of his heroes; and he\nfinds himself frequently in prison. (See _l'Elefanteide, l'Uomo, la\nStrefeide._)\n\n\n[Pg 123]\n                             CHAPTER XXXV\n\n                              OF JEALOUSY\n\n\nWhen you are in love, as each new object strikes your eye or your\nmemory, whether crushed in a gallery and patiently listening to a\nparliamentary debate, or galloping to the relief of an outpost under\nthe enemy's fire, you never fail to add a new perfection to the idea\nyou have of your mistress, or discover a new means (which at first\nseems excellent) of winning her love still more.\n\nEach step the imagination takes is repaid by a moment of sweet delight.\nNo wonder that existence, such as this, takes hold of one.\n\nDirectly jealousy comes into existence, this turn of feelings\ncontinues in itself the same, though the effect it is to produce is\ncontrary. Each perfection that you add to the crown of your beloved,\nwho now perhaps loves someone else, far from promising you a heavenly\ncontentment, thrusts a dagger into your heart. A voice cries out: \"This\nenchanting pleasure is for my rival to enjoy.\"[1]\n\nEven the objects which strike you, without producing this effect,\ninstead of showing you, as before, a new way of winning her love, cause\nyou to see a new advantage for your rival.\n\nYou meet a pretty woman galloping in the park[2]; your rival is famous\nfor his fine horses which can do ten miles in fifty minutes.\n\n[Pg 124]\nIn this state, rage is easily fanned into life; you no longer\nremember that in love possession is nothing, enjoyment everything.\nYou exaggerate the happiness of your rival, exaggerate the insolence\nhappiness produces in him, and you come at last to the limit of\ntortures, that is to say to the extremest unhappiness, poisoned still\nfurther by a lingering hope.\n\nThe only remedy is, perhaps, to observe your rival's happiness at close\nquarters. Often you will see him fall peacefully asleep in the same\n_salon_ as the woman, for whom your heart stops beating, at the mere\nsight of a hat like hers some way off in the street.\n\nTo wake him up you have only to show your jealousy. You may have,\nperhaps, the pleasure of teaching him the price of the woman who\nprefers him to you, and he will owe to you the love he will learn to\nhave for her.\n\nFace to face with a rival there is no mean--you must either banter with\nhim in the most off-hand way you can, or frighten him.\n\nJealousy being the greatest of all evils, endangering one's life will\nbe found an agreeable diversion. For then not all our fancies are\nembittered and blackened (by the mechanism explained above)--sometimes\nit is possible to imagine that one kills this rival.\n\nAccording to this principle, that it is never right to add to the\nenemy's forces, you must hide your love from your rival, and, under\nsome pretext of vanity as far as possible removed from love, say to\nhim very quietly, with all possible politeness, and in the calmest,\nsimplest tone: \"Sir, I cannot think why the public sees good to make\nlittle So-and-so mine; people are even good enough to believe that I am\nin love with her. As for you, if you want her, I would hand her over\nwith all my heart, if unhappily there were not the risk of placing\nmyself into a ridiculous position. In six months, take her as much as\never you like, but at the present moment, honour, such as people attach\n(why, I don't know) to these things,\n\n[Pg 125]\nforces me to tell you, to my great regret, that, if by chance you have\nnot the justice to wait till your turn comes round, one of us must die.\"\n\nYour rival is very likely a man without much passion, and perhaps a\nman of much prudence, who once convinced of your resolution, will\nmake haste to yield you the woman in question, provided he can find\nany decent pretext. For that reason you must give a gay tone to your\nchallenge, and keep the whole move hidden with the greatest secrecy.\n\nWhat makes the pain of jealousy so sharp is that vanity cannot help you\nto bear it. But, according to the plan I have spoken of, your vanity\nhas something to feed on; you can respect yourself for bravery, even if\nyou are reduced to despising your powers of pleasing.\n\nIf you would rather not carry things to such tragic lengths, you must\npack up and go miles away, and keep a chorus-girl, whose charms people\nwill think have arrested you in your flight.\n\nYour rival has only to be an ordinary person and he will think you are\nconsoled.\n\nVery often the best way is to wait without flinching, while he wears\nhimself out in the eyes of the loved one through his own stupidity.\nFor, except in a serious passion formed little by little and in early\nyouth, a clever woman does not love an undistinguished man for long.[3]\nIn the case of jealousy after intimate intercourse, there must follow\nalso apparent indifference or real inconstancy. Plenty of women,\noffended with a lover whom they still love, form an attachment with\nthe man, of whom he has shown himself jealous, and the play becomes a\nreality.[4]\n\nI have gone into some detail, because in these moments of jealousy one\noften loses one's head. Counsels, made in writing a long time ago, are\nuseful, and, the essential\n\n[Pg 126]\nthing being to feign calmness, it is not out of place in a\nphilosophical piece of writing, to adopt that tone.\n\nAs your adversaries' power over you consists in taking away from you or\nmaking you hope for things, whose whole worth consists in your passion\nfor them, once manage to make them think you are indifferent, and\nsuddenly they are without a weapon.\n\nIf you have no active course to take, but can distract yourself in\nlooking for consolation, you will find some pleasure in reading\n_Othello_; it will make you doubt the most conclusive appearances. You\nwill feast your eyes on these words:--\n\n            Trifles light as air\n    Seem to the jealous confirmations strong\n    As proofs from Holy Writ.    (_Othello_, Act III.)\n\nIt is my experience that the sight of a fine sea is consoling.\n\n The morning which had arisen calm and bright gave a pleasant effect\n to the waste mountain view, which was seen from the castle on looking\n to the landward, and the glorious ocean crisped with a thousand\n rippling waves of silver extended on the other side in awful, yet\n complacent majesty to the verge of the horizon. With such scenes of\n calm sublimity the human heart sympathises even in its most disturbed\n moods, and deeds of honour and virtue are inspired by their majestic\n influence. (_The Bride of Lammermoor_, Chap. VII.)\n\nI find this written by Salviati:--\n\n _July 20th_, 1818.--I often--and I think unreasonably--apply to life\n as a whole the feelings of a man of ambition or a good citizen, if he\n finds himself set in battle to guard the baggage or in any other post\n without danger or action. I should have felt regret at forty to have\n passed the age of loving without deep passion. I should have had that\n bitter and humiliating displeasure, to have found out too late that I\n had been fool enough to let life pass, without living.\n\n Yesterday I spent three hours with the woman I love and a rival, whom\n she wants to make me think she favours. Certainly,\n\n[Pg 127]\n there were moments of bitterness, in watching her lovely eyes fixed\n on him, and, on my departure, there were wild transports from utter\n misery to hope. But what changes, what sudden lights, what swift\n thoughts, and, in spite of the apparent happiness of my rival, with\n what pride and what delight my love felt itself superior to his! I\n went away saying to myself: The most vile fear would bleach those\n cheeks at the least of the sacrifices, which my love would make for\n the fun of it, nay, with delight--for example, to put this hand into a\n hat and draw one of these two lots: \"Be loved by her,\" the other--\"Die\n on the spot.\" And this feeling in me is so much second nature, that it\n did not prevent me being amiable and talkative.\n\n If someone had told me all that two years ago, I should have laughed.\n\nI find in the _Travels to the Source of the Missouri River ... in_\n1804-6 of Captains Lewis and Clarke (p. 215):--\n\n The Ricaras are poor and generous; we stayed some time in three of\n their villages. Their women are more beautiful than those of the other\n tribes we came across; they are also not in the least inclined to let\n their lover languish. We found a new example of the truth that you\n only have to travel to find out that there is variety everywhere.\n Among the Ricaras, for a woman to grant her favours without the\n consent of her husband or her brother, gives great offence. But then\n the brothers and the husband are only too delighted to have the\n opportunity of showing this courtesy to their friends.\n\n There was a negro in our crew; he created a great sensation among a\n people who had never seen a man of his colour before. He was soon a\n favourite with the fair sex, and we noticed that the husbands, instead\n of being jealous, were overjoyed to see him come to visit them. The\n funny part was that the interior of the huts was so narrow that\n everything was visible.[5]\n\n\n[1] Here you see one of love's follies; for this perfection, seen by\nyour eyes, is not one for him.\n\n[2] Montaguola, 13th April, 1819.\n\n[3] _La Princesse de Tarente_. Story by Scarron.\n\n[4] As in the _Curieux-impertinent_, story by Cervantes.\n\n[5] There ought to be instituted at Philadelphia an academy, whose sole\noccupation would be the collection of materials for the study of man in\nthe savage state, instead of waiting till these curious peoples have\nbeen exterminated.\n\nI know quite well that such academies exist--but apparently regulated\nin a way worthy of our academies in Europe. (Memoir and Discussion on\nthe Zodiac of Denderah at the Acad\u00e9mie des Sciences of Paris, 1821.) I\nnotice that the academy of, I fancy, Massachusetts wisely charges a\n\n[Pg 128]\nmember of the clergy (Mr. Jarvis) to make a report on the religion of\nthe savage. The priest, of course, refutes energetically an impious\nFrenchman, called Volney. According to the priest, the savage has\nthe most exact and noble ideas of the Divinity, etc. If he lived in\nEngland, such a report would bring the worthy academician a preferment\nof three or four hundred pounds and the protection of all the noble\nlords in the county. But in America! For the rest, the absurdity of\nthis academy reminds me of the free Americans, who set the greatest\nstore on seeing fine coats-of-arms painted on the panels of their\ncarriages; what upsets them is that, through their carriage-painter's\nwant of instruction, the blazoning is often wrong.\n\n\n[Pg 129]\n                             CHAPTER XXXVI\n\n                       OF JEALOUSY--(continued)\n\n\nNow for the woman suspected of inconstancy!\n\nShe leaves you, because you have discouraged crystallisation, but it is\npossible that in her heart you have habit to plead for you.\n\nShe leaves you, because she is too sure of you. You have killed fear,\nand there is nothing left to give birth to the little doubts of happy\nlove. Just make her uneasy, and, above all, beware of the absurdity of\nprotestations!\n\nDuring all the time you have lived in touch with her, you will\ndoubtless have discovered what woman, in society or outside it, she is\nmost jealous or most afraid of. Pay court to that woman, but so far\nfrom blazoning it about, do your best to keep it secret, and do your\nbest sincerely; trust to the eyes of anger to see everything and feel\neverything. The strong aversion you will have felt for several months\nto all women ought to make this easy.[1] Remember that in the position\nyou are in, everything is spoiled by a show of passion: avoid seeing\nmuch of the woman you love, and drink champagne with the wits.\n\nIn order to judge of your mistress' love, remember:--\n\n1. The more physical pleasure counts for in the basis of her love and\nin what formerly determined her to yield, the more prone it is to\ninconstancy, and, still more, to infidelity. This applies especially to\nlove in\n\n[Pg 130]\nwhich crystallisation has been favoured by the fire of sweet seventeen.\n\n2. Two people in love are hardly ever equally in love:[2] passion-love\nhas its phases, during which now one, now the other is more\nimpassioned. Often, too, it is merely gallantry or vain love which\nresponds to passion-love, and it is generally the woman who is\ncarried away by passion. But whatever the love may be that either of\nthem feels, directly one of them is jealous, he insists on the other\nfulfilling all the conditions of passion-love; vanity pretends to all\nthe claims of a heart that feels.\n\nFurthermore, nothing wearies gallant-love like passion-love from the\nother side.\n\nOften a clever man, paying court to a woman, just sets her thinking\nof love in a sentimental frame of mind. She receives this clever man\nkindly for giving her this pleasure--he conceives hopes.\n\nBut one fine day that woman meets the man, who makes her feel what the\nother has described.\n\nI do not know what are the effects of a man's jealousy on the heart of\nthe woman he loves. Displayed by an admirer who wearies her, jealousy\nmust inspire a supreme disgust, and it may even turn to hatred, if\nthe man he is jealous of is nicer than the jealous one; for we want\njealousy, said Madame de Coulanges, only from those of whom we could be\njealous.\n\nIf the jealous one is liked, but has no real claims, his jealousy\nmay offend that feminine pride so hard to keep in humour or even to\nrecognise. Jealousy may please women of pride, as a new way of showing\nthem their power.\n\nJealousy can please as a new way of giving proof of love. It can also\noffend the modesty of a woman who is over-refined.\n\n[Pg 131]\nIt can please as a sign of the lover's hot blood--_ferrum est quod\namant_. But note that it is hot blood they love, and not courage _\u00e0 la_\nTurenne, which is quite compatible with a cold heart.\n\nOne of the consequences of crystallisation is that a woman can never\nsay \"yes\" to the lover, to whom she has been unfaithful, if she ever\nmeans to make anything of him.\n\nSuch is the pleasure of continuing to enjoy the perfect image we have\nformed of the object of our attachment, that until that fatal \"yes\"--\n\n    L'on va chercher bien loin, plutot que de mourir,\n    Quelque pr\u00e9texte ami pour vivre et pour souffrir.\n\n                                           (_Andr\u00e9 Ch\u00e9nier_.[3])\n\nEveryone in France knows the anecdote of Mademoiselle de Sommery, who,\ncaught in flagrant delict by her lover, flatly denied the fact. On his\nprotesting, she replied: \"Very well, I see you don't love me any more:\nyou believe what you see before what I tell you.\"\n\nTo make it up with an idol of a mistress, who has been unfaithful, is\nto set yourself to undo with the point of a dagger a crystallisation\nincessantly forming afresh. Love has got to die, and your heart will\nfeel the cruel pang of every stage in its agony.\n\nIt is one of the saddest dispositions of this passion and of life. You\nmust be strong enough to make it up only as friends.\n\n\n[1] You compare the branch adorned with diamonds to the branch left\nbare, and contrast adds sting to your memories.\n\n[2] e. g. the love of Alfieri for that great English lady (Lady\nLigonier) who also philandered with her footman and prettily signed\nherself Penelope. (_Vita_, Epoca III, Chaps. X and XI.)\n\n[3] [\"Sooner than die, we will go very far in search of some friendly\npretext to live and suffer.\"--Tr.]\n\n\n[Pg 132]\n                            CHAPTER XXXVII\n\n                                ROXANA\n\n\nAs for women's jealousy--they are suspicious, they have infinitely more\nat stake than we, they have made a greater sacrifice to love, have far\nfewer means of distraction and, above all, far fewer means of keeping\na check on their lover's actions. A woman feels herself degraded by\njealousy; she thinks her lover is laughing at her, or, still worse,\nmaking fun of her tenderest transports. Cruelty must tempt her--and\nyet, legally, she cannot kill her rival!\n\nFor women, jealousy must be a still more abominable evil than it is for\nmen. It is the last degree of impotent rage and self-contempt[1] which\na heart can bear without breaking.\n\nI know no other remedy for so cruel an evil, than the death of the\none who is the cause of it or of the one who suffers. An example of\nFrench jealousy is the story of Madame de la Pommeraie in _Jacques le\nFataliste_(19).\n\nLa Rochefoucauld says: \"We are ashamed of owning we are jealous, but\npride ourselves on having been and of being capable of jealousy.\"[2]\nPoor woman dares not own even to having suffered this torture, so much\nridicule does it bring upon her. So painful a wound can never quite\nheal up.\n\nIf cold reason could be unfolded before the fire of imagination with\nthe merest shade of success, I would say\n\n[Pg 133]\nto those wretched women, who are unhappy from jealousy: \"There is a\ngreat difference between infidelity in man and in you. In you, the\nimportance of the act is partly direct, partly symbolic. But, as an\neffect of the education of our military schools, it is in man the\nsymbol of nothing at all. On the contrary, in women, through the effect\nof modesty, it is the most decisive of all the symbols of devotion. Bad\nhabit makes it almost a necessity to men. During all our early years,\nthe example set by the so-called 'bloods' makes us set all our pride on\nthe number of successes of this kind--as the one and only proof of our\nworth. For you, your education acts in exactly the opposite direction.\"\n\nAs for the value of an action as symbol--in a moment of anger I upset\na table on to the foot of my neighbour; that gives him the devil of a\npain, but can quite easily be fixed up--or again, I make as if to give\nhim a slap in the face....\n\nThe difference between infidelity in the two sexes is so real, that a\nwoman of passion may pardon it, while for a man that is impossible.\n\nHere we have a decisive ordeal to show the difference between\npassion-love and love from pique: infidelity in women all but kills the\nformer and doubles the force of the latter.\n\nHaughty women disguise their jealousy from pride. They will spend long\nand dreary evenings in silence with the man whom they adore, and whom\nthey tremble to lose, making themselves consciously disagreeable in\nhis eyes. This must be one of the greatest possible tortures, and is\ncertainly one of the most fruitful sources of unhappiness in love. In\norder to cure these women, who merit so well all our respect, it needs\non the man's side a strong and out-of-the-way line of action--but,\nmind, he must not seem to notice what is going on--for example, a long\njourney with them undertaken at a twenty-four hours' notice.\n\n\n[1] This contempt is one of the great causes of suicide: people kill\nthemselves to give their sense of honour satisfaction.\n\n[2] _Pens\u00e9e_ 495. The reader will have recognised, without my marking\nit each time, several other thoughts of celebrated writers. It is\nhistory which I am attempting to write, and such thoughts are the facts.\n\n\n[Pg 134]\n                            CHAPTER XXXVIII\n\n                       OF SELF-ESTEEM PIQUED[1]\n\n\nPique is a manifestation of vanity; I do not want my antagonist to go\nhigher than myself and _I take that antagonist himself as judge of\nmy worth_. I want to produce an effect on his heart. It is this that\ncarries us so far beyond all reasonable limits.\n\nSometimes, to justify our own extravagance, we go so far as to tell\nourselves that this rival has a mind to dupe us.\n\nPique, being an infirmity of honour, is far more common in monarchies;\nit must, surely, be exceedingly rare in countries, where the habit is\nrampant of valuing things according to their utility--for example, in\nthe United States.\n\nEvery man, and a Frenchman sooner than any other, loathes being taken\nfor a dupe; and yet the lightness of the French character under the old\nmonarchic _r\u00e9gime_[2], prevented pique from working great havoc beyond\nthe domains of gallantry and gallant-love. Pique has produced serious\ntragedies only in monarchies, where, through the climate, the shade of\ncharacter is darker (Portugal, Piedmont).\n\nThe provincial in France forms a ludicrous idea of what is considered\na gentleman in good society--and then he takes cover behind his model,\nand waits there all his\n\n[Pg 135]\nlife to see that no one trespasses. And so good-bye naturalness! He is\nalways in a state of pique, a mania which gives a laughable character\neven to his love affairs. This enviousness is what makes it most\nunbearable to live in small towns, and one should remind oneself of\nthis, when one admires the picturesque situation of any of them. The\nmost generous and noble emotions are there paralysed by contact with\nall that is most low in the products of civilisation. In order to put\nthe finishing touch to their awfulness, these bourgeois talk of nothing\nbut the corruption of great cities.[3]\n\nPique cannot exist in passion-love; it is feminine pride. \"If I let my\nlover treat me badly, he will despise me and no longer be able to love\nme.\" It may also be jealousy in all its fury.\n\nJealousy desires the death of the object it fears. The man in a state\nof pique is miles away from that--he wants his enemy to live, and,\nabove all, be witness of his triumph.\n\nHe would be sorry to see his rival renounce the struggle, for the\nfellow may have the insolence to say in the depth of his heart: \"If I\nhad persevered in my original object, I should have outdone him.\"\n\nWith pique, there is no interest in the apparent purpose--the point of\neverything is victory. This is well brought out in the love affairs\nof chorus-girls; take away the rival, and the boasted passion, which\nthreatened suicide from the fifth-floor window, instantly subsides.\n\nLove from pique, contrary to passion-love, passes in a moment; it\nis enough for the antagonist by an irrevocable step to own that he\nrenounces the struggle. I hesitate, however, to advance this maxim,\nhaving only one example, and that leaves doubts in my mind. Here are\nthe facts--the reader will judge. Dona Diana is a\n\n[Pg 136]\nyoung person of twenty-three, daughter of one of the richest and\nproudest citizens of Seville. She is beautiful, without any doubt, but\nof a peculiar type of beauty, and is credited with ever so much wit and\nstill more pride. She was passionately in love, to all appearances at\nleast, with a young officer, with whom her family would have nothing to\ndo. The officer left for America with Morillo, and they corresponded\ncontinuously. One day in the midst of a lot of people, assembled round\nthe mother of Dona Diana, a fool announced the death of the charming\nofficer. All eyes are turned upon Dona Diana; Dona Diana says nothing\nbut these words: \"What a pity--so young.\"\n\nJust that day we had been reading a play of old Massinger, which ends\ntragically, but in which the heroine takes the death of her lover with\nthis apparent tranquillity. I saw the mother shudder in spite of her\npride and dislike; the father went out of the room to hide his joy. In\nthe midst of this scene and the dismay of all present, who were making\neyes at the fool who had told the story, Dona Diana, the only one at\nease, proceeded with the conversation, as if nothing had happened. Her\nmother, in apprehension, set her maid to watch her, but nothing seemed\nto be altered in her behaviour.\n\nTwo years later, a very fine young man paid his attentions to her.\nThis time again, and, still for the same reason, Dona Diana's parents\nviolently opposed the marriage, because the aspirant was not of noble\nbirth. She herself declared it should take place. A state of pique\nensues between the daughter's sense of honour and the father's. The\nyoung man is forbidden the house. Dona Diana is no longer taken to the\ncountry and hardly ever to church. With scrupulous care, every means\nof meeting her lover is taken from her. He disguises himself and sees\nher secretly at long intervals. She becomes more and more resolute, and\nrefuses the most\n\n[Pg 137]\nbrilliant matches, even a title and a great establishment at the Court\nof Ferdinand VII. The whole town is talking of the misfortunes of the\ntwo lovers and of their heroic constancy. At last the majority of Dona\nDiana draws near. She gives her father to understand that she means to\nmake use of her right of disposing of her own hand. The family, driven\nback on its last resources, opens negotiations for the marriage. When\nit is half concluded, at an official meeting of the two families, the\nyoung man, after six years' constancy, refuses Dona Diana.[4]\n\nA quarter of an hour later no trace of anything--she was consoled. Did\nshe love from pique? Or are we face to face with a great soul, that\ndisclaims to parade its sorrow before the eyes of the world?\n\nIn passion-love satisfaction, if I can call it such, is often only to\nbe won by piquing the loved one's self-esteem. Then, in appearance, the\nlover realises all that can be desired; complaints would be ridiculous\nand seem senseless. He cannot speak of his misfortune, and yet how\nconstantly he knows and feels its prick! Its traces are inwoven, so\nto speak, with circumstances, the most flattering and the most fit to\nawaken illusions of enchantment. This misfortune rears its monstrous\nhead at the tenderest moments, as if to taunt the lover and make him\nfeel, at one and the same instant, all the delight of being loved by\nthe charming and unfeeling creature in his arms, and the impossibility\nof this delight being his. Perhaps after jealousy, this is the\ncruellest unhappiness.\n\nThe story is still fresh in a certain large town[5] of a man of soft\nand gentle nature, who was carried away by a rage of this kind to spill\nthe blood of his mistress, who only loved him from pique against her\nsister. He arranged\n\n[Pg 138]\nwith her, one evening, to come for a row on the sea by themselves, in\na pretty little boat he had devised himself. Once well out to sea, he\ntouches a spring, the boat divides and disappears for ever.\n\nI have seen a man of sixty set out to keep an actress, the most\ncapricious, irresponsible, delightful and wonderful on the London\nstage--Miss Cornel.\n\n\"And you expect that she'll be faithful?\" people asked him.\n\n\"Not in the least. But she'll be in love with me--perhaps madly in\nlove.\"\n\nAnd for a whole year she did love him--often to distraction. For three\nwhole months together she never even gave him subject for complaint.\nHe had put a state of pique, disgraceful in many ways, between his\nmistress and his daughter.\n\nPique wins the day in gallant-love, being its very life and blood. It\nis the ordeal best fitted to differentiate between gallant-love and\npassion-love. There is an old maxim of war, given to young fellows new\nto their regiment, that if you are billeted on a house, where there are\ntwo sisters, and you want to have one, you must pay your attentions to\nthe other. To win the majority of Spanish women, who are still young\nand ready for love affairs, it is enough to give out, seriously and\nmodestly, that you have no feelings whatever for the lady of the house.\nI have this useful maxim from dear General Lassale. This is the most\ndangerous way of attacking passion-love.\n\nPiqued self-esteem is the bond which ties the happiest marriages,\nafter those formed by love. Many husbands make sure of their wives'\nlove for many years, by taking up with some little woman a couple of\nmonths after their marriage.[6] In this way the habit is engendered of\nthinking only of one man, and family ties succeed in making the habit\ninvincible.\n\n[Pg 139]\nIf in the past century at the Court of Louis XV a great lady (Madame\nde Choiseul) was seen to worship her husband,[7] the reason is that he\nseemed to take a keen interest in her sister, the Duchesse de Grammont.\n\nThe most neglected mistress, once she makes us see that she prefers\nanother man, robs us of our peace and afflicts our heart with all the\nsemblance of passion.\n\nThe courage of an Italian is an access of rage; the courage of a German\na moment of intoxication; that of a Spaniard an outburst of pride. If\nthere were a nation, in which courage were generally a matter of piqued\nself-esteem between the soldiers of each company and the regiments of\neach division, in the case of a rout there would be no support, and\nconsequently there would be no means of rallying the armies of such\na nation. To foresee the danger and try to remedy it, would be the\ngreatest of all absurdities with such conceited runaways.\n\n \"It is enough to have opened any single description of a voyage\n among the savages of North America,\" says one of the most delightful\n philosophers of France,[8] \"to know that the ordinary fate of\n prisoners of war is not only to be burnt alive and eaten, but first to\n be bound to a stake near a flaming bonfire and to be tortured there\n for several hours, by all the most ferocious and refined devices\n that fury can imagine. Read what travellers, who have witnessed\n these fearful scenes, tell of the cannibal joy of the assistants,\n above all, of the fury of the women and children, and of their\n gruesome delight in this competition of cruelty. See also what they\n add about the heroic firmness and immutable self-possession of the\n prisoner, who not only gives no sign of pain, but taunts and defies\n his torturers, by all that pride can make most haughty, irony most\n bitter, and sarcasm most insulting--singing his own glorious deeds,\n going through the number of the relations and friends of the onlookers\n whom he has killed, detailing the sufferings he has inflicted on them,\n and accusing all that stand around him of cowardice, timidity and\n ignorance of the methods of torture; until falling limb from limb,\n devoured alive\n\n[Pg 140]\n under his own eyes by enemies drunk with fury, he gasps out his last\n whisper and his last insult together with his life's breath.[9] All\n this would be beyond belief in civilised nations, will look like fable\n to the most fearless captains of our grenadiers, and will one day be\n brought into doubt by posterity.\"\n\nThis physiological phenomenon is closely connected with a particular\nmoral state in the prisoner, which constitutes, between him on the one\nside and all his torturers on the other, a combat of self-esteem--of\nvanity against vanity, as to who can hold out longer.\n\nOur brave military doctors have often observed that wounded soldiers,\nwho, in a calm state of mind and senses, would have shrieked out,\nduring certain operations, display, on the contrary, only calmness\nand heroism, if they are prepared for it in a certain manner. It is a\nmatter of piquing their sense of honour; you have to pretend, first\nin a roundabout way, and then with irritating persistence, that it is\nbeyond their present power to bear the operation without shrieking.\n\n\n[1] In Italian _puntiglio_(20).\n\n[2] Three-quarters of the great French noblemen about 1778 would have\nbeen on the high road to prison in a country where the laws were\nexecuted without respect of persons.\n\n[3] As the one keeps strict watch on the other in all that touches\nlove, there is less love and more immorality in provincial towns. Italy\nis luckier.\n\n[4] Every year there is more than one example of women abandoned just\nas vilely, and so I can pardon suspiciousness in respectable women.\nMirabeau, _Lettres \u00e0 Sophie_(21). Opinion is powerless in despotic\ncountries: there is nothing solid but the friendship of the pasha.\n\n[5] Leghorn, 1819.\n\n[6] See _The Confessions of an Odd-tempered Man_. Story by Mrs. Opie.\n\n[7] Letters of Madame du Deffant, Memoirs of Lauzun.\n\n[8] Volney, _Tableau des \u00c9tats-Unis d'Am\u00e9rique_, pp. 491-96.\n\n[9] Anyone accustomed to a spectacle like this, who feels the risk of\nbeing the hero of such another, may possibly be interested only in its\nheroic aspect, and, in that case, the spectacle must be the foremost\nand most intimate of the non-active pleasures.\n\n\n[Pg 141]\n                             CHAPTER XXXIX\n\n                          OF QUARRELSOME LOVE\n\n\nIt is of two kinds:\n\nI. In which the originator of the quarrel loves.\n\n2. In which he does not love.\n\nIf one of the lovers is too superior in advantages which both value,\nthe love of the other must die; for sooner or later comes the fear of\ncontempt, to cut short crystallisation.\n\nNothing is so odious to the mediocre as mental superiority. There lies\nthe source of hatred in the world of to-day, and if we do not have to\nthank this principle for desperate enmities, it is solely due to the\nfact that the people it comes between are not forced to live together.\nWhat then of love? For here, everything being natural, especially on\nthe part of the superior being, superiority is not masked by any social\nprecaution.\n\nFor the passion to be able to survive, the inferior must ill-treat the\nother party; otherwise the latter could not shut a window, without the\nother taking offence.\n\nAs for the superior party, he deludes himself: the love he feels is\nbeyond the reach of danger, and, besides, almost all the weaknesses in\nthat which we love, make it only the dearer to us.\n\nIn point of duration, directly after passion-love reciprocated between\npeople on the same level, one must put quarrelsome love, in which the\nquarreller does not love. Examples of this are to be found in the\nanecdotes, relative to the Duchesse de Berri (Memoirs of Duclos).\n\nPartaking, as it does, of the nature of set habits, which\n\n[Pg 142]\nare rooted in the prosaic and egoistic side of life and follow man\ninseparably to the grave, this love can last longer than passion-love\nitself. But it is no longer love, it is a habit engendered by love,\nwhich has nothing of that passion but memories and physical pleasure.\nThis habit necessarily presupposes a less noble kind of being. Each day\na little scene is got ready--\"Will he make a fuss?\"--which occupies\nthe imagination, just as, in passion-love, every day a new proof of\naffection had to be found. See the anecdotes about Madame d'Houdetot\nand Saint-Lambert.[1]\n\nIt is possible that pride refuses to get used to this kind of\noccupation; in which case, after some stormy months, pride kills love.\nBut we see the nobler passion make a long resistance before giving in.\nThe little quarrels of happy love foster a long time the illusion of\na heart that still loves and sees itself badly treated. Some tender\nreconciliations may make the transition more bearable. A woman excuses\nthe man she has deeply loved, on the score of a secret sorrow or a\nblow to his prospects. At last she grows used to being scolded. Where,\nreally, outside passion-love, outside gambling or the possession of\npower,[2] can you find any other unfailing entertainment to be compared\nwith it for liveliness? If the scolder happens to die, the victim who\nsurvives proves inconsolable. This is the principle which forms the\nbond of many middle-class marriages; the scolded can listen to his own\nvoice all day long talking of his favourite subject.\n\nThere is a false kind of quarrelsome love. I took from the letters of a\nwoman of extraordinary brilliance this in Chapter XXXIII:--\n\n\"Always a little doubt to allay--that is what whets our\n\n[Pg 143]\nappetite in passion-love every moment.... As it is never separated from\nfear, so its pleasures can never tire.\"\n\nWith rough and ill-mannered people, or those with a very violent\nnature, this little doubt to calm, this faint misgiving shows itself in\nthe form of a quarrel.\n\nIf the loved one has not the extreme susceptibility, which comes of a\ncareful education, she may find that love of this kind has more life in\nit, and consequently is more enjoyable. Even with all the refinement\nin the world, it is hard not to love \"your savage\" all the more, if\nyou see him the first to suffer for his transports. What Lord Mortimer\nthinks back on, perhaps, with most regret for his lost mistress, are\nthe candlesticks she threw at his head. And, really, if pride forgives\nand permits such sensations, it must also be allowed that they do wage\nimplacable warfare upon boredom--that arch-enemy of the happy!\n\nSaint-Simon, the one historian France has had, says:--\n\n After several passing fancies, the Duchesse de Berri had fallen in\n love, in real earnest, with Riom, cadet of the house of d'Aydie, son\n of a sister of Madame de Biron. He had neither looks nor sense: a\n stout, short youth, with a puffy white face, who with all his spots\n looked like one big abscess--though, true, he had fine teeth. He had\n no idea of having inspired a passion, which in less than no time went\n beyond all limits and lasted ever after, without, indeed, preventing\n passing fancies and cross-attachments. He had little property, and\n many brothers and sisters who had no more. M. and Madame de Pons,\n lady-in-waiting to the Duchesse de Berri, were related to them and\n of the same province, and they sent for the young man, who was a\n lieutenant in the dragoons, to see what could be made of him. He had\n scarcely arrived before the Duchess's weakness for him became public\n and Riom was master of the Luxembourg.\n\n M. de Lauzun, whose grand-nephew he was, laughed in his sleeve; he was\n delighted to see in Riom a reincarnation at the Luxembourg of himself\n from the time of Mademoiselle. He gave Riom instructions which were\n listened to by him, as befitted\n\n[Pg 144]\n a mild and naturally polite and respectful young fellow, well behaved\n and straightforward. But before long Riom began to feel the power\n of his own charms, which could only captivate the incomprehensible\n humour of this princess. Without abusing his power with others, he\n made himself liked by everyone, but he treated his duchess as M. de\n Lauzun had treated Mademoiselle. He was soon dressed in the richest\n laces, the richest suits, furnished with money, buckles, jewels. He\n made himself an object of admiration and took a delight in making the\n princess jealous or pretending to be jealous himself--bringing her\n often to tears. Little by little he reduced her to the state of doing\n nothing without his permission, not even in matters of indifference.\n At one time, ready to go out to the Opera, he made her stay at home;\n at another he made her go against her will. He forced her to do\n favours to ladies she disliked, or of whom she was jealous, and to\n injure people she liked, or of whom he pretended to be jealous. Even\n as far as dress, she was not allowed the smallest liberty. He used to\n amuse himself by making her have her hair done all over again, or have\n her dress changed when she was completely ready--and this happened\n so often and so publicly, that he had accustomed her to take in the\n evening his orders for dress and occupation for the next day. The\n next day he would change it all and make the princess cry still more.\n At last she came to sending him messages by trusted valets--for he\n lived in the Luxembourg almost from the day of his arrival--and the\n messages had often to be repeated during her toilet for her to know\n what ribbons to wear and about her frock and other details of dress;\n and nearly always he made her wear what she disliked. If sometimes she\n gave herself some liberty in the smallest matter without leave, he\n treated her like a servant, and often her tears lasted several days.\n\n This haughty princess, who was so fond of display and indulging her\n boundless pride, could bring herself so low as to partake of obscene\n parties with him and unmentionable people--she with whom no one could\n dine unless he were prince of the blood. The Jesuit Riglet, whom she\n as a child had known, and who had brought her up, was admitted to\n these private meals, without feeling ashamed himself or the Duchess\n being embarrassed. Madame de Mouchy was admitted into the secret of\n all these strange events; she and Riom summoned the company and chose\n the days. This lady was the peacemaker between the two lovers,\n\n[Pg 145]\n and the whole of this existence was a matter of general knowledge at\n the Luxembourg. Riom was there looked to, as the centre of everything,\n while on his side he was careful to live on good terms with all,\n honouring them with a show of respect, which he refused in public only\n to his princess. Before everybody he would give her curt answers,\n which would make the whole company lower their eyes and bring blushes\n to the cheeks of the Duchess, who put no constraint upon her idolatry\n of him.\"\n\nRiom was a sovereign remedy, for the Duchess, against the monotony of\nlife.\n\nA famous woman said once off-hand to General Bonaparte, then a young\nhero covered with glory and with no crimes against liberty on his\nconscience: \"General, a woman could only be a wife or a sister to you.\"\nThe hero did not understand the compliment, which the world has made up\nfor with some pretty slanders.\n\nThe women, of whom we are speaking, like to be despised by their lover,\nwhom they only love in his cruelty.\n\n\n[1] Memoirs of Madame d'\u00c9pinay, I think, or of Marmontel.\n\n[2] Whatever certain hypocritical ministers may say, power is the\nforemost of pleasures. I believe love alone can beat it, and love is a\nlucky illness, which cannot be got like a ministry.\n\n\n[Pg 146]\n                             CHAPTER XXXIX\n\n                               (Part II)\n\n                         REMEDIES AGAINST LOVE\n\n\nThe leap of Leucas was a fine image of antiquity. It is true, the\nremedy of love is almost impossible. A danger is needed to call man's\nattention back sharply to look to his own preservation.[1] But that is\nnot all. What is harder to realise--a pressing danger must continue,\nand one that can only be averted with care, in order that the habit of\nthinking of his own preservation may have time to take root. I can see\nnothing that will do but a storm of sixteen days, like that in _Don\nJuan_[2] or the shipwreck of M. Cochelet among the Moors. Otherwise,\none gets soon used to the peril, and even drops back into thoughts\nof the loved one with still more charm--when reconnoitring at twenty\nyards' range from the enemy.\n\nWe have repeated over and over again that the love of a man, who loves\nwell, delights in and vibrates to every movement of his imagination,\nand that there is nothing in nature which does not speak to him of the\nobject of his love. Well, this delight and this vibration form a most\ninteresting occupation, next to which all others pale.\n\nA friend who wants to work the cure of the patient, must, first of all,\nbe always on the side of the woman\n\n[Pg 147]\nthe patient is in love with--and all friends, with more zeal than\nsense, are sure to do exactly the opposite.\n\nIt is attacking with forces too absurdly inferior that combination of\nsweet illusions, which earlier we called crystallisation.[3]\n\nThe _friend in need_ should not forget this fact, that, if there is\nan absurdity to be believed, as the lover has either to swallow it or\nrenounce everything which holds him to life, he will swallow it. With\nall the cleverness in the world, he will deny in his mistress the most\npalpable vices and the most villainous infidelities. This is how, in\npassion-love, everything is forgiven after a little.\n\nIn the case of reasonable and cold characters, for the lover to swallow\nthe vices of a mistress, he must only find them out after several\nmonths of passion.[4]\n\nFar from trying bluntly and openly to distract the lover, the _friend\nin need_ ought to tire him with talking of his love and his mistress,\nand at the same time manage that a host of little events force\nthemselves upon his notice. Even if travel isolates,[5] it is still\nno remedy, and in fact nothing recalls so tenderly the object of our\nlove as change of scene. It was in the midst of the brilliant Paris\n_salons_, next to women with the greatest reputation for charm, that I\nwas most in love with my poor mistress, solitary and sad in her little\nroom in the depth of the Romagna.[6]\n\nI looked at the superb clock in the brilliant _salon_, where I was\nexiled, for the hour she goes out on foot, even in the rain, to call on\nher friend. Trying to forget her, I have found that change of scene is\nthe source of memories of one's love, less vivid but far more heavenly\n\n[Pg 148]\nthan those one goes in search for in places, where once upon a time one\nmet her.\n\nIn order that absence may prove useful, the _friend in need_ must\nbe always at hand, and suggest to the lover's mind all possible\nreflections on the history of his love, trying to make these\nreflections tiresome through their length and importunity. In this\nway he gives them the appearance of commonplaces. For example, tender\nsentimental talk after a dinner enlivened with good wine.\n\nIt is hard to forget a woman, with whom one has been happy; for,\nremember, that there are certain moments the imagination can never be\ntired of evoking and beautifying.\n\nI leave out all mention of pride, cruel but sovereign remedy, which,\nhowever, is not to be applied to sensitive souls.\n\nThe first scenes of Shakespeare's _Romeo_ form an admirable picture;\nthere is so vast a gap between the man who says sorrowfully to himself:\n\"She hath forsworn to love,\" and he who cries out in the height of\nhappiness: \"Come what sorrow can!\"\n\n\n[1] Danger of Henry Morton in the Clyde. (_Old Mortality_, Vol. IV,\nChap. X.)\n\n[2] Of the over-extolled Lord Byron.\n\n[3] Merely in order to abbreviate, and with apologies for the new word.\n\n[4] Madame Dornal and Serigny. _Confessions of le Comte_ ... of Duclos.\nSee the note to p. 50: death of General Abdallah at Bologna.\n\n[5] I cried almost every day. (Precious words of the 10th of June.)\n\n[6] Salviati.\n\n\n[Pg 149]\n                             CHAPTER XXXIX\n\n                              (Part III)\n\n Her passion will die like a lamp for want of what the flame should\n feed upon. (_Bride of Lammermoor_, II, Chap. VI.)]\n\n\nThe _friend in need_ must beware of faulty reasoning--for example, of\ntalking about ingratitude. You are giving new life to crystallisation,\nby procuring it a victory and a new enjoyment.\n\nIn love there is no such thing as ingratitude; the actual pleasure\nalways repays, and more than repays, sacrifices that seem the greatest.\nIn love no other crime but want of honesty seems to me possible: one\nshould be scrupulous as to the state of one's heart.\n\nThe _friend in need_ has only to attack fair and square, for the lover\nto answer:--\n\n\"To be in love, even while enraged with the loved one, is nothing less,\nto bring myself down to your \u00a3 s. d. style, than having a ticket in\na lottery, in which the prize is a thousand miles above all that you\ncan offer me, in your world of indifference and selfish interests. One\nmust have plenty of vanity--and precious petty vanity--to be happy,\nbecause people receive you well. I do not blame men for going on like\nthis, in their world, but in the love of L\u00e9onore I found a world where\neverything was heavenly, tender and generous. The most lofty and almost\nincredible virtue of your world counted, between her and me, only as\nany ordinary and everyday virtue. Let me at all events dream of the\nhappiness of passing my life close to such a creature. Although I\nunderstand that\n\n[Pg 150]\nslander has ruined me, and that I have nothing to hope for, at least I\nshall make her the sacrifice of my vengeance.\"\n\nIt is quite impossible to put a stop to love except in its first\nstages. Besides a prompt departure, and the forced distractions of\nsociety (as in the case of the Comtesse Kalember), there are several\nother little ruses, which the _friend in need_ can bring into play.\nFor example, he can bring to your notice, as if by chance, the fact\nthat the woman you love, quite outside the disputed area, does not\neven observe towards you the same amount of politeness and respect,\nwith which she honours your rival. The smallest details are enough;\nfor in love everything is a sign. For example, she does not take your\narm to go up to her box. This sort of nonsense, taken tragically by\na passionate heart, couples a pang of humiliation to every judgment\nformed by crystallisation, poisons the source of love and may destroy\nit.\n\nOne way against the woman, who is behaving badly to our friend, is to\nbring her under suspicion of some absurd physical defect, impossible\nto verify. If it were possible for the lover to verify the calumny,\nand even if he found it substantiated, it would be disqualified by\nhis imagination, and soon have no place with him at all. It is only\nimagination itself which can resist imagination: Henry III knew that\nvery well when he scoffed at the famous Duchesse de Montpensier(22).\n\nHence it is the imagination you must look to--above all, in a girl\nwhom you want to keep safe from love. And the less her spirit has of\nthe common stuff, the more noble and generous her soul, in a word the\nworthier she is of our respect, just so much greater the danger through\nwhich she must pass.\n\nIt is always perilous, for a girl, to suffer her memories to group\nthemselves too repeatedly and too agreeably round the same individual.\nAdd gratitude, admiration or curiosity to strengthen the bonds of\nmemory, and she is almost certainly on the edge of the\n\n[Pg 151]\nprecipice. The greater the monotony of her everyday life, the more\nactive are those poisons called gratitude, admiration and curiosity.\nThe only thing, then, is a swift, prompt and vigorous distraction.\n\nJust so, a little roughness and \"slap-dash\" in the first encounter, is\nan almost infallible means of winning the respect of a clever woman, if\nonly the drug be administered in a natural and simple manner.\n\n[Pg 152]\n[Pg 153]\n\n                                BOOK II\n\n[Pg 154]\n[Pg 155]\n                              CHAPTER XL\n\n\nEvery kind of love and every kind of imagination, in the individual,\ntakes its colour from one of these six temperaments:--\n\nThe sanguine, or French,--M. de Francueil (Memoirs of Madame d'\u00c9pinay);\n\nThe choleric, or Spanish,--Lauzun (the Peguilhen of Saint-Simon's\nMemoirs);\n\nThe melancholy, or German,--Schiller's Don Carlos;\n\nThe phlegmatic, or Dutch;\n\nThe nervous--Voltaire;\n\nThe athletic--Milo of Croton.[1]\n\nIf the influence of temperament makes itself felt in ambition, avarice,\nfriendship, etc. etc., what must it be in the case of love, in which\nthe physical also is perforce an ingredient? Let us suppose that all\nkinds of love can be referred to the four varieties, which we have\nnoted:--\n\nPassion-love--Julie d'\u00c9tanges;(23)\n\nGallant-love or gallantry;\n\nPhysical love;\n\nVanity-love--\"a duchess is never more than thirty for a bourgeois.\"\n\nWe must submit these four kinds of love to the six different\ncharacters, with which habits, dependent upon the six kinds of\ntemperament, stamp the imagination. Tiberius did not have the wild\nimagination of Henry VIII.\n\n[Pg 156]\nThen let us submit all these combinations, thus obtained, to the\ndifferences of habit which depend upon government or national\ncharacter:--\n\n1. Asiatic despotism, such as may be seen at Constantinople;\n\n2. Absolute monarchy _\u00e0 la_ Louis XIV;\n\n3. Aristocracy masked by a charter, or government of a nation for the\nprofit of the rich, as in England--all according to the rules of a\nself-styled biblical morality;\n\n4. A federal republic, or government for the profit of all, as in the\nUnited States of America;\n\n5. Constitutional monarchy, or--\n\n6. A State in revolution, as Spain, Portugal, France(24). This state of\nthings in a country gives lively passions to everyone, makes manners\nmore natural, destroys puerilities, the conventional virtues and\nsenseless proprieties[2]--gives seriousness to youth and causes it to\ndespise vanity-love and neglect gallantry.\n\nThis state can last a long time and form the habits of a generation. In\nFrance it began in 1788, was interrupted in 1802, and began again in\n1818--to end God knows when!\n\nAfter all these general ways of considering love, we have the\ndifferences of age, and come finally to individual peculiarities.\n\nFor example, we might say:--\n\nI found at Dresden, in Count Woltstein, vanity-love, a melancholy\ntemperament, monarchical habits, thirty years, and ... his individual\npeculiarities.\n\nFor anyone who is to form a judgment on love, this way of viewing\nthings is conveniently short and cooling to the head--an essential, but\ndifficult operation.\n\nNow, as in physiology man has learnt scarcely anything about himself,\nexcept by means of comparative anatomy,\n\n[Pg 157]\nso in the case of passions, through vanity and many other causes of\nillusion, we can only get enlightenment on what goes on in ourselves\nfrom the foibles we have observed in others. If by chance this essay\nhas any useful effect, it will be by bringing the mind to make\ncomparisons of this sort. To lead the way, I am going to attempt a\nsketch of some general traits in the character of love in different\nnations.\n\nI beg for pardon if I often come back to Italy; in the present state\nof manners in Europe, it is the only country where the plant, which\nI describe, grows in all freedom. In France, vanity; in Germany, a\npretentious and highly comical philosophy; in England, pride, timid,\npainful and rancorous, torture and stifle it, or force it into a\ncrooked channel.[3]\n\n\n[1] See Cabanis, influence of the physical, etc.\n\n[2] The laces missing from Minister Roland's shoes: \"Ah, Monsieur, all\nis lost,\" answers Dumouriez. At the royal sitting, the President of the\nAssembly crosses his legs.\n\n[3] The reader will have perceived only too easily that this treatise\nis made up of Lisio's Visconti's fragmentary account of events, written\nin the order that they were presented to him on his travels. All these\nevents may be found related at length in the journal of his life;\nperhaps I ought to have inserted them--but they might have been found\nscarcely suitable. The oldest notes bear the date, Berlin 1807, and the\nlast are some days before his death, June 1819. Some dates have been\naltered expressly to avoid indiscretion; but the changes, which I have\nmade, go no further than that. I have not thought myself authorised\nto recast the style. This book was written in a hundred different\nplaces--so may it be read!\n\n\n[Pg 158]\n                              CHAPTER XLI\n\n                    OF NATIONS WITH REGARD TO LOVE.\n\n                                FRANCE\n\n\nI mean to put aside my natural affections and be only a cold\nphilosopher. French women, fashioned by their amiable men, themselves\ncreatures only of vanity and physical desires, are less active, less\nenergetic, less feared, and, what's more, less loved and less powerful,\nthan Spanish and Italian women.\n\nA woman is powerful only according to the degree of unhappiness, which\nshe can inflict as punishment on her lover. Where men have nothing but\nvanity, every woman is useful, but none is indispensable. It is success\nin winning a woman's love, not in keeping it, which flatters a man.\nWhen men have only physical desires, they go to prostitutes, and that\nis why the prostitutes of France are charming and those of Spain the\nvery reverse. In France, to a great many men prostitutes can give as\nmuch happiness as virtuous women--happiness, that is to say, without\nlove. There is always one thing for which a Frenchman has much more\nrespect than for his mistress--his vanity.\n\nIn Paris a young man sees in his mistress a kind of slave, whose\ndestiny it is, before everything, to please his vanity. If she resist\nthe orders of this dominating passion, he leaves her--and is only the\nbetter pleased with himself, when he can tell his friends in what a\npiquant way, with how smart a gesture, he waved her off.\n\nA Frenchman, who knew his own country well (Meilhan), said: \"In France,\ngreat passions are as rare as great men.\"\n\n[Pg 159]\nNo language has words to express how impossible it is for a Frenchman\nto play the role of a deserted and desperate lover, in full view of a\nwhole town--yet no sight is commoner at Venice or Bologna.\n\nTo find love at Paris, we must descend to those classes, in which the\nabsence of education and of vanity, and the struggle against real want,\nhave left more energy.\n\nTo let oneself be seen with a great and unsatisfied desire, is\nto let oneself be seen in a position of inferiority--and that is\nimpossible in France, except for people of no position at all.\nIt means exposing oneself to all kinds of sneers--hence come the\nexaggerated praises bestowed on prostitutes by young men who mistrust\ntheir own hearts. A vulgar susceptibility and dread of appearing in\na position of inferiority forms the principle of conversation among\nprovincial people. Think of the man who only lately, when told of the\nassassination of H. R. H. the Duke of Berri(25), answered: \"I knew\nit.\"[1]\n\nIn the Middle Ages hearts were tempered by the presence of danger, and\ntherein, unless I am mistaken, lies another cause of the astonishing\nsuperiority of the men of the sixteenth century. Originality, which\namong us is rare, comical, dangerous and often affected, was then of\neveryday and unadorned. Countries where even to-day danger often shows\nits iron hand, such as Corsica,[2]\n\n[Pg 160]\nSpain or Italy, can still produce great men. In those climates, where\nmen's gall cooks for three months under the burning heat, it is\nactivity's direction that is to seek; at Paris, I fear, it is activity\nitself.[3]\n\nMany young men, fine enough to be sure at Montmirail or the Bois de\nBoulogne, are afraid of love; and when you see them, at the age of\ntwenty, fly the sight of a young girl who has struck them as pretty,\nyou may know that cowardice is the real cause. When they remember what\nthey have read in novels is expected of a lover, their blood runs cold.\nThese chilly spirits cannot conceive how the storm of passion, which\nlashes the sea to waves, also fills the sails of the ship and gives her\nthe power of riding over them.\n\nLove is a delicious flower, but one must have the courage to go and\npick it on the edge of a frightful precipice. Besides ridicule, love\nhas always staring it in the face the desperate plight of being\ndeserted by the loved one, and in her place only a _dead blank_ for all\nthe rest of one's life.\n\nCivilisation would be perfect, if it could continue the delicate\npleasures of the nineteenth century with a more frequent presence of\ndanger.[4]\n\n[Pg 161]\nIt ought to be possible to augment a thousandfold the pleasures of\nprivate life by exposing it frequently to danger. I do not speak only\nof military danger. I would have this danger present at every instant,\nin every shape, and threatening all the interests of existence, such\nas formed the essence of life in the Middle Ages. Such danger as our\ncivilisation has trained and refined, goes hand in hand quite naturally\nwith the most insipid feebleness of character.\n\nI hear the words of a great man in _A Voice from St Helena_ by Mr.\nO'Meara:--\n\n Order Murat to attack and destroy four or five thousand men in such\n a direction, it was done in a moment; but leave him to himself, he\n was an imbecile without judgment. I cannot conceive how so brave\n a man could be so \"l\u00e2che.\" He was nowhere brave unless before the\n enemy. There he was probably the bravest man in the world.... He was\n a paladin, in fact a Don Quixote in the field; but take him into the\n Cabinet, he was a poltroon without judgment or decision. Murat and Ney\n were the bravest men I ever witnessed. (O'Meara, Vol. II, p. 95.)\n\n\n[1] This is historical. Many people, though very curious, are annoyed\nat being told news; they are frightened of appearing inferior to him\nwho tells them the news.\n\n[2] Memoirs of M. Realier-Dumas. Corsica, which, as regards its\npopulation of one hundred and eighty thousand souls, would not form\na half of most French Departments, has produced in modern times\nSalliceti, Pozzo di Borgo, General Sebastiani, Cervioni, Abbatucci,\nLucien and Napoleon Bonaparte and Ar\u00e9na. The D\u00e9partement du Nord,\nwith its nine hundred thousand inhabitants, is far from being able\nto show a similar list. The reason is that in Corsica anyone, on\nleaving his house, may be greeted by a bullet; and the Corsican,\ninstead of submitting like a good Christian, tries to defend himself\nand still more to be revenged. That is the way spirits like Napoleon\nare forged. It's a long cry from such surroundings to a palace with\nits lords-in-waiting and chamberlains, and a F\u00e9nelon obliged to find\nreasons for his respect to His Royal Highness, when speaking to H. R.\nH. himself, aged twelve years. See the works of that great writer.\n\n[3] At Paris, to get on, you must pay attention to a million little\ndetails. None the less there is this very powerful objection.\nStatistics show many more women who commit suicide from love at Paris\nthan in all the towns of Italy together. This fact gives me great\ndifficulty; I do not know what to say to it for the moment, but it\ndoesn't change my opinion. It may be that our ultra-civilised life\nis so wearisome, that death seems a small matter to the Frenchman of\nto-day--or more likely, overwhelmed by the wreck of his vanity, he\nblows out his brains.\n\n[4] I admire the manners of the time of Lewis XIV: many a man might\npass in three days from the salons of Marly to the battlefield of Senet\nor Ramillies. Wives, mothers, sweethearts, were all in a continual\nstate of apprehension. See the Letters of Madame de S\u00e9vign\u00e9. The\npresence of danger had kept in the language an energy and a freshness\nthat we would not dare to hazard nowadays; and yet M. de Lameth killed\nhis wife's lover. If a Walter Scott were to write a novel of the times\nof Lewis XIV, we should be a good deal surprised.\n\n\n[Pg 162]\n                             CHAPTER XLII\n\n                         FRANCE (_continued_)\n\n\nI beg leave to speak ill of France a little longer. The reader need\nhave no fear of seeing my satire remain unpunished; if this essay finds\nreaders, I shall pay for my insults with interest. Our national honour\nis wide awake.\n\nFrance fills an important place in the plan of this book, because\nParis, thanks to the superiority of its conversation and its\nliterature, is, and will always be, the _salon_ of Europe.\n\nThree-quarters of the _billets_ in Vienna, as in London, are written in\nFrench or are full of French allusions and quotations--Lord knows what\nFrench![1]\n\nAs regards great passions, France, in my opinion, is void of\noriginality from two causes:--\n\n1. True honour--the desire to resemble Bayard(26)--in order to be\nhonoured in the world and there, every day, to see your vanity\nsatisfied.\n\n2. The fool's honour, or the desire to resemble the upper classes, the\nfashionable world of Paris. The art of entering a drawing-room, of\nshowing aversion to a rival, of breaking with your mistress, etc.\n\nThe fool's honour is much more useful than true honour in ministering\nto the pleasures of our vanity,\n\n[Pg 163]\nboth in itself, as being intelligible to fools, and also as being\napplicable to the actions of every day and every hour. We see people,\nwith only this fool's honour and without true honour, very well\nreceived in society; but the contrary is impossible.\n\nThis is the way of the fashionable world:--\n\n1. To treat all great interests ironically. 'Tis natural enough.\nFormerly people, really in society, could not be profoundly affected\nby anything; they hadn't the time. Residence in the country has\naltered all this. Besides, it is contrary to a Frenchman's nature to\nlet himself be seen in a posture of admiration,[2] that is to say,\nin a position of inferiority, not only in relation to the object of\nhis admiration--that goes without saying--but also in relation to his\nneighbour, if his neighbour choose to mock at what he admires.\n\nIn Germany, Italy and Spain, on the contrary, admiration is genuine and\nhappy; there the admirer is proud of his transports and pities the man\nwho turns up his nose. I don't say the mocker, for that's an impossible\nr\u00f4le in countries, where it is not in failing in the imitation of\na particular line of conduct, but in failing to strike the road to\nhappiness, that the only ridicule exists. In the South, mistrust and\nhorror at being troubled in the midst of pleasures vividly felt, plants\nin men an inborn admiration of luxury and pomp. See the Courts of\nMadrid and Naples; see a _funzione_ at Cadiz--things are carried to a\npoint of delirium.[3]\n\n2. A Frenchman thinks himself the most miserable of men, and almost the\nmost ridiculous, if he is obliged to spend his time alone. But what is\nlove without solitude?\n\n3. A passionate man thinks only of himself; a man\n\n[Pg 164]\nwho wants consideration thinks only of others. Nay more: before 1789,\nindividual security was only found in France by becoming one of a body,\nthe Robe, for example,[4] and by being protected by the members of\nthat body. The thoughts of your neighbour were then an integral and\nnecessary part of your happiness. This was still truer at the Court\nthan in Paris. It is easy to\n\n[Pg 165]\nsee how far such manners, which, to say the truth, are every day losing\ntheir force, but which Frenchmen will retain for another century, are\nfavourable to great passions.\n\nTry to imagine a man throwing himself from a window, and at the same\ntime trying to reach the pavement in a graceful position.\n\nIn France, the passionate man, merely as such, and in no other\nlight, is the object of general ridicule. Altogether, he offends his\nfellow-men, and that gives wings to ridicule.\n\n\n[1] In England, the gravest writers think they give themselves a smart\ntone by quoting French words, which, for the most part, have never been\nFrench, except in English grammars. See the writers for the _Edinburgh\nReview_; see the Memoirs of the Comtesse de Lichtnau, mistress of the\nlast King of Prussia but one.\n\n[2] The fashionable admiration of Hume in 1775, for example, or of\nFranklin in 1784, is no objection to what I say.\n\n[3] _Voyage en Espagne_, by M. Semple; he gives a true picture, and the\nreader will find a description of the Battle of Trafalgar, heard in the\ndistance which sticks in the memory.\n\n[4] _Correspondance_ of Grimm, January, 1783. \"Comte de N----,\nCaptain commanding the guards of the Duke of Orleans, being piqued at\nfinding no place left in the balcony, the day of the opening of the\nnew hall, was so ill-advised as to dispute his place with an honest\nProcureur; the latter, one Ma\u00eetre Pernot, was by no means willing to\ngive it up.--'You've taken my place.'--'I'm in my own.'--'Who are\nyou?'--'I'm Mr. Six Francs'... (that is to say, the price of these\nplaces). Then, angrier words, insults, jostling. Comte de N---- pushed\nhis indiscretion so far as to treat the poor joker as a thief, and\nfinally took it upon himself to order the sergeant on duty to arrest\nthe person of the Procureur, and to conduct him to the guard-room.\nMa\u00eetre Pernot surrendered with great dignity, and went out, only to go\nand depose his complaint before a Commissary. The redoubtable body, of\nwhich he had the honour to be a member, had no intention of letting the\nmatter drop. The affair came up before the Parlement. M. de N---- was\ncondemned to pay all the expenses, to make reparation to the Procureur,\nto pay him two thousand crowns damages and interest, which were to\nbe applied, with the Procureur's consent, to the poor prisoners of\nthe Conciergerie; further, the said Count was very expressly enjoined\nnever again, under pretext of the king's orders, to interfere with\na performance, etc. This adventure made a lot of noise, and great\ninterests were mixed up in it: the whole Robe has considered itself\ninsulted by an outrage done to a man who wears its livery, etc. M. de\nN----, that his affair may be forgotten, has gone to seek his laurels\nat the Camp of St. Roch. He couldn't do better, people say, for no one\ncan doubt of his talent for carrying places by sheer force. Now suppose\nan obscure philosopher in the place of Ma\u00eetre Pernot. Use of the Duel.\n(Grimm, Part III, Vol. II, p. 102.)\n\nSee further on, p. 496, a most sensible letter of Beaumarchais refusing\na closed box (_loge grill\u00e9e_) for Figaro, which one of his friends had\nasked of him. So long as people thought that his answer was addressed\nto a Duke, there was great excitement, and they talked about severe\npunishment. But it turned to laughter when Beaumarchais declared that\nhis letter was addressed to Monsieur le Pr\u00e9sident du Paty. It is a far\ncry from 1785 to 1822! We no longer understand these feelings. And yet\npeople pretend that the same tragedies that touched those generations\nare still good for us!\n\n\n[Pg 166]\n                             CHAPTER XLIII\n\n                               ITALY(27)\n\n\nItaly's good fortune is that it has been left to the inspiration of the\nmoment, a good fortune which it shares, up to a certain point, with\nGermany and England.\n\nFurthermore, Italy is a country where Utility, which was the guiding\nprinciple of the medi\u00e6val republic,[1] has not been dethroned by Honour\nor Virtue, disposed to the advantages of monarchy.[2] True honour leads\nthe way to the fool's honour. It accustoms men to ask themselves: What\n\n[Pg 167]\nwill my neighbour think of my happiness? But how can happiness of the\nheart be an object of vanity, since no one can see it.?[3] In proof of\nall this, France is the country, where there are fewer marriages from\ninclination than anywhere else in the world.[4]\n\nAnd Italy has other advantages. The Italian has undisturbed leisure and\nan admirable climate, which makes men sensible to beauty under every\nform. He is extremely, yet reasonably, mistrustful, which increases the\naloofness of intimate love and doubles its charms. He reads no novels,\nindeed hardly any books, and this leaves still more to the inspiration\nof the moment. He has a passion for music, which excites in the soul a\nmovement very similar to that of love.\n\nIn France, towards 1770, there was no mistrust.; on the contrary, it\nwas good form to live and die before the public. As the Duchess of\nLuxemburg was intimate with a hundred friends, there was no intimacy\nand no friendship, properly so-called.\n\nIn Italy, passion, since it is not a very rare distinction, is not a\nsubject of ridicule,[5] and you may hear people in the _salons_ openly\nquoting general maxims of love. The public knows the symptoms and\nperiods of this illness, and is very much concerned with it. They say\nto a man who has been deserted: \"You'll be in despair for six months,\nbut you'll get over it in the end, like So-and-so, etc.\"\n\nIn Italy, public opinion is the very humble attendant on passion. Real\npleasure there exercises the power, which elsewhere is in the hands of\nsociety. 'Tis quite simple--for society can give scarcely any pleasure\nto a people, who has no time to be vain, and can have\n\n[Pg 168]\nbut little authority over those, who are only trying to escape the\nnotice of their \"pacha\"(29). The _blas\u00e9s_ censure the passionate--but\nwho cares for them? South of the Alps, society is a despot without a\nprison.\n\nAs in Paris honour challenges, sword in hand, or, if possible, _bon\nmot_ in the mouth, every approach to every recognised great interest,\nit is much more convenient to take refuge in irony. Many young men have\ntaken up a different attitude, and become disciples of J. J. Rousseau\nand Madame de Sta\u00ebl. As irony had become vulgar, one had to fall back\non feelings. A. de Pezai in our days writes like M. Darlincourt.\nBesides, since 1789, everything tends to favour utility or individual\nsensibility, as opposed to honour or the empire of opinion. The sight\nof the two Chambers teaches people to discuss everything, even mere\nnonsense. The nation is becoming serious, and gallantry is losing\nground.\n\nAs a Frenchman, I ought to say that it is not a small number of\ncolossal fortunes, but the multiplicity of middling ones, that makes\nup the riches of a country. In every country passion is rare, and\ngallantry is more graceful and refined: in France, as a consequence, it\nhas better fortune. This great nation, the first in the world,[6] has\nthe same kind of aptitude for love as for intellectual achievements.\nIn 1822 we have, to be sure, no Moore, no Walter Scott, no Crabbe,\nno Byron, no Monti, no Pellico; but we have among us more men of\nintellect, clear-sighted, agreeable and up to the level of the lights\nof this century, than England has, or Italy. It is for this reason that\nthe debates in our Chamber of Deputies in 1822, are so superior to\nthose in the English Parliament, and that when a Liberal from England\ncomes to France, we are quite surprised to find in him several opinions\nwhich are distinctly feudal.\n\n[Pg 169]\nA Roman artist wrote from Paris:--\n\n I am exceedingly uncomfortable here; I suppose it's because I have no\n leisure for falling in love at my ease. Here, sensibility is spent\n drop by drop, just as it forms, in such a way, at least so I find it,\n as to be a drain on the source. At Rome, owing to the little interest\n created by the events of every day and the somnolence of the outside\n world, sensibility accumulates to the profit of passion.\n\n\n[1] G. Pecchio, in his very lively _Letters_ to a beautiful young\nEnglish woman, says on the subject of free Spain, where the Middle Ages\nare not a revival, but have never ceased to exist (p. 60): \"The aim of\nthe Spaniards was not glory, but independence. If the Spaniards had\nonly fought for honour, the war had ended with the battle of Tudela.\nHonour is a thing of an odd nature--once soiled, it loses all its power\nof action. ... The Spanish army of the line, having become imbued in\nits turn with prejudices in favour of honour (that means having become\nmodern-European) disbanded, once beaten, with the thought that, with\nhonour, all was lost, etc.\"\n\n[2] In 1620 a man was honoured by saying unceasingly and as servilely\nas he could: \"The King my Master\" (See the Memoirs of Noailles, Torcy\nand all Lewis XIV's ambassadors). Quite simple--by this turn of phrase,\nhe proclaims the rank he occupies among subjects. This rank, dependent\non the King, takes the place, in the eyes and esteem of these subjects,\nof the rank which in ancient Rome depended on the good opinion of his\nfellow-citizens, who had seen him fighting at Trasimene and speaking\nin the Forum. You can batter down absolute monarchy by destroying\nvanity and its advance works, which it calls _conventions_. The dispute\nbetween Shakespeare and Racine(28) is only one form of the dispute\nbetween Louis XIV and constitutional government.\n\n[3] It can only be estimated in unpremeditated actions.\n\n[4] Miss O'Neil, Mrs. Couts, and most of the great English actresses,\nleave the stage in order to marry rich husbands.\n\n[5] One can allow women gallantry, but love makes them laughed at,\nwrote the judicious Abb\u00e9 Girard in Paris in 1740.\n\n[6] I want no other proof than the world's envy. See the _Edinburgh\nReview_ for 1821. See the German and Italian literary journals, and the\n_Scimiatigre_ of Alfieri.\n\n\n[Pg 170]\n                             CHAPTER XLIV\n\n                                 ROME\n\n\nOnly at Rome[1] can a respectable woman, seated in her carriage, say\neffusively to another woman, a mere acquaintance, what I heard this\nmorning: \"Ah, my dear, beware of love with Fabio Vitteleschi; better\nfor you to fall in love with a highwayman! For all his soft and\nmeasured air, he is capable of stabbing you to the heart with a knife,\nand of saying with the sweetest smile, while he plunged the knife into\nyour breast: 'Poor child, does it hurt?'\" And this conversation took\nplace in the presence of a pretty young lady of fifteen, daughter of\nthe woman who received the advice, and a very wide-awake young lady.\n\nIf a man from the North has the misfortune not to be shocked at first\nby the candour of this southern capacity for love, which is nothing but\nthe simple product of a magnificent nature, favoured by the twofold\nabsence of _good form_ and of all interesting novelty, after a stay of\none year the women of all other countries will become intolerable to\nhim.\n\nHe will find Frenchwomen, perfectly charming, with their little\ngraces,[2] seductive for the first three days, but boring the\nfourth--fatal day, when one discovers that all these graces, studied\nbeforehand, and learned by\n\n[Pg 171]\nrote, are eternally the same, every day and for every lover.\n\nHe will see German women, on the contrary, so very natural, and giving\nthemselves up with so much ardour to their imagination, but often with\nnothing to show in the end, for all their naturalness, but barrenness,\ninsipidity, and blue-stocking tenderness. The phrase of Count\nAlmaviva(30) seems made for Germany: \"And one is quite astonished, one\nfine evening, to find satiety, where one went to look for happiness.\"\n\nAt Rome, the foreigner must not forget that, if nothing is tedious in\ncountries where everything is natural, the bad is there still more\nbad than elsewhere. To speak only of the men,[3] we can see appearing\nhere in society a kind of monster, who elsewhere lies low--a man\npassionate, clear-sighted and base, all in an equal degree. Suppose\nevil chance has set him near a woman in some capacity or other: madly\nin love with her, suppose, he will drink to the very dregs the misery\nof seeing her prefer a rival. There he is to oppose her happier lover.\nNothing escapes him, and everyone sees that nothing escapes him; but he\ncontinues none the less, in despite of every honourable sentiment, to\ntrouble the woman, her lover and himself. No one blames him--\"That's\nhis way of getting pleasure.\"--\"He is doing what gives him pleasure.\"\nOne evening, the lover, at the end of his patience, gives him a\nkick. The next day the wretch is full of excuses, and begins again\nto torment, constantly and imperturbably, the woman, the lover and\nhimself. One shudders, when one thinks of the amount of unhappiness\nthat these base spirits have every day to swallow--and doubtless there\nis but one grain less of cowardice between them and a poisoner.\n\nIt is also only in Italy that you can see young and elegant\nmillionaires entertaining with magnificence, in\n\n[Pg 172]\nfull view of a whole town, ballet girls from a big theatre, at a cost\nof thirty halfpence a day.[4]\n\nTwo brothers X----, fine young fellows, always hunting and on\nhorseback, are jealous of a foreigner. Instead of going and laying\ntheir complaint before him, they are sullen, and spread abroad\nunfavourable reports of this poor foreigner. In France, public opinion\nwould force such men to prove their words or give satisfaction to\nthe foreigner. Here public opinion and contempt mean nothing. Riches\nare always certain of being well received everywhere. A millionaire,\ndishonoured and excluded from every house in Paris, can go quite\nsecurely to Rome; there he will be estimated just according to the\nvalue of his dollars.\n\n\n[1] September 30th, 1819.\n\n[2] Not only had the author the misfortune not to be born at Paris, but\nhe had also lived there very little. (Editor's note.)\n\n[3] Heu! male nunc artes miseras haec secula tractant;\n      Jam tener assuevit munera velle puer. (Tibull., I, iv.)\n\n[4] See in the manners of the age of Lewis XV how Honour and\nAristocracy load with profusion such ladies as Duth\u00e9, La Guerre\nand others. Eighty or a hundred thousand francs a year was nothing\nextraordinary; with less, a man of fashion would have lowered himself.\n\n\n[Pg 173]\n                              CHAPTER XLV\n\n                              ENGLAND(31)\n\n\nI have lived a good deal of late with the ballet-girls of the Teatro\nDel Sol, at Valencia. People assure me that many of them are very\nchaste; the reason being that their profession is too fatiguing. Vigano\nmakes them rehearse his ballet, the _Jewess of Toledo_, every day, from\nten in the morning to four, and from midnight to three in the morning.\nBesides this, they have to dance every evening in both ballets.\n\nThis reminds me that Rousseau prescribes a great deal of walking for\n\u00c9mile. This evening I was strolling at midnight with these little\nballet girls out along the seashore, and I was thinking especially how\nunknown to us, in our sad lands of mist, is this superhuman delight\nin the freshness of a sea breeze under this Valencian sky, under the\neyes of these resplendent stars that seem close above us. This alone\nrepays the journey of four hundred leagues; this it is that banishes\nthought, for feeling is too strong. I thought that the chastity of my\nlittle ballet girls gives the explanation of the course adopted by\nEnglish pride, in order, little by little, to bring back the morals of\nthe harem into the midst of a civilised nation. One sees how it is that\nsome of these young English girls, otherwise so beautiful and with so\ntouching an expression, leave something to be desired as regards ideas.\nIn spite of liberty, which has only just been banished from their\nisland, and the admirable originality of their national character, they\nlack interesting ideas and originality. Often there is nothing\n\n[Pg 174]\nremarkable in them but the extravagance of their refinements. It's\nsimple enough--in England the modesty of the women is the pride of\ntheir husbands. But, however submissive a slave may be, her society\nbecomes sooner or later a burden. Hence, for the men, the necessity\nof getting drunk solemnly every evening,[1] instead of as in Italy,\npassing the evening with their mistresses. In England, rich people,\nbored with their homes and under the pretext of necessary exercise,\nwalk four or five leagues a day, as if man were created and put into\nthe world to trot up and down it. They use up their nervous fluid by\nmeans of their legs, not their hearts; after which, they may well talk\nof female refinement and look down on Spain and Italy.\n\nNo life, on the other hand, could be less busy than that of young\nItalians; to them all action is importunate, if it take away their\nsensibility. From time to time they take a walk of half a league for\nhealth's sake, as an unpleasant medicine. As for the women, a Roman\nwoman in a whole year does not walk as far as a young Miss in a week.\n\nIt seems to me that the pride of an English husband exalts very\nadroitly the vanity of his wretched wife. He persuades her, first of\nall, that one must not be vulgar, and the mothers, who are getting\ntheir daughters ready to find husbands, are quick enough to seize upon\nthis idea. Hence fashion is far more absurd and despotic in reasonable\nEngland than in the midst of light-hearted France: in Bond Street was\ninvented the idea of the \"carefully careless.\" In England fashion is\na duty, at Paris it is a pleasure. In London fashion raises a wall of\nbronze between New Bond Street and Fenchurch Street far different from\nthat between the Chauss\u00e9e d'Antin and the rue Saint-Martin at Paris.\nHusbands are quite\n\n[Pg 175]\nwilling to allow their wives this aristocratic nonsense, to make up\nfor the enormous amount of unhappiness, which they impose on them. I\nrecognise a perfect picture of women's society in England, such as the\ntaciturn pride of its men produces, in the once celebrated novels of\nMiss Burney. Since it is vulgar to ask for a glass of water, when one\nis thirsty, Miss Burney's heroines do not fail to let themselves die of\nthirst. While flying from vulgarity, they fall into the most abominable\naffectation.\n\nCompare the prudence of a young Englishman of twenty-two with the\nprofound mistrust of a young Italian of the same age. The Italian must\nbe mistrustful to be safe, but this mistrust he puts aside, or at least\nforgets, as soon as he becomes intimate, while it is apparently just\nin his most tender relationships that you see the young Englishman\nredouble his prudence and aloofness. I once heard this:--\n\n\"In the last seven months I haven't spoken to her of the trip to\nBrighton.\" This was a question of a necessary economy of twenty-four\npounds, and a lover of twenty-two years speaking of a mistress, a\nmarried woman, whom he adored. In the transports of his passion\nprudence had not left him: far less had he let himself go enough to say\nto his mistress: \"I shan't go to Brighton, because I should feel the\npinch.\"\n\nNote that the fate of Gianone de Pellico, and of a hundred others,\nforces the Italian to be mistrustful, while the young English _beau_ is\nonly forced to be prudent by the excessive and morbid sensibility of\nhis vanity. A Frenchman, charming enough with his inspirations of the\nminute, tells everything to her he loves. It is habit. Without it he\nwould lack ease, and he knows that without ease there is no grace.\n\nIt is with difficulty and with tears in my eyes that I have plucked up\ncourage to write all this; but, since I would not, I'm sure, flatter a\nking, why should I say of a country anything but what seems to me the\n\n[Pg 176]\ntruth? Of course it may be all very absurd, for the simple reason that\nthis country gave birth to the most lovable woman that I have known.\n\nIt would be another form of cringing before a monarch. I will\ncontent myself with adding that in the midst of all this variety of\nmanners, among so many Englishwomen, who are the spiritual victims\nof Englishmen's pride, a perfect form of originality does exist, and\nthat a family, brought up aloof from these distressing restrictions\n(invented to reproduce the morals of the harem) may be responsible\nfor charming characters. And how insufficient, in spite of its\netymology,--and how common--is this word \"charming\" to render what I\nwould express. The gentle Imogen, the tender Ophelia might find plenty\nof living models in England; but these models are far from enjoying the\nhigh veneration that is unanimously accorded to the true accomplished\nEnglishwoman, whose destiny is to show complete obedience to every\nconvention and to afford a husband full enjoyment of the most morbid\naristocratic pride and a happiness that makes him die of boredom.[2]\n\nIn the great suites of fifteen or twenty rooms, so fresh and so dark,\nin which Italian women pass their lives softly propped on low divans,\nthey hear people speak of love and of music for six hours in the day.\nAt night, at the theatre, hidden in their boxes for four hours, they\nhear people speak of music and love.\n\nThen, besides the climate, the whole way of living is in Spain or Italy\nas favourable to music and love, as it is the contrary in England.\n\nI neither blame nor approve; I observe.\n\n\n[1] This custom begins to give way a little in very good society,\nwhich is becoming French, as everywhere; but I'm speaking of the vast\ngenerality.\n\n[2] See Richardson: the manners of the Harlowe family, translated into\nmodern manners, are frequent in England. Their servants are worth more\nthan they.\n\n\n[Pg 177]\n                             CHAPTER XLVI\n\n                        ENGLAND--(_continued_)\n\n\nI love England too much and I have seen of her too little to be able to\nspeak on the subject. I shall make use of the observations of a friend.\n\nIn the actual state of Ireland (1822) is realised, for the twentieth\ntime in two centuries,[1] that curious state of society which is so\nfruitful of courageous resolutions, and so opposed to a monotonous\nexistence, and in which people, who breakfast gaily together, may\nmeet in two hours' time on the field of battle. Nothing makes a\nmore energetic and direct appeal to that disposition of the spirit,\nwhich is most favourable to the tender passions--to naturalness.\nNothing is further removed from the two great English vices--cant and\nbashfulness,--moral hypocrisy and haughty, painful timidity. (See the\nTravels of Mr. Eustace(32) in Italy.) If this traveller gives a poor\npicture of the country, in return he gives a very exact idea of his own\ncharacter, and this character, as that of Mr. Beattie(32), the poet\n(see his Life written by an intimate friend), is unhappily but too\ncommon in England. For the priest, honest in spite of his cloth, refer\nto the letters of the Bishop of Landaff.[2](32).\n\nOne would have thought Ireland already unfortunate enough, bled as\nit has been for two centuries by the cowardly and cruel tyranny of\nEngland; but now there\n\n[Pg 178]\nenters into the moral state of Ireland a terrible personage: the\nPRIEST....\n\nFor two centuries Ireland has been almost as badly governed as Sicily.\nA thorough comparison between these two islands, in a volume of five\nhundred pages, would offend many people and overwhelm many established\ntheories with ridicule. What is evident is that the happiest of these\ntwo countries--both of them governed by fools, only for the profit of\na minority--is Sicily. Its governors have at least left it its love of\npleasure; they would willingly have robbed it of this as of the rest,\nbut, thanks to its climate, Sicily knows little of that moral evil\ncalled Law and Government.[3]\n\nIt is old men and priests who make the laws and have them executed,\nand this seems quite in keeping with the comic jealousy, with which\npleasure is hunted down in the British Isles. The people there might\nsay to its governors as Diogenes said to Alexander: \"Be content with\nyour sinecures, but please don't step between me and my daylight.\"[4]\n\nBy means of laws, rules, counter-rules and punishments, the Government\nin Ireland has created the potato, and the population of Ireland\nexceeds by far that of Sicily. This is to say, they have produced\nseveral millions of degenerate and half-witted peasants, broken down by\n\n[Pg 179]\nwork and misery, dragging out a wretched life of some forty or fifty\nyears among the marshes of old Erin--and, you may be sure, paying their\ntaxes! A real miracle! With the pagan religion these poor wretches\nwould at least have enjoyed some happiness--but not a bit of it, they\nmust adore St. Patrick.\n\nEverywhere in Ireland one sees none but peasants more miserable than\nsavages. Only, instead of there being a hundred thousand, as there\nwould be in a state of nature, there are eight millions,[5] who allow\nfive hundred \"absentees\" to live in prosperity at London or Paris.\n\nSociety is infinitely more advanced in Scotland,[6] where, in very many\nrespects, government is good (the rarity of crime, the diffusion of\nreading, the non-existence of bishops, etc.). There the tender passions\ncan develop much more freely, and it is possible to leave these sombre\nthoughts and approach the humorous.\n\nOne cannot fail to notice a foundation of melancholy in Scottish women.\nThis melancholy is particularly seductive at dances, where it gives\na singular piquancy to the extreme ardour and energy with which they\nperform their national dances. Edinburgh has another advantage, that\nof being withdrawn from the vile empire of money. In this, as well\nas in the singular and savage beauty of its site, this city forms\na complete contrast with London. Like Rome, fair Edinburgh seems\nrather the sojourn of the contemplative life. At London you have the\nceaseless whirlwind and restless interests of active life, with all its\nadvantages and inconveniences. Edinburgh seems to me to pay its tribute\nto the devil by a slight disposition to pedantry. Those days when Mary\nStuart lived at old Holyrood, and Riccio was assassinated in her arms,\nwere worth more to Love (and here all\n\n[Pg 180]\nwomen will agree with me) than to-day, when one discusses at such\nlength, and even in their presence, the preference to be accorded\nto the neptunian system over the vulcanian system of ... I prefer a\ndiscussion on the new uniform given by the king to the Guards, or on\nthe peerage which Sir B. Bloomfield(35) failed to get--the topic of\nLondon in my day--to a learned discussion as to who has best explored\nthe nature of rocks, de Werner or de....\n\nI say nothing about the terrible Scottish Sunday, after which a Sunday\nin London looks like a beanfeast. That day, set aside for the honour\nof Heaven, is the best image of Hell that I have ever seen on earth.\n\"Don't let's walk so fast,\" said a Scotchman returning from church to a\nFrenchman, his friend; \"people might think we were going for a walk.\"[7]\n\nOf the three countries, Ireland is the one in which there is the least\nhypocrisy. See the _New Monthly Magazine_ thundering against Mozart and\nthe _Nozze di Figaro_.[8]\n\nIn every country it is the aristocrats, who try to judge a literary\nmagazine and literature; and for the last four years in England these\nhave been hand in glove with the bishops. As I say, that of the three\ncountries where, it seems to me, there is the least hypocrisy, is\nIreland: on the contrary, you find there a reckless, a most fascinating\nvivacity. In Scotland there is the strict observance of Sunday, but on\nMonday they dance with a joy and an abandon unknown to London. There is\nplenty of love among the peasant class in Scotland. The omnipotence of\nimagination gallicised the country in the sixteenth century.\n\nThe terrible fault of English society, that which in a single day\ncreates a greater amount of sadness than the national debt and its\nconsequences, and even than the\n\n[Pg 181]\nwar to the death waged by the rich against the poor, is this sentence\nwhich I heard last autumn at Croydon, before the beautiful statue of\nthe bishop: \"In society no one wants to put himself forward, for fear\nof being deceived in his expectations.\"\n\nJudge what laws, under the name of modesty, such men must impose on\ntheir wives and mistresses.\n\n\n[1] The young child of Spenser was burnt alive in Ireland.\n\n[2] To refute otherwise than by insults the portraiture of a certain\nclass of Englishmen presented in these three works seems to me an\nimpossible task. Satanic school.\n\n[3] I call moral evil, in 1822, every government which has not got two\nchambers; the only exception can be when the head of the government is\ngreat by reason of his probity, a miracle to be seen in Saxony and at\nNaples.\n\n[4] See in the trial of the late Queen of England(33), a curious list\nof the peers with the sums which they and their families receive from\nthe State. For example, Lord Lauderdale and his family, \u00a336,000.\nThe half-pint of beer that is necessary to the miserable existence\nof the poorest Englishman, is taxed a halfpenny for the profit of\nthe noble peer. And, what is very much to the point, both of them\nknow it. As a result, neither the lord nor the peasant have leisure\nenough to think of love; they are sharpening their arms, the one\npublicly and haughtily, the other secretly and enraged. (Yeomanry and\nWhiteboys.)(34).\n\n[5] Plunkett Craig, _Life of Curran_.\n\n[6] Degree of civilisation to be seen in the peasant Robert Burns and\nhis family; a peasants' club with a penny subscription each meeting;\nthe questions discussed there. (See the Letters of Burns.)\n\n[7] The same in America. In Scotland, display of titles.\n\n[8] January, 1822, _Cant_.\n\n\n[Pg 182]\n                             CHAPTER XLVII\n\n                               SPAIN(36)\n\n\nAndalusia is one of the most charming sojourns that Pleasure has chosen\nfor itself on earth. I had three or four anecdotes to show how my ideas\nabout the three or four different acts of madness, which together\nconstitute Love, hold good for Spain: I have been advised to sacrifice\nthem to French refinement. In vain I protested that I wrote in French,\nbut emphatically not French literature. God preserve me from having\nanything in common with the French writers esteemed to-day!\n\nThe Moors, when they abandoned Andalusia, left it their architecture\nand much of their manners. Since it is impossible for me to speak\nof the latter in the language of Madame de S\u00e9vign\u00e9, I'll at least\nsay this of Moorish architecture:--its principal trait consists in\nproviding every house with a little garden surrounded by an elegant and\ngraceful portico. There, during the unbearable heat of summer, when\nfor whole weeks together the R\u00e9aumur thermometer never falls below\na constant level of thirty degrees, a delicious obscurity pervades\nthese porticoes. In the middle of the little garden there is always\na fountain, monotonous and voluptuous, whose sound is all that stirs\nthis charming retreat. The marble basin is surrounded by a dozen\norange-trees and laurels. A thick canvas, like a tent, covers in the\nwhole of the little garden, and, while it protects it from the rays of\nthe sun and from the light, lets in the gentle\n\n[Pg 183]\nbreezes which, at midday, come down from the mountains.\n\nThere live and receive their guests the fair ladies of Andalusia: a\nsimple black silk robe, ornamented with fringes of the same colour,\nand giving glimpses of a charming ankle; a pale complexion and eyes\nthat mirror all the most fugitive shades of the most tender and ardent\npassion--such are the celestial beings, whom I am forbidden to bring\nupon the scene.\n\nI look upon the Spanish people as the living representatives of the\nMiddle Age.\n\nIt is ignorant of a mass of little truths (the puerile vanity of its\nneighbours); but it has a profound knowledge of great truths and\nenough character and wit to follow their consequences down to their\nmost remote effects. The Spanish character offers a fine contrast to\nFrench intellect--hard, brusque, inelegant, full of savage pride, and\nunconcerned with others. It is just the contrast of the fifteenth with\nthe eighteenth century.\n\nSpain provides me with a good contrast; the only people, that was able\nto withstand Napoleon, seems to me to be absolutely lacking in the\nfool's honour and in all that is foolish in honour.\n\nInstead of making fine military ordinances, of changing uniforms\nevery six months and of wearing large spurs, Spain has general _No\nimporta_.[1]\n\n[1] See the charming Letters of M. Pecchio. Italy is full of people of\nthis wonderful type; but, instead of letting themselves be seen, they\ntry to keep quiet--_paese della virt\u00f9 scunosciuta_--\"Land of mute,\ninglorious virtue.\n\n\n[Pg 184]\n                            CHAPTER XLVIII\n\n                            GERMAN LOVE(37)\n\n\nIf the Italian, always agitated between love and hate, is a creature of\npassion, and the Frenchman of vanity, the good and simple descendants\nof the ancient Germans are assuredly creatures of imagination. Scarcely\nraised above social interests, the most directly necessary to their\nsubsistence, one is amazed to see them soar into what they call their\nphilosophy, which is a sort of gentle, lovable, quite harmless folly.\nI am going to cite, not altogether from memory, but from hurriedly\ntaken notes, a work whose author, though writing in a tone of\nopposition, illustrates clearly, even in his admirations, the military\nspirit in all its excesses--I speak of the Travels in Austria of M.\nCadet-Gassicourt, in 1809. What would the noble and generous Desaix\nhave said, if he had seen the pure heroism of '95 lead on to this\nexecrable egoism?\n\nTwo friends find themselves side by side with a battery at the battle\nof Talavera, one as Captain in command, the other as lieutenant. A\npassing bullet lays the Captain low. \"Good,\" says the lieutenant,\nquite beside himself with joy, \"that's done for Francis--now I shall\nbe Captain.\" \"Not so quick,\" cries Francis, as he gets up. He had only\nbeen stunned by the bullet. The lieutenant, as well as the Captain,\nwere the best fellows in the world, not a bit ill-natured, and only\na little stupid; the excitement of the chase and the furious egoism\nwhich the Emperor had succeeded in awakening, by decorating it with the\nname of glory, made these enthusiastic worshippers of him forget their\nhumanity.\n\nAfter the harsh spectacle offered by men like this, who\n\n[Pg 185]\ndispute on parade at Schoenbrunn for a look from their master and a\nbarony--see how the Emperor's apothecary describes German love, page\n188:\n\n\"Nothing can be more sweet, more gentle, than an Austrian woman. With\nher, love is a cult, and when she is attached to a Frenchman, she\nadores him--in the full force of the word.\n\n\"There are light, capricious women everywhere, but in general the\nViennese are faithful and in no way coquettes; when I say that they are\nfaithful, I mean to the lover of their own choice, for husbands are the\nsame at Vienna as everywhere else\" (June 7, 1809).\n\nThe most beautiful woman of Vienna accepts the homage of one of my\nfriends, M. M----, a captain attached to the Emperor's headquarters.\nHe's a young man, gentle and witty, but certainly neither his figure\nnor face are in any way remarkable.\n\nFor some days past his young mistress has made a very great sensation\namong our brilliant staff officers, who pass their life ferreting about\nin every corner of Vienna. It has become a contest of daring. Every\npossible man\u0153uvre has been employed. The fair one's house has been\nput in a state of siege by all the best-looking and richest. Pages,\nbrilliant colonels, generals of the guard, even princes, have gone\nto waste their time under her windows, and their money on the fair\nlady's servants. All have been turned away. These princes were little\naccustomed to find a deaf ear at Paris or Milan. When I laughed at\ntheir discomfiture before this charming creature: \"But good Heavens,\"\nshe said, \"don't they know that I'm in love with M. M....?\"\n\nA singular remark and certainly a most improper one!\n\nPage 290: \"While we were at Schoenbrunn I noticed that two young men,\nwho were attached to the Emperor, never received anyone in their\nlodgings at Vienna. We used to chaff them a lot on their discretion.\nOne of them said to me one day: 'I'll keep no secrets from\n\n[Pg 186]\nyou: a young woman of the place has given herself to me, on condition\nthat she need never leave my apartment, and that I never receive anyone\nat all without her leave.' I was curious,\" says the traveller, \"to know\nthis voluntary recluse, and my position as doctor giving me, as in the\nEast, an honourable pretext, I accepted a breakfast offered me by my\nfriend. The woman I found was very much in love, took the greatest care\nof the household, never wanted to go out, though it was just a pleasant\ntime of the year for walking--and for the rest, was quite certain that\nher lover would take her back with him to France.\n\n\"The other young man, who was also never to be found in his rooms, soon\nafter made me a similar confession. I also saw his mistress. Like the\nfirst, she was fair, very pretty, and an excellent figure.\n\n\"The one, eighteen years of age, was the daughter of a well-to-do\nupholsterer; the other, who was about twenty-four, was the wife of\nan Austrian officer, on service with the army of the Archduke John.\nThis latter pushed her love to the verge of what we, in our land of\nvanity, would call heroism. Not only was her lover faithless to her,\nhe also found himself under the necessity of making a confession of\na most unpleasant nature. She nursed him with complete devotion; the\nseriousness of his illness attached her to her lover; and perhaps she\nonly cherished him the more for it, when soon after his life was in\ndanger.\n\n\"It will be understood that I, a stranger and a conqueror, have had\nno chance of observing love in the highest circles, seeing that the\nwhole of the aristocracy of Vienna had retired at our approach to their\nestates in Hungary. But I have seen enough of it to be convinced that\nit is not the same love as at Paris.\n\n\"The feeling of love is considered by the Germans as a virtue, as an\nemanation of the Divinity, as something mystical. It is riot quick,\nimpetuous, jealous, tyrannical,\n\n[Pg 187]\nas it is in the heart of an Italian woman: it is profound and something\nlike illuminism; in this Germany is a thousand miles away from England.\n\n\"Some years ago a Leipsic tailor, in a fit of jealousy, waited for his\nrival in the public garden and stabbed him. He was condemned to lose\nhis head. The moralists of the town, faithful to the German traditions\nof kindness and unhampered emotion (which makes for feebleness of\ncharacter) discussed the sentence, decided that it was severe and,\nmaking a comparison between the tailor and Orosmanes, were moved to\npity for his fate. Nevertheless they were unable to have his sentence\nmitigated. But the day of the execution, all the young girls of\nLeipsic, dressed in white, met together and accompanied the tailor to\nthe scaffold, throwing flowers in his path.\n\n\"No one thought this ceremony odd; yet, in a country which considers\nitself logical, it might be said that it was honouring a species of\nmurder. But it was a ceremony--and everything which is a ceremony,\nis always safe from ridicule in Germany. See the ceremonies at the\nCourts of the small princes, which would make us Frenchmen die with\nlaughter, but appear quite imposing at Meiningen or Koethen. In the six\ngamekeepers who file past their little prince, adorned with his star,\nthey see the soldiers of Arminius marching out to meet the legions of\nVarus.\n\n\"A point of difference between the Germans and all other peoples: they\nare exalted, instead of calming themselves, by meditation. A second\nsubtle point: they are all eaten up with the desire to have character.\n\n\"Life at Court, ordinarily so favourable to love, in Germany deadens\nit. You have no idea of the mass of incomprehensible _minuti\u00e6_ and the\npettinesses that constitute what is called a German Court,[1]--even the\nCourt of the best princes. (Munich, 1820).\n\n[Pg 188]\n\"When we used to arrive with the staff in a German town, at the end\nof the first fortnight the ladies of the district had made their\nchoice. But that choice was constant; and I have heard it said that\nthe French were a shoal, on which foundered many a virtue till then\nirreproachable.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe young Germans whom I have met at Gottingen, Dresden, Koenigsberg,\netc., are brought up among pseudo-systems of philosophy, which are\nmerely obscure and badly written poetry, but, as regards their ethics,\nof the highest and holiest sublimity. They seem to me to have inherited\nfrom their Middle Age, not like the Italians, republicanism, mistrust\nand the dagger, but a strong disposition to enthusiasm and good faith.\nThus it is that every ten years they have a new great man who's going\nto efface all the others. (Kant, Steding, Fichte, etc. etc.[2])\n\nFormerly Luther made a powerful appeal to the moral sense, and the\nGermans fought thirty years on end, in order to obey their conscience.\nIt's a fine word and one quite worthy of respect, however absurd\nthe belief; I say worthy of respect even from an artist. See the\nstruggle in the soul of S---- between the third [sixth] commandment of\nGod--\"Thou shalt not kill\"--and what he believed to be the interest of\nhis country.\n\nAlready in Tacitus we find a mystical enthusiasm for women and love, at\nleast if that writer was not merely aiming his satire at Rome.[3]\n\nOne has not been five hundred miles in Germany,\n\n[Pg 189]\nbefore one can distinguish in this people, disunited and scattered,\na foundation of enthusiasm, soft and tender, rather than ardent and\nimpetuous.\n\nIf this disposition were not so apparent, it would be enough to reread\nthree or four of the novels of Auguste La Fontaine, whom the pretty\nLouise, Queen of Prussia, made Canon of Magdeburg, as a reward for\nhaving so well painted the Peaceful Life.[4]\n\nI see a new proof of this disposition, which is common to all the\nGermans, in the Austrian code, which demands the confession of the\nguilty for the punishment of almost all crimes. This code is calculated\nto fit a people, among whom crime is a rare phenomenon, and sooner\nan excess of madness in a feeble being than the effect of interests,\ndaring, reasoned and for ever in conflict with society. It is precisely\nthe contrary of what is wanted in Italy, where they are trying to\nintroduce it--a mistake of well-meaning people.\n\nI have seen German judges in Italy in despair over sentences of death\nor, what's the equivalent, the irons, if they were obliged to pronounce\nit without the confession of the guilty.\n\n\n[1] See the Memoirs of the Margrave de Bayreuth and _Vingt ans de\ns\u00e9jour \u00e0 Berlin_, by M. Thi\u00e9baut.\n\n[2] See in 1821 their enthusiasm for the tragedy, the _Triumph of the\nCross_,(38) which has caused _Wilhelm Tell_ to be forgotten.\n\n[3] I have had the good fortune to meet a man of the liveliest wit,\nand at the same time as learned as ten German professors, and one who\ndiscloses his discoveries in terms clear and precise. If ever M. F.(39)\npublishes, we shall see the Middle Age revealed to our eyes in a full\nlight, and we shall love it.\n\n[4] The title of one of the novels of Auguste La Fontaine. The peaceful\nlife, another great trait of German manners--it is the \"farniente\" of\nthe Italian, and also the physiological commentary on a Russian droski\nand on the English \"horseback.\"\n\n\n[Pg 190]\n                             CHAPTER XLIX\n\n                           A DAY IN FLORENCE\n\n\nFLORENCE, _February_ 12, 1819.\n\nThis evening, in a box at the theatre, I met a man who had some\nfavour to ask of a magistrate, aged fifty. His first question was:\n\"Who is his mistress? _Chi avvicina adesso?_\" Here everyone's\naffairs are absolutely public; they have their own laws; there is\nan approved manner of acting, which is based on justice without any\nconventionality--if you act otherwise, you are a _porco_.\n\n\"What's the news?\" one of my friends asked yesterday, on his arrival\nfrom Volterra. After a word of vehement lamentation about Napoleon\nand the English, someone adds, in a tone of the liveliest interest:\n\"La Vitteleschi has changed her lover: poor Gherardesca is in\ndespair.\"--\"Whom has she taken?\"--\"Montegalli, the good-looking officer\nwith a moustache, who had Princess Colonna; there he is down in the\nstalls, nailed to her box; he's there the whole evening, because her\nhusband won't have him in the house, and there near the door you can\nsee poor Gherardesca, walking about so sadly and counting afar the\nglances, which his faithless mistress throws his successor. He's very\nchanged and in the depths of despair; it's quite useless for his\nfriends to try to send him to Paris or London. He is ready to die, he\nsays, at the very idea of leaving Florence.\"\n\nEvery year there are twenty such cases of despair in high circles; some\nof them I have seen last three or four\n\n[Pg 191]\nyears. These poor devils are without any shame and take the whole world\ninto their confidence. For the rest, there's little society here, and\nbesides, when one's in love, one hardly mixes with it. It must not be\nthought that great passions and great hearts are at all common, even in\nItaly; only, in Italy, hearts which are more inflamed and less stunted\nby the thousand little cares of our vanity, find delicious pleasures\neven in the subaltern species of love. In Italy I have seen love from\ncaprice, for example, cause transports and moments of madness, such as\nthe most violent passion has never brought with it under the meridian\nof Paris.[1]\n\nI noticed this evening that there are proper names in Italian for a\nmillion particular circumstances in love, which, in French, would need\nendless paraphrases; for example, the action of turning sharply away,\nwhen from the floor of the house you are quizzing a woman you are in\nlove with, and the husband or a servant come towards the front of her\nbox.\n\nThe following are the principal traits in the character of this\npeople:--\n\n1. The attention, habitually at the service of deep passions, cannot\nmove rapidly. This is the most marked difference between a Frenchman\nand an Italian. You have only to see an Italian get into a diligence or\nmake a payment, to understand \"la furia francese.\" It's for this reason\nthat the most vulgar Frenchman, provided that he is not a witty fool,\nlike D\u00e9masure, always seems a superior being to an Italian woman. (The\nlover of Princess D---- at Rome.)\n\n2. Everyone is in love, and not under cover, as in France; the husband\nis the best friend of the lover.\n\n3. No one reads.\n\n4. There is no society. A man does not reckon, in\n\n[Pg 192]\norder to fill up and occupy his life, on the happiness which he derives\nfrom two hours' conversation and the play of vanity in this or that\nhouse. The word _causerie_ cannot be translated into Italian. People\nspeak when they have something to say, to forward a passion, but they\nrarely talk just in order to talk on any given subject.\n\n5. Ridicule does not exist in Italy.\n\nIn France, both of us are trying to imitate the same model, and I am a\ncompetent judge of the way in which you copy it.[2] In Italy I cannot\nsay whether the peculiar action, which I see this man perform, does not\ngive pleasure to the performer and might not, perhaps, give pleasure to\nme.\n\nWhat is affectation of language or manner at Rome, is good form or\nunintelligible at Florence, which is only fifty leagues away. The same\nFrench is spoken at Lyons as at Nantes. Venetian, Neapolitan Genoese,\nPiedmontese are almost entirely different languages, and only spoken\nby people who are agreed never to print except in a common language,\nnamely that spoken at Rome. Nothing is so absurd as a comedy, with\nthe scene laid at Milan and the characters speaking Roman. It is only\nby music that the Italian language, which is far more fit to be sung\nthan spoken, will hold its own against the clearness of French, which\nthreatens it.\n\nIn Italy, fear of the \"pacha\"(29) and his spies causes the useful to be\nheld in esteem; the fool's honour simply doesn't exist.[3] Its place\nis taken by a kind of petty hatred of society, called \"petegolismo.\"\nFinally, to make fun of a person is to make a mortal enemy, a\nvery dangerous thing in a country where the power and activity of\ngovernments is limited to exacting taxes and punishing everything above\nthe common level.\n\n[Pg 193]\n6. The patriotism of the antechamber.\n\nThat pride which leads a man to seek the esteem of his fellow-citizens\nand to make himself one of them, but which in Italy was cut off, about\nthe year 1550, from any noble enterprise by the jealous despotism of\nthe small Italian princes, has given birth to a barbarous product,\nto a sort of Caliban, to a monster full of fury and sottishness, the\npatriotism of the antechamber, as M. Turgot called it, _\u00e0 propos_ of\nthe siege of Calais (the _Soldat laboureur_(40) of those times.) I have\nseen this monster blunt the sharpest spirits. For example, a stranger\nwill make himself unpopular, even with pretty women, if he thinks fit\nto find anything wrong with the painter or poet of the town; he will\nbe soon told, and that very seriously, that he ought not to come among\npeople to laugh at them, and they will quote to him on this topic a\nsaying of Lewis XIV about Versailles.\n\nAt Florence people say: \"our Benvenuti,\" as at Brescia--\"our Arrici\":\nthey put on the word \"our\" a certain emphasis, restrained yet very\ncomical, not unlike the _Miroir_ talking with unction about national\nmusic and of M. Monsigny, the musician of Europe.\n\nIn order not to laugh in the face of these fine patriots one must\nremember that, owing to the dissensions of the Middle Age, envenomed by\nthe vile policy of the Popes,[4] each city has a mortal hatred for its\nneighbour, and the name of the inhabitants in the one always stands in\nthe other as a synonym for some gross fault. The Popes have succeeded\nin making this beautiful land into the kingdom of hate.\n\nThis patriotism of the antechamber is the greatest moral sore in\nItaly, a corrupting germ that will still show its disastrous effects\nlong after Italy has thrown off the yoke of its ridiculous little\npriests.[5] The form of this patriotism is an inexorable hatred for\neverything foreign.\n\n[Pg 194]\nThus they look on the Germans as fools, and get angry when someone\nsays: \"What has Italy in the eighteenth century produced the equal of\nCatherine II or Frederick the Great? Where have you an English garden\ncomparable to the smallest German garden, you who, with your climate,\nhave a real need of shade?\"\n\n7. Unlike the English or French, the Italians have no political\nprejudices; they all know by heart the line of La Fontaine:--\n\n Notre ennemi c'est notre M.[6]\n\nAristocracy, supported by the priest and a biblical state of society,\nis a worn-out illusion which only makes them smile. In return, an\nItalian needs a stay of three months in France to realise that a draper\nmay be a conservative.\n\n8. As a last trait of character I would mention intolerance in\ndiscussion, and anger as soon as they do not find an argument ready\nto hand, to throw out against that of their adversary. At that point\nthey visibly turn pale. It is one form of their extreme sensibility,\nbut it is not one of its most amiable forms: consequently it is one\nof those that I am most willing to admit as proof of the existence of\nsensibility.\n\nI wanted to see love without end, and, after considerable difficulty, I\nsucceeded in being introduced this evening to Chevalier C---- and his\nmistress, with whom he has lived for fifty-four years. I left the box\nof these charming old people, my heart melted; there I saw the art of\nbeing happy, an art ignored by so many young people.\n\nTwo months ago I saw Monsignor R----, by whom I was well received,\nbecause I brought him some copies of the _Minerve_. He was at his\ncountry house with Madame D----, whom he is still pleased, after\nthirty-four years, \"_avvicinare_,\" as they say. She is still beautiful,\nbut there is a touch of melancholy in this household. People\n\n[Pg 195]\nattribute it to the loss of a son, who was poisoned long ago by her\nhusband.\n\nHere, to be in love does not mean, as at Paris, to see one's mistress\nfor a quarter of an hour every week, and for the rest of the time to\nobtain a look or a shake of the hand: the lover, the happy lover,\npasses four or five hours every day with the woman he loves. He talks\nto her about his actions at law, his English garden, his hunting\nparties, his prospects, etc. There is the completest, the most tender\nintimacy. He speaks to her with the familiar \"_tu_,\" even in the\npresence of her husband and everywhere.\n\nA young man of this country, one very ambitious as he believed, was\ncalled to a high position at Vienna (nothing less than ambassador). But\nhe could not get used to his stay abroad. At the end of six months he\nsaid good-bye to his job, and returned to be happy in his mistress's\nbox at the opera.\n\nSuch continual intercourse would be inconvenient in France, where one\nmust display a certain degree of affectation, and where your mistress\ncan quite well say to you: \"Monsieur So-and-so, you're glum this\nevening; you don't say a word.\" In Italy it is only a matter of telling\nthe woman you love everything that passes through your head--you must\nactually think aloud. There is a certain nervous state which results\nfrom intimacy; freedom provokes freedom, and is only to be got in this\nway. But there is one great inconvenience; you find that love in this\nway paralyses all your tastes and renders all the other occupations of\nyour life insipid. Such love is the best substitute for passion.\n\nOur friends at Paris, who are still at the stage of trying to conceive\nthat it's possible to be a Persian(71), not knowing what to say, will\ncry out that such manners are indecent. To begin with, I am only an\nhistorian; and secondly, I reserve to myself the right to show one day,\nby dint of solid reasoning, that as regards\n\n[Pg 196]\nmanners and fundamentally, Paris is not superior to Bologna.\nQuite unconsciously these poor people are still repeating their\ntwopence-halfpenny catechism.\n\n12 _July_, 1821. There is nothing odious in the society of Bologna. At\nParis the role of a deceived husband is execrable; here (at Bologna) it\nis nothing--there are no deceived husbands. Manners are the same, it is\nonly hate that is missing; the recognised lover is always the husband's\nfriend, and this friendship, which has been cemented by reciprocal\nservices, quite often survives other interests. Most love-affairs last\nfive or six years, many for ever. People part at last, when they no\nlonger find it sweet to tell each other everything, and when the first\nmonth of the rupture is over, there is no bitterness.\n\n_January_, 1822. The ancient mode of the _cavaliere servente_, imported\ninto Italy by Philip II, along with Spanish pride and manners, has\nentirely fallen into disuse in the large towns. I know of only one\nexception, and that's Calabria, where the eldest brother always takes\norders, marries his younger brother, sets up in the service of his\nsister-in-law and becomes at the same time her lover.\n\nNapoleon banished libertinism from upper Italy, and even from here\n(Naples).\n\nThe morals of the present generation of pretty women shame their\nmothers; they are more favourable to passion-love, but physical love\nhas lost a great deal.[7]\n\n\n[1] Of that Paris which has given the world Voltaire, Moli\u00e8re and so\nmany men of distinguished wit--but one can't have everything, and it\nwould show little wit to be annoyed at it.\n\n[2] This French habit, growing weaker every day, will increase the\ndistance between us and Moli\u00e8re's heroes.\n\n[3] Every infraction of this honour is a subject of ridicule in\nbourgeois circles in France. (See M. Picard's _Petite Ville_.)\n\n[4] See the excellent and curious _Histoire de l'\u00c9glise_, by M. de\nPotter.\n\n[5] 1822.\n\n[6] [Our enemy is our Master.--_Fables_, VI, 8.--Tr.]\n\n[7] Towards 1780 the maxim ran:\n\n    Molti averne,\n    Un goderne,\n    E cambiar spesso\n\nTravels of Shylock [Sherlock?--Tr.].\n\n\n[Pg 197]\n                               CHAPTER L\n\n                     LOVE IN THE UNITED STATES(41)\n\n\nA free government is a government which does no harm to its citizens,\nbut which, on the contrary, gives them security and tranquillity.\nBut 'tis a long cry from this to happiness. That a man must find for\nhimself; for he must be a gross creature who thinks himself perfectly\nhappy, because he enjoys security and tranquillity. We mix these things\nup in Europe, especially in Italy. Accustomed as we are to governments,\nwhich do us harm, it seems to us that to be delivered from them would\nbe supreme happiness; in this we are like invalids, worn out with\nthe pain of our sufferings. The example of America shows us just the\ncontrary. There government discharges its office quite well, and does\nharm to no one. But we have been far removed, for very many centuries,\nthanks to the unhappy state of Europe, from any actual experience of\nthe kind, and now destiny, as if to disconcert and give the lie to\nall our philosophy, or rather to accuse it of not knowing all the\nelements of human nature, shows us, that just when the unhappiness of\nbad government is wanting to America, the Americans are wanting to\nthemselves.\n\nOne is inclined to say that the source of sensibility is dried up\nin this people. They are just, they are reasonable, but they are\nessentially not happy.\n\nIs the Bible, that is to say, the ridiculous consequences and rules of\nconduct which certain fantastic wits deduce from that collection of\npoems and songs, sufficient to cause all this unhappiness? To me it\nseems a very considerable effect for such a cause.\n\n[Pg 198]\nM. de Volney related that, being at table in the country at the house\nof an honest American, a man in easy circumstances, and surrounded by\nchildren already grown up, there entered into the dining-room a young\nman. \"Good day, William,\" said the father of the family; \"sit down.\"\nThe traveller enquired who this young man was. \"He's my second son.\"\n\"Where does he come from?\"--\"From Canton.\"\n\nThe arrival of one of his sons from the end of the world caused no more\nsensation than that.\n\nAll their attention seems employed on finding a reasonable arrangement\nof life, and on avoiding all inconveniences. When finally they arrive\nat the moment of reaping the fruit of so much care and of the spirit of\norder so long maintained, there is no life left for enjoyment.\n\nOne might say that the descendants of Penn never read that line, which\nlooks like their history:--\n\n Et propter vitam vivendi perdere causas.\n\nThe young people of both sexes, when winter comes, which in this\ncountry, as in Russia, is the gay season, go sleighing together day and\nnight over the snow, often going quite gaily distances of fifteen or\ntwenty miles, and without anyone to look after them. No inconvenience\never results from it.\n\nThey have the physical gaiety of youth, which soon passes away with\nthe warmth of their blood, and is over at twenty-five. But I find no\npassions which give pleasure. In America there is such a reasonable\nhabit of mind that crystallisation has been rendered impossible.\n\nI admire such happiness, but I do not envy it; it is like the happiness\nof human beings of a different and lower species. I augur much better\nthings from Florida and Southern America.[1]\n\n[Pg 199]\nWhat strengthens my conjecture about the North is the absolute lack of\nartists and writers. The United States have not yet(42) sent us over\none scene of a tragedy, one picture, or one life of Washington.\n\n\n[1] See the manners of the Azores: there, love of God and the\nother sort of love occupy every moment. The Christian religion, as\ninterpreted by the Jesuits, is much less of an enemy to man, in this\nsense, than English protestantism; it permits him at least to dance on\nSunday; and one day of pleasure in the seven is a great thing for the\nagricultural labourer, who works hard for the other six.\n\n\n[Pg 200]\n                              CHAPTER LI\n\n   LOVE IN PROVENCE UP TO THE CONQUEST OF TOULOUSE, IN 1328, BY THE\n                       BARBARIANS FROM THE NORTH\n\n\nLove took a singular form in Provence, from the year 1100 up to 1328.\nIt had an established legislation for the relations of the two sexes in\nlove, as severe and as exactly followed as the laws of Honour could be\nto-day. The laws of Love began by putting completely aside the sacred\nrights of husbands. They presuppose no hypocrisy. These laws, taking\nhuman nature such as it is, were of the kind to produce a great deal of\nhappiness.\n\nThere was an official manner of declaring oneself a woman's lover,\nand another of being accepted by her as lover. After so many months\nof making one's court in a certain fashion, one obtained her leave to\nkiss her hand. Society, still young, took pleasure in formalities and\nceremonies, which were then a sign of civilisation, but which to-day\nwould bore us to death. The same trait is to be found in the language\nof Provence, in the difficulty and interlacing of its rhymes, in its\nmasculine and feminine words to express the same object, and indeed in\nthe infinite number of its poets. Everything formal in society, which\nis so insipid to-day, then had all the freshness and savour of novelty.\n\nAfter having kissed a woman's hand, one was promoted from grade to\ngrade by force of merit, and without extraordinary promotion.\n\nIt should be remarked, however, that if the husbands\n\n[Pg 201]\nwere always left out of the question, on the other hand the official\npromotion of the lover stopped at what we should call the sweetness of\na most tender friendship between persons of a different sex.[1] But\nafter several months or several years of probation, in which a woman\nmight become perfectly sure of the character and discretion of a man,\nand he enjoy at her hand all the prerogatives and outward signs which\nthe tenderest friendship can give, her virtue must surely have had to\nthank his friendship for many a violent alarm.\n\nI have spoken of extraordinary promotion, because a woman could have\nmore than one lover, but one only in the higher grades. It seems that\nthe rest could not be promoted much beyond that degree of friendship\nwhich consisted in kissing her hand and seeing her every day. All that\nis left to us of this singular civilisation is in verse, and in a verse\nthat is rhymed in a very fantastic and difficult way; and it need not\nsurprise us if the notions, which we draw from the ballads of the\ntroubadours, are vague and not at all precise. Even a marriage contract\nin verse has been found. After the conquest in 1328, as a result of\nits heresy, the Pope, on several occasions, ordered everything written\nin the vulgar tongue to be burnt. Italian cunning proclaimed Latin the\nonly language worthy of such clever people. 'Twere a most advantageous\nmeasure could we renew it in 1822.\n\nSuch publicity and such official ordering of love seem at first sight\nto ill-accord with real passion. But if a lady said to her lover: \"Go\nfor your love of me and visit the tomb of our Lord Jesus Christ at\nJerusalem; there you will pass three years and then return\"--the lover\nwas gone immediately: to hesitate a moment would have covered him with\nthe same ignominy as would nowadays a sign of wavering on a point of\nhonour. The language of this people has an extreme fineness in\n\n[Pg 202]\nexpressing the most fugitive shades of feeling. Another sign that their\nmanners were well advanced on the road of real civilisation is that,\nscarcely out of the horrors of the Middle Ages and of Feudalism, when\nforce was everything, we see the feebler sex less tyrannised over than\nit is to-day with the approval of the law; we see the poor and feeble\ncreatures, who have the most to lose in love and whose charms disappear\nthe quickest, mistresses over the destiny of the men who approach them.\nAn exile of three years in Palestine, the passage from a civilisation\nfull of gaiety to the fanaticism and boredom of the Crusaders' camp,\nmust have been a painful duty for any other than an inspired Christian.\nWhat can a woman do to her lover who has basely deserted her at Paris?\n\nI can only see one answer to be made here: at Paris no self-respecting\nwoman has a lover. Certainly prudence has much more right to counsel\nthe woman of to-day not to abandon herself to passion-love. But does\nnot another prudence, which, of course, I am far from approving,\ncounsel her to make up for it with physical love? Our hypocrisy and\nasceticism[2] imply no homage to virtue; for you can never oppose\nnature with impunity: there is only less happiness on earth and\ninfinitely less generous inspiration.\n\nA lover who, after ten years of intimate intercourse, deserted his poor\nmistress, because he began to notice her two-and-thirty years, was lost\nto honour in this lovable Provence; he had no resource left but to bury\nhimself in the solitude of a cloister. In those days it was to the\ninterest of a man, not only of generosity but even of prudence, to make\ndisplay of no more passion than he really had. We conjecture all this;\nfor very few remains are left to give us any exact notions....\n\nWe must judge manners as a whole, by certain particular facts. You know\nthe anecdote of the poet who\n\n[Pg 203]\nhad offended his lady: after two years of despair she deigned at last\nto answer his many messages and let him know that if he had one of his\nnails torn off and had this nail presented to her by fifty loving and\nfaithful knights, she might perhaps pardon him. The poet made all haste\nto submit to the painful operation. Fifty knights, who stood in their\nladies' good graces, went to present this nail with all imaginable pomp\nto the offended beauty. It was as imposing a ceremony as the entry of\na prince of the blood into one of the royal towns. The lover, dressed\nin the garb of a penitent, followed his nail from afar. The lady, after\nhaving watched the ceremony, which was of great length, right through,\ndeigned to pardon him; he was restored to all the sweets of his former\nhappiness. History tells that they spent long and happy years together.\nSure it is that two such years of unhappiness prove a real passion and\nwould have given birth to it, had it not existed before in that high\ndegree.\n\nI could cite twenty anecdotes which show us everywhere gallantry,\npleasing, polished and conducted between the two sexes on principles\nof justice. I say gallantry, because in all ages passion-love is an\nexception, rather curious than frequent, a something we cannot reduce\nto rules. In Provence every calculation, everything within the domain\nof reason, was founded on justice and the equality of rights between\nthe two sexes; and I admire it for this reason especially, that it\neliminates unhappiness as far as possible. The absolute monarchy under\nLewis XV, on the contrary, had come to make baseness and perfidy the\nfashion in these relations.[3]\n\nAlthough this charming Provencal language, so full of delicacy and so\nlaboured in its rhymes,[4] was probably not\n\n[Pg 204]\nthe language of the people, the manners of the upper classes had\npermeated the lower classes, which in Provence were at that time far\nfrom coarse, for they enjoyed a great deal of comfort. They were in\nthe first enjoyment of a very prosperous and very valuable trade. The\ninhabitants of the shores of the Mediterranean had just realised (in\nthe ninth century) that to engage in commerce, by risking a few ships\non this sea, was less troublesome and almost as amusing as following\nsome little feudal lord and robbing the passers-by on the neighbouring\nhigh-road. Soon after, the Provencals of the tenth century learnt from\nthe Arabs that there are sweeter pleasures than pillage, violence and\nwar.\n\nOne must think of the Mediterranean as the home of European\ncivilisation. The happy shores of this lovely sea, so favoured in\nits climate, were still more favoured in the prosperous state of\ntheir inhabitants and in the absence of all religion or miserable\nlegislation. The eminently gay genius of the Provencals had by then\npassed through the Christian religion, without being altered by it.\n\nWe see a lively image of a like effect from a like cause in the cities\nof Italy, whose history has come down to us more distinctly and which\nhave had the good fortune besides of bequeathing to us Dante, Petrarch\nand the art of painting.\n\nThe Provencals have not left us a great poem like the _Divine Comedy_,\nin which are reflected all the peculiarities of the manners of the\ntime. They had, it seems to me, less passion and much more gaiety than\nthe Italians. They learnt this pleasant way of taking life from their\nneighbours, the Moors of Spain. Love reigned with joy, festivity and\npleasure in the castles of happy Provence.\n\nHave you seen at the opera the finale of one of Rossini's beautiful\noperettas? On the stage all is gaiety, beauty, ideal magnificence. We\nare miles away from all the\n\n[Pg 205]\nmean side of human nature. The opera is over, the curtain falls, the\nspectators go out, the great chandelier is drawn up, the lights are\nextinguished. The house is filled with the smell of lamps hastily put\nout; the curtain is pulled up half-way, and you see dirty, ill-dressed\nroughs tumble on to the stage; they bustle about it in a hideous way,\noccupying the place of the young women who filled it with their graces\nonly a moment ago.\n\nSuch for the kingdom of Provence was the effect of the conquest of\nToulouse by the army of Crusaders. Instead of love, of grace, of\ngaiety, we have the Barbarians from the North and Saint Dominic. I\nshall not darken these pages with a blood-curdling account of the\nhorrors of the Inquisition in all the zeal of its early days. As for\nthe Barbarians, they were our fathers; they killed and plundered\neverywhere; they destroyed, for the pleasure of destroying, whatever\nthey could not carry off; a savage madness animated them against\neverything that showed the least trace of civilisation; above all, they\nunderstood not a word of that beautiful southern language; and that\nredoubled their fury. Highly superstitious and guided by the terrible\nS. Dominic, they thought to gain Heaven by killing the Provencals. For\nthe latter all was over; no more love, no more gaiety, no more poetry.\nLess than twenty years after the conquest (1335), they were almost as\nbarbarous and as coarse as the French, as our fathers.[5]\n\nWhence had lighted on this corner of the world that charming form of\ncivilisation, which for two centuries was the happiness of the upper\nclasses of society? Apparently from the Moors of Spain.\n\n\n[1] Memoirs of the life of Chabanon, written by himself. The rapping of\na cane on the ceiling.\n\n[2] The ascetic principle of Jeremy Bentham.\n\n[3] The reader should have heard charming General Laclos talk at Naples\nin 1802. If he has not had the luck he can open the _Vie priv\u00e9e du\nmar\u00e9chal de Richelieu_, nine volumes very pleasantly put together.\n\n[4] It originated at Narbonne--a mixture of Latin and Arabic.\n\n[5] See _The State of the Military Power of Russia_, a truthful work by\nGeneral Sir Robert Wilson.\n\n\n[Pg 206]\n                            CHAPTER LII(39)\n\n                    PROVENCE IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY\n\n\nI am going to translate an anecdote from the Proven\u00e7al manuscripts. The\nfacts, of which you are going to read, happened about the year 1180 and\nthe history was written about 1250.[1] The anecdote, to be sure, is\nvery well known: the style especially gives the colour of the society\nwhich produced it.\n\nI beg that I be allowed to translate it word for word, and without\nseeking in any way after the elegance of the language of to-day.\n\n\"My Lord Raymond of Roussillon was a valiant baron, as you know, and\nhe took to wife my Lady Marguerite, the most beautiful woman of all\nher time and one of the most endowed with all good qualities, with all\nworth and with all courtesy. Now it happened that William of Cabstaing\ncame to the Court of my Lord Raymond of Roussillon, presented himself\nto him and begged, if it so pleased him, that he might be a page in his\nCourt. My Lord Raymond, who saw that he was fair and of good grace,\ntold him that he was welcome and that he might dwell at his Court. Thus\nWilliam dwelt with him, and succeeded in bearing himself so gently\nthat great and small loved him; and he succeeded in placing himself in\nso good a light that my Lord Raymond wished him to be page to my Lady\nMarguerite, his wife; and\n\n[Pg 207]\nso it was. Then William set himself to merit yet more both in word and\ndeed. But now, as is wont to happen in love, it happened that Love\nwished to take hold of my Lady Marguerite and to inflame her thoughts.\nSo much did the person of William please her, both his word and his\nair, that one day she could not restrain herself from saying to him:\n'Now listen, William, if a woman showed you likelihood of love, tell me\nwould you dare love her well?' 'Yes, that I would, madam, provided only\nthat the likelihood were the truth.'--'By S. John,' said the lady, 'you\nhave answered well, like a man of valour; but at present I wish to try\nyou, whether you can understand and distinguish in matter of likelihood\nthe difference between what is true and what is not.'\n\n\"When William heard these words he answered: 'My lady, it is as it\nshall please you.'\n\n\"He began to be pensive, and at once Love sought war with him; and\nthe thoughts that love mingled with his entered into the depth of his\nheart, and straightway he was of the servants of Love and began to\n'find'[2] little couplets, gracious and gay, and tunes for the dance\nand tunes with sweet words,[3] by which he was well received, and the\nmore so by reason of her for whom he sang. Now Love, that grants to\nhis servants their reward, when he pleases, wished to grant William\nthe price of his; and behold, he began to take hold of the lady with\nsuch keen thoughts and meditations on love that neither night nor day\ncould she rest, thinking of the valour and prowess that had been so\nbeautifully disposed and set in William.\n\n\"One day it happened that the lady took William and said to him:\n'William, come now, tell me, have you up to this hour taken note of our\nlikelihood, whether it truly is or lies?' William answered: 'My lady,\nso help me God, from that moment onward that I have been your\n\n[Pg 208]\nservant, no thought has been able to enter my heart but that you were\nthe best woman that was ever born, and the truest in the world and the\nmost likely. So I think, and shall think, all my life.' And the lady\nanswered: 'William, I tell you that, if God help me, you shall never\nbe deceived by me, and that what you think shall not prove vain or\nnothing.' And she opened her arms and kissed him softly in the room\nwhere they two sat together, and they began their \"_druerie_\";[4]\nand straightway there wanted not those, whom God holds in wrath, who\nset themselves to talk and gossip of their love, by reason of the\nsongs that William made, saying that he had set his love on my Lady\nMarguerite, and so indiscriminately did they talk that the matter\ncame to the ears of my Lord Raymond. Then he was sorely pained and\ngrievously sad, first that he must lose his familiar squire, whom he\nloved so well, and more still for his wife's shame.\n\n\"One day it happened that William went out to hunt with his hawks and\na single squire; and my Lord Raymond made enquiry where he was; and\na groom answered him that he had gone out to hawk, and one who knew\nadded that it was in such-and-such a spot. Immediately Raymond took\narms, which he hid, and had his horse brought to him, and all alone\ntook his way towards the spot whither William had gone: by dint of\nhard riding he found him. When William saw him approach he was greatly\nastonished, and at once evil thoughts came to him, and he advanced to\nmeet him and said: 'My lord, welcome. Why are you thus alone?' My Lord\nRaymond answered: 'William, because I have come to find you to enjoy\nmyself with you. Have you caught anything?'--'I have caught nothing, my\nlord, because I have found nothing; and he who finds little will not\ncatch much, as the saying goes.'--'Enough of this talk,' said my Lord\nRaymond, 'and by the faith\n\n[Pg 209]\nyou owe me, tell me the truth on all the questions that I may wish to\nask.'--'By God, my lord,' said William, 'if there is ought to say,\ncertainly to you shall I say it.' Then said my Lord Raymond: 'I wish\nfor no subtleties here, but you must answer me in all fullness on\neverything that I shall ask you.'--'My lord, as it shall please you\nto ask,' said William, 'so shall I tell you the truth.' And my Lord\nRaymond asked: 'William, as you value God and the holy faith, have\nyou a mistress for whom you sing and for whom Love constrains you?'\nWilliam answered: 'My lord, and how else should I be singing, if Love\ndid not urge me on? Know the truth, my lord, that Love has me wholly\nin his power.' Raymond answered: 'I can well believe it, for otherwise\nyou could not sing so well; but I wish to know, if you please, who is\nyour lady.'--'Ah, my lord, in God's name,' said William, 'see what you\nask me. You know too well that a man must not name his lady, and that\nBernard of Ventadour says:--\n\n    \"'In one thing my reason serves me,[5]\n     That never man has asked me of my joy,\n     But I have lied to him thereof willingly.\n     For this does not seem to me good doctrine,\n     But rather folly or a child's act,\n     That whoever is well treated in love\n     Should wish to open his heart thereon to another man,\n     Unless he can serve him or help him.'\n\n\"My Lord Raymond answered: 'And I give you my word that I will serve\nyou according to my power.' So said Raymond, and William answered him:\n'My lord, you must know that I love the sister of my Lady Marguerite,\nyour wife, and that I believe I have exchange with her of love. Now\nthat you know it, I beg you to come to my aid and at least not to\nprejudice me.'--'Take my word,' said Raymond, 'for I swear to you and\nengage\n\n[Pg 210]\nmyself to you that I will use all my power for you.' And then he gave\nhis word, and when he had given it to him Raymond said to him: 'I wish\nus to go to her castle, for it is near by.'--'And I beg we may do so,\nin God's name,' said William. And so they took their road towards\nthe castle of Liet. And when they came to the castle they were well\nreceived by _En_[6] Robert of Tarascon, who was the husband of my Lady\nAgnes, the sister of my Lady Marguerite, and by my Lady Agnes herself.\nAnd my Lord Raymond took my Lady Agnes by the hand and led her into her\nchamber, and they sat down on the bed. And my Lord Raymond said: 'Now\ntell me, my sister-in-law, by the faith that you owe me, are you in\nlove with Love?' And she said: 'Yes, my lord.'--'And whose?' said he.\n'Oh, that I do not tell you,' answered she; 'what means this parleying?'\n\n\"In the end, so insistently did he demand that she said that she loved\nWilliam of Cabstaing; this she said because she saw William sad and\npensive and she knew well that he loved her sister; and so she feared\nthat Raymond might have had evil thoughts of William. Such a reply\ngave great joy to Raymond. Agnes related it all to her husband, and\nher husband answered her that she had done well and gave her his word\nthat she was at liberty to do and say anything that could save William.\nAgnes was not wanting to him. She called William all alone into her\nchamber, and remained so long with him that Raymond thought he must\nhave had the pleasures of love with her; and all this pleased him, and\nhe began to think that what he had been told of William was untrue and\nrandom talk. Agnes and William came out of her chamber, supper was\nprepared and they supped with great gaiety. And after supper Agnes had\nthe bed of her two neighbours prepared by the door of her chamber,\n\n[Pg 211]\nand so well did the Lady and William act their parts that Raymond\nbelieved he was with her.\n\n\"And the next day they dined in the castle with great joy, and after\ndinner they set out with all the honours of a noble leave-taking,\nand came to Roussillon. And as soon as Raymond could, he separated\nfrom William and went away to his wife, and related to her all that\nhe had seen of William and her sister, for which his wife was sorely\ngrieved all night. And the next day she had William summoned to her and\nreceived him ill, and called him false friend and traitor. And William\ncried to her for pity, as a man who had done nought of that with which\nshe charged him, and related to her all that had passed, word for word.\nAnd the lady sent for her sister and from her she learnt that William\nhad done no wrong. And therefore she called him and bade him make a\nsong by which he should show that he loved no woman but her, and then\nhe made the song which says:--\n\n    \"The sweet thoughts\n    That Love often gives me.\n\n\"And when Raymond of Roussillon heard the song that William had made\nfor his wife, he made him come to speak with him some way from the\ncastle, and cut off his head, which he put in a bag; he drew out the\nheart from the body and put it with the head. He went back to the\ncastle; he had the heart roasted and brought to his wife at table and\nmade her eat it without her knowing. When she had eaten it, Raymond\nrose up and told his wife that what she had just eaten was the heart\nof Lord William of Cabstaing, and showed her his head and asked her if\nthe heart had been good to eat. And she heard what he said, and saw and\nrecognised the head of Lord William. She answered him and said that\nthe heart had been so good and savoury, that never other meat or other\ndrink could take away from her mouth the taste that the heart of Lord\nWilliam had left there. And\n\n[Pg 212]\nRaymond ran at her with a sword. She took to flight, threw herself down\nfrom a balcony and broke her head.\n\n\"This became known through all Catalonia and through all the lands of\nthe King of Aragon. King Alphonse and all the barons of these countries\nhad great grief and sorrow for the death of Lord William and of the\nwoman whom Raymond had so basely done to death. They made war on him\nwith fire and sword. King Alphonse of Aragon having taken Raymond's\ncastle, had William and his lady laid in a monument before the door of\na church in a borough named Perpignac. All perfect lovers of either sex\nprayed God for their souls. The King of Aragon took Raymond and let him\ndie in prison, and gave all his goods to the relatives of William and\nto the relatives of the woman who died for him.\"\n\n\n[1] The manuscript is in the Laurentian Library. M. Raynouard gives it\nin Vol. V of his _Troubadours_, p. 187. There are a good many faults in\nhis text; he has praised the Troubadours too much and understood them\ntoo little.\n\n[2] i. e. to compose.\n\n[3] He made up both the airs and the words.\n\n[4] A far all' amore.\n\n[5] Word for word translation of the Proven\u00e7al verses quoted by William.\n\n[6] _En_, a form of speech among the Proven\u00e7als, which we would\ntranslate by _Sir_.\n\n\n[Pg 213]\n                             CHAPTER LIII\n\n                                ARABIA\n\n\n'Tis beneath the dusky tent of the Bedouin Arab that we seek the model\nand the home of true love. There, as elsewhere, solitude and a fine\nclimate have kindled the noblest passion of the human heart--that\npassion which must give as much happiness as it feels, in order to be\nhappy itself.\n\nIn order that love may be seen in all the fullness of its power over\nthe human heart, equality must be established as far as possible\nbetween the mistress and her lover. It does not exist, this equality,\nin our poor West; a woman deserted is unhappy or dishonoured. Under the\nArab's tent faith once plighted cannot be broken. Contempt and death\nimmediately follow that crime.\n\nGenerosity is held so sacred by this people, that you may steal, in\norder to give. For the rest, every day danger stares them in the face,\nand life flows on ever, so to speak, in a passionate solitude. Even in\ncompany the Arabs speak little.\n\nNothing changes for the inhabitant of the desert; there everything is\neternal and motionless. This singular mode of life, of which, owing to\nmy ignorance, I can give but a poor sketch, has probably existed since\nthe time of Homer.[1] It is described for the first time about the year\n600 of our era, two centuries before Charlemagne.\n\nClearly it is we who were the barbarians in the eyes of the East, when\nwe went to trouble them with our crusades.[2] Also we owe all that is\nin our manner to these\n\n[Pg 214]\ncrusades and to the Moors of Spain. If we compare ourselves with the\nArabs, the proud, prosaic man will smile with pity. Our arts are very\nmuch superior to theirs, our systems of law to all appearance still\nmore superior. But I doubt if we beat them in the art of domestic\nhappiness--we have always lacked loyalty and simplicity. In family\nrelations the deceiver is the first to suffer. For him the feeling of\nsafety is departed; always unjust, he is always afraid.\n\nIn the earliest of their oldest historical monuments we can see the\nArabs divided from all antiquity into a large number of independent\ntribes, wandering about the desert. As soon as these tribes were able\nto supply, with more or less ease, the simplest human wants, their way\nof life was already more or less refined. Generosity was the same on\nevery side; only according to the tribe's degree of wealth it found\nexpression, now in the quarter of goat's flesh necessary for the\nsupport of life, now in the gift of a hundred camels, occasioned by\nsome family connexion or reasons of hospitality.\n\nThe heroic age of the Arabs, that in which these generous hearts burnt\nunsullied by any affectation of fine wit or refined sentiment, was that\nwhich preceded Mohammed; it corresponds to the fifth century of our\nera, to the foundations of Venice and to the reign of Clovis. I beg\nEuropean pride to compare the Arab love-songs, which have come down\nto us, and the noble system of life revealed in the _Thousand and One\nNights_, with the disgusting horrors that stain every page of Gregory\nof Tours, the historian of Clovis, and of Eginhard, the historian of\nCharlemagne.\n\nMohammed was a puritan; he wished to prescribe pleasures which do no\none any harm; he has killed love in those countries which have accepted\nIslamism.[3] It is for this reason that his religion has always been\nless\n\n[Pg 215]\nobserved in Arabia, its cradle, than in all the other Mohammedan\ncountries.\n\nThe French brought away from Egypt four folio volumes, entitled _The\nBook of Songs_. These volumes contain:--\n\n1. Biographies of the poets who composed the songs.\n\n2. The songs themselves. In them the poet sings of everything that\ninterests him; when he has spoken of his mistress he praises his\nswiftcoursers and his bow. These songs were often love-letters from\ntheir author, giving the object of his love a faithful picture of all\nthat passed in his heart. Sometimes they tell of cold nights when he\nhas been obliged to burn his bow and arrows. The Arabs are a nation\nwithout houses.\n\n3. Biographies of the musicians who have composed the music for these\nsongs.\n\n4. Finally, the notation of the musical setting; for us these settings\nare hieroglyphics. The music will be for ever unknown, and anyhow, it\nwould not please us.\n\nThere is another collection entitled _The History of those Arabs who\nhave died for Love_.\n\nIn order to feel at home in the midst of remains which owe so much\nof their interest to their antiquity, and to appreciate the singular\nbeauty of the manners of which they let us catch a glimpse, we must go\nto history for enlightenment on certain points.\n\nFrom all time, and especially before Mohammed, the Arabs betook\nthemselves to Mecca in order to make the tour of the Caaba or house of\nAbraham. I have seen at London a very exact model of the Holy City.\nThere are seven or eight hundred houses with terraces on the roofs, set\nin the midst of a sandy desert devoured by the sun. At one extremity\nof the city is found an immense building, in form almost a square;\nthis building surrounds the Caaba. It is composed of a long course of\ncolonnades, necessary under an Arabian sun for the performance of the\nsacred procession, This colonnade is very\n\n[Pg 216]\nimportant in the history of the manners and poetry of the Arabs;\nit was apparently for centuries the one place where men and women\nmet together. Pell-mell, with slow steps, and reciting in chorus\ntheir sacred songs, they walked round the Caaba--it is a walk of\nthree-quarters of an hour. The procession was repeated many times in\nthe same day; this was the sacred rite for which men and women came\nforth from all parts of the desert. It is under the colonnade of the\nCaaba that Arab manners became polished. A contest between the father\nand the lover soon came to be established--in love-lyrics the lover\ndiscovered his passion to the girl, jealously guarded by brothers and\nfather, as at her side he walked in the sacred procession. The generous\nand sentimental habits of this people existed already in the camp;\nbut Arab gallantry seems to me to have been born in the shadow of the\nCaaba, which is also the home of their literature. At first, passion\nwas expressed with simplicity and vehemence, just as the poet felt it;\nlater the poet, instead of seeking to touch his mistress, aimed at fine\nwriting; then followed that affectation which the Moors introduced into\nSpain and which still to-day spoils the books of that people.[4]\n\nI find a touching proof of the Arab's respect for the weaker sex in his\nceremony of divorce. The woman, during the absence of her husband from\nwhom she wished to separate, opened the tent and drew it up, taking\ncare to place the opening on the opposite side to that which she had\nformerly occupied. This simple ceremony separated husband and wife for\never.\n\n\n[Pg 217]\n                               FRAGMENTS\n\nGathered and translated from an Arabic Collection entitled: _The Divan\nof Love_(39)\n\nCompiled by Ebn-Abi-Hadglat. (Manuscripts of the King's Library, Nos.\n1461 and 1462.)\n\n\nMohammed, son of Djaafar Elahouazadi, relates that Djamil being sick of\nthe illness of which he died, Elabas, son of Sohail, visited him and\nfound him ready to give up the ghost. \"O son of Sohail,\" said Djamil\nto him, \"what do you think of a man who has never drunk wine, who has\nnever made illicit gain, who has never unrighteously given death to any\nliving creature that God has forbidden us to kill, and who confesses\nthat there is no other God but Allah and that Mohammed is his prophet?\"\n\"I think,\" answered Ben Sohail, \"that such a man will be saved and\nwill gain Paradise; but who is he, this man of whom you talk?\" \"'Tis\nI,\" answered Djamil. \"I did not think that you professed the faith,\"\nreturned Ben Sohail, \"and moreover, for twenty years now you have been\nmaking love to Bothaina, and celebrating her in your verses.\" \"Here I\nam,\" answered Djamil, \"at my first day in the other world and at my\nlast in this, and I pray that the mercy of our Master Mohammed may not\nbe extended to me at the day of judgment, if ever I have laid hands on\nBothaina for anything reprehensible.\"\n\nThis Djamil and Bothaina, his mistress, both belonged to the\nBenou-Azra, who are a tribe famous in love among all the tribes of the\nArabs. Also their manner of loving has passed into a proverb, and God\nhas made no other creatures as tender in love as they.\n\nSahid, son of Agba, one day asked an Arab: \"Of what people are you?\" \"I\nam of the people that die when they love,\" replied the Arab. \"Then you\nare of the\n\n[Pg 218]\ntribe of Azra,\" added Sahid. \"Yes, by the Master of the Caaba,\" replied\nthe Arab. \"Whence comes it that you love in this manner?\" Sahid asked\nnext. \"Our women are beautiful and our young men are chaste,\" answered\nthe Arab.\n\nOne day someone asked Aroua-Ben-Hezam:[5] \"Is it really true what\npeople tell of you, that you of all mankind have the heart most tender\nin love?\" \"Yes, by Allah, it is true,\" answered Aroua, \"and I have\nknown in my tribe thirty young men whom death has carried oil and who\nhad no other sickness but love.\"\n\nAn Arab of the Benou-Fazarat said one day to an Arab of the Benou-Azra:\n\"You, Benou-Azra, you think it a sweet and noble death to die of love;\nbut therein is a manifest weakness and stupidity; and those whom you\ntake for men of great heart are only madmen and soft creatures.\" \"You\nwould not talk like that,\" the Arab of the tribe of Azra answered him,\n\"if you had seen the great black eyes of our women darting fire from\nbeneath the veil of their long lashes, if you had seen them smile and\ntheir teeth gleaming between their brown lips!\"\n\nAbou-el-Hassan, Ali, son of Abdalla, Elzagouni, relates the following\nstory: A Mussulman loved to distraction the daughter of a Christian. He\nwas obliged to make a journey to a foreign country with a friend, to\nwhom he had confided his love. His business prolonged his stay in this\ncountry, and being attacked there by a mortal sickness, he said to his\nfriend: \"Behold, my time approaches; no more in the world shall I meet\nher whom I love, and I fear, if I die a Mussulman, that I shall not\nmeet her again in the other life.\" He turned Christian and died. His\nfriend betook himself to the young Christian woman, whom he found sick.\nShe said to him:\n\n[Pg 219]\n\"I shall not see my friend any more in this world, but I want to be\nwith him in the other; therefore I confess that there is no other God\nbut Allah, and that Mohammed is the prophet of God.\" Thereupon she\ndied, and may God's mercy be upon her.*\n\nEltemimi relates that there was in the tribe of the Arabs of Tagleb a\nChristian girl of great riches who was in love with a young Mussulman.\nShe offered him her fortune and all her treasures without succeeding\nin making him love her. When she had lost all hope she gave an artist\na hundred dinars, to make her a statue of the young man she loved. The\nartist made the statue, and when the girl got it, she placed it in a\ncertain spot where she went every day. There she would begin by kissing\nthis statue, and then sat down beside it and spent the rest of the\nday in weeping. When the evening came she would bow to the statue and\nretire. This she did for a long time. The young man chanced to die; she\ndesired to see him and to embrace him dead, after which she returned to\nher statue, bowed to it, kissed it as usual, and lay down beside it.\nWhen day came, they found her dead, stretching out her hand towards\nsome lines of writing, which she had written before she died.*\n\nOueddah, of the land of Yamen, was renowned among the Arabs for his\nbeauty. He and Om-el-Bonain, daughter of Abd-el-Aziz, son of Merouan,\nwhile still only children, were even then so much in love that they\ncould not bear to be parted from each other for a moment. When\nOm-el-Bonain became the wife of Oualid-Ben-Abd-el-Malek, Oueddah became\nmad for grief. After remaining a long time in a state of distraction\nand suffering, he betook himself to Syria and began every day to prowl\naround the house of Oualid, son of Malek, without at first finding\nthe means to attain his desire. In the end, he made the acquaintance\nof a girl, whom he succeeded in attaching to himself by dint of his\nperseverance and his pains. When he thought he could rely on her, he\n\n[Pg 220]\nasked her if she knew Om-el-Bonain. \"To be sure I do,\" answered the\ngirl, \"seeing she is my mistress.\" \"Listen,\" continued Oueddah, \"your\nmistress is my cousin, and if you care to tell her about me, you will\ncertainly give her pleasure.\" \"I'll tell her willingly,\" answered\nthe girl. And thereupon she ran straight to Om-el-Bonain to tell her\nabout Oueddah. \"Take care what you say,\" cried Om-el-Bonain. \"What?\nOueddah is alive?\" \"Certainly he is,\" said the girl. \"Go and tell him,\"\nOm-el-Bonain went on, \"on no account to depart until a messenger comes\nto him from me.\" Then she took measures to get Oueddah brought to her,\nwhere she kept him hidden in a coffer. She let him come out to be with\nher when she thought it safe; but if someone arrived who might have\nseen him, she made him get inside the coffer again.\n\nIt happened one day that a pearl was brought to Oualid and he said to\none of his attendants: \"Take this pearl and give it to Om-el-Bonain.\"\nThe attendant took the pearl and gave it to Om-el-Bonain. As he was\nnot announced, he entered where she dwelt at a time when she was with\nOueddah, and thus he was able to throw a glance into Om-el-Bonain's\napartment without her noticing him. Oualid's attendant fulfilled his\nmission and asked something of Om-el-Bonain for the jewel he had\nbrought her. She refused him with severity and reprimanded him. The\nattendant went out incensed against her, and went to tell Oualid what\nhe had seen, describing the coffer into which he had seen Oueddah\nenter. \"You lie, bastard slave! You lie,\" said Oualid. And he ran in\nhaste to Om-el-Bonain. There were several coffers in her apartment; he\nsat down on the one in which Oueddah was hid and which the slave had\ndescribed, saying: \"Give me one of these coffers.\" \"They are all yours,\nas much as I myself,\" answered Om-el-Bonain. \"Then,\" continued Oualid,\n\"I would like to have the one on which I am seated.\" \"There are\n\n[Pg 221]\nsome things in it that only a woman needs,\" said Om-el-Bonain. \"It is\nnot them, it is the coffer I desire,\" added Oualid. \"It is yours,\" she\nanswered. Oualid had the coffer taken away at once, and summoned two\nslaves, whom he ordered to dig a pit in the earth down to the depth\nwhere they would find water. Then placing his mouth against the coffer:\n\"I have heard something of you,\" he cried. \"If I have heard the truth,\nmay all trace of you be lost, may all memory of you be buried. If they\nhave told me false I do no harm by entombing a coffer: it is only the\nfuneral of a box.\" Then he had the coffer pushed into the pit and\ncovered with the stones and the earth which had been dug up. From that\ntime Om-el-Bonain never ceased to frequent this spot and to weep, until\none day they found her there lifeless, her face pressed towards the\nearth.*[6]\n\n\n[1] Nine hundred years before Jesus Christ.\n\n[2] 1095.\n\n[3] Morals of Constantinople. The one way of killing passion-love is to\nprevent all crystallisation by facility.\n\n[4] There are a large number of Arabic manuscripts at Paris. Those of\na later date show some affectation, but no imitation of the Greeks or\nRomans; it is this that makes scholars despise them.\n\n[5] This Aroua-Ben-Hezam was of the tribe of Azra, of which mention has\njust been made. He is celebrated as a poet, and still more celebrated\nas one of the numerous martyrs to love whom the Arabs enumerate.\n\n[6] These fragments are taken from different chapters of the collection\nwhich I have mentioned. The three marked by an * are taken from the\nlast chapter, which is a very summary biography of a considerable\nnumber of Arab martyrs to love.\n\n\n[Pg 222]\n                            CHAPTER LIV(43)\n\n                       OF THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN\n\n\nIn the actual education of girls, which is the fruit of chance and the\nmost idiotic pride, we allow their most shining faculties, and those\nmost fertile in happiness for themselves and for us, to lie fallow. But\nwhat man is there, who at least once in his life has not exclaimed:--\n\n                ... a woman always knows enough\n    If but her range of understanding reaches\n    To telling one from t'other, coat and breeches.\n                  (_Les Femmes Savantes_, Act II, Scene VII.)\n                      [Translation of C. H. Page, New York, 1908. ]\n\nAt Paris, this is the highest praise for a young girl of a marriageable\nage: \"There is so much that's sweet in her character, and she's as\ngentle as a lamb.\" Nothing has more effect on the idiots looking out\nfor wives. But see them two years later, lunching _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_ with\ntheir wives some dull day, hats on and surrounded by three great\nlackeys!\n\nWe have seen a law carried in the United States, in 1818, which\ncondemns to thirty-four strokes of the cat anyone teaching a Virginian\nnegro to read.[1] Nothing could be more consequent and more reasonable\nthan a law of this kind.\n\nWere the United States of America themselves more useful to the\nmotherland when they were her slaves or since they have become her\nequals? If the work of a\n\n[Pg 223]\nfree man is worth two or three times that of a man reduced to slavery,\nwhy should not the same be true of that man's thought?\n\nIf we dared, we would give girls the education of a slave; and the\nproof of this is that if they know anything useful, it is against our\nwish we teach it them.\n\n\"But they turn against us the little education which unhappily\nthey get hold of,\" some husbands might say. No doubt; and Napoleon\nwas also quite right not to give arms to the National Guard; and\nthe reactionaries are also quite right to proscribe the monitorial\nsystem(44). Arm a man, and then continue to oppress him, and you will\nsee that he can be so perverse as to turn his arms against you, as soon\nas he can.\n\nEven if it were permissible to bring girls up like idiots, on _Ave\nMarias_ and lewd songs, as they did in the convents of 1770, there\nwould still be several little objections:--\n\n1. In the case of the husband's death, they are called upon to manage\nthe young family.\n\n2. As mothers, they give their male children, the young tyrants of\nthe future, their first education, that education which forms the\ncharacter, and accustoms the soul to seek happiness by this route\nrather than by that--and the choice is always an accomplished fact by\nfour or five.\n\n3. In spite of all our pride, the advice of the inevitable partner of\nour whole life has great influence on those domestic affairs on which\nour happiness depends so particularly; for, in the absence of passion,\nhappiness is based on the absence of small everyday vexations. Not that\nwe would willingly accord this advice the least influence, but she may\nrepeat the same thing to us for twenty years together. Whose is the\nspirit of such Roman fortitude as to resist the same idea repeated\nthroughout a whole lifetime? The world is full of husbands who let\nthemselves be led, but it is from weakness\n\n[Pg 224]\nand not from a feeling for justice and equality. As they yield\nperforce, the wife is always tempted to abuse her power, and it is\nsometimes necessary to abuse power in order to keep it.\n\n4. Finally, in love, and during a period which, in southern countries,\noften comprises twelve or fifteen years, and those the fairest of our\nlife, our happiness is entirely in the hands of the woman we love. One\nmoment of untimely pride can make us for ever miserable, and how should\na slave raised up to a throne not be tempted to abuse her power? This\nis the origin of women's false refinement and pride. Of course, there\nis nothing more useless than these pleas: men are despots and we see\nwhat respect other despots show to the wisest counsels. A man who is\nall-powerful relishes only one sort of advice, the advice of those that\ntell him to increase his power. Where are poor young girls to find\na Quiroga or a Riego(45) to give the despots, who oppress them, and\ndegrade them the better to oppress them, that salutary advice, whose\njust recompense are favours and orders instead of Porlier's(45) gallows?\n\nIf a revolution of this kind needs several centuries, it is because,\nby a most unlucky chance, all our first experiences must necessarily\ncontradict the truth. Illuminate a girl's mind, form her character,\ngive her, in short, a good education in the true sense of the\nword--remarking sooner or later her own superiority over other women,\nshe becomes a pedant, that is to say, the most unpleasant and the most\ndegraded creature that there is in the world. There isn't one of us who\nwouldn't prefer a servant to a _savante_, if we had to pass our life\nwith her.\n\nPlant a young tree in the midst of a dense forest, deprived of air and\nsun by the closeness of the neighbouring trees: its leaves will be\nblighted, and it will get an overgrown and ridiculous shape--_not_ its\nnatural shape. We ought to plant the whole forest at once. What woman\nis there who is proud of knowing how to read?\n\n[Pg 225]\nPedants have repeated to us for two thousand years that women were\nmore quick and men more judicious, women more remarkable for delicacy\nof expression and men for stronger powers of concentration. A Parisian\nsimpleton, who used once upon a time to take his walk in the gardens of\nVersailles, similarly concluded from all he saw that trees grow ready\nclipped.\n\nI will allow that little girls have less physical strength than little\nboys: this must be conclusive as regards intellect; for everyone knows\nthat Voltaire and d'Alembert were the first boxers of their age!\nEveryone agrees, that a little girl of ten is twenty times as refined\nas a little boy of the same age. Why, at twenty, is she a great idiot,\nawkward, timid, and afraid of a spider, while the little boy is a man\nof intellect?\n\nWomen only learn the things we do not wish to teach them, and only\nread the lessons taught them by experience of life. Hence the extreme\ndisadvantage it is for them to be born in a very rich family; instead\nof coming into contact with beings who behave naturally to them,\nthey find themselves surrounded by maidservants and governesses, who\nare already corrupted and blighted by wealth.[2] There is nothing so\nfoolish as a prince.\n\nYoung girls soon see that they are slaves and begin to look about them\nvery early; they see everything, but they are too ignorant to see\nproperly. A woman of thirty in France has not the acquired knowledge\nof a small boy of fifteen, a woman of fifty has not the reason of a\nman of twenty-five. Look at Madame de S\u00e9vign\u00e9 admiring Louis XIV's\nmost ridiculous actions. Look at the puerility of Madame d'\u00c9pinay's\nreasonings.[3]\n\n\"Women ought to nurse and look after their children.\" I deny the first\nproposition, I allow the second. \"They ought, moreover, to keep their\nkitchen accounts.\"--And\n\n[Pg 226]\nso have not time to equal a small boy of fifteen in acquired knowledge!\nMen must be judges, bankers, barristers, merchants, doctors, clergymen,\netc., and yet they find time to read Fox's speeches and the _Lusiad_ of\nCamo\u00ebns.\n\nThe Pekin magistrate, who hastens at an early hour to the law courts\nin order to find the means of imprisoning and ruining, in perfect\ngood faith, a poor journalist who has incurred the displeasure of\nan Under-Secretary of State, with whom he had the honour of dining\nthe day before, is surely as busy as his wife, who keeps her kitchen\naccounts, gets stockings made for her little daughter, sees her through\nher dancing and piano lessons, receives a visit from the vicar of the\nparish who brings her the _Quotidienne_, and then goes to choose a hat\nin the Rue de Richelieu and take a turn in the Tuileries.\n\nIn the midst of his noble occupations this magistrate still finds time\nto think of this walk his wife is taking in the Tuileries, and, if he\nwere in as good odour with the Power that rules the universe as with\nthat which rules the State, he would pray Heaven to grant women, for\ntheir own good, eight or ten hours more sleep. In the present condition\nof society, leisure, which for man is the source of all his happiness\nand all his riches, is for women so far from being an advantage as to\nrank among those baneful liberties, from which the worthy magistrate\nwould wish to help deliver us.\n\n\n[1] I regret to be unable to find in the Italian manuscript the\nquotation of an official source for this fact; I hope it may be found\npossible to deny it.\n\n[2] Memoirs of Madame de Sta\u00ebl, Coll\u00e9, Duclos, the Margrave of Bayreuth.\n\n[3] The first volume.\n\n\n[Pg 227]\n                            CHAPTER LV(43)\n\n                 OBJECTIONS TO THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN\n\n\n\"But women are charged with the petty labours of the household.\" The\nColonel of my regiment, M. S----, has four daughters, brought up on the\nbest principles, which means that they work all day. When I come, they\nsing the music of Rossini, that I brought them from Naples. For the\nrest, they read the Bible of Royaumont, they learn what's most foolish\nin history, that is to say, chronological tables and the verses of Le\nRagois; they know a great deal of geography, embroider admirably--and I\nexpect that each of these pretty little girls could earn, by her work,\neight sous a day. Taking three hundred days, that means four hundred\nand eighty francs a year, which is less than is given to one of their\nmasters. It is for four hundred and eighty francs a year that they lose\nfor ever the time, during which it is granted to the human machine to\nacquire ideas.\n\n\"If women read with pleasure the ten or twelve good volumes that\nappear every year in Europe, they will soon give up the care of their\nchildren.\"--'Tis as if we feared, by planting the shore of the ocean\nwith trees, to stop the motion of the waves. It is not in this sense\nthat education is all-powerful. Besides, for four hundred years the\nsame objection has been offered to every sort of education. And yet a\nParisian woman has more good qualities in 1820 than she ever had in\n1720, the age of Law's system and the Regency, and at that time the\ndaughter of the richest farmer-general had a less good education\n\n[Pg 228]\nthan the daughter of the pettiest attorney gets to-day. Are her\nhousehold duties less well performed as a result? Certainly not. And\nwhy? Because poverty, illness, shame, instinct, all force her to fulfil\nthem. It is as if you said of an officer who is becoming too sociable,\nthat he will forget how to handle his horse; you have to remember that\nhe'll break his arm the first time he's slack in the saddle.\n\n_Knowledge, where it produces any bad effects at all, does as much\nmischief to one sex as to the other_. We shall never lack vanity, even\nin the completest absence of any reason for having it--look at the\nmiddle class in a small town. Why not force it at least to repose on\nreal merit, on merit useful or agreeable to society?\n\nDemi-fools, carried away by the revolution that is changing everything\nin France, began twenty years ago to allow that women are capable of\nsomething. But they must give themselves up to occupations becoming\ntheir sex: _educate flowers, make friendships with birds, and pick up\nplants_. These are called innocent amusements.\n\nThese innocent pleasures are better than idleness. Well! let's leave\nthem to stupid women; just as we leave to stupid men the glory of\ncomposing verses for the birthday of the master of the house. But\ndo men in good faith really mean to suggest to Madame Roland or to\nMistress Hutchinson[1] that they should spend their time in tending a\nlittle Bengal rose-bush?\n\nAll such reasoning can be reduced to this: a man likes to be able to\nsay of his slave: \"She's too big a fool to be a knave.\"\n\nBut owing to a certain law called _sympathy_--a law of nature which, in\ntruth, vulgar eyes never perceive--the defects in the companion of your\nlife are not destructive of your happiness by reason only of the direct\nill they\n\n[Pg 229]\ncan occasion you. I would almost prefer that my wife should, in a\nmoment of anger, attempt to stab me once a year, than that she should\nwelcome me every evening with bad spirits.\n\nFinally, happiness is contagious among people who live together.\n\nLet your mistress have passed the morning, while you were on parade\nor at the House of Commons, in painting a rose after a masterpiece of\nRedout\u00e9, or in reading a volume of Shakespeare, her pleasure therein\nwill have been equally innocent. Only, with the ideas that she has got\nfrom her rose she will soon bore you on your return, and, indeed, she\nwill crave to go out in the evening among people to seek sensations a\nlittle more lively. Suppose, on the contrary, she has read Shakespeare,\nshe is as tired as you are, she has had as much pleasure, and she will\nbe happier to give you her arm for a solitary walk in the Bois de\nVincennes than to appear at the smartest party. The pleasures of the\nfashionable world are not meant for happy women.\n\nWomen have, of course, all ignorant men for enemies to their\ninstruction. To-day they spend their time with them, they make love\nto them and are well received by them; what would become of them if\nwomen began to get tired of Boston? When we return from America or the\nWest Indies with a tanned skin and manners that for six months remain\nsomewhat coarse, how would these fellows answer our stories, if they\nhad not this phrase: \"As for us, the women are on our side. While you\nwere at New York the colour of tilburies has changed; it's grey-black\nthat's fashionable at present.\" And we listen attentively, for such\nknowledge is useful. Such and such a pretty woman will not look at us\nif our carriage is in bad taste.\n\nThese same fools, who think themselves obliged, in virtue of the\npre-eminence of their sex, to have more knowledge than women, would be\nruined past all hope, if\n\n[Pg 230]\nwomen had the audacity to learn something. A fool of thirty says to\nhimself, as he looks at some little girls of twelve at the country\nhouse of one of his friends: \"It's in their company that I shall spend\nmy life ten years from now.\" We can imagine his exclamations and his\nterror, if he saw them studying something useful.\n\nInstead of the society and conversation of effeminate men, an educated\nwoman, if she has acquired ideas without losing the graces of her sex,\ncan always be sure of finding among the most distinguished men of her\nage a consideration verging on enthusiasm.\n\n\"Women would become the rivals instead of the companions of man.\" Yes,\nas soon as you have suppressed love by edict. While we are waiting for\nthis fine law, love will redouble its charms and its ecstasy. These\nare the plain facts: the basis on which crystallisation rests will be\nwidened; man will be able to take pleasure in all his ideas in company\nof the woman he loves; nature in all its entirety will in their eyes\nreceive new charms; and as ideas always reflect some of the refinements\nof character, they will understand each other better and will be guilty\nof fewer imprudent acts--love will be less blind and will produce less\nunhappiness.\n\nThe _desire of pleasing secures all that delicacy and reserve which are\nof such inestimable value to women_ from the influence of any scheme of\neducation. 'Tis as though you feared teaching the nightingales not to\nsing in the spring-time.\n\nThe graces of women do not depend on their ignorance; look at the\nworthy spouses of our village bourgeois, look at the wives of the\nopulent merchants in England. Affectation is a kind of pedantry; for I\ncall pedantry the affectation of letting myself talk out of season of a\ndress by Leroy or a novel by Romagnesi, just as much as the affectation\nof quoting Fra Paolo(46) and the Council of Trent _\u00e0 propos_ of a\ndiscussion on our own mild missionaries. It is the pedantry of dress\nand good form, it\n\n[Pg 231]\nis the necessity of saying exactly the conventional phrase about\nRossini, which kills the graces of Parisian women. Nevertheless, in\nspite of the terrible effects of this contagious malady, is it not\nin Paris that exist the most delightful women in France? Would not\nthe reason be that chance filled their heads with the most just and\ninteresting ideas? Well, it is these very ideas that I expect from\nbooks. I shall not, of course, suggest that they read Grotius of\nPuffendorf, now that we have Tracy's(47) commentary on Montesquieu.\n\nWoman's delicacy depends on the hazardous position in which she finds\nherself so early placed, on the necessity of spending her life in the\nmidst of cruel and fascinating enemies.\n\n_There are, perhaps, fifty thousand females in Great Britain who are\nexempted by circumstances from all necessary labour:_ but without work\nthere is no happiness. Passion forces itself to work, and to work of an\nexceedingly rough kind--work that employs the whole activity of one's\nbeing.\n\nA woman with four children and ten thousand francs income works by\nmaking stockings or a frock for her daughter. But it cannot be allowed\nthat a woman who has her own carriage is working when she does her\nembroidery or a piece of tapestry. Apart from some faint glow of\nvanity, she cannot possibly have any interest in what she is doing. She\ndoes not work.\n\nAnd thus her happiness runs a grave risk.\n\nAnd what is more, so does the happiness of her lord and master, for\na woman whose heart for two months has been enlivened by no other\ninterest than that of her needlework, may be so insolent as to imagine\nthat gallant-love, vanity-love, or, in fine, even physical love, is a\nvery great happiness in comparison with her habitual condition.\n\n\"A woman ought not to make people speak about\n\n[Pg 232]\nher.\" To which I answer once more: \"Is any woman specially mentioned as\nbeing able to read?\"\n\nAnd what is to prevent women, while awaiting a revolution in their\ndestiny, from hiding a study which forms their habitual occupation\nand furnishes them every day with an honourable share of happiness.\nI will reveal a secret to them by the way. When you have given\nyourself a task--for example, to get a clear idea about the conspiracy\nof Fiescho(48), at Genoa in 1547--the most insipid book becomes\ninteresting. The same is true, in love, of meeting someone quite\nindifferent, who has just seen the person whom you love. This interest\nis doubled every month, until you give up the conspiracy of Fiescho.\n\n\"_The true theatre for a woman is the sick-chamber._\" But you must be\ncareful to secure that the divine goodness redoubles the frequency of\nillnesses, in order to give occupation to our women. This is arguing\nfrom the exceptional.\n\nMoreover, I maintain that a woman ought to spend three or four hours of\nleisure every day, just as men of sense spend their hours of leisure.\n\nA young mother, whose little son has the measles, could not, even if\nshe would, find pleasure in reading Volney's Travels in Syria, any more\nthan her husband, a rich banker, could get pleasure out of meditating\non Malthus in the midst of bankruptcy.\n\nThere is one, and only one, way for rich women to distinguish\nthemselves from the vulgar: moral superiority. For in this there is a\nnatural distinction of feeling.[2]\n\n\"_We do not wish a lady to write books._\" No, but does giving your\ndaughter a singing-master engage you to make her into an opera-singer?\nIf you\n\n[Pg 233]\nlike, I'll say that a woman ought only to write, like Madame de Sta\u00ebl\n(de Launay), posthumous works to be published after her death. For a\nwoman of less than fifty to publish is to risk her happiness in the\nmost terrible lottery: if she has the good fortune to have a lover, she\nwill begin by losing him.\n\nI know but one exception: it is that of a woman who writes books in\norder to keep or bring up her family. In that case she ought always to\nconfine herself to their money-value when talking of her own works,\nand say, for example, to a cavalry major: \"Your rank gives you four\nthousand francs a year, and I, with my two translations from the\nEnglish, was able last year to devote an extra three thousand five\nhundred francs to the education of my two boys.\"\n\nOtherwise, a woman should publish as Baron d'Holbach or Madame de la\nFayette did; their best friends knew nothing of it. To print a book\ncan only be without inconvenience for a courtesan; the vulgar, who can\ndespise her at their will for her condition, will exalt her to the\nheavens for her talent, and even make a cult of it.\n\nMany men in France, among those who have an income of six thousand\nfrancs, find their habitual source of happiness in literature, without\nthinking of publishing anything; to read a good book is for them one of\nthe greatest pleasures. At the end of ten years they find that their\nmind is enlarged twofold, and no one will deny that, in general, the\nlarger the mind the fewer will be its passions incompatible with the\nhappiness of others.[3] I don't suppose anyone will still deny that the\nsons of a woman who reads Gibbon and Schiller will have more genius\nthan the children of one who tells her beads and reads Madame de Genlis.\n\nA young barrister, a merchant, an engineer can be\n\n[Pg 234]\nlaunched on life without any education; they pick it up themselves\nevery day by practising their profession. But what resources have\ntheir wives for acquiring estimable or necessary qualities? Hidden\nin the solitude of their household, for them the great book of life\nnecessarily remains shut. They spend always in the same way, after\ndiscussing the accounts with their cook, the three _louis_ they get\nevery Monday from their husbands.\n\nI say this in the interest of the tyrant: the least of men, if he\nis twenty and has nice rosy cheeks, is a danger to a woman with no\nknowledge, because she is wholly a creature of instinct. In the eyes\nof a woman of intellect he will produce as much effect as a handsome\nlackey.\n\nThe amusing thing in present-day education is that you teach young\ngirls nothing that they won't have to forget as soon as they are\nmarried. It needs four hours a day, for six years, to learn to play\nthe harp well; to paint well in miniature or water-colours needs\nhalf that time. Most young girls do not attain even to a tolerable\nmediocrity--hence the very true saying: \"Amateur means smatterer.\"[4]\n\nAnd even supposing a young girl has some talent; three years after she\nis married she won't take up her harp or her brushes once a month.\nThese objects of so much study now only bore her--unless chance has\ngiven her the soul of an artist, and this is always a rarity and\nscarcely helpful in the management of a household.\n\nAnd thus under the vain pretext of decency you teach young girls\nnothing that can give them guidance in the circumstances they will\nencounter in their lives. You do more--you hide and deny these\ncircumstances in order to add to their strength, through the effect (i)\nof surprise, and (ii) of mistrust; for education, once\n\n[Pg 235]\nfound deceitful, must bring mistrust on education as a whole.[5] I\nmaintain that one ought to talk of love to girls who have been well\nbrought up. Who will dare suggest in good faith that, in the actual\nstate of our manners, girls of sixteen do not know of the existence of\nlove? From whom do they get this idea so important and so difficult\nto give properly? Think of Julie d'\u00c9tanges deploring the knowledge\nthat she owes to la Chaillot, one of the maidservants. One must thank\nRousseau for having dared be a true painter in an age of false decency.\n\nThe present-day education of women being perhaps the most delightful\nabsurdity in modern Europe, strictly speaking the less education they\nhave, the better they are.[6] It is for this reason perhaps that in\nItaly and Spain they are so superior to the men, and I will even say so\nsuperior to the women of other countries.\n\n\n[1] See the Memoirs of these admirable women. I could find other names\nto quote, but they are unknown to the public, and moreover one cannot\neven point to living merit.\n\n[2] See Mistress Hutchinson refusing to be of use to her family and her\nhusband, whom she adored, by betraying certain of the regicides to the\nministers of the perjured Charles II. (Vol. II, p. 284.)\n\n[3] It is this that gives me great hopes for the rising generation\namong the privileged classes. I also hope that any husbands who read\nthis chapter will be milder despots for three days.\n\n[4] The contrary of this proverb is true in Italy, where the loveliest\nvoices are heard among amateurs who have no connection with the theatre.\n\n[5] The education given to Madame d'\u00c9pinay. (Memoirs, Vol. I.)\n\n[6] I make an exception as regards education in manners: a woman enters\na drawing-room better in Rue Verte than in Rue St. Martin.\n\n\n[Pg 236]\n                            CHAPTER LVI(43)\n\n                 OBJECTIONS TO THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN\n\n                             (_continued_)\n\n\nIn France all our ideas about women are got from a twopence-halfpenny\ncatechism. The delightful part of it is that many people, who would not\nallow the authority of this book to regulate a matter of fifty francs,\nfoolishly follow it word for word in that which bears most nearly on\ntheir happiness. Such is the vanity of nineteenth-century ways!\n\nThere must be no divorce because marriage is a mystery--and what\nmystery? The emblem of the union of Jesus Christ with the Church. And\nwhat had become of this mystery, if the Church had been given a name of\nthe masculine gender?[1] But let us pass over prejudices already giving\nway,[2] and let us merely observe this singular\n\n[Pg 237]\nspectacle: the root of the tree sapped by the axe of ridicule, but the\nbranches continuing to flower.\n\nNow to return to the observation of facts and their consequences.\n\nIn both sexes it is on the manner in which youth has been employed\nthat depends the fate of extreme old age--this is true for women\nearlier than for men. How is a woman of forty-five received in society?\nSeverely, or more often in a way that is below her dignity. Women are\nflattered at twenty and abandoned at forty.\n\nA woman of forty-five is of importance only by reason of her children\nor her lover.\n\nA mother who excels in the fine arts can communicate her talent to\nher son only in the extremely rare case, where he has received from\nnature precisely the soul for this talent. But a mother of intellect\nand culture will give her young son a grasp not only of all merely\nagreeable talents, but also of all talents that are useful to man in\nsociety; and he will be able to make his own choice. The barbarism\nof the Turks depends in great part on the state of moral degradation\namong the beautiful Georgians. Two young men born at Paris owe to their\nmothers the incontestable superiority that they show at sixteen over\nthe young provincials of their age. It is from sixteen to twenty-five\nthat the luck turns.\n\nThe men who invented gunpowder, printing, the art of weaving,\ncontribute every day to our happiness, and the same is true of the\nMontesquieus, the Racines and the La Fontaines. Now the number of\ngeniuses produced by a nation is in proportion to the number of men\nreceiving sufficient culture,[3] and there is nothing to prove to me\nthat my bootmaker has not the soul to write like\n\n[Pg 238]\nCorneille. He wants the education necessary to develop his feelings and\nteach him to communicate them to the public.[4]\n\nOwing to the present system of girls' education, all geniuses who are\nborn women are lost to the public good. So soon as chance gives them\nthe means of displaying themselves, you see them attain to talents the\nmost difficult to acquire. In our own days you see a Catherine II,\nwho had no other education but danger and ...; a Madame Roland; an\nAlessandra Mari, who raised a regiment in Arezzo and sent it against\nthe French; a Caroline, Queen of Naples, who knew how to put a stop to\nthe contagion of liberalism better than all our Castlereaghs and our\nPitts. As for what stands in the way of women's superiority in works of\nart, see the chapter on Modesty, article 9. What might Miss Edgeworth\nnot have done, if the circumspection necessary to a young English girl\nhad not forced her at the outset of her career to carry the pulpit into\nher novel?\n\nWhat man is there, in love or in marriage, who has the good fortune to\nbe able to communicate his thoughts, just as they occur to him, to the\nwoman with whom he passes his life? He may find a good heart that will\nshare his sorrows, but he is always obliged to turn his thoughts into\nsmall change if he wishes to be understood, and it would be ridiculous\nto expect reasonable counsel from an intellect that has need of such a\nmethod in order to seize the facts. The most perfect woman, according\nto the ideas of present-day education, leaves her partner isolated amid\nthe dangers of life and soon runs the risk of wearying him.\n\n[Pg 239]\nWhat an excellent counsellor would a man not find in a wife, if only\nshe could think--a counsellor, after all, whose interests, apart from\none single object, and one which does not last beyond the morning of\nlife, are exactly identical with his own!\n\nOne of the finest prerogatives of the mind is that it provides old age\nwith consideration. See how the arrival of Voltaire in Paris makes the\nRoyal majesty pale. But poor women! so soon as they have no longer the\nbrilliance of youth, their one sad happiness is to be able to delude\nthemselves on the part they take in society.\n\nThe ruins of youthful talents become merely ridiculous, and it were a\nhappiness for our women, such as they actually are, to die at fifty. As\nfor a higher morality--the clearer the mind, the surer the conviction\nthat justice is the only road to happiness. Genius is a power; but\nstill more is it a torch, to light the way to the great art of being\nhappy.\n\nMost men have a moment in their life when they are capable of great\nthings--that moment when nothing seems impossible to them. The\nignorance of women causes this magnificent chance to be lost to the\nhuman race. Love, nowadays, at the very most will make a man a good\nhorseman or teach him to choose his tailor.\n\nI have no time to defend myself against the advances of criticism. If\nmy word could set up systems, I should give girls, as far as possible,\nexactly the same education as boys. As I have no intention of writing a\nbook about everything and nothing, I shall be excused from explaining\nin what regards the present education of men is absurd. But taking it\nsuch as it is (they are not taught the two premier sciences, logic and\nethics), it is better, I say, to give this education to girls than\nmerely to teach them to play the piano, to paint in water-colours and\nto do needlework.\n\nTeach girls, therefore, reading, writing and arithmetic by the\nmonitorial(44) system in the central convent\n\n[Pg 240]\nschools, in which the presence of any man, except the masters, should\nbe severely punished. The great advantage of bringing children together\nis that, however narrow the masters may be, in spite of them the\nchildren learn from their little comrades the art of living in the\nworld and of managing conflicting interests. A sensible master would\nexplain their little quarrels and friendships to the children, and\nbegin his course of ethics in this way rather than with the story of\nthe Golden Calf.[5]\n\nNo doubt some years hence the monitorial system will be applied to\neverything that is learnt; but, taking things as they actually are,\nI would have girls learn Latin like boys. Latin is a good subject\nbecause it accustoms one to be bored; with Latin should go history,\nmathematics, a knowledge of the plants useful as nourishment or\nmedicine; then logic and the moral sciences, etc. Dancing, music and\ndrawing ought to begin at five.\n\nAt sixteen a girl ought to think about finding a husband, and get from\nher mother right ideas on love, marriage, and the want of honesty that\nexists among men.[6]\n\n\n[1] Tu es Petrus, and super hanc petram\n    \u00c6dificabo Ecclesiam meam.\n                 (See M. de Potter, _Histoire de l'\u00c9glise_.)\n\n[2] Religion is a matter between each man and the Divinity. By what\nright do you come and place yourself between my God and me? I accept a\nproctor appointed by the social contract only in those matters which I\ncannot do myself.\n\nWhy should not a Frenchman pay his priest like his baker? If we have\ngood bread in Paris, the reason is that the State has not yet ventured\nto declare the provision of bread gratuitous and put all the bakers at\nthe charge of the Treasury.\n\nIn the United States every man pays his own priest. These gentry are\ncompelled to have some merit, and my neighbour does not see good to\nmake his happiness depend on submitting me to his priest. (Letters of\nBirkbeck.)\n\nWhat will happen if I have the conviction, as our fathers did, that my\npriest is the intimate ally of my bishop? Without a Luther, there will\nbe no more Catholicism in France in 1850. That religion could only be\nsaved in 1820 by M. Gr\u00e9goire(49): see how he is treated.\n\n[3] See the Generals of 1795.\n\n[4] As regards the arts, here we have the great defect of a reasonable\ngovernment as well as the sole reasonable eulogy of monarchy _\u00e0 la_\nLouis XIV. Look at the literary sterility of America. Not a single\nromance like those of Robert Burns or the Spaniards of the thirteenth\ncentury. See the admirable romances of the modern Greeks, those of the\nSpaniards and Danes of the thirteenth century, and still better, the\nArabic poetry of the seventh century.\n\n[5] My dear pupil, your father loves you; this makes him give me forty\nfrancs a month to teach you mathematics, drawing--in a word, how to\nearn your living. If you were cold, because your overcoat was too\nsmall, your father would be unhappy. He would be unhappy because he\nwould sympathise, etc., etc. But when you are eighteen, you yourself\nwill have to earn the money needed to buy your overcoat. Your father,\nI have heard, has an income of twenty-five thousand francs, but there\nare four of you children; therefore you will have to accustom yourself\nto do without the carriage you enjoy while you live with your father,\netc., etc.\n\n[6] Yesterday evening I listened to two charming little girls of four\nyears old singing very gay love-songs in a swing which I was pushing.\nThe maidservants teach them these songs and their mother tells them\nthat \"love\" and \"lover\" are words without any meaning.\n\n\n[Pg 241]\n                              CHAPTER LVI\n\n                               (Part II)\n\n                              ON MARRIAGE\n\n\nThe fidelity of married women, where love is absent, is probably\nsomething contrary to nature.[1]\n\nMen have attempted to obtain this unnatural result by the fear of hell\nand sentiments of religion; the example of Spain and Italy shows how\nfar they have succeeded.\n\nIn France they have attempted to obtain it by public opinion--the one\ndyke capable of resistance, yet it has been badly built. It is absurd\nto tell a young girl: \"You must be faithful to the husband of your\nchoice,\" and then to marry her by force to a boring old dotard.[2]\n\n[Pg 242]\n\"But girls are pleased to get married.\" Because, under the narrow\nsystem of present-day education, the slavery that they undergo in\ntheir mother's house is intolerably tedious; further, they lack\nenlightenment; and, lastly, there are the demands of nature. There is\nbut one way to obtain more fidelity among married women: it is to give\nfreedom to girls and divorce to married people.\n\nA woman always loses the fairest days of her youth in her first\nmarriage, and by divorce she gives fools the chance of talking against\nher.\n\nYoung women who have plenty of lovers have nothing to get from divorce,\nand women of a certain age, who have already had them, hope to repair\ntheir reputation--in France they always succeed in doing so--by\nshowing themselves extremely severe against the errors which have\nleft them behind. It is generally some wretched young woman, virtuous\nand desperately in love, who seeks a divorce, and gets her good name\nblackened at the hands of women who have had fifty different men.\n\n\n[1] Not probably--but certainly. With love there, one has no taste for\nany water but that of the beloved fount. So far fidelity is natural.\n\nIn the case of marriage without love, in less than two years the water\nof this fountain becomes bitter. Now the desire for water always exists\nin nature. Habits may conquer nature, but only when it can be conquered\nin an instant: the Indian wife who burns herself (October 21st, 1821),\nafter the death of the old husband whom she hated; the European girl\nwho barbarously murders the innocent child to whom she has just given\nlife. But for a very high wall the monks would soon leave the monastery.\n\n[2] Even down to details, with us everything that regards the education\nof women is comic. For example, in 1820, under the rule of these very\nnobles who have proscribed divorce, the Home Office sends to the town\nof L\u00e2on a bust and a statue of Gabrielle d'Estr\u00e9es. The statue is to be\nset up in the public square, apparently to spread love of the Bourbons\namong the young girls and to exhort them, in case of need, not to be\ncruel to amorous kings and to give scions to this illustrious family.\n\nBut, in return, the same office refuses the town of L\u00e2on a bust of\nMarshal Serrurier, a brave man who was no gallant, and moreover had\nbeen so vulgar as to begin his career by the trade of private soldier.\n(Speech of General Foy, _Courrier_ of 17th June, 1820. Dulaure, in his\ncurious _History of Paris_, Amours of Henry IV.)\n\n\n[Pg 243]\n                             CHAPTER LVII\n\n                         OF VIRTUE, SO CALLED\n\n\nMyself, I honour with the name of virtue the habit of doing painful\nactions which are of use to others.\n\nSt. Simon Stylites, who sits twenty-two years on the top of a column\nbeating himself with a strap, is in my eyes, I confess, not at all\nvirtuous; and it is this that gives this essay a tone only too\nunprincipled.\n\nI esteem not a bit more the Chartreux monk who eats nothing but fish\nand allows himself to talk only on Thursday. I own I prefer General\nCarnot, who, at an advanced age, puts up with the rigours of exile in a\nlittle northern town rather than do a base action.\n\nI have some hope that this extremely vulgar declaration will lead the\nreader to skip the rest of this chapter.\n\nThis morning, a holiday, at Pesaro (May 7th, 1819), being obliged to go\nto Mass, I got hold of a Missal and fell upon these words:--\n\n Joanna, Alphonsi quinti Lusitaniae regis filia, tanta divini amoris\n flamma praeventa fuit, ut ab ipsa pueritia rerum caducarum pertaesa,\n solo coelestis patriae desiderio flagraret.\n\nThe virtue so touchingly preached by the very beautiful words of the\n_G\u00e9nie du Christianisme_(50) is thus reduced to not eating truffles\nfor fear of a stomach-ache. It is quite a reasonable calculation, if\nyou believe in hell; but it is a self-interested calculation, the most\npersonal and prosaic possible. That philosophic virtue, which so well\nexplains the return of Regulus to Carthage, and which was responsible\nfor some similar incidents in our\n\n[Pg 244]\nown Revolution,[1] proves, on the contrary, generosity of soul.\n\nIt is merely in order not to be burned in the next world, in a great\ncaldron of boiling oil, that Madame de Tourvel resists Valmont. I\ncannot imagine how the idea, with all its ignominy, of being the rival\nof a caldron of boiling oil does not drive Valmont away.\n\nHow much more touching is Julie d'\u00c9tanges, respecting her vows and the\nhappiness of M. de Wolmar.\n\nWhat I say of Madame de Tourvel, I find applicable to the lofty virtue\nof Mistress Hutchinson. What a soul did Puritanism steal away from love!\n\nOne of the oddest peculiarities of this world is that men always think\nthey know whatever it is clearly necessary for them to know. Hear them\ntalk about politics, that very complicated science; hear them talk of\nmarriage and morals.\n\n[1] Memoirs of Madame Roland. M. Grangeneuve, who goes out for a walk\nat eight o'clock in a certain street, in order to be killed by the\nCapuchin Chabot. A death was thought expedient in the cause of liberty.\n\n\n[Pg 245]\n                             CHAPTER LVIII\n\n                STATE OF EUROPE WITH REGARD TO MARRIAGE\n\n\nSo far we have only treated the question of marriage according to\ntheory;[1] we are now to treat it according to the facts.\n\nWhich of all countries is that in which there are the most happy\nmarriages? Without dispute, Protestant Germany(52).\n\nI extract the following fragment from the diary of Captain Salviati,\nwithout changing a single word in it:--\n\n\"Halberstadt, _June 23rd_, 1807.... Nevertheless, M. de B\u00fclow is\nabsolutely and openly in love with Mademoiselle de Feltheim; he follows\nher about everywhere, always, talks to her unceasingly, and very often\nkeeps her yards away from us. Such open marks of affection shock\nsociety, break it up--and on the banks of the Seine would pass for the\nheight of indecency. The Germans think much less than we do about what\nbreaks up society; indecency is little more than a conventional evil.\nFor five years M. de B\u00fclow has been paying court in this way to Mina,\nwhom he has been unable to marry owing to the war. All the young ladies\nin society have their lover, and he is known to everyone. Among all\nthe German acquaintances of my friend M. de Mermann(53) there is not a\nsingle one who has not married for love.\n\n\"Mermann, his brother George, M. de Voigt, M. de\n\n[Pg 246]\nLazing, etc. He has just given me the names of a dozen of them.\n\n\"The open and passionate way in which these lovers pay their court to\ntheir mistresses would be the height of indecency, absurdity and shame\nin France.\n\n\"Mermann told me this evening, as we were returning from the _Chasseur\nVert_, that, among all the women of his very numerous family, he did\nnot suppose there was a single one who had deceived her husband.\nAllowing that he is wrong about half of them, it is still a singular\ncountry.\n\n\"His shady proposal to his sister-in-law, Madame de Munichow, whose\nfamily is about to die out for want of male heirs and its very\nconsiderable possessions revert to the crown, coldly received, but\nmerely with: 'Let's hear no more of that.'\n\n\"He tells the divine Philippine (who has just obtained a divorce from\nher husband, who only wanted to sell her to his Sovereign) something\nabout it in very covert terms. Unfeigned indignation, toned down in its\nexpression instead of being exaggerated: 'Have you, then, no longer any\nrespect for our sex? I prefer to think, for the sake of your honour,\nthat you're joking.'\n\n\"During a journey to the Brocken with this really beautiful woman,\nshe reclined on his shoulder while asleep or pretending to sleep; a\njolt threw her somewhat on to the top of him, and he put his arm round\nher waist; she threw herself into the other corner of the carriage.\nHe doesn't think that she is incorruptible, but he believes that she\nwould kill herself the day after her mistake. What is certain is that\nhe loved her passionately and that he was similarly loved by her, that\nthey saw each other continually and that she is without reproach. But\nthe sun is very pale at Halberstadt, the Government very meddling, and\nthese two persons very cold. In their most passionate interviews Kant\nand Klopstock were always of the party.\n\n[Pg 247]\n\"Mermann told me that a married man, convicted of adultery, could be\ncondemned by the courts of Brunswick to ten years' imprisonment; the\nlaw has fallen into disuse, but at least ensures that people do not\njoke about this sort of affair. The distinction of being a man with a\npast is very far from being such an advantage here as it is in France,\nwhere you can scarcely refuse it a married man in his presence without\ninsulting him.\n\n\"Anyone who told my Colonel or Ch... that they no longer have women\nsince their marriage would get a very poor reception.\n\n\"Some years ago a woman of this country, in a fit of religious fervour,\ntold her husband, a gentleman of the Court of Brunswick, that she had\ndeceived him for six years together. The husband, as big a fool as\nhis wife, went to tell the news to the Duke; the gallant was obliged\nto resign all his employments and to leave the country in twenty-four\nhours, under a threat from the Duke to put the laws in motion. \"\n\n\n\"HALBERSTADT, _July 7th_, 1807.\n\n\"Husbands are not deceived here, 'tis true--but ye gods, what women!\nStatues, masses scarcely organic! Before marriage they are exceedingly\nattractive, graceful as gazelles, with quick tender eyes that always\nunderstand the least hint of love. The reason is that they are on the\nlook out for a husband. So soon as the husband is found, they become\nabsolutely nothing but getters of children, in a state of perpetual\nadoration before the begetter. In a family of four or five children\nthere must always be one of them ill, since half the children die\nbefore seven, and in this country, immediately one of the babies\nis ill, the mother goes out no more. I can see that they find an\nindescribable pleasure in being caressed by their children. Little by\nlittle they lose all their ideas. It is the same at Philadelphia. There\ngirls of the wildest and most innocent gaiety become, in less\n\n[Pg 248]\nthan a year, the most boring of women. To have done with the marriages\nof Protestant Germany--a wife's dowry is almost nil because of the\nfiefs. Mademoiselle de Diesdorff, daughter of a man with an income of\nforty thousand francs, will have a dowry of perhaps two thousand crowns\n(seven thousand five hundred francs).\n\n\"M. de Mermann got four thousand crowns with his wife.\n\n\"The rest of the dowry is payable in vanity at the Court. 'One could\nfind among the middle class,' Mermann told me, 'matches with a hundred\nor a hundred and fifty thousand crowns (six hundred thousand francs\ninstead of fifteen). But one could no longer be presented at Court; one\nwould be barred all society in which a prince or princess appeared:\n_it's terrible._' These were his words, and they came from the heart.\n\n\"A German woman with the soul of Phi..., her intellect, her noble and\nsensitive face, the fire she must have had at eighteen (she is now\ntwenty-seven), a woman such as this country produces, with her virtue,\nnaturalness and no more than a useful little dose of religion--such\na woman would no doubt make her husband very happy. But how flatter\noneself that one would remain true to such insipid matrons?\n\n\"'But he was married,' she answered me this morning when I blamed the\nfour years'silence of Corinne's lover, Lord Oswald. She sat up till\nthree o'clock to read _Corinne_. The novel gave her profound emotion,\nand now she answers me with touching candour: 'But he was married.'\n\n\"Phi... is so natural, with so naive a sensibility, that even in this\nland of the natural, she seems a prude to the petty heads that govern\npetty hearts; their witticisms make her sick, and she in no way hides\nit.\n\n\"When she is in good company, she laughs like mad at the most lively\njokes. It was she who told me the story of the young princess of\nsixteen, later on so well known.\n\n[Pg 249]\nwho often managed to make the officer on guard at her door come up into\nher rooms. \"\n\n                              SWITZERLAND\n\nI know few families happier than those of the Oberland, the part of\nSwitzerland that lies round Berne; and it is a fact of public notoriety\n(1816) that the girls there spend Saturday to Sunday nights with their\nlovers.\n\nThe fools who know the world, after a voyage from Paris to Saint Cloud,\nwill cry out; happily I find in a Swiss writer confirmation of what I\nmyself[2] saw during four months.\n\n\"An honest peasant complained of certain losses he had sustained in\nhis orchard; I asked him why he didn't keep a dog: 'My daughters would\nnever get married.' I did not understand his answer; he told me he had\nhad such a bad-tempered dog that none of the young men dared climb up\nto the windows any longer.\n\n\"Another peasant, mayor of his village, told me in praise of his\nwife, that when she was a girl no one had had more _Kilter_ or\n_W\u00e4chterer_--that is, had had more young men come to spend the night\nwith her.\n\n\"A Colonel, widely esteemed, was forced, while crossing the mountains,\nto spend the night at the bottom of one of the most lonely and\npicturesque valleys in the country. He lodged with the first magistrate\nin the valley, a man rich and of good repute. On entering, the stranger\nnoticed a young girl of sixteen, a model of gracefulness, freshness\nand simplicity: she was the daughter of the master of the house. That\nnight there was a village ball; the stranger paid court to the girl,\nwho was really strikingly beautiful. At last, screwing up courage, he\nventured to ask her whether he couldn't 'keep watch' with her. 'No,'\nanswered the girl, 'I share a room with my cousin, but I'll come myself\nto yours.' You can judge\n\n[Pg 250]\nof the confusion this answer gave him. They had supper, the stranger\ngot up, the girl took a torch and followed him into his room; he\nimagined the moment was at hand. 'Oh no,' she said simply, 'I must\nfirst ask Mamma's permission.' He would have been less staggered by a\nthunderbolt! She went out; his courage revived; he slipped into these\ngood folks' parlour, and listened to the girl begging her mother in a\ncaressing tone to grant her the desired permission; in the end she got\nit. 'Eh, old man,' said the mother to her husband who was already in\nbed, 'd'you allow Trineli to spend the night with the Colonel?' 'With\nall my heart,' answers the father, 'I think I'd lend even my wife\nto such a man.' 'Right then, go,' says the mother to Trineli; 'but\nbe a good girl, and don't take off your petticoat...' At day-break,\nTrineli, respected by the stranger, rose still virgin. She arranged\nthe bedclothes, prepared coffee and cream for her partner and, after\nshe had breakfasted with him, seated on his bed, cut off a little\npiece of her _broustpletz_ (a piece of velvet going over the breast).\n'Here,' she said, 'keep this souvenir of a happy night; I shall never\nforget it.--Why are you a Colonel?' And giving him a last kiss, she ran\naway; he didn't manage to see her again.[3] Here you have the absolute\nopposite of French morals, and I am far from approving them.\"\n\nWere I a legislator, I would have people adopt in France, as in\nGermany, the custom of evening dances. Three times a week girls would\ngo with their mothers to a ball, beginning at seven and ending at\nmidnight, and demanding no other outlay but a violin and a few glasses\nof water. In a neighbouring room the mothers, maybe a little jealous of\ntheir daughters' happy education,\n\n[Pg 251]\nwould play boston; in a third, the fathers would find papers and could\ntalk politics. Between midnight and one o'clock all the families\nwould collect together and return to the paternal roof. Girls would\nget to know young men; they would soon come to loathe fatuity and\nthe indiscretions it is responsible for--in fact they would choose\nthemselves husbands. Some girls would have unhappy love-affairs, but\nthe number of deceived husbands and unhappy matches would diminish to\nan immense degree. It would then be less absurd to attempt to punish\ninfidelity with dishonour. The law could say to young women: \"You have\nchosen your husband--be faithful to him.\" In those circumstances I\nwould allow the indictment and punishment by the courts of what the\nEnglish call criminal conversation. The courts could impose, to the\nprofit of prisons and hospitals, a fine equal to two-thirds of the\nseducer's fortune and imprisonment for several years.\n\nA woman could be indicted for adultery before a jury. The jury should\nfirst declare that the husband's conduct had been irreproachable.\n\nA woman, if convicted, could be condemned to imprisonment for life. If\nthe husband had been absent more than two years, the woman could not be\ncondemned to more than some years' imprisonment. Public morals would\nsoon model themselves on these laws and would perfect them.[4]\n\n[Pg 252]\nAnd then the nobles and the priests, still regretting bitterly the\nproper times of Madame de Montespan or Madame du Barry, would be forced\nto allow divorce.[5]\n\nThere would be in a village within sight of Paris an asylum for\nunfortunate women, a house of refuge into which, under pain of the\ngalleys, no man besides the doctor and the almoner should enter. A\nwoman who wished to get a divorce would be bound, first of all, to go\nand place herself as prisoner in this asylum; there she would spend two\nyears without going out once. She could write, but never receive an\nanswer.\n\nA council composed of peers of France and certain magistrates of repute\nwould direct, in the woman's name, the proceedings for a divorce\nand would regulate the pension to be paid to the institution by the\nhusband. A woman who failed in her plea before the courts would be\nallowed to spend the rest of her life in the asylum. The Government\nwould compensate the administration of the asylum with a sum of two\nthousand francs for each woman who sought its refuge. To be received\nin the asylum, a woman must have had a dowry of over twenty thousand\nfrancs. The moral _r\u00e9gime_ would be one of extreme severity.\n\nAfter two years of complete seclusion from the world, a divorced woman\ncould marry again.\n\nOnce arrived at this point, Parliament could consider\n\n[Pg 253]\nwhether, in order to infuse in girls a spirit of emulation, it would\nnot be advisable to allow the sons a share of the paternal heritage\ndouble that of their sisters. The daughters who did not find husbands\nwould have a share equal to that of the male children. It may be\nremarked, by the way, that this system would, little by little, destroy\nthe only too inconvenient custom of marriages of convenience. The\npossibility of divorce would render useless such outrageous meanness.\n\nAt various points in France, and in certain poor villages, thirty\nabbeys for old maids should be established. The Government should\nendeavour to surround these establishments with consideration, in order\nto console a little the sorrows of the poor women who were to end their\nlives there. They should be given all the toys of dignity.\n\nBut enough of such chimeras!\n\n\n[1] The author had read a chapter called \"Dell' amore,\" in the Italian\ntranslation of the _Id\u00e9ologie_ of M. de Tracy(51). In that chapter the\nreader will find ideas incomparable, in philosophical importance, with\nanything he can find here.\n\n[2] _Principes philosophiques du Colonel Weiss_, 7 ed.,Vol. II. p. 245.\n\n[3] I am fortunate to be able to describe in the words of another some\nextraordinary facts that I have had occasion to observe. Certainly,\nbut for M. de Weiss, I shouldn't have related this glimpse of foreign\ncustoms. I have omitted others equally characteristic of Valencia and\nVienna.\n\n[4] _The Examiner_, an English paper, when giving a report of the\nQueen's case (No. 662, September 3rd, 1820), adds:--\n\n\"We have a system of sexual morality, under which thousands of women\nbecome mercenary prostitutes whom virtuous women are taught to scorn,\nwhile virtuous men retain the privilege of frequenting these very\nwomen, without its being regarded as anything more than a venial\noffence.\"\n\nIn the land of Cant there is something noble in the courage that dares\nspeak the truth on this subject, however trivial and obvious it be; it\nis all the more meritorious in a poor paper, which can only hope for\nsuccess if bought by the rich--and they look on the bishops and the\nBible as the one safeguard of their fine feathers.\n\n[5] Madame de S\u00e9vign\u00e9 wrote to her daughter, December 23rd, 1671: \"I\ndon't know if you have heard that Villarceaux, when talking to the\nking of a post for his son, adroitly took the occasion to tell him,\nthat there were people busy telling his niece (Mademoiselle de Rouxel)\nthat his Majesty had designs on her; that if it were so, he begged his\nMajesty to make use of him; said that the affair would be better in his\nhands than in others, and that he would discharge it with success. The\nKing began to laugh and said: 'Villarceaux, we are too old, you and I,\nto attack young ladies of fifteen.' And like a gallant man, he laughed\nat him and told the ladies what he had said.\" See Memoirs of Lauzun,\nBezenval, Madame d'\u00c9pinay, etc., etc, I beg my readers not to condemn\nme altogether without re-reading these Memoirs.\n\n\n[Pg 254]\n                              CHAPTER LIX\n\n                         WERTHER AND DON JUAN\n\n\nAmong young people, when they have done with mocking at some poor\nlover, and he has left the room, the conversation generally ends by\ndiscussing the question, whether it is better to deal with women like\nMozart's Don Juan or like Werther. The contrast would be more exact, if\nI had said Saint-Preux, but he is so dull a personage, that in making\nhim their representative, I should be wronging feeling hearts.\n\nDon Juan's character requires the greater number of useful and\ngenerally esteemed virtues--admirable daring, resourcefulness,\nvivacity, a cool head, a witty mind, etc.\n\nThe Don Juans have great moments of bitterness and a very miserable old\nage--but then most men do not reach old age.\n\nThe lover plays a poor r\u00f4le in the drawing-room in the evening, because\nto be a success and a power among women a man must show just as much\nkeenness on winning them as on a game of billiards. As everybody knows\nthat the lover has a great interest in life, he exposes himself, for\nall his cleverness, to mockery. Only, next morning he wakes, not to be\nin a bad temper until something piquant or something nasty turns up to\nrevive him, but to dream of her he loves and build castles in the air\nfor love to dwell in.\n\nLove _\u00e0 la_ Werther opens the soul to all the arts, to all sweet and\nromantic impressions, to the moonlight, to the beauty of the forest, to\nthe beauty of pictures--in a word, to the feeling and enjoyment of the\nbeautiful,\n\n[Pg 255]\nunder whatever form it be found, even under the coarsest cloak. It\ncauses man to find happiness even without riches.[1] Such souls,\ninstead of growing weary like Mielhan, Bezenval, etc., go mad, like\nRousseau, from an excess of sensibility. Women endowed with a certain\nelevation of soul, who, after their first youth, know how to recognise\nlove, both where it is and what it is, generally escape the Don\nJuan--he is remarkable in their eyes rather by the number than the\nquality of his conquests. Observe, to the prejudice of tender hearts,\nthat publicity is as necessary to Don Juan's triumph as secrecy is to\nWerther's. Most of the men who make women the business of their life\nare born in the lap of luxury; that is to say, they are, as a result of\ntheir education and the example set by everything that surrounded them\nin youth, hardened egoists.[2]\n\nThe real Don Juan even ends by looking on women as the enemy, and\nrejoicing in their misfortunes of every sort.\n\nOn the other hand, the charming Duke delle Pignatelle showed us the\nproper way to find happiness in pleasures,\n\n[Pg 256]\neven without passion. \"I know that I like a woman,\" he told me one\nevening, \"when I find myself completely confused in her company, and\ndon't know what to say to her.\" So far from letting his self-esteem\nbe put to shame or take its revenge for these embarrassing moments,\nhe cultivated them lovingly as the source of his happiness. With this\ncharming young man gallant-love was quite free from the corroding\ninfluence of vanity; his was a shade of true love, pale, but innocent\nand unmixed; and he respected all women, as charming beings, towards\nwhom we are far from just. (February 20, 1820.)\n\nAs a man does not choose himself a temperament, that is to say, a\nsoul, he cannot play a part above him. J. J. Rousseau and the Duc de\nRichelieu might have tried in vain; for all their cleverness, they\ncould never have exchanged their fortunes with respect to women. I\ncould well believe that the Duke never had moments such as those\nthat Rousseau experienced in the park de la Chevrette with Madame\nd'Houdetot; at Venice, when listening to the music of the _Scuole_; and\nat Turin at the feet of Madame Bazile. But then he never had to blush\nat the ridicule that overwhelmed Rousseau in his affair with Madame de\nLarnage, remorse for which pursued him during the rest of his life.\n\nA Saint-Preux's part is sweeter and fills up every moment of existence,\nbut it must be owned that that of a Don Juan is far more brilliant.\nSaint-Preux's tastes may change at middle age: solitary and retired,\nand of pensive habits, he takes a back place on the stage of life,\nwhile Don Juan realises the magnificence of his reputation among men,\nand could yet perhaps please a woman of feeling by making sincerely the\nsacrifice of his libertine's tastes.\n\nAfter all the reasons offered so far, on both sides of the question,\nthe balance still seems to be even. What makes me think that the\nWerthers are the happier, is\n\n[Pg 257]\nthat Don Juan reduces love to the level of an ordinary affair. Instead\nof being able, like Werther, to shape realities to his desires, he\nfinds, in love, desires which are imperfectly satisfied by cold\nreality, just as in ambition, avarice or other passions. Instead of\nlosing himself in the enchanting reveries of crystallisation, he\nthinks, like a general, of the success of his manoeuvres[3] and, in a\nword, he kills love, instead of enjoying it more keenly than other men,\nas ordinary people imagine.\n\nThis seems to me unanswerable. And there is another reason, which is\nno less so in my eyes, though, thanks to the malignity of Providence,\nwe must pardon men for not recognising it. The habit of justice is, to\nmy thinking, apart from accidents, the most assured way of arriving at\nhappiness--and a Werther is no villain.[4]\n\nTo be happy in crime, it is absolutely necessary to have no remorse.\nI do not know whether such a creature can exist;[5] I have never seen\nhim. I would bet that the affair of Madame Michelin disturbed the Duc\nde Richelieu's nights.\n\nOne ought either to have absolutely no sympathy or be able to put the\nhuman race to death--which is impossible.[6]\n\nPeople who only know love from novels will experience\n\n[Pg 258]\na natural repugnance in reading these words in favour of virtue in\nlove. The reason is that, by the laws of the novel, the portraiture of\na virtuous love is essentially tiresome and uninteresting. Thus the\nsentiment of virtue seems from a distance to neutralise that of love,\nand the words \"a virtuous love\" seem synonymous with a feeble love. But\nall this comes from weakness in the art of painting, and has nothing to\ndo with passion such as it exists in nature.[7]\n\nI beg to be allowed to draw a picture of my most intimate friend.\n\nDon Juan renounces all the duties which bind him to the rest of men.\nIn the great market of life he is a dishonest merchant, who is always\nbuying and never paying. The idea of equality inspires the same rage\nin him as water in a man with hydrophobia; it is for this reason that\npride of birth goes so well with the character of Don Juan. With\nthe idea of the equality of rights disappears that of justice, or,\nrather, if Don Juan is sprung from an illustrious family, such common\nideas have never come to him. I could easily believe that a man with\nan historic name is sooner disposed than another to set fire to the\ntown in order to get his egg cooked.[8] We must excuse him; he is so\npossessed with\n\n[Pg 259]\nself-love that he comes to the point of losing all idea of the evil he\ncauses, and of seeing no longer anything in the universe capable of joy\nor sorrow except himself. In the fire of youth, when passion fills our\nown hearts with the pulse of life and keeps us from mistrust of others,\nDon Juan, all senses and apparent happiness, applauds himself for\nthinking only of himself, while he sees other men pay their sacrifices\nto duty. He imagines that he has found out the great art of living.\nBut, in the midst of his triumph, while still scarcely thirty years of\nage, he perceives to his astonishment that life is wanting, and feels\na growing disgust for what were all his pleasures. Don Juan told me\nat Thorn, in an access of melancholy: \"There are not twenty different\nsorts of women, and once you have had two or three of each sort,\nsatiety sets in.\" I answered: \"It is only imagination that can for ever\nescape satiety. Each woman inspires a different interest, and, what is\nmore, if chance throws the same woman in your way two or three years\nearlier or later in the course of life, and if chance means you to\nlove, you can love the same woman in different manners. But a woman of\ngentle heart, even when she loved you, would produce in you, because of\nher pretensions to equality, only irritation to your pride. Your way of\nhaving women kills all the other pleasures of life; Werther's increases\nthem a hundredfold.\"\n\nThis sad tragedy reaches the last act. You see Don Juan in old age,\nturning on this and that, never on himself, as the cause of his own\nsatiety. You see him, tormented by a consuming poison, flying from\nthis to that in a continual change of purpose. But, however brilliant\nthe appearances may be, in the end he only changes one misery for\nanother. He tries the boredom of inaction, he tries the boredom of\nexcitement--there is nothing else for him to choose.\n\nAt last he discovers the fatal truth and confesses it to himself;\nhenceforward he is reduced for all his enjoyment\n\n[Pg 260]\nto making display of his power, and openly doing evil for evil's sake.\nIn short, 'tis the last degree of settled gloom; no poet has dared give\nus a faithful picture of it--the picture, if true, would strike horror.\nBut one may hope that a man, above the ordinary, will retrace his steps\nalong this fatal path; for at the bottom of Don Juan's character there\nis a contradiction. I have supposed him a man of great intellect, and\ngreat intellect leads us to the discovery of virtue by the road that\nruns to the temple of glory.[9]\n\nLa Rochefoucauld, who, however, was a master of self-love, and who in\nreal life was nothing but a silly man of letters,[10] says(267): \"The\npleasure of love consists in loving, and a man gets more happiness from\nthe passion he feels than from the passion he inspires.\"\n\nDon Juan's happiness consists in vanity, based, it is true, on\ncircumstances brought about by great intelligence and activity; but he\nmust feel that the most inconsiderable general who wins a battle, the\nmost inconsiderable prefect who keeps his department in order, realises\na more signal enjoyment than his own. The Duc de Nemours' happiness\nwhen Madame de Cl\u00e8ves tells him that she loves him, is, I imagine,\nabove Napoleon's happiness at Marengo.\n\nLove _\u00e0 la_ Don Juan is a sentiment of the same kind as a taste for\nhunting. It is a desire for activity which must be kept alive by divers\nobjects and by putting a man's talents continually to the test.\n\nLove _\u00e0 la_ Werther is like the feeling of a schoolboy writing a\ntragedy--and a thousand times better; it is a new goal, to which\neverything in life is referred and which changes the face of\neverything. Passion-love casts all nature in its sublimer aspects\nbefore the eyes of a\n\n[Pg 261]\nman, as a novelty invented but yesterday. He is amazed that he has\nnever seen the singular spectacle that is now discovered to his soul.\nEverything is new, everything is alive, everything breathes the most\npassionate interest.[11] A lover sees the woman he loves on the horizon\nof every landscape he comes across, and, while he travels a hundred\nmiles to go and catch a glimpse of her for an instant, each tree, each\nrock speaks to him of her in a different manner and tells him something\nnew about her. Instead of the tumult of this magic spectacle, Don Juan\nfinds that external objects have for him no value apart from their\ndegree of utility, and must be made amusing by some new intrigue.\n\nLove _\u00e0 la_ Werther has strange pleasures; after a year or two, the\nlover has now, so to speak, but one heart with her he loves; and this,\nstrange to say, even independent of his success in love--even under a\ncruel mistress. Whatever he does, whatever he sees, he asks himself:\n\"What would she say if she were with me? What would I say to her about\nthis view of Casa-Lecchio?\" He speaks to her, he hears her answer, he\nsmiles at her fun. A hundred miles from her, and under the weight of\nher anger, he surprises himself, reflecting: \"L\u00e9onore was very gay that\nnight.\" Then he wakes up: \"Good God!\" he says to himself with a sigh,\n\"there are madmen in Bedlam less mad than I.\"\n\n\"You make me quite impatient,\" said a friend of mine, to whom I read\nout this remark: \"you are continually opposing the passionate man to\nthe Don Juan, and that is not the point in dispute. You would be right,\nif a man could provide himself with passion at will. But what about\nindifference--what is to be done then?\"--Gallant-love without horrors.\nIts horrors always come from a little soul, that needs to be reassured\nas to its own merit.\n\nTo continue.--The Don Juans must find great difficulty\n\n[Pg 262]\nin agreeing with what I was saying just now of this state of the soul.\nBesides the fact that they can neither see nor feel this state, it\ngives too great a blow to their vanity. The error of their life is\nexpecting to win in a fortnight what a timid lover can scarcely obtain\nin six months. They base their reckoning on experience got at the\nexpense of those poor devils, who have neither the soul to please a\nwoman of feeling by revealing its ingenuous workings, nor the necessary\nwit for the part of a Don Juan. They refuse to see that the same prize,\nthough granted by the same woman, is not the same thing.\n\n    L'homme prudent sans cesse se m\u00e9fie.\n    C'est pour cela que des amants trompeurs\n    Le nombre est grand. Les dames que l'on prie\n    Font soupirer longtemps des serviteurs\n    Qui n'ont jamais \u00e9t\u00e9 faux de leur vie.\n    Mais du tr\u00e9sor qu'elles donnent enfin\n    Le prix n'est su que du c\u0153ur qui le go\u00fbte;\n    Plus on l'ach\u00e8te et plus il est divin:\n    Le los d'amour ne vaut pas ce qu'il co\u00fbte.[12]\n\n       (Nivernais, _Le Troubadour Guillaume de la Tour_, III, 342.)\n\nPassion-love in the eyes of a Don Juan may be compared to a strange\nroad, steep and toilsome, that begins, 'tis true, amidst delicious\ncopses, but is soon lost among sheer rocks, whose aspect is anything\nbut inviting to the eyes of the vulgar. Little by little the road\npenetrates into the mountain-heights, in the midst of a dark forest,\nwhere the huge trees, intercepting the daylight with their shaggy\ntops that seem to touch the sky, throw a kind of horror into souls\nuntempered by dangers.\n\n[Pg 263]\nAfter wandering with difficulty, as in an endless maze, whose multiple\nturnings try the patience of our self-love, on a sudden we turn a\ncorner and find ourselves in a new world, in the delicious valley of\nCashmire of Lalla Rookh. How can the Don Juans, who never venture along\nthis road, or at most take but a few steps along it, judge of the views\nthat it offers at the end of the journey?...\n\n                   *       *       *       *       *\n\nSo you see inconstancy is good:\n\n \"Il me faut du nouveau, n'en f\u00fbt-il plus au monde.\"[13]\n\nVery well, I reply, you make light of oaths and justice, and what can\nyou look for in inconstancy? Pleasure apparently.\n\nBut the pleasure to be got from a pretty woman, desired a fortnight and\nloved three months, is different from the pleasure to be found in a\nmistress, desired three years and loved ten.\n\nIf I do not insert the word \"always\" the reason is that I have been\ntold old age, by altering our organs, renders us incapable of loving;\nmyself, I don't believe it. When your mistress has become your intimate\nfriend, she can give you new pleasures, the pleasures of old age. 'Tis\na flower that, after it has been a rose in the morning--the season of\nflowers--becomes a delicious fruit in the evening, when the roses are\nno longer in season.[14]\n\nA mistress desired three years is really a mistress in every sense of\nthe word; you cannot approach her without trembling; and let me tell\nthe Don Juans that a man who trembles is not bored. The pleasures of\nlove are always in proportion to our fear.\n\nThe evil of inconstancy is weariness; the evil of passion is despair\nand death. The cases of despair are noted and become legend. No one\npays attention to the\n\n[Pg 264]\nweary old libertines dying of boredom, with whom the streets of Paris\nare lined.\n\n\"Love blows out more brains than boredom.\" I have no doubt of it:\nboredom robs a man of everything, even the courage to kill himself.\n\nThere is a certain type of character which can find pleasure only in\nvariety. A man who cries up Champagne at the expense of Bordeaux is\nonly saying, with more or less eloquence: \"I prefer Champagne.\"\n\nEach of these wines has its partisans, and they are all right, so\nlong as they quite understand themselves, and run after the kind of\nhappiness best suited to their organs[15] and their habits. What ruins\nthe case for inconstancy is that all fools range themselves on that\nside from lack of courage.\n\nBut after all, everyone, if he will take the trouble to look into\nhimself, has his ideal, and there always seems to me something a little\nridiculous in wanting to convert your neighbour.\n\n\n[1] See the first volume of the _Nouvelle H\u00e9lo\u00efse_. I should say every\nvolume, if Saint-Preux had happened to have the ghost of a character,\nbut he was a real poet, a babbler without resolution, who had no\ncourage until he had made a peroration--yes, a very dull man. Such men\nhave an immense advantage, in not upsetting feminine pride, and in\nnever giving their mistress a fright. Weigh the word well; it contains\nperhaps the whole secret of the success of dull men with distinguished\nwomen. Nevertheless love is only a passion in so far as it makes one\nforget one's self-love. Thus they do not completely know love, these\nwomen, who, like L., ask of it the pleasures of pride. Unconsciously,\nthey are on the same level as the prosaic man, the object of their\ncontempt, who in love seeks love plus vanity. And they too, they want\nlove and pride; but love goes out with flaming cheeks; he is the\nproudest of despots; he will be all, or nothing.\n\n[2] See a certain page of Andr\u00e9 Ch\u00e9nier (Works, p. 370); or rather look\nat life, though that's much harder. \"In general, those whom we call\npatricians are much further than other men from loving anything,\" says\nthe Emperor Marcus Aurelius. (_Meditations_.)\n\n[3] Compare Lovelace and Tom Jones.\n\n[4] See the _Vie priv\u00e9e du duc de Richelieu_, nine volumes in 8vo.\nWhy, at the moment that an assassin kills a man, does he not fall dead\nat his victim's feet? Why is there illness? And, if there is illness,\nwhy does not a Troistaillons die of the colic? Why does Henry IV reign\ntwenty-one years and Lewis XV fifty-nine? Why is not the length of\nlife in exact proportion to the degree of virtue in each man? These\nand other \"infamous questions,\" English philosophers will say there\nis certainly no merit in posing; but there would be some merit in\nanswering them otherwise than with insults and \"cant.\"\n\n[5] Note Nero after the murder of his mother, in Suetonius, and yet\nwith what a fine lot of flattery was he surrounded.\n\n[6] Cruelty is only a morbid kind of sympathy. Power is, after love,\nthe first source of happiness, only because one believes oneself to be\nin a position to command sympathy.\n\n[7] If you offer the spectator a picture of the sentiment of virtue\nside by side with the sentiment of love, you will find that you have\nrepresented a heart divided between two sentiments. In novels the only\ngood of virtue is to be sacrificed; _vide_ Julie d'\u00c9tanges.\n\n[8] _Vide_ Saint-Simon, _fausse couche_ of the Duchesse de Bourgoyne;\nand Madame de Motteville, _passim_: That princess, who was surprised\nto find that other women had five fingers on their hands like herself;\nthat Gaston, Duke of Orleans, brother of Lewis XIII, who found it\nquite easy to understand why his favourites went to the scaffold just\nto please him. Note, in 1820, these fine gentlemen putting forward an\nelectoral law that may bring back your Robespierres into France, etc.,\netc. And observe Naples in 1799. (I leave this note written in 1820. A\nlist of the great nobles in 1778, with notes on their morals, compiled\nby General Laclos, seen at Naples in the library of the Marchese\nBerio--a very scandalous manuscript of more than three hundred pages.)\n\n[9] The character of the young man of the privileged classes in 1820 is\npretty correctly represented by the brave Bothwell of _Old Mortality_.\n\n[10] See Memoirs of de Retz and the unpleasant minute he gave the\ncoadjutor at the Parliament between two doors.\n\n[11] Vol. 1819. Honeysuckle on the slopes.\n\n[12] [A prudent man continually mistrusts himself. 'Tis the reason why\nthe number of false lovers is great. The women whom men worship, make\ntheir servants, who have never been false in their life, sigh a long\ntime. But the value of the prize that they give them in the end, can\nonly be known to the heart that tastes it; the greater the cost, the\nmore divine it is. The praises of love are not worth its pains.--Tr.]\n\n[13] [I must have novelty, even if there were none left in the\nworld.--Tr. ]\n\n[14] See the Memoirs of Coll\u00e9--his wife.\n\n[15] Physiologists, who understand our organs, tell you: \"Injustice,\nin the relations of social life, produces harshness, diffidence and\nmisery.\"\n\n[Pg 265]\n\n                               BOOK III\n\n[Pg 266]\n[Pg 267]\n                          SCATTERED FRAGMENTS\n\n\nUnder this title, which I would willingly have made still more modest,\nI have brought together, without excessive severity, a selection made\nfrom three or four hundred playing cards, on which I found a few lines\nscrawled in pencil. That which, I suppose, must be called the original\nmanuscript, for want of a simpler name, was in many places made up\nof pieces of paper of all sizes, written on in pencil, and joined\ntogether by Lisio with sealing-wax, to save him the trouble of copying\nthem afresh. He told me once that nothing he ever noted down seemed\nto him worth the trouble of recopying an hour later. I have entered\nso fully into all this in the hope that it may serve as an excuse for\nrepetitions.\n\n\n                                   I\n\nEverything can be acquired in solitude, except character.\n\n\n                                  II\n\n1821. Hatred, love and avarice, the three ruling passions at Rome, and\nwith gambling added, almost the only ones.\n\nAt first sight the Romans seem ill-natured, but they are only very much\non their guard and blessed with an imagination which flares up at the\nleast suggestion.\n\nIf they give a gratuitous proof of ill-nature, it is the case of a man,\ngnawed by fear, and testing his gun to reassure himself.\n\n[Pg 268]\n                                  III\n\nIf I were to say, as I believe, that good-nature is the keynote of the\nParisian's character, I should be very frightened of having offended\nhim.--\"I won't be good!\"\n\n\n                                  IV\n\nA proof of love comes to light, when all the pleasures and all the\npains, which all the other passions and wants of man can produce, in a\nmoment cease working.\n\n\n                                   V\n\nPrudery is a kind of avarice--the worst of all.\n\n\n                                  VI\n\nTo have a solid character is to have a long and tried experience of\nlife's disillusions and misfortunes. Then it is a question of desiring\nconstantly or not at all.\n\n\n                                  VII\n\nLove, such as it exists in smart society, is the love of battle, the\nlove of gambling.\n\n\n                                 VIII\n\nNothing kills gallant love like gusts of passion-love from the other\nside. (Contessina L. Forl\u00ec--1819).\n\n\n                                  IX\n\nA great fault in women, and the most offensive of all to a man a\nlittle worthy of that name: The public, in matters of feeling, never\nsoars above mean ideas, and women make the public the supreme judge\nof their lives--even the most distinguished women, I maintain, often\nunconsciously, and even while believing and saying the contrary.\n(Brescia, 1819).\n\n[Pg 269]\n                                   X\n\nProsaic is a new word, which once I thought absurd, for nothing could\nbe colder than our poetry. If there has been any warmth in France for\nthe last fifty years, it is assuredly to be found in its prose.\n\nBut anyhow, the little Countess L---- used the word and I like writing\nit.\n\nThe definition of prosaic is to be got from _Don Quixote_, and \"the\ncomplete contrast of Knight and Squire.\" The Knight tall and pale; the\nSquire fat and fresh. The former all heroism and courtesy; the latter\nall selfishness and servility. The former always full of romantic and\ntouching fancies; the latter a model of worldly wisdom, a compendium\nof wise saws. The one always feeding his soul on dreams of heroism and\ndaring; the other ruminating some really sensible scheme in which,\nnever fear, he will take into strict account all the shameful, selfish\nlittle movements the human heart is prone to.\n\nAt the very moment when the former should be brought to his senses\nby the non-success of yesterday's dreams, he is already busy on his\ncastles in Spain for to-day.\n\nYou ought to have a prosaic husband and to choose a romantic lover.\n\nMarlborough had a prosaic soul: Henry IV, in love at fifty-five with a\nyoung princess, who could not forget his age, a romantic heart.[1]\n\nThere are fewer prosaic beings among the nobility than in the\nmiddle-class.\n\nThis is the fault of trade, it makes people prosaic.\n\n\n[1] Dulaure, _History of Paris_.\n\nSilent episode in the queen's apartment the evening of the flight of\nthe Princesse de Cond\u00e9: the ministers transfixed to the wall and mute,\nthe King striding up and down.\n\n[Pg 270]\n                                  XI\n\nNothing so interesting as passion: for there everything is unforeseen,\nand the principal is the victim. Nothing so flat as gallantry, where\neverything is a matter of calculation, as in all the prosaic affairs of\nlife.\n\n\n                                  XII\n\nAt the end of a visit you always finish by treating a lover better than\nyou meant to. (L., _November 2nd_, 1818).\n\n\n                                 XIII\n\nIn spite of genius in an upstart, the influence of rank always makes\nitself felt. Think of Rousseau losing his heart to all the \"ladies\" he\nmet, and weeping tears of rapture because the Duke of L----, one of the\ndullest courtiers of the period, deigns to take the right side rather\nthan the left in a walk with a certain M. Coindet, friend of Rousseau!\n(L., _May 3rd_, 1820.)\n\n\n                                  XIV\n\nWomen's only educator is the world. A mother in love does not hesitate\nto appear in the seventh heaven of delight, or in the depth of\ndespair, before her daughters aged fourteen or fifteen. Remember that,\nunder these happy skies, plenty of women are quite nice-looking till\nforty-five, and the majority are married at eighteen.\n\nThink of La Valchiusa saying yesterday of Lampugnani: \"Ah, that man was\nmade for me, he could love, ... etc., etc,\" and so on in this strain\nto a friend--all before her daughter, a little thing of fourteen or\nfifteen, very much on the alert, and whom she also took with her on the\nmore than friendly walks with the lover in question.\n\nSometimes girls get hold of sound rules of conduct, For examples take\nMadame Guarnacci, addressing her two daughters and two men, who have\nnever called on\n\n[Pg 271]\nher before. For an hour and a half she treats them to profound maxims,\nbased on examples within their own knowledge (that of La Cercara in\nHungary), on the precise point at which it is right to punish with\ninfidelity a lover who misbehaves himself. (Ravenna, _January 23rd_,\n1820.)\n\n\n                                  XV\n\nThe sanguine man, the true Frenchman (Colonel M----) instead of being\ntormented by excess of feeling, like Rousseau, if he has a rendezvous\nfor the next evening at seven, sees everything, right up to the\nblessed moment, through rosy spectacles. People of this kind are not\nin the least susceptible to passion-love; it would upset their sweet\ntranquillity. I will go so far as to say that perhaps they would find\nits transports a nuisance, or at all events be humiliated by the\ntimidity it produces.\n\n\n                                  XVI\n\nMost men of the world, through vanity, caution or disaster, let\nthemselves love a woman freely only after intimate intercourse.\n\n\n                                 XVII\n\nWith very gentle souls a woman needs to be easy-going in order to\nencourage crystallisation.\n\n\n                                 XVIII\n\nA woman imagines that the voice of the public is speaking through the\nmouth of the first fool or the first treacherous friend who claims to\nbe its faithful interpreter to her.\n\n\n                                  XIX\n\nThere is a delicious pleasure in clasping in your arms a woman who has\nwronged you grievously, who has been\n\n[Pg 272]\nyour bitter enemy for many a day, and is ready to be so again. Good\nfortune of the French officers in Spain, 1812.\n\n\n                                  XX\n\nSolitude is what one wants, to relish one's own heart and to love; but\nto succeed one must go amongst men, here, there and everywhere.\n\n\n                                  XXI\n\n\"All the observations of the French on love are well written, carefully\nand without exaggeration, but they bear only on light affections,\" said\nthat delightful person, Cardinal Lante.\n\n\n                                 XXII\n\nIn Goldoni's comedy, the _Innamorati_, all the workings of passion are\nexcellent; it is the very repulsive meanness of style and thought which\nrevolts one. The contrary is true of a French comedy.\n\n\n                                 XXIII\n\nThe youth of 1822: To say \"serious turn of mind, active disposition\"\nmeans \"sacrifice of the present to the future.\" Nothing develops the\nsoul like the power and the habit of making such sacrifices. I foresee\nthe probability of more great passions in 1832 than in 1772.\n\n\n                                 XXIV\n\nThe choleric temperament, when it does not display itself in too\nrepulsive a form, is one perhaps most apt of all to strike and keep\nalive the imagination of women. If the choleric temperament does not\nfall among propitious surroundings, as Lauzun in Saint-Simon (Memoirs),\nthe difficulty is to grow used to it. But\n\n[Pg 273]\nonce grasped by a woman, this character must fascinate her: yes, even\nthe savage and fanatic Balfour (_Old Mortality_). For women it is the\nantithesis of the prosaic.\n\n\n                                  XXV\n\nIn love one often doubts what one believes most strongly (La R., 355).\nIn every other passion, what once we have proved, we no longer doubt.\n\n\n                                 XXVI\n\nVerse was invented to assist the memory. Later it was kept to increase\nthe pleasure of reading by the sight of the difficulty overcome. Its\nsurvival nowadays in dramatic art is a relic of barbarity. Example: the\nCavalry Regulations put into verse by M. de Bonnay.\n\n\n                                 XXVII\n\nWhile this jealous slave feeds his soul on boredom, avarice, hatred\nand other such poisonous, cold passions, I spend a night of happiness\ndreaming of her--of her who, through mistrust, treats me badly.\n\n\n                                XXVIII\n\nIt needs a great soul to dare have a simple style. That is why Rousseau\nput so much rhetoric into the _Nouvelle H\u00e9lo\u00efse_--which makes it\nunreadable for anyone over thirty.\n\n\n                                 XXIX\n\n\"The greatest reproach we could possibly make against ourselves is,\ncertainly, to have let fade, like the shadowy phantoms produced by\nsleep, the ideas of honour and justice, which from time to time well up\nin our hearts.\" (_Letter from Jena, March_, 1819.)\n\n[Pg 274]\n                                  XXX\n\nA respectable woman is in the country and passes an hour in the\nhot-house with her gardener. Certain people, whose views she has upset,\naccuse her of having found a lover in this gardener. What answer is\nthere?\n\nSpeaking absolutely, the thing is possible. She could say: \"My\ncharacter speaks for me, look at my behaviour throughout life\"--only\nall this is equally invisible to the eyes of the ill-natured who won't\nsee, and the fools who can't. (Salviati, Rome, _July 23rd_, 1819.)\n\n\n                                 XXXI\n\nI have known a man find out that his rival's love was returned, and yet\nthe rival himself remain blinded to the fact by his passion.\n\n\n                                 XXXII\n\nThe more desperately he is in love, the more violent the pressure a man\nis forced to put upon himself, in order to risk annoying the woman he\nloves by taking her hand.\n\n\n                                XXXIII\n\nLudicrous rhetoric but, unlike that of Rousseau, inspired by true\npassion. (Memoirs of M. de Mau..., _Letter of S----_.)\n\n\n                                 XXXIV\n\n                              NATURALNESS\n\nI saw, or I thought I saw, this evening the triumph of naturalness in\na young woman, who certainly seems to me to possess a great character.\nShe adores, obviously, I think, one of her cousins and must have\nconfessed to herself the state of her heart. The cousin is in love with\nher, but as she is very serious with him, thinks she does not like him,\nand lets himself be fascinated by the marks\n\n[Pg 275]\nof preference shown him by Clara, a young widow and friend of M\u00e9lanie.\nI think he will marry her. M\u00e9lanie sees it and suffers all that a proud\nheart, struggling involuntarily with a violent passion, is capable of\nsuffering. She has only to alter her ways a little; but she would look\nupon it as a piece of meanness, the consequences of which would affect\nher whole life, to depart one instant from her natural self.\n\n\n                                 XXXV\n\nSappho saw in love only sensual intoxication or physical pleasure\nmade sublime by crystallisation. Anacreon looked for sensual and\nintellectual amusement. There was too little security in Antiquity for\npeople to find leisure for passion-love.\n\n\n                                 XXXVI\n\nThe foregoing fact fully justifies me in rather laughing at people who\nthink Homer superior to Tasso. Passion-love did exist in the time of\nHomer, and at no great distance from Greece.\n\n\n                                XXXVII\n\nWoman with a heart, if you wish to know whether the man you adore\nloves you with passion-love, study your lover's early youth. Every man\nof distinction in the early days of his life is either a ridiculous\nenthusiast or an unfortunate. A man easy to please, of gay and cheerful\nhumour, can never love with the passion your heart requires.\n\nPassion I call only that which has gone through long misfortunes,\nmisfortunes which novels take good care not to depict--what's more they\ncan't!\n\n[Pg 276]\n                                XXXVIII\n\nA bold resolution can change in an instant the most extreme misfortune\ninto quite a tolerable state of things. The evening of a defeat, a man\nis retreating in hot haste, his charger already spent. He can hear\ndistinctly the troop of cavalry galloping in pursuit. Suddenly he\nstops, dismounts, recharges his carbine and pistols, and makes up his\nmind to defend himself. Straightway, instead of having death, he has a\ncross of the Legion of Honour before his eyes.\n\n\n                                 XXXIX\n\nBasis of English habits. About 1730, while we already had Voltaire and\nFontenelle, a machine was invented in England to separate the grain,\nafter threshing, from the chaff. It worked by means of a wheel, which\ngave the air enough movement to blow away the bits of chaff. But in\nthat biblical country the peasants pretended that it was wicked to go\nagainst the will of Divine Providence, and to produce an artificial\nwind like this, instead of begging Heaven with an ardent prayer for\nenough wind to thresh the corn and waiting for the moment appointed by\nthe God of Israel. Compare this with French peasants.[1]\n\n\n[1] For the actual state of English habits, see the Life of Mr.\nBeattie, written by an intimate friend. The reader will be edified by\nthe profound humility of Mr. Beattie, when he receives ten guineas from\nan old Marchioness in order to slander Hume. The trembling aristocracy\nrelies on the bishops with incomes of \u00a3200,000, and pays in money and\nhonour so-called liberal writers to throw mud at Ch\u00e9nier. (_Edinburgh\nReview_, 1821.)\n\nThe most disgusting cant leaks through on all sides. Everything except\nthe portrayal of primitive and energetic feelings is stifled by it:\nimpossible to write a joyous page in English.\n\n\n                                  XL\n\nNo doubt about it--'tis a form of madness to expose oneself to\npassion-love. In some cases, however, the cure\n\n[Pg 277]\nworks too energetically. American girls in the United States are so\nsaturated and fortified with reasonable ideas, that in that country\nlove, the flower of life, has deserted youth. At Boston a girl can\nbe left perfectly safely alone with a handsome stranger--in all\nprobability she's thinking of nothing but her marriage settlement.\n\n\n                                  XLI\n\nIn France men who have lost their wives are melancholy; widows, on the\ncontrary, merry and light-hearted. There is a proverb current among\nwomen on the felicity of this state. So there must be some inequality\nin the articles of union.\n\n\n                                 XLII\n\nPeople who are happy in their love have an air of profound\npreoccupation, which, for a Frenchman, is the same as saying an air of\nprofound gloom. (Dresden, 1818.)\n\n\n                                 XLIII\n\nThe more generally a man pleases, the less deeply can he please.\n\n\n                                 XLIV\n\nAs a result of imitation in the early years of life, we contract the\npassions of our parents, even when these very passions poison our life.\n(L.'s pride.)\n\n\n                                  XLV\n\nThe most honourable source of feminine pride is a woman's fear of\ndegrading herself in her lover's eyes by some hasty step or some action\nthat he may think unwomanly.\n\n[Pg 278]\n                                 XLVI\n\nReal love renders the thought of death frequent, agreeable,\nunterrifying, a mere subject of comparison, the price we are willing to\npay for many a thing.\n\n\n                                 XLVII\n\nHow often have I exclaimed for all my bravery: \"If anyone would blow\nout my brains, I'd thank him before I expired, if there were time.\" A\nman can only be brave, with the woman he loves, by loving her a little\nless. (S., _February_, 1820.)\n\n\n                                XLVIII\n\n\"I could never love!\" a young woman said to me. \"Mirabeau and his\nletters to Sophie have given me a disgust for great souls. Those fatal\nletters impressed me like a personal experience.\"\n\nTry a plan which you never read of in novels; let two years' constancy\nassure you, before intimate intercourse, of your lover's heart.\n\n\n                                 XLIX\n\nRidicule scares love. Ridicule is impossible in Italy: what's good\nform in Venice is odd at Naples--consequently nothing's odd in Italy.\nBesides, nothing that gives pleasure is found fault with. 'Tis this\nthat does away with the fool's honour and half the farce.\n\n\n                                   L\n\nChildren command by tears, and if people do not attend to their wishes,\nthey hurt themselves on purpose. Young women are piqued from a sense of\nhonour.\n\n[Pg 279]\n                                  LI\n\n'Tis a common reflection, but one for that reason easily forgotten,\nthat every day sensitive souls become rarer, cultured minds commoner.\n\n\n                                  LII\n\n                            FEMININE PRIDE\n\nI have just witnessed a striking example--but on mature consideration\nI should need fifteen pages to give a proper idea of it. If I dared,\nI would much rather note the consequences; my eyes have convinced me\nbeyond the possibility of doubt. But, no, it is a conviction I must\ngive up all idea of communicating, there are too many little details.\nSuch pride is the opposite of French vanity. So far as I can remember,\nthe only work, in which I have seen a sketch of it, is that part of\nMadame Roland's Memoirs, where she recounts the petty reasonings she\nmade as a girl. (Bologna, _April 18th_, 2 a.m.)\n\n\n                                 LIII\n\nIn France, most women make no account of a young man until they have\nturned him into a coxcomb. It is only then that he can flatter their\nvanity. (Duclos.)\n\n\n                                  LIV\n\nZilietti said to me at midnight (at the charming Marchesina R...'s):\n\"I'm not going to dine at San Michele (an inn). Yesterday I said some\nsmart things--I was joking with Cl...; it might make me conspicuous.\"\n\nDon't go and think that Zilietti is either a fool or a coward. He is a\nprudent and very rich man in this happy land. (Modena, 1820.)\n\n[Pg 280]\n                                  LV\n\nWhat is admirable in America is the government, not society. Elsewhere\ngovernment does the harm. At Boston they have changed parts, and\ngovernment plays the hypocrite, in order not to shock society.\n\n\n                                  LVI\n\nItalian girls, if they love, are entirely given over to natural\ninspiration. At the very most all that can aid them is a handful\nof excellent maxims, which they have picked up by listening at the\nkeyhole. As if fate had decreed that everything here should combine to\npreserve naturalness, they read no novels--and for this reason, that\nthere are none. At Geneva or in France, on the contrary, a girls falls\nin love at sixteen in order to be a heroine, and at each step, almost\nat each tear, she asks herself: \"Am I not just like Julie d'\u00c9tanges? \"\n\n\n                                 LVII\n\nThe husband of a young woman adored by a lover, whom she treats\nunkindly and scarcely allows to kiss her hand, has, at the very most,\nonly the grossest physical pleasure, where the lover would find the\ncharms and transports of the keenest happiness that exists on earth.\n\n\n                                 LVIII\n\nThe laws of the imagination are still so little understood, that I\ninclude the following estimate, though perhaps it is all quite wrong.\n\nI seem to distinguish two sorts of imagination:--\n\n1. Imagination like Fabio's, ardent, impetuous, inconsiderate, leading\nstraight to action, consuming itself, and already languishing at a\ndelay of twenty-four hours. Impatience is its prime characteristic; it\nbecomes enraged against that which it cannot obtain. It sees all\n\n[Pg 281]\nexterior objects, but they only serve to inflame it. It assimilates\nthem to its own substance, and converts them straight away to the\nprofit of passion.\n\n2. Imagination which takes fire slowly and little by little, but which\nloses in time the perception of exterior objects, and comes to find\noccupation and nourishment in nothing but its own passion. This last\nsort of imagination goes quite easily with slowness, or even scarcity,\nof ideas. It is favourable to constancy. It is the imagination of the\ngreater part of those poor German girls, who are dying of love and\nconsumption. That sad spectacle, so frequent beyond the Rhine, is never\nmet with in Italy.\n\n\n                                  LIX\n\nImaginative habits. A Frenchman is really shocked by eight changes of\nscenery in one act of a tragedy. Such a man is incapable of pleasure in\nseeing Macbeth. He consoles himself by damning Shakespeare.\n\n\n                                  LX\n\nIn France the provinces are forty years behind Paris in all that\nregards women. A. C., a married woman, tells me that she only liked to\nread certain parts of Lanzi's Memoirs. Such stupidity is too much for\nme; I can no longer find a word to say to her. As if that were a book\none _could_ put down!\n\nWant of naturalness--the great failing in provincial women.\n\nTheir effusive and gracious gestures; those who play the first fiddle\nin the town are worse than the others.\n\n\n                                  LXI\n\nGoethe, or any other German genius, esteems money at what it's worth.\nUntil he has got an income of six thousand francs, he must think of\nnothing but his\n\n[Pg 282]\nbanking-account. After that he must never think of it again. The fool,\non his side, does not understand the advantage there is of feeling\nand thinking like Goethe. All his life he feels in terms of money and\nthinks of sums of money. It is owing to this support from both sides,\nthat the prosaic in this world seem to come off so much better than the\nhigh-minded.\n\n\n                                 LXII\n\nIn Europe, desire is inflamed by constraint; in America it is dulled by\nliberty.\n\n\n                                 LXIII\n\nA mania for discussion has got hold of the younger generation and\nstolen it from love. While they are considering whether Napoleon was\nof service to France, they let the age of love speed past. Even with\nthose who mean to be young, it is all affectation--a tie, a spur, their\nmartial swagger, their all-absorbing self--and they forget to cast a\nglance at the girl who passes by so modestly and cannot go out more\nthan once a week through want of means.\n\n\n                                 LXIV\n\nI have suppressed a chapter on Prudery, and others as well.\n\nI am happy to find the following passage in Horace Walpole's Memoirs:\n\n_The Two Elizabeths_. Let us compare the daughters of two ferocious\nmen, and see which was sovereign of a civilised nation, which of a\nbarbarous one. Both were Elizabeths. The daughter of Peter (of Russia)\nwas absolute, yet spared a competitor and a rival; and thought the\nperson of an empress had sufficient allurements for as many of her\nsubjects as she chose to honour with the\n\n[Pg 283]\ncommunication. Elizabeth of England could neither forgive the claim\nof Mary Stuart nor her charms, but ungenerously imprisoned her (as\nGeorge IV did Napoleon[1]) when imploring protection, and, without the\nsanction of either despotism or law, sacrificed many to her great and\nlittle jealousy. Yet this Elizabeth piqued herself on chastity; and\nwhile she practised every ridiculous art of coquetry to be admired\nat an unseemly age, kept off lovers whom she encouraged, and neither\ngratified her own desires nor their ambition. Who can help preferring\nthe honest, open-hearted barbarian empress? (Lord Orford's Memoirs.)\n\n\n[1] [Added, of course, by Stendhal.--Tr.]\n\n\n                                  LXV\n\nExtreme familiarity may destroy crystallisation. A charming girl of\nsixteen fell in love with a handsome youth of the same age, who never\nfailed one evening to pass under her window at nightfall. Her mother\ninvites him to spend a week with them in the country--a desperate\nremedy, I agree. But the girl was romantic, and the youth rather dull:\nafter three days she despised him.\n\n\n                                 LXVI\n\nAve Maria--twilight in Italy, the hour of tenderness, of the soul's\npleasures and of melancholy--sensation intensified by the sound of\nthose lovely bells.\n\nHours of pleasure, which only in memory touch the senses.... (Bologna,\n_April 17th_, 1817.)\n\n\n                                 LXVII\n\nA young man's first love-affair on entering society is ordinarily one\nof ambition. He rarely declares his love for a sweet, amiable and\ninnocent young girl. How tremble before her, adore her, feel oneself\nin the presence of a divinity? Youth must love a being whose qualities\nlift him up in his own eyes. It is in the decline of life\n\n[Pg 284]\nthat we sadly come back to love the simple and the innocent, despairing\nof the sublime. Between the two comes true love, which thinks of\nnothing but itself.\n\n\n                                LXVIII\n\nThe existence of great souls is not suspected. They hide away; all that\nis seen is a little originality. There are more great souls than one\nwould think.\n\n\n                                 LXIX\n\nThe first clasp of the beloved's hand--what a moment that is! The\nonly joy to be compared to it is the ravishing joy of power--which\nstatesmen and kings make pretence of despising. This joy also has\nits crystallisation, though it demands a colder and more reasonable\nimagination. Think of a man whom, a quarter of an hour ago, Napoleon\nhas called to be a minister.\n\n\n                                  LXX\n\nThe celebrated Johannes von M\u00fcller(54) said to me at Cassel in\n1808--Nature has given strength to the North and wit to the South.\n\n\n                                 LXXI\n\nNothing more untrue than the maxim: No man is a hero before his valet.\nOr, rather, nothing truer in the monarchic sense of the word hero--the\naffected hero, like Hippolytus in _Ph\u00e8dre_. Desaix, for example, would\nhave been a hero even before his valet (it's true I don't know if he\nhad one), and a still greater hero for his valet than for anyone else.\nTurenne and F\u00e9nelon might each have been a Desaix, but for \"good form\"\nand the necessary amount of force.\n\n[Pg 285]\n                                 LXXII\n\nHere is blasphemy. I, a Dutchman, dare say this: the French possess\nneither the true pleasures of conversation nor the true pleasures of\nthe theatre; instead of relaxation and complete unrestraint, they mean\nhard labour. Among the sources of fatigue which hastened on the death\nof Mme. de Sta\u00ebl I have heard counted the strain of conversation during\nher last winter.[1]\n\n\n[1] Memoirs of Marmontel, Montesquieu's conversation.\n\n\n                                LXXIII\n\nThe degree of tension of the nerves in the ear, necessary to hear each\nnote, explains well enough the physical part of one's pleasure in music.\n\n\n                                 LXXIV\n\nWhat degrades rakish women is the opinion, which they share with the\npublic, that they are guilty of a great sin.\n\n\n                                 LXXV\n\nIn an army in retreat, warn an Italian soldier of a danger which it is\nno use running--he'll almost thank you and he'll carefully avoid it.\nIf, from kindness, you point out the same danger to a French soldier,\nhe'll think you're defying him--his sense of honour is piqued, and he\nruns his head straight against it. If he dared, he'd like to jeer at\nyou. (Gyat, 1812.)\n\n\n                                 LXXVI\n\nIn France, any idea that can be explained only in the very simplest\nterms is sure to be despised, even the most useful. The Monitorial\nsystem(43), invented by a Frenchman, could never catch on. It is\nexactly the opposite in Italy.\n\n[Pg 286]\n                                LXXVII\n\nSuppose you are passionately in love with a woman and that your\nimagination has not run dry. One evening she is tactless enough to\nsay, looking at you tenderly and abashed: \"Er--yes--come to-morrow at\nmidday; I shall be in to no one but you.\" You cannot sleep; you cannot\nthink of anything; the morning is torture. At last twelve o'clock\nstrikes, and every stroke of the clock seems to clash and clang on your\nheart.\n\n\n                                LXXVIII\n\nIn love, to share money is to increase love, to give it is to kill love.\n\nYou are putting off the present difficulty, and the odious fear of want\nin the future; or rather you are sowing the seeds of policy, of the\nfeeling of being two.--You destroy sympathy.\n\n\n                                 LXXIX\n\nCourt ceremonies involuntarily call to mind scenes from Aretine--the\nway the women display their bare shoulders, like officers their\nuniform, and, for all their charms, make no more sensation!\n\nThere you see what in a mercenary way all will do to win a man's\napproval; there you see a whole world acting without morality and,\nwhat's more, without passion. All this added to the presence of the\nwomen with their very low dresses and their expression of malice,\ngreeting with a sardonic smile everything but selfish advantage payable\nin the hard cash of solid pleasures--why! it gives the idea of scenes\nfrom the Bagno. It drives far away all doubts suggested by virtue or\nthe conscious satisfaction of a heart at peace with itself. Yet I have\nseen the feeling of isolation amidst all this dispose gentle hearts to\nlove. (_Mars at the Tuileries_, 1811.)\n\n[Pg 287]\n                                 LXXX\n\nA soul taken up with bashfulness and the effort to suppress it, is\nincapable of pleasure. Pleasure is a luxury--to enjoy it, security is\nessential and must run no risks.\n\n\n                                 LXXXI\n\nA test of love in which mercenary women cannot disguise their\nfeelings.--\"Do you feel real delight in reconciliation or is it only\nthe thought of what you'll gain by it?\"\n\n\n                                LXXXII\n\nThe poor things who fill La Trappe(55) are wretches who have not had\nquite enough courage to kill themselves. I except, of course, the\nheads, who find pleasure in being heads.\n\n\n                                LXXXIII\n\nIt is a misfortune to have known Italian beauty: you lose your\nsensibility. Out of Italy, you prefer the conversation of men.\n\n\n                                LXXXIV\n\nItalian prudence looks to the preservation of life, and this allows\nfree play to the imagination. (Cf. a version of the death of Pertica\nthe famous comic actor, December 24th, 1821.) On the other hand,\nEnglish prudence, wholly relative to the gain and safe-keeping of\njust enough money to cover expenses, demands detailed and everyday\nexactitude, and this habit paralyses the imagination. Notice also how\nenormously it strengthens the conception of duty.\n\n\n                                 LXXXV\n\nThe immense respect for money, which is the first and foremost vice of\nEnglishmen and Italians, is less felt\n\n[Pg 288]\nin France and reduced to perfectly rational limits in Germany.\n\n\n                                LXXXVI\n\nFrench women, having never known the happiness of true passion, are\nanything but exacting over internal domestic happiness and the everyday\nside of life. (_Compi\u00e8gne_.)\n\n\n                                LXXXVII\n\n\"You talk to me of ambition for driving away boredom,\" said Kamensky:\n\"but all the time I used to gallop a couple of leagues every evening,\nfor the pleasure of seeing the Princess at Kolich, I was on terms of\nintimacy with a despot whom I respected, who had my whole good fortune\nin his power and the satisfaction of all my possible desires.\"\n\n                               LXXXVIII\n\nPretty contrast! On the one hand--perfection in the little niceties of\nworldly wisdom and of dress, great kindliness, want of genius, daily\ncult of a thousand and one petty observances, and incapacity for three\ndays' attention to the same event: on the other--puritan severity,\nbiblical cruelty, strict probity, timid, morbid self-love and universal\ncant! And yet these are the two foremost nations of the world.\n\n\n                                LXXXIX\n\nAs among princesses there has been an Empress Catherine II, why should\na female Samuel Bernard(56), or a Lagrange(57) not appear among the\nmiddle-class?\n\n\n                                  XC\n\nAlviza calls this an unpardonable want of refinement--to dare to make\nlove by letter to a woman you adore and who looks at you tenderly, but\ndeclares that she can never love you.\n\n[Pg 289]\n                                  XCI\n\nIt was a mistake of the greatest philosopher that France has had, not\nto have stayed in some Alpine solitude, in some remote abode, thence\nto launch his book on Paris without ever coming there himself(58).\nSeeing Helv\u00e9tius so simple and straightforward, unnatural, hot-house\npeople like Suard, Marmontel or Diderot could never imagine they had\na great philosopher before them. They were perfectly honest in their\ncontempt for his profound reason. First of all, it was simple--a fault\nunpardonable in France; secondly, the author, not, of course, his\nbook, was lowered in value by this weakness--the extreme importance\nhe attached to getting what in France is called glory, to being, like\nBalzac, Voiture or Fontenelle, the fashion among his contemporaries.\n\nRousseau had too much feeling and too little logic, Buffon, in his\nBotanical Garden, was too hypocritical, and Voltaire too paltry to be\nable to judge the principle of Helv\u00e9tius.\n\nHelv\u00e9tius was guilty of a little slip in calling this principle\n_interest_, instead of giving it a pretty name like _pleasure_;[1] but\nwhat are we to think of a nation's literature, which shows its sense by\nletting itself be led astray by a fault so slight?\n\nThe ordinary clever man, Prince Eugene of Savoy for example, finding\nhimself in the position of Regulus, would have stayed quietly at Rome,\nand even laughed at the stupidity of the Carthaginian Senate. Regulus\ngoes back to Carthage. Prince Eugene would have been prosecuting his\nown interest, and in exactly the same way Regulus was prosecuting his.\n\nAll through life a noble spirit is seeing possibilities\n\n[Pg 290]\nof action, of which a common spirit can form no idea. The very second\nthe possibility of that action becomes visible to the noble spirit, it\nis its interest thus to act.\n\nIf this noble spirit did not perform the action, which it has just\nperceived, it would despise itself--it would be unhappy. Man's duties\nare in the ratio of his moral range. The principle of Helv\u00e9tius holds\ngood, even in the wildest exaltations of love, even in suicide. It is\ncontrary to his nature, it is an impossibility for a man not to do,\nalways and at any moment you choose to take, that which is possible and\nwhich gives him most pleasure at that moment to do.\n\n[1] Torva leoena lupum sequitur, lupus ipse capellam;\n    Florentem cytisum sequitur lasciva capella.\n    .... Trahit sua quemque voluptas. (Virgil, Eclogue II.)\n\n\n                                 XCII\n\nTo have firmness of character means to have experienced the influence\nof others on oneself. Therefore others are necessary.\n\n\n                                 XCIII\n\n                             ANCIENT LOVE\n\nNo posthumous love-letters of Roman ladies have been printed. Petronius\nhas written a charming book, but it is only debauch that he has painted.\n\nFor love at Rome, apart from Virgil's story of Dido[1] and his second\nEclogue, we have no evidence more precise than the writings of the\nthree great poets, Ovid, Tibullus and Propertius.\n\nNow, Parny's _Elegies_ or Colardeau's _Letter of H\u00e9lo\u00efse to Abelard_\nare pictures of a very imperfect and vague kind, if you compare them\nto some of the letters in the _Nouvelle H\u00e9lo\u00efse_, to those of the\nPortuguese Nun, of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse, of Mirabeau's Sophie, of\nWerther, etc., etc.\n\n\n[Pg 291]\nPoetry, with its obligatory comparisons, its mythology in which the\npoet doesn't believe, its dignity of style _\u00e0 la_ Louis XIV, and all\nits superfluous stock of ornaments called poetical, is very inferior to\nprose when it comes to a question of giving a clear and precise idea\nof the working of the heart. And, in this class of writing, clearness\nalone is effective.\n\nTibullus, Ovid and Propertius had better taste than our poets; they\nhave painted love such as it was to be found among the proud citizens\nof Rome: moreover, they lived under Augustus, who, having shut the\ntemple of Janus, sought to debase these citizens to the condition of\nthe loyal subjects of a monarchy.\n\nThe mistresses of these three great poets were coquettes, faithless\nand venal women; in their company the poets only sought physical\npleasure, and never, I should think, caught a glimpse of the sublime\nsentiments[2] which, thirteen centuries later, stirred the heart of the\ngentle H\u00e9lo\u00efse.\n\nI borrow the following passage from a distinguished man of letters,[3]\nand one who knows the Latin poets much better than I do:--\n\n The brilliant genius of Ovid, the rich imagination of Propertius,\n the impressionable heart of Tibullus, doubtless inspired them with\n verses of a different flavour, but all, in the same manner, they loved\n women of much the same kind. They desire, they triumph, they have\n fortunate rivals, they are jealous, they quarrel and make it up; they\n are faithless in their turn, they are forgiven; and they recover their\n happiness only to be ruffled by the return of the same mischances.\n\n Corinna is married. The first lessons that Ovid gives her are to teach\n her the address with which to deceive her husband: the signs they are\n to make each other before him and in society,\n\n[Pg 292]\n so that they can understand each other and be understood only by\n themselves. Enjoyment quickly follows; afterwards quarrels, and, what\n you wouldn't expect from so gallant a man as Ovid, insults and blows;\n then excuses, tears and forgiveness. Sometimes he addresses himself to\n subordinates--to the servants, to his mistress' porter, who is to open\n to him at night, to a cursed old beldam who corrupts her and teaches\n her to sell herself for gold, to an old eunuch who keeps watch over\n her, to a slave-girl who is to convey the tablets in which he begs for\n a rendezvous. The rendezvous is refused: he curses his tablets, that\n have had such sorry fortune. Fortune shines brighter: he adjures the\n dawn not to come to interrupt his happiness.\n\n Soon he accuses himself of numberless infidelities, of his\n indiscriminate taste for women. A moment after, Corinna is herself\n faithless; he cannot bear the idea that he has given her lessons from\n which she reaps the profit with someone else. Corinna in her turn is\n jealous; she abuses him like a fury rather than a gentle woman; she\n accuses him of loving a slave-girl. He swears that there is nothing\n in it and writes to the slave--yet everything that made Corinna angry\n was true. But how did she get to know of it? What clue had led to\n their betrayal? He asks the slave-girl for another rendezvous. If she\n refuse him, he threatens to confess everything to Corinna. He jokes\n with a friend about his two loves and the trouble and pleasure they\n give him. Soon after, it is Corinna alone that fills his thoughts. She\n is everything to him. He sings his triumph, as if it were his first\n victory. After certain incidents, which for more than one reason we\n must leave in Ovid, and others, which it would be too long to recount,\n he discovers that Corinna's husband has become too lax. He is no\n longer jealous; our lover does not like this, and threatens to leave\n the wife, if the husband does not resume his jealousy. The husband\n obeys him but too well; he has Corinna watched so closely, that Ovid\n can no longer come to her. He complains of this close watch, which\n he had himself provoked--but he will find a way to get round it.\n Unfortunately, he is not the only one to succeed therein. Corinna's\n infidelities begin again and multiply; her intrigues become so public,\n that the only boon that Ovid can crave of her, is that she will take\n some trouble to deceive him, and show a little less obviously what she\n really is. Such were the morals of Ovid and his mistress, such is the\n character of their love.\n\n Cynthia is the first love of Propertius, and she will be his last.\n\n[Pg 293]\n No sooner is he happy, but he is jealous. Cynthia is too fond of\n dress; he begs her to shun luxury and to love simplicity. He himself\n is given up to more than one kind of debauch. Cynthia expects him; he\n only comes to her at dawn, leaving a banquet in his cups. He finds\n her asleep; it is a long time before she wakes, in spite of the\n noise he makes and even of his kisses; at last she opens her eyes\n and reproaches him as he deserves. A friend tries to detach him from\n Cynthia; he gives his friend a eulogy of her beauty and talents.\n He is threatened with losing her; she goes off with a soldier; she\n means to follow the army; she will expose herself to every danger in\n order to follow her soldier. Propertius does not storm; he weeps and\n prays heaven for her happiness. He will never leave the house she has\n deserted; he will look out for strangers who have seen her, and will\n never leave off asking them for news of Cynthia. She is touched by\n love so great. She deserts the soldier and stays with the poet. He\n gives thanks to Apollo and the Muses; he is drunk with his happiness.\n This happiness is soon troubled by a new access of jealousy,\n interrupted by separation and by absence. Far from Cynthia, he can\n only think of her. Her past infidelities make him fear for news. Death\n does not frighten him, he only fears to lose Cynthia; let him be but\n certain that she will be faithful and he will go down without regret\n to the grave.\n\n After more treachery, he fancies he is delivered from his love; but\n soon he is again in its bonds. He paints the most ravishing portrait\n of his mistress, her beauty, the elegance of her dress, her talents\n in singing, poetry and dancing; everything redoubles and justifies\n his love. But Cynthia, as perverse as she is captivating, dishonours\n herself before the whole town by such scandalous adventures that\n Propertius can no longer love her without shame. He blushes, but he\n cannot shake her off. He will be her lover, her husband; he will never\n love any but Cynthia. They part and come together again. Cynthia is\n jealous, he reassures her. He will never love any other woman. But\n in fact it is never one woman he loves--it is all women. He never\n has enough of them, he is insatiable of pleasure. To recall him to\n himself, Cynthia has to desert him yet again. Then his complaints\n are as vigorous as if he had never been faithless himself. He tries\n to escape. He seeks distraction in debauch.--Is he drunk as usual?\n He pretends that a troupe of loves meets him and brings him back to\n Cynthia's feet. Reconciliation is followed by more storms. Cynthia, at\n one\n\n[Pg 294]\n of their supper parties, gets heated with wine like himself, upsets\n the table and hits him over the head. Propertius thinks this charming.\n More perfidy forces him at last to break his chains; he tries to go\n away; he means to travel in Greece; he completes all his plans for\n the journey, but he renounces the project--and all in order to see\n himself once more the butt of new outrages. Cynthia does not confine\n herself to betraying him; she makes him the laughing-stock of his\n rivals. But illness seizes her and she dies. She reproaches him with\n his faithlessness, his caprices and his desertion of her in her last\n moments, and swears that she herself, in spite of appearances, was\n always faithful.\n\n Such are the morals and adventures of Propertius and his mistress;\n such in abstract is the history of their love. Such was the woman that\n a soul like Propertius was reduced to loving.\n\n Ovid and Propertius were often faithless, but never inconstant.\n Confirmed libertines, they distribute their homage far and wide,\n but always return to take up the same chains again. Corinna and\n Cynthia have womankind for rivals, but no woman in particular. The\n Muse of these two poets is faithful, if their love is not, and no\n other names besides those of Corinna and of Cynthia figure in their\n verses. Tibullus, a tender lover and tender poet, less lively and\n less headlong in his tastes, has not their constancy. Three beauties\n are one after the other the objects of his love and of his verses.\n Delia is the first, the most celebrated and also the best beloved.\n Tibullus has lost his fortune, but he still has the country and Delia.\n To enjoy her amid the peaceful fields; to be able, at his ease, to\n press Delia's hand in his; to have her for his only mourner at his\n funeral--he makes no other prayers. Delia is kept shut up by a jealous\n husband; he will penetrate into her prison, in spite of any Argus and\n triple bolts. He will forget all his troubles in her arms. He falls\n ill and Delia alone fills his thoughts. He exhorts her to be always\n chaste, to despise gold, and to grant none but him the love she has\n granted him. But Delia does not follow his advice. He thought he could\n put up with her infidelity; but it is too much for him and he begs\n Delia and Venus for pity. He seeks in wine a remedy and does not find\n it; he can neither soften his regret nor cure himself of his love. He\n turns to Delia's husband, deceived like himself, and reveals to him\n all the tricks she uses to attract and see her lovers. If the husband\n does not know how to keep watch over her, let her be trusted to\n himself; he will manage right enough to ward\n\n[Pg 295]\n the lovers off and to keep from their toils the author of their common\n wrongs. He is appeased and returns to her; he remembers Delia's mother\n who favoured their love; the memory of this good woman opens his heart\n once more to tender thoughts, and all Delia's wrongs are forgotten.\n But she is soon guilty of others more serious. She lets herself\n be corrupted by gold and presents; she gives herself to another,\n to others. At length Tibullus breaks his shameful chains and says\n good-bye to her for ever.\n\n He passes under the sway of Nemesis and is no happier; she loves only\n gold and cares little for poetry and the gifts of genius. Nemesis is\n a greedy woman who sells herself to the highest bidder; he curses her\n avarice, but he loves her and cannot live unless she loves him. He\n tries to move her with touching images. She has lost her young sister;\n he will go and weep on her tomb and confide his grief to her dumb\n ashes. The shade of her sister will take offence at the tears that\n Nemesis causes to flow. She must not despise her anger. The sad image\n of her sister might come at night to trouble her sleep.... But these\n sad memories force tears from Nemesis--and at that price he could not\n buy even happiness. Neaera is his third mistress. He has long enjoyed\n her love; he only prays the gods that he may live and die with her;\n but she leaves him, she is gone; he can only think of her, she is his\n only prayer; he has seen in a dream Apollo, who announces to him that\n Neaera is unfaithful. He refuses to believe this dream; he could not\n survive his misfortune, and none the less the misfortune is there.\n Neaera is faithless; once more Tibullus is deserted. Such was his\n character and fortune, such is the triple and all unhappy story of his\n loves.\n\n In him particularly there is a sweet, all-pervading melancholy, that\n gives even to his pleasures the tone of dreaminess and sadness which\n constitutes his charm. If any poet of antiquity introduced moral\n sensibility into love, it was Tibullus; but these fine shades of\n feeling which he expresses so well, are in himself; he expects no more\n than the other two to find them or engender them in his mistresses.\n Their grace, their beauty is all that inflames him; their favours all\n he desires or regrets; their perfidy, their venality, their loss, all\n that torments him. Of all these women, celebrated in the verses of\n three great poets, Cynthia seems the most lovable. The attraction of\n talent is joined to all the others; she cultivates singing and poetry;\n and yet all these talents, which were found\n\n[Pg 296]\n not infrequently in courtesans of a certain standing, were of no\n avail--it was none the less pleasure, gold and wine which ruled her.\n And Propertius, who boasts only once or twice of her artistic tastes,\n in his passion for her is none the less seduced by a very different\n power!\n\nThese great poets are apparently to be numbered among the most tender\nand refined souls of their century--well! this is how they loved and\nwhom. We must here put literary considerations on one side. I only ask\nof them evidence concerning their century; and in two thousand years a\nnovel by Ducray-Duminil(59) will be evidence concerning the annals of\nours.\n\n\n[1] Mark Dido's look in the superb sketch by M. Guerin at the\nLuxembourg.\n\n[2] Everything that is beautiful in the world having become a part of\nthe beauty of the woman you love, you find yourself inclined to do\neverything in the world that is beautiful.\n\n[3] Guinguen\u00e9's _Histoire litt\u00e9raire de l'Italie_ (Vol. II, p. 490.)\n\n\n                               XCIII(b)\n\nOne of my great regrets is not to have been able to see Venice in\n1760.[1] A run of happy chances had apparently united, in so small a\nspace, both the political institutions and the public opinion that are\nmost favourable to the happiness of mankind. A soft spirit of luxury\ngave everyone an easy access to happiness. There were no domestic\nstruggles and no crimes. Serenity was seen on every face; no one\nthought about seeming richer than he was; hypocrisy had no point. I\nimagine it must have been the direct contrary to London in 1822.\n\n\n[1] _Travels in Italy_ of the President de Brosses, _Travels_ of\nEustace, Sharp, Smollett.\n\n\n                                 XCIV\n\nIf in the place of the want of personal security you put the natural\nfear of economic want, you will see that the United States of America\nbears a considerable resemblance to the ancient world as regards that\npassion, on which we are attempting to write a monograph.\n\nIn speaking of the more or less imperfect sketches of passion-love\nwhich the ancients have left us, I see that I have forgotten the Loves\nof Medea in the _Argonautica_(60).\n\n[Pg 297]\nVirgil copied them in his picture of Dido. Compare that with love as\nseen in a modern novel--_Le Doyen de Killerine_, for example.\n\n\n                                  XCV\n\nThe Roman feels the beauties of Nature and Art with amazing strength,\ndepth and justice; but if he sets out to try and reason on what he\nfeels so forcibly, it is pitiful.\n\nThe reason may be that his feelings come to him from Nature, but his\nlogic from government.\n\nYou can see at once why the fine arts, outside Italy, are only a farce;\nmen reason better, but the public has no feeling.\n\n\n                                 XCVI\n\nLondon, _November 20th_, 1821.\n\nA very sensible man, who arrived yesterday from Madras, told me in a\ntwo hours' conversation what I reduce to the following few lines:--\n\n This gloom, which from an unknown cause depresses the English\n character, penetrates so deeply into their hearts, that at the end of\n the world, at Madras, no sooner does an Englishman get a few days'\n holiday, than he quickly leaves rich and flourishing Madras and comes\n to revive his spirits in the little French town of Pondicherry,\n which, without wealth and almost without commerce, flourishes under\n the paternal administration of M. Dupuy. At Madras you drink Burgundy\n that costs thirty-six francs a bottle; the poverty of the French in\n Pondicherry is such that, in the most distinguished circles, the\n refreshments consist of large glasses of water. But in Pondicherry\n they laugh.\n\nAt present there is more liberty in England than in Prussia. The\nclimate is the same as that of Koenigsberg, Berlin or Warsaw, cities\nwhich are far from being famous for their gloom. The working classes\nin these towns have less security and drink quite as little wine as in\nEngland; and they are much worse clothed.\n\n[Pg 298]\nThe aristocracies of Venice and Vienna are not gloomy.\n\nI can see only one point of difference: in gay countries the Bible is\nlittle read, and there is gallantry. I am sorry to have to come back\nso often to a demonstration with which I am unsatisfied. I suppress a\nscore of facts pointing in the same direction.\n\n\n                                 XCVII\n\nI have just seen, in a fine country-house near Paris, a very\ngood-looking, very clever, and very rich young man of less than twenty;\nhe has been left there by chance almost alone, for a long time too,\nwith a most beautiful girl of eighteen, full of talent, of a most\ndistinguished mind, and also very rich. Who wouldn't have expected\na passionate love-affair? Not a bit of it--such was the affectation\nof these two charming creatures that both were occupied solely with\nthemselves and the effect they were to produce.\n\n\n                                XCVIII\n\nI am ready to agree that on the morrow of a great action a savage pride\nhas made this people fall into all the faults and follies that lay open\nto it. But you will see what prevents me from effacing my previous\npraises of this representative of the Middle Ages.\n\nThe prettiest woman in Narbonne is a young Spaniard, scarcely twenty\nyears old, who lives there very retired with her husband, a Spaniard\nalso, and an officer on half-pay. Some time ago there was a fool\nwhom this officer was obliged to insult. The next day, on the field\nof combat, the fool sees the young Spanish woman arrive. He begins a\nrenewed flow of affected nothings:--\n\n\"No, indeed, it's shocking! How could you tell your wife about it? You\nsee, she has come to prevent us fighting!\" \"I have come to bury you,\"\nshe answered.\n\n[Pg 299]\nHappy the husband who can tell his wife everything! The result did not\nbelie this woman's haughty words. Her action would have been considered\nhardly the thing in England. Thus does false decency diminish the\nlittle happiness that exists here below.\n\n\n                                 XCIX\n\nThe delightful Don\u00e9zan said yesterday: \"In my youth, and well on in my\ncareer--for I was fifty in '89--women wore powder in their hair.\n\n\"I own that a woman without powder gives me a feeling of repugnance;\nthe first impression is always that of a chamber-maid who hasn't had\ntime to get dressed.\"\n\nHere we have the one argument against Shakespeare and in favour of the\ndramatic unities.\n\nWhile young men read nothing but La Harpe(61), the taste for great\npowdered _toup\u00e9es_, such as the late Queen Marie Antoinette used\nto wear, can still last some years. I know people too, who despise\nCorreggio and Michael Angelo, and, to be sure, M. Don\u00e9zan was extremely\nclever.\n\n\n                                   C\n\nCold, brave, calculating, suspicious, contentious, for ever afraid\nof being attracted by anyone who might possibly be laughing at them\nin secret, absolutely devoid of enthusiasm, and a little jealous of\npeople who saw great events with Napoleon, such was the youth of that\nage, estimable rather than lovable. They forced on the country that\nRight-Centre form of government-to-the-lowest-bidder. This temper in\nthe younger generation was to be found even among the conscripts, each\nof whom only longed to finish his time.\n\nAll systems of education, whether given expressly or by chance, form\nmen for a certain period in their life.\n\n[Pg 300]\nThe education of the age of Louis XV made twenty-five the finest moment\nin the lives of its pupils.[1]\n\nIt is at forty that the young men of this period will be at their best;\nthey will have lost their suspiciousness and pretensions, and have\ngained ease and gaiety.\n\n\n[1] M. de Francueil with too much powder: Memoirs of Madame d'\u00c9pinay.\n\n\n                                  CI\n\nDISCUSSION BETWEEN AN HONEST MAN AND AN ACADEMIC\n\n\"In this discussion, the academic always saved himself by fixing on\nlittle dates and other similar errors of small importance; but the\nconsequences and natural qualifications of things, these he always\ndenied, or seemed not to understand: for example, that Nero was a cruel\nEmperor or Charles II a perjurer. Now, how are you to prove things of\nthis kind, or, even if you do, manage not to put a stop to the general\ndiscussion or lose the thread of it?\n\n\"This, I have always remarked, is the method of discussion between such\nfolk, one of whom seeks only the truth and advancement thereto, the\nother the favour of his master or his party and the glory of talking\nwell. And I always consider it great folly and waste of time for an\nhonest man to stop and talk with the said academics.\" (_\u0152uvres badines_\nof Guy Allard de Voiron.)\n\n\n                                  CII\n\nOnly a small part of the art of being happy is an exact science, a sort\nof ladder up which one can be sure of climbing a rung per century--and\nthat is the part which depends on government. (Still, this is only\ntheory. I\n\n[Pg 301]\nfind the Venetians of 1770 happier than the people of Philadelphia\nto-day.)\n\nFor the rest, the art of being happy is like poetry; in spite of the\nperfecting of all things, Homer, two thousand seven hundred years ago,\nhad more talent than Lord Byron.\n\nReading Plutarch with attention, I think I can see that men were\nhappier in Sicily in the time of Dion than we manage to be to-day,\nalthough they had no printing and no iced punch!\n\nI would rather be an Arab of the fifth century than a Frenchman of the\nnineteenth.\n\n\n                                 CIII\n\nPeople go to the theatre, never for that kind of illusion which is\nlost one minute and found again the next, but for an opportunity of\nconvincing their neighbour, or at least themselves, that they have\nread their La Harpe and are people who know what's good. It is an old\npedant's pleasure that the younger generation indulges in.\n\n\n                                  CIV\n\nA woman belongs by right to the man who loves her and is dearer to her\nthan life.\n\n\n                                  CV\n\nCrystallisation cannot be excited by an understudy, and your most\ndangerous rivals are those most unlike you.\n\n\n                                  CVI\n\nIn a very advanced state of society passion-love is as natural as\nphysical love among savages. (M.)\n\n[Pg 302]\n                                 CVII\n\nBut for an infinite number of shades of feeling, to have a woman you\nadore would be no happiness and scarcely a possibility. (L., _October\n7th._)\n\n\n                                 CVIII\n\nWhence comes the intolerance of Stoic philosophers? From the same\nsource as that of religious fanatics. They are put out because they are\nstruggling against nature, because they deny themselves, and because it\nhurts them. If they would question themselves honestly on the hatred\nthey bear towards those who profess a code of morals less severe, they\nwould have to own that it springs from a secret jealousy of a bliss\nwhich they envy and have renounced, without believing in the rewards\nwhich would make up for this sacrifice. (Diderot.)\n\n\n                                  CIX\n\nWomen who are always taking offence might well ask themselves whether\nthey are following a line of conduct, which they think really and truly\nis the road to happiness. Is there not a little lack of courage, mixed\nwith a little mean revenge, at the bottom of a prude's heart? Consider\nthe ill-humour of Madame de Deshouli\u00e8res in her last days. (_Note by M.\nLemontey._)(62).\n\n\n                                  CX\n\nNothing more indulgent than virtue without hypocrisy--because nothing\nhappier; yet even Mistress Hutchinson might well be more indulgent.\n\n\n                                  CXI\n\nImmediately below this kind of happiness comes that of a young, pretty\nand easy-going woman, with a conscience\n\n[Pg 303]\nthat does not reproach her. At Messina people used to talk scandal\nabout the Contessina Vicenzella. \"Well, well!\" she would say, \"I'm\nyoung, free, rich and perhaps not ugly. I wish the same to all the\nladies of Messina!\" It was this charming woman, who would never be more\nthan a friend to me, who introduced me to the Abb\u00e9 Melli's sweet poems\nin Sicilian dialect. His poetry is delicious, though still disfigured\nby mythology.\n\n(Delfante.)\n\n\n                                 CXII\n\nThe public of Paris has a fixed capacity for attention--three\ndays: after which, bring to its notice the death of Napoleon or M.\nB\u00e9ranger(63) sent to prison for two months--the news is just as\nsensational, and to bring it up on the fourth day just as tactless.\nMust every great capital be like this, or has it to do with the good\nnature and light heart of the Parisian? Thanks to aristocratic pride\nand morbid reserve, London is nothing but a numerous collection of\nhermits; it is not a capital. Vienna is nothing but an oligarchy of two\nhundred families surrounded by a hundred and fifty thousand workpeople\nand servants who wait on them. No more is that a capital.--Naples and\nParis, the only two capitals. (Extract from Birkbeck's _Travels_, p.\n371.)\n\n\n                                 CXIII\n\nAccording to common ideas, or reasonable-ideas, as they are called\nby ordinary people, if any period of imprisonment could possibly be\ntolerable, it would be after several years' confinement, when at last\nthe poor prisoner is only separated by a month or two from the moment\nof his release. But the ways of crystallisation are otherwise. The last\nmonth is more painful than the last three years. In the gaol at Melun,\nM. d'Hotelans has seen several prisoners die of impatience within a few\nmonths of the day of release.\n\n[Pg 304]\n                                 CXIV\n\nI cannot resist the pleasure of copying out a letter written in bad\nEnglish by a young German woman. It proves that, after all, constant\nlove exists, and that not every man of genius is a Mirabeau. Klopstock,\nthe great poet, passes at Hamburg for having been an attractive person.\nRead what his young wife wrote to an intimate friend:\n\n \"After having seen him two hours, I was obliged to pass the evening\n in a company, which never had been so wearisome to me. I could not\n speak, I could not play; I thought I saw nothing but Klopstock; I\n saw him the next day and the following and we were very seriously\n friends. But the fourth day he departed. It was a strong hour the\n hour of his departure! He wrote soon after; from that time our\n correspondence began to be a very diligent one. I sincerely believed\n my love to be friendship. I spoke with my friends of nothing but\n Klopstock, and showed his letters. They raillied at me and said I\n was in love. I raillied then again, and said that they must have a\n very friendshipless heart, if they had no idea of friendship to a\n man as well as to a woman. Thus it continued eight months, in which\n time my friends found as much love in Klopstock's letters as in me.\n I perceived it likewise, but I would not believe it. At the last\n Klopstock said plainly that he loved; and I startled as for a wrong\n thing; I answered that it was no love, but friendship, as it was\n what I felt for him; we had not seen one another enough to love (as\n if love must have more time than friendship). This was sincerely my\n meaning, and I had this meaning till Klopstock came again to Hamburg.\n This he did a year after we had seen one another the first time. We\n saw, we were friends, we loved; and a short time after, I could even\n tell Klopstock that I loved. But we were obliged to part again, and\n wait two years for our wedding. My mother would not let me marry a\n stranger. I could marry then without\n\n[Pg 305]\n her consent, as by the death of my father my fortune depended not on\n her; but this was a horrible idea for me; and thank heaven that I have\n prevailed by prayers! At this time knowing Klopstock, she loves him as\n her lifely son, and thanks God that she has not persisted. We married\n and I am the happiest wife in the world. In some few months it will be\n four years that I am so happy....\" (_Correspondence of Richardson_,\n Vol. III, p. 147.)\n\n\n                                  CXV\n\nThe only unions legitimate for all time are those that answer to a real\npassion.\n\n\n                                 CXVI\n\nTo be happy with laxity of morals, one wants the simplicity of\ncharacter that is found in Germany and Italy, but never in France. (The\nDuchess de C----)\n\n\n                                 CXVII\n\nIt is their pride that makes the Turks deprive their women of\neverything that can nourish crystallisation. I have been living for\nthe last three months in a country where the titled folk will soon be\ncarried just as far by theirs.\n\nModesty is the name given here by men to the exactions of aristocratic\npride run mad. Who would risk a lapse of modesty? Here also, as at\nAthens, the intellectuals show a marked tendency to take refuge with\ncourtesans--that is to say, with the women whom a scandal shelters from\nthe need to affect modesty. (_Life of Fox._)\n\n\n                                CXVIII\n\nIn the case of love blighted by too prompt a victory, I have seen in\nvery tender characters crystallisation trying\n\n[Pg 306]\nto form later. \"I don't love you a bit,\" she says, but laughing.\n\n\n                                 CXIX\n\nThe present-day education of women--that odd mixture of works of\ncharity and risky songs (\"Di piacer mi balza il cor,\" in _La Gazza\nLadra_)(64)--is the one thing in the world best calculated to keep\noff happiness. This form of education produces minds completely\ninconsequent. Madame de R----, who was afraid of dying, has just met\nher death through thinking it funny to throw her medicines out of the\nwindow. Poor little women like her take inconsequence for gaiety,\nbecause, in appearance, gaiety is often inconsequent. 'Tis like the\nGerman, who threw himself out of the window in order to be sprightly.\n\n\n                                  CXX\n\nVulgarity, by stifling imagination, instantly produces in me a deadly\nboredom. Charming Countess K----, showing me this evening her lovers'\nletters, which to my mind were in bad taste. (Forl\u00ec, _March 17th_,\nHenri.)\n\nImagination was not stifled: it was only deranged, and very soon from\nmere repugnance ceased to picture the unpleasantness of these dull\nlovers.\n\n\n                                 CXXI\n\n                         METAPHYSICAL REVERIE\n\nBelgirate, _26th October_, 1816.\n\nReal passion has only to be crossed for it to produce apparently more\nunhappiness than happiness. This thought may not be true in the case of\ngentle souls, but it is absolutely proved in the case of the majority\nof men, and particularly of cold philosophers, who, as regards passion,\nlive, one might say, only on curiosity and self-love.\n\nI said all this to the Contessina Fulvia yesterday\n\n[Pg 307]\nevening, as we were walking together near the great pine on the eastern\nterrace of Isola Bella. She answered: \"Unhappiness makes a much\nstronger impression on a man's life than pleasure.\n\n\"The prime virtue in anything which claims to give us pleasure, is that\nit strikes hard.\n\n\"Might we not say that life itself being made up only of sensation,\nthere is a universal taste in all living beings for the consciousness\nthat the sensations of their life are the keenest that can be? In the\nNorth people are hardly alive--look at the slowness of their movements.\nThe Italian's _dolce far niente_ is the pleasure of relishing one's\nsoul and one's emotions, softly reclining on a divan. Such pleasure is\nimpossible, if you are racing all day on horseback or in a drosky, like\nthe Englishman or the Russian. Such people would die of boredom on a\ndivan. There is no reason to look into their souls.\n\n\"Love gives the keenest possible of all sensations--and the proof is\nthat in these moments of 'inflammation,' as physiologists would say,\nthe heart is open to those 'complex sensations' which Helv\u00e9tius, Buffon\nand other philosophers think so absurd. The other day, as you know,\nLuizina fell into the lake; you see, her eye was following a laurel\nleaf that had fallen from a tree on Isola-Madre (one of the Borromean\nIslands). The poor woman owned to me that one day her lover, while\ntalking to her, threw into the lake the leaves of a laurel branch he\nwas stripping, and said: 'Your cruelty and the calumnies of your friend\nare preventing me from turning my life to account and winning a little\nglory.'\n\n\"It is a peculiar and incomprehensible fact that, when some\ngreat passion has brought upon the soul moments of torture and\nextreme unhappiness, the soul comes to despise the happiness of a\npeaceful life, where everything seems framed to our desires. A fine\ncountry-house in a picturesque position, substantial means, a good\nwife, three pretty children, and friends charming\n\n[Pg 308]\nand numerous--this is but a mere outline of all our host. General\nC----, possesses. And yet he said, as you know, he felt tempted to go\nto Naples and take the command of a guerilla band. A soul made for\npassion soon finds this happy life monotonous, and feels, perhaps,\nthat it only offers him commonplace ideas. 'I wish,' C. said to you,\n'that I had never known the fever of high passion. I wish I could rest\ncontent with the apparent happiness on which people pay me every day\nsuch stupid compliments, which, to put the finishing touch to, I have\nto answer politely.'\"\n\nI, a philosopher, rejoin: \"Do you want the thousandth proof that we\nare not created by a good Being? It is the fact that pleasure does not\nmake perhaps half as much impression on human life as pain....\"[1] The\nContessina interrupted me. \"In life there are few mental pains that\nare not rendered sweet by the emotion they themselves excite, and, if\nthere is a spark of magnanimity in the soul, this pleasure is increased\na hundredfold. The man condemned to death in 1815 and saved by chance\n(M. de Lavalette(65), for example), if he was going courageously to\nhis doom, must recall that moment ten times a month. But the coward,\nwho was going to die crying and yelling (the exciseman, Morris, thrown\ninto the lake, _Rob Roy_)--suppose him also saved by chance--can at\nmost recall that instant with pleasure because he was _saved_, not for\nthe treasures of magnanimity that he discovered with him, and that take\naway for the future all his fears.\"\n\nI: \"Love, even unhappy love, gives a gentle soul, for whom a thing\nimagined is a thing existent, treasures of this kind of enjoyment. He\nweaves sublime visions of happiness and beauty about himself and his\nbeloved. How often has Salviati heard L\u00e9onore, with her enchanting\n\n[Pg 309]\nsmile, say, like Mademoiselle Mars in _Les Fausses Confidences_: 'Well,\nyes, I do love you!' No, these are never the illusions of a prudent\nmind.\"\n\nFulvia (raising her eyes to heaven): \"Yes, for you and me, love, even\nunhappy love, if only our admiration for the beloved knows no limit, is\nthe supreme happiness.\"\n\n(Fulvia is twenty-three,--the most celebrated beauty of ... Her eyes\nwere heavenly as she talked like this at midnight and raised them\ntowards the glorious sky above the Borromean Islands. The stars seemed\nto answer her. I looked down and could find no more philosophical\narguments to meet her. She continued:)\n\n\"And all that the world calls happiness is not worth the trouble. Only\ncontempt, I think, can cure this passion; not contempt too violent, for\nthat is torture. For you men it is enough to see the object of your\nadoration love some gross, prosaic creature, or sacrifice you in order\nto enjoy pleasures of luxurious comfort with a woman friend.\"\n\n\n[1] See the analysis of the ascetic principle in Bentham, _Principles\nof Morals and Legislation_.\n\nBy giving oneself pain one pleases a _good_ Being.\n\n\n                                 CXXII\n\n_To will_ means to have the courage to expose oneself to troubles; to\nexpose oneself is to take risks--to gamble. You find military men who\ncannot exist without such gambling--that's what makes them intolerable\nin home-life.\n\n\n                                CXXIII\n\nGeneral Teuli\u00e9 told me this evening that he had found out why, as\nsoon as there were affected women in a drawing-room, he became so\nhorribly dry and floored for ideas. It was because he was sure to be\nbitterly ashamed of having exposed his feelings with warmth before such\ncreatures. General Teuli\u00e9 had to speak from his heart, though the talk\nwere only of Punch and Judy; otherwise he had nothing to say. Moreover,\nI could see he never knew the conventional phrase about\n\n[Pg 310]\nanything nor what was the right thing to say. That is really where he\nmade himself so monstrously ridiculous in the eyes of affected women.\nHeaven had not made him for elegant society.\n\n\n                                 CXXIV\n\nIrreligion is bad form at Court, because it is calculated to be\ncontrary to the interests of princes: irreligion is also bad form in\nthe presence of girls, for it would prevent their finding husbands.\nIt must be owned that, if God exists, it must be nice for Him to be\nhonoured from motives like these.\n\n\n                                 CXXV\n\nFor the soul of a great painter or a great poet, love is divine in that\nit increases a hundredfold the empire and the delight of his art, and\nthe beauties of art are his soul's daily bread. How many great artists\nare unconscious both of their soul and of their genius! Often they\nreckon as mediocre their talent for the thing they adore, because they\ncannot agree with the eunuchs of the harem, La Harpe and such-like. For\nthem even unhappy love is happiness.\n\n\n                                 CXXVI\n\nThe picture of first love is taken generally as the most touching. Why?\nBecause it is the same in all countries and in all characters. But for\nthis reason first love is not the most passionate.\n\n\n                                CXXVII\n\nReason! Reason! Reason! That is what the world is always shouting at\npoor lovers. In 1760, at the most thrilling moment in the Seven Years'\nWar, Grimm wrote: \"... It is indubitable that the King of Russia, by\nyielding Silesia, could have prevented the war from\n\n[Pg 311]\never breaking out. In so doing he would have done a very wise thing.\nHow many evils would he have prevented! And what can there be in common\nbetween the possession of a province and the happiness of a king? Was\nnot the great Elector a very happy and highly respected prince without\npossessing Silesia? It is also quite clear that a king might have taken\nthis course in obedience to the precepts of the soundest reason, and\nyet--I know not how--that king would inevitably have been the object\nof universal contempt, while Frederick, sacrificing everything to the\n_necessity_ of keeping Silesia, has invested himself with immortal\nglory.\n\n\"Without any doubt the action of Cromwell's son was the wisest a man\ncould take: he preferred obscurity and repose to the bother and danger\nof ruling over a people sombre, fiery and proud. This wise man won the\ncontempt of his own time and of posterity; while his father, to this\nday, has been held a great man by the wisdom of nations.\n\n\"The _Fair Penitent_ is a sublime subject on the Spanish[1] stage,\nbut spoilt by Otway and Colardeau in England and France. Calista has\nbeen dishonoured by a man she adores; he is odious from the violence\nof his inborn pride, but talent, wit and a handsome face--everything,\nin fact--combine to make him seductive. Indeed, Lothario would have\nbeen too charming could he have moderated these criminal outbursts.\nMoreover, an hereditary and bitter feud separates his family from that\nof the woman he loves. These families are at the head of two factions\ndividing a Spanish town during the horrors of the Middle Age. Sciolto,\nCalista's father, is the chief of the faction, which at the moment has\nthe upper hand; he knows that Lothario has had the insolence to try to\nseduce his daughter. The weak Calista is weighed down by the torment of\nshame and passion. Her father has\n\n[Pg 312]\nsucceeded in getting his enemy appointed to the command of a naval\narmament that is setting out on a distant and perilous expedition,\nwhere Lothario will probably meet his death. In Colardeau's tragedy,\nhe has just told his daughter this news. At his words Calista can no\nlonger hide her passion:\n\n                                      O dieux!\n    Il part!... Vous l'ordonnez!... Il a pu s'y r\u00e9soudre?[2]\n\n\"Think of the danger she is placed in. Another word, and Sciolto will\nlearn the secret of his daughter's passion for Lothario. The father is\nconfounded and cries:--\n\n    Qu'entends-je? Me tromp\u00e9-je? O\u00f9 s'\u00e9garent tes voeux?[3]\n\n\"At this Calista recovers herself and answers:--\n\n    Ce n'est pas son exile, c'est sa mort que je veux,\n    Qu'il p\u00e9risse![4]\n\n\"By these words Calista stifles her father's rising suspicions; yet\nthere is no deceit, for the sentiment she utters is true. The existence\nof a man, who has succeeded after winning her love in dishonouring her,\nmust poison her life, were he even at the ends of the earth. His death\nalone could restore her peace of mind, if for unfortunate lovers peace\nof mind existed.... Soon after Lothario is killed and, happily for her,\nCalista dies.\n\n\"'There's a lot of crying and moaning over nothing!' say the chilly\nfolk who plume themselves on being philosophers. 'Somebody with an\nenterprising and violent nature abuses a woman's weakness for him--that\nis nothing to tear our hair over, or at least there is nothing in\nCalista's troubles to concern us. She must console herself with having\nsatisfied her lover, and she will not be the first woman of merit who\nhas made the best of her misfortune in that way.'\"[5]\n\n[Pg 313]\nRichard Cromwell, the King of Prussia and Calista, with the souls given\nthem by Heaven, could only find peace and happiness by acting as they\ndid. The conduct of the two last is eminently unreasonable and yet it\nis those two that we admire. (Sagan, 1813.)\n\n\n[1] See the Spanish and Danish romances of the thirteenth century.\nFrench taste would find them dull and coarse.\n\n[2] [                                  \"My God!\n     He is gone.... You have sent him.... And he had the heart?\"--Tr.]\n\n[3] [\"What do I hear? I am deceived? Where now are all your vows?\"--Tr.]\n\n[4] [\"It is not his banishment I desire; it is his death. Let him\n    die!\"--Tr.]\n\n[5] Grimm, Vol. III, p. 107.\n\n\n                                CXXVIII\n\nThe likelihood of constancy when desire is satisfied can only be\nforetold from the constancy displayed, in spite of cruel doubts and\njealousy and ridicule, in the days before intimate intercourse.\n\n\n                                 CXXIX\n\nA woman is in despair at the death of her lover, who has been killed\nin the wars--of course she means to follow him. Now first make quite\nsure that it is not the best thing for her to do; then, if you\ndecide it is not, attack her on the side of a very primitive habit\nof the human kind--the desire to survive. If the woman has an enemy,\none may persuade her that her enemy has obtained a warrant for her\nimprisonment. Unless that threat only increases her desire of death,\nshe may think about hiding herself in order to escape imprisonment. For\nthree weeks she will lie low, escaping from refuge to refuge. She must\nbe caught, but must get away after three days.\n\nThen people must arrange for her to withdraw under a false name to\nsome very remote town, as unlike as possible the one in which she\nwas so desperately unhappy. But who is going to devote himself to\nthe consolation of a being so unfortunate and so lost to friendship?\n(Warsaw, 1808).\n\n\n                                 CXXX\n\nAcademical wise-heads can see a people's habits in its language. In\nItaly, of all the countries in the world, the\n\n[Pg 314]\nword love is least often spoken--always \"amicizia\" and \"avvicinar\"\n(_amicizia_ or friendship, for love; _avvicinar_, to approach, for\ncourtship that succeeds).\n\n\n                                 CXXXI\n\nA dictionary of music has never been achieved, nor even begun. It is\nonly by chance that you find the phrase for: \"I am angry\" or \"I love\nyou,\" and the subtler feelings involved therein. The composer finds\nthem only when passion, present in his heart or memory, dictates\nthem to him. Well! that is why people, who spend the fire of youth\nstudying instead of feeling, cannot be artists--the way _that_ works is\nperfectly simple.\n\n\n                                CXXXII\n\nIn France far too much power is given to Women, far too little to Woman.\n\n\n                                CXXXIII\n\nThe most flattering thing that the most exalted imagination could\nfind to say to the generation now arising among us to take possession\nof life, of public opinion and of power, happens to be a piece of\ntruth plainer than the light of day. This generation has nothing to\n_continue_, it has everything to _create_. Napoleon's great merit is to\nhave left the road clear.\n\n\n                                CXXXIV\n\nI should like to be able to say something on consolation. Enough is not\ndone to console.\n\nThe main principle is that you try to form a kind of crystallisation as\nremote as possible from the source of present suffering.\n\nIn order to discover an unknown principle, we must bravely face a\nlittle anatomy.\n\n[Pg 315]\nIf the reader will consult Chapter II of M. Villerm\u00e9's work on prisons\n(Paris, 1820), he will see that the prisoners \"si maritano fra di loro\"\n(it is the expression in the prisoners' language). The women also \"si\nmaritano fra di loro,\" and in these unions, generally speaking, much\nfidelity is shown. That is an outcome of the principle of modesty, and\nis not observed among the men.\n\n\"At Saint-Lazare,\" says M. Villerm\u00e9, page 96, \"a woman, seeing a\nnew-comer preferred to her, gave herself several wounds with a knife.\n(_October_, 1818.)\n\n\"Usually it is the younger woman who is more fond than the other.\"\n\n\n                                 CXXXV\n\nVivacit\u00e0, leggerezza, soggettissima a prendere puntiglio, occupazione\ndi ogni momento delle apparenze della propria esistenza agli occhi\naltrui: Ecco i tre gran caratteri di questa pianta che risveglia Europa\nnell 1808.[1]\n\nOf Italians, those are preferable who still preserve a little savagery\nand taste for blood--the people of the Romagna, Calabria, and, among\nthe more civilised, the Brescians, Piedmontese and Corsicans.\n\nThe Florentine bourgeois has more sheepish docility than the Parisian.\nLeopold's spies have degraded him. See M. Courier's(12) letter on the\nLibrarian Furia and the Chamberlain Puccini.\n\n\n[1] [\"Vivacity, levity, very subject to pique, and unflagging\npreoccupation with other people's view's of its own existence--these\nare the three distinguishing points in the stock which is stirring the\nlife of Europe in 1808.\"--Tr.]\n\n\n                                CXXXVI\n\nI smile when I see earnest people never able to agree, saying quite\nunconcernedly the most abusive things of each other--and thinking still\nworse. To live is to feel life--to have strong feelings. But strength\nmust be rated for each individual, and what is painful--that is, too\nstrong--for\n\n[Pg 316]\none man is exactly enough to stir another's interest. Take, for\nexample, the feeling of just being spared by the cannon shot in the\nline of fire, the feeling of penetrating into Russia in pursuit\nof Parthian hordes.... And it is the same with the tragedies of\nShakespeare and those of Racine, etc., etc.... (Orcha, _August_ 13,\n1812.)\n\n\n                                CXXXVII\n\nPleasure does not produce half so strong an impression as pain--that\nis the first point. Then, besides this disadvantage in the quantity\nof emotion, it is certainly not half as easy to excite sympathy by\nthe picture of happiness as by that of misfortune. Hence poets cannot\ndepict unhappiness too forcibly. They have only one shoal to fear,\nnamely, things that disgust. Here again, the force of feeling must be\nrated differently for monarchies and republics. A Lewis XIV increases a\nhundredfold the number of disgusting things. (Crabbe's Poems.)\n\nBy the mere fact of its existence a monarchy _\u00e0 la_ Lewis XIV, with\nits circle of nobles, makes everything simple in Art become coarse.\nThe noble personage for whom the thing is exposed feels insulted; the\nfeeling is sincere--and in so far worthy.\n\nSee what the gentle Racine has been able to make of the heroic\nfriendship, so sacred to antiquity, of Orestes and Pylades. Orestes\naddresses Pylades with the familiar \"thou.\"[1] Pylades answers him \"My\nLord.\"[1] And then people pretend Racine is our most touching writer!\nIf they won't give in after this example, we must change the subject.\n\n\n[1] [\"_Tu_\" and \"_Seigneur_.\"]\n\n\n                               CXXXVIII\n\nDirectly the hope of revenge is possible, the feeling of hatred\nreturns. Until the last weeks of my imprisonment it never entered my\nhead to run away and break the solemn oath I had sworn to my friend. Two\n\n[Pg 317]\nconfidences these--made this morning in my presence by a gentleman\ncut-throat who favoured us with the history of his life. (Faenza, 1817.)\n\n\n                                CXXXIX\n\nAll Europe, put together, could never make one French book of the\nreally good type--the _Lettres Persanes_, for example.\n\n\n                                  CXL\n\nI call pleasure every impression which the soul would rather receive\nthan not receive.[1]\n\nI call pain every impression which the soul would rather not receive\nthan receive.\n\nIf I want to go to sleep rather than be conscious of my feelings, they\nare undoubtedly pain. Hence the desire of love is not pain, for the\nlover will leave the most agreeable society in order to day-dream in\npeace.\n\nTime weakens pleasures of the body and aggravates its pains.\n\nAs for spiritual pleasures--they grow weaker or stronger according\nto the passion. For example, after six months passed in the study of\nastronomy you like astronomy all the more, and after a year of avarice\nmoney is still sweeter.\n\nSpiritual pains are softened by time--how many widows, really\ninconsolable, console themselves with time!--_Vide_ Lady\nWaldegrave--Horace Walpole.\n\nGiven a man in a state of indifference--now let him have a pleasure;\n\nGiven another man in a state of poignant suffering--suddenly let the\nsuffering cease;\n\nNow is the pleasure this man feels of the same nature as that of the\nother? M. Verri(66) says Yes, but, to my mind--No.\n\nNot all pleasures come from cessation of pain.\n\n[Pg 318]\nA man had lived for a long time on an income of six thousand francs--he\nwins five hundred thousand in the lottery. He had got out of the way\nof having desires which wealth alone can satisfy.--And that, by the\nbye, is one of my objections to Paris--it is so easy to lose this habit\nthere.\n\nThe latest invention is a machine for cutting quills. I bought one this\nmorning and it's a great joy to me, as I cannot stand cutting them\nmyself. But yesterday I was certainly not unhappy for not knowing of\nthis machine. Or was Petrarch unhappy for not taking coffee?\n\nWhat is the use of defining happiness? Everyone knows it--the first\npartridge you kill on the wing at twelve, the first battle you come\nthrough safely at seventeen....\n\nPleasure which is only the cessation of pain passes very quickly, and\nits memory, after some years, is even distasteful. One of my friends\nwas wounded in the side by a bursting shell at the battle of Moscow,\nand a few days later mortification threatened. After a delay of some\nhours they managed to get together M. B\u00e9clar, M. Larrey and some\nsurgeons of repute, and the result of their consultation was that my\nfriend was informed that mortification had not set up. At the moment I\ncould see his happiness--it was a great happiness, but not unalloyed.\nIn the secret depth of his heart he could not believe that it was\nreally all over, he kept reconsidering the surgeons' words and debating\nwhether he could rely on them entirely. He never lost sight completely\nof the possibility of mortification. Nowadays, after eight years, if\nyou speak to him of that consultation, it gives him pain--it brings to\nmind unexpectedly a passed unhappiness.\n\nPleasure caused by the cessation of pain consists in:--\n\n1. Defeating the continual succession of one's own misgivings:\n\n2. Reviewing all the advantages one was on the point of losing.\n\nPleasure caused by winning five hundred thousand\n\n[Pg 319]\nfrancs consists in foreseeing all the new and unusual pleasures one is\ngoing to indulge in.\n\nThere is this peculiar reservation to be made. You have to take into\naccount whether a man is too used, or not used enough, to wishing for\nwealth. If he is not used enough, if his mind is closely circumscribed,\nfor two or three days together he will feel embarrassed; while if he is\ninclined very often to wish for great riches, he will find he has used\nup their enjoyments in advance by too frequently foretasting them.\n\nThis misfortune is unknown to passion-love.\n\nA soul on fire pictures to itself not the last favour, but the\nnearest--perhaps just her hand to press, if, for example, your mistress\nis unkind to you. Imagination does not pass beyond that of its own\naccord; you may force it, but a moment later it is gone--for fear of\nprofaning its idol.\n\nWhen pleasure has run through the length of its career, we fall again,\nof course, into indifference, but this is not the same indifference as\nwe felt before. The second state differs from the first in that we are\nno longer in a position to relish with such delight the pleasure that\nwe have just tasted. The organs we use for plucking pleasures are worn\nout. The imagination is no longer so inclined to offer fancies for the\nenjoyment of desire--desire is satisfied.\n\nIn the midst of enjoyment to be torn from pleasure produces pain.\n\n\n[1] Maupertius.\n\n\n                                 CXLI\n\nWith regard to physical love and, in fact, physical pleasure, the\ndisposition of the two sexes is not the same. Unlike men, practically\nall women are at least susceptible in secret to one kind of love. Ever\nafter opening her first novel at fifteen, a woman is silently waiting\nfor the coming of passion-love, and towards twenty, when she is just\nover the irresponsibility of life's first flush, the suspense\n\n[Pg 320]\nredoubles. As for men, they think love impossible or ridiculous, almost\nbefore they are thirty.\n\n\n                                 CXLII\n\nFrom the age of six we grow used to run after pleasure in our parents'\nfootsteps.\n\nThe pride of Contessina Nella's mother was the starting-point of that\ncharming woman's troubles, and by the same insane pride she now makes\nthem hopeless. (Venice, 1819.)\n\n\n                                CXLIII\n\n                              ROMANTICISM\n\nI hear from Paris that there are heaps and heaps of pictures to be seen\nthere (Exhibition of 1822), representing subjects taken from the Bible,\npainted by artists who hardly believe in it, admired and criticised\nby people who don't believe, and finally paid for by people who don't\nbelieve.\n\nAfter that--you ask why art is decadent.\n\nThe artist who does not believe what he is saying is always afraid of\nappearing exaggerated or ridiculous. How is he to touch the sublime?\nNothing uplifts him. (_Lettera di Roma_, Giugno, 1822.)\n\n\n                                 CXLIV\n\nOne of the greatest poets the world has seen in modern times is, to\nmy mind, Robert Burns, a Scotch peasant, who died of want. He had\na salary of seventy pounds as exciseman--for himself, his wife and\nfour children. One cannot help saying, by the way, that Napoleon was\nmore liberal towards his enemy Ch\u00e9nier. Burns had none of the English\nprudery about him. His was a Roman genius, without chivalry and without\nhonour. I have no space here to tell of his love-affairs with Mary\nCampbell and their\n\n[Pg 321]\nmournful ending. I shall merely point out that Edinburgh is on the same\nlatitude as Moscow--a fact which perhaps upsets my system of climates a\nlittle.\n\n\"One of Burns' remarks, when he first came to Edinburgh, was that\nbetween the men of rustic life and those of the polite world he\nobserved little difference; that in the former, though unpolished by\nfashion and unenlightened by science, he had found much observation\nand much intelligence; but that a refined and accomplished woman was\na being almost new to him, and of which he had formed but a very\ninadequate idea.\" (London, _November 1st_, 1821, Vol. V, p. 69.)\n\n\n                                 CXLV\n\nLove is the only passion that mints the coin to pay its own expenses.\n\n\n                                 CXLVI\n\nThe compliments paid to little girls of three furnish exactly the right\nsort of education to imbue them with the most pernicious vanity. To\nlook pretty is the highest virtue, the greatest advantage on earth. To\nhave a pretty dress is to look pretty.\n\nThese idiotic compliments are not current except in the middle class.\nHappily they are bad form outside the suburbs--being too easy to pay.\n\n\n                                CXLVII\n\nLoretto, _September 11th_, 1811.\n\nI have just seen a very fine battalion composed of natives of this\ncountry--the remains, in fact, of four thousand who left for Vienna\nin 1809. I passed along the ranks with the Colonel, and asked several\nof the soldiers to tell me their story. Theirs is the virtue of the\nrepublics of the Middle Age, though more or less debased by the\n\n[Pg 322]\nSpaniards,[1] the Roman Church,[2] and two centuries of the cruel,\ntreacherous governments, which, one after another, have spoiled the\ncountry.\n\nFlashing, chivalrous honour, sublime but senseless, is an exotic plant\nintroduced here only a very few years back.\n\nIn 1740 there was no trace of it. _Vide_ de Brosses. The officers of\nMontenotte(67) and of Rivoli(67) had too many chances of showing their\ncomrades true virtue to go and _imitate_ a kind of honour unknown to\nthe cottage homes from which the soldiery of 1796 was drawn--indeed, it\nwould have seemed to them highly fantastic.\n\nIn 1796 there was no Legion of Honour, no enthusiasm for one man,\nbut plenty of simple truth and virtue _\u00e0 la_ Desaix. We may conclude\nthat honour was imported into Italy by people too reasonable and too\nvirtuous to cut much of a figure. One is sensible of a large gap\nbetween the soldiers of '96, often shoeless and coatless, the victors\nof twenty battles in one year, and the brilliant regiments of Fontenoy,\ntaking off their hats and saying to the English politely: _Messieurs,\ntirez les premiers_--gentlemen, pray begin.\n\n\n[1] The Spaniards abroad, about 1580, were nothing but energetic agents\nof despotism or serenaders beneath the windows of Italian beauties. In\nthose days Spaniards dropped into Italy just in the way people come\nnowadays to Paris. For the rest, they prided themselves on nothing\nbut upholding the honour of the king, _their master_. They ruined\nItaly--ruined and degraded it.\n\nIn 1626 the great poet Calderon was an officer at Milan.\n\n[2] See _Life of S. Carlo Borromeo_, who transformed Milan and debased\nit, emptied its drill halls and filled its chapels, Merveilles kills\nCastiglione, 1533.\n\n\n                                CXLVIII\n\nI am ready to agree that one must judge the soundness of a system of\nlife by the perfect representative of its supporters. For example,\nRichard C\u0153ur-de-Lion is the perfect pattern on the throne of heroism\nand chivalrous valour, and as a king was a ludicrous failure.\n\n[Pg 323]\n                                 CXLIX\n\nPublic opinion in 1822: A man of thirty seduces a girl of fifteen--the\ngirl loses her reputation.\n\n\n                                  CL\n\nTen years later I met Countess Ottavia again; on seeing me once\nmore she wept bitterly. I reminded her of Oginski. \"I can no longer\nlove,\" she told me. I answered in the poet's words: \"How changed, how\nsaddened, yet how elevated was her character!\"\n\n\n                                  CLI\n\nFrench morals will be formed between 1815 and 1880, just as English\nmorals were formed between 1668 and 1730. There will be nothing finer,\njuster or happier than moral France about the year 1900. At the\npresent day it does not exist. What is considered infamous in Rue de\nBelle-Chasse is an act of heroism in Rue du Mont-Blanc, and, allowing\nfor all exaggeration, people really worthy of contempt escape by a\nchange of residence. One remedy we did have--the freedom of the Press.\nIn the long run the Press gives each man his due, and when this due\nhappens to fall in with public opinion, so it remains. This remedy\nis now torn from us--and it will somewhat retard the regeneration of\nmorals.\n\n\n                                 CLII\n\nThe Abb\u00e9 Rousseau was a poor young man (1784), reduced to running all\nover the town, from morn till night, giving lessons in history and\ngeography. He fell in love with one of his pupils, like Abelard with\nH\u00e9lo\u00efse or Saint-Preux with Julie. Less happy than they, no doubt--yet,\nprobably, pretty nearly so--as full of passion as Saint-Preux, but with\na heart more virtuous, more refined and also more courageous, he seems\nto have sacrificed himself to the object of his passion. After dining\nin a\n\n[Pg 324]\nrestaurant at the Palais-Royal with no outward sign of distress or\nfrenzy, this is what he wrote before blowing out his brains. The\ntext of his note is taken from the enquiry held on the spot by the\ncommissary and the police, and is remarkable enough to be preserved.\n\n\"The immeasurable contrast that exists between the nobility of\nmy feelings and the meanness of my birth, my love, as violent\nas it is invincible, for this adorable girl[1] and my fear of\ncausing her dishonour, the necessity of choosing between crime and\ndeath--everything has made me decide to say good-bye to life. Born for\nvirtue, I was about to become a criminal; I preferred death.\" (Grimm,\nPart III, Vol. II, p. 395.)\n\nThis is an admirable case of suicide, but would be merely silly\naccording to the morals of 1880.\n\n\n[1] The girl in question appears to have been Mademoiselle Gromaire,\ndaughter of M. Gromaire, expeditionary at the Court of Rome.\n\n\n                                 CLIII\n\nTry as they may, the French, in Art, will never get beyond the pretty.\n\nThe comic presupposes \"go\" in the public, and _brio_ in the actor.\nThe delicious foolery of Palomba, played at Naples by Casaccia, is an\nimpossibility at Paris. There we have the pretty--always and only the\npretty--cried up sometimes, it is true, as the sublime.\n\nI don't waste much thought, you see, on general considerations of\nnational honour.\n\n\n                                 CLIV\n\nWe are very fond of a beautiful picture, say the French--and quite\ntruly--but we exact, as the essential condition of beauty, that it\nbe produced by a painter standing on one leg the whole time he is\nworking.--Verse in dramatic art.\n\n[Pg 325]\n                                  CLV\n\nMuch less envy in America than in France, and much less intellect.\n\n\n                                 CLVI\n\nSince 1530 tyranny _\u00e0 la_ Philip II has so degraded men's intellect,\nhas so overshadowed the garden of the world, that the poor Italian\nwriters have not yet plucked up enough courage to _invent_ a national\nnovel. Yet, thanks to the naturalness which reigns there, nothing could\nbe simpler. They need only copy faithfully what stares the world in the\nface. Think of Cardinal Gonzalvi, for three hours gravely looking for\nflaws in the libretto of an opera-bouffe, and saying uneasily to the\ncomposer: \"But you're continually repeating this word _Cozzar, cozzar_.\"\n\n\n                                 CLVII\n\nH\u00e9lo\u00efse speaks of love, a coxcomb of _his_ love--don't you see that\nthese things have really nothing but their name in common? Just so,\nthere is the love of concerts and the love of music: the love of\nsuccesses that tickle your vanity--successes your harp may bring you in\nthe midst of a brilliant society--or the love of a tender day-dream,\nsolitary and timid.\n\n\n                                CLVIII\n\nWhen you have just seen the woman you love, the sight of any other\nwoman spoils your vision, gives your eyes physical pain. I know why.\n\n\n                                 CLIX\n\nReply to an objection:--\n\nPerfect naturalness in intimate intercourse can find no place but\nin passion-love, for in all the other kinds of love a man feels the\npossibility of a favoured rival.\n\n[Pg 326]\n                                  CLX\n\nIn a man who, to be released from life, has taken poison, the moral\npart of his being is dead. Dazed by what he has done and by what he is\nabout to experience, he no longer attends to anything. There are some\nrare exceptions.\n\n\n                                 CLXI\n\nAn old sea captain, to whom I respectfully offered my manuscript,\nthought it the silliest thing in the world to honour with six hundred\npages so trivial a thing as love. But, however trivial, love is still\nthe only weapon which can strike strong souls, and strike home.\n\nWhat was it prevented M. de M----, in 1814, from despatching Napoleon\nin the forest of Fontainebleau? The contemptuous glance of a pretty\nwoman coming into the Bains-Chinois.[1] What a difference in the\ndestiny of the world if Napoleon and his son had been killed in 1814!\n\n\n[1] Memoirs, p. 88. (London edition.)\n\n\n                                 CLXII\n\nI quote the following lines from a French letter received from Znaim,\nremarking at the same time that there is not a man in the provinces\ncapable of understanding my brilliant lady correspondent:--\n\n\"... Chance means a lot in love. When for a whole year I have read no\nEnglish, I find the first novel I pick up delicious. One who is used\nto the love of a prosaic being--slow, shy of all that is refined,\nand passionately responsive to none but material interests, the love\nof shekels, the glory of a fine stable and bodily desires, etc.--can\neasily feel disgust at the behaviour of impetuous genius, ardent and\nuncurbed in fancy, mindful of love, forgetful of all the rest, always\nactive and always headlong, just where the other let himself be led and\nnever acted for himself. The shock, which genius causes, may offend\nwhat, last\n\n[Pg 327]\nyear at Zithau, we used to call feminine pride, _l'orgueil\nf\u00e9minin_--(is that French?) With the man of genius comes the startling\nfeeling which with his predecessor was unknown--and, remember, this\npredecessor came to an untimely end in the wars and remains a synonym\nfor perfection. This feeling may easily be mistaken for repulsion by a\nsoul, lofty but without that assurance which is the fruit of a goodly\nnumber of intrigues.\"\n\n\n                                CLXIII\n\n\"Geoffry Rudel, of Blaye, was a very great lord, prince of Blaye, and\nhe fell in love, without knowing her, with the Princess of Tripoli,\nfor the great goodness and great graciousness, which he heard tell of\nher from the pilgrims, who came from Antioch. And he made for her many\nfair songs, with good melodies and suppliant words, and, for the desire\nhe had to see her, he took the cross and set out upon the sea to go to\nher. And it happened that in the ship a grievous malady took him, in\nsuch wise that those that were with him believed him to be dead, but\nthey contrived to bring him to Tripoli into a hostelry, like one dead.\nThey sent word to the countess and she came to his bed and took him in\nher arms. Then he knew that she was the countess and he recovered his\nsight and his hearing and he praised God, giving Him thanks that He\nhad sustained his life until he had seen her. And thus he died in the\narms of the countess, and she gave him noble burial in the house of\nthe Temple at Tripoli. And then the same day she took the veil for the\nsorrow she had for him and for his death.\"[1]\n\n\n[1] Translated from a Proven\u00e7al MS. of the thirteenth century.\n\n\n                                 CLXIV\n\nHere is a singular proof of the madness called crystallisation, to be\nfound in Mistress Hutchinson's Memoirs:\n\n\"He told to M. Hutchinson a very true story of a gentleman who not long\nbefore had come for some time\n\n[Pg 328]\nto lodge in Richmond, and found all the people he came in company with\nbewailing the death of a gentlewoman that had lived there. Hearing her\nso much deplored, he made enquiry after her, and grew so in love with\nthe description, that no other discourse could at first please him nor\ncould he at last endure any other; he grew desperately melancholy and\nwould go to a mount where the print of her foot was cut and lie there\npining and kissing it all the day long, till at length death in some\nmonths' space concluded his languishment. This story was very true.\"\n(Vol. I, p. 83.)\n\n\n                                 CLXV\n\nLisio Visconti was anything but a great reader. Not to mention what he\nmay have seen while knocking about the world, his essay is based on the\nMemoirs of some fifteen or twenty persons of note. In case it happens\nthat the reader thinks such trifling points worthy of a moment's\nattention, I give the books from which Lisio drew his reflexions and\nconclusions:--\n\n  The _Autobiography_ of Benvenuto Cellini.\n\n  The novels of Cervantes and Scarron.\n\n  _Manon Lescaut_ and _Le Doyen de Killerine_, by the Abb\u00e9 Pr\u00e9v\u00f4t.\n\n  The Latin Letters of H\u00e9lo\u00efse to Abelard.\n\n  _Tom Jones._\n\n  _Letters of a Portuguese Nun._\n\n  Two or three stories by Auguste La Fontaine.\n\n  Pignotti's _History of Tuscany_.\n\n  Werther.\n\n  Brant\u00f4me.\n\n  _Memoirs_ of Carlo Gozzi (Venice, 1760)--only the eighty pages on the\n  history of his love affairs.\n\n  The _Memoirs_ of Lauzun, Saint-Simon, d'\u00c9pinay, de Sta\u00ebl, Marmontel,\n  Bezenval, Roland, Duclos, Horace Walpole, Evelyn, Hutchinson.\n\n  Letters of Mademoiselle Lespinasse.\n\n[Pg 329]\n                                 CLXVI\n\nOne of the most important persons of our age, one of the most prominent\nmen in the Church and in the State, related to us this evening\n(January, 1822), at Madame de M----'s, the very real dangers he had\ngone through under the Terror.\n\n\"I had the misfortune to be one of the most prominent members of the\nConstituent Assembly. I stayed in Paris, trying to hide myself as\nbest I could, so long as there was any hope of success there for the\ngood cause. At last, as the danger grew greater and greater, while\nthe foreigner made no energetic move in our favour, I decided to\nleave--only I had to leave without a passport. Everyone was going off\nto Coblentz, so I determined to make for Calais. But my portrait had\nbeen so widely circulated eighteen months before, that I was recognised\nat the last post. However, I was allowed to pass and arrived at an inn\nat Calais, where, you can imagine, I did not sleep a wink--and very\nlucky it was, since at four o'clock in the morning I heard someone\npronounce my name quite distinctly. While I got up and was dressing\nin all haste I could clearly distinguish, in spite of the darkness,\nthe National Guards with their rifles; the people had opened the\nmain door for them and they were entering the courtyard of the inn.\nFortunately it was raining in torrents--a winter morning, very dark and\nwith a high wind. The darkness and the noise of the wind enabled me to\nescape by the back courtyard and stables. There I stood in the street\nat seven o'clock in the morning, utterly resourceless! i I imagined\nthey were following me from my inn. Hardly knowing what I was doing,\nI went down to the port, on to the jetty. I own I had rather lost my\nhead--everywhere the vision of the guillotine floated before my eyes.\n\nA packet-boat was leaving the port in a very rough sea--it was already\na hundred yards from the jetty. Suddenly\n\n[Pg 330]\nI heard a shout from out at sea, as if I were being called. I saw a\nsmall boat approaching. \"Hi! sir, come on! We're waiting for you!\"\nMechanically I got into the boat. A man was in it. \"I saw you walking\non the jetty with a scared look,\" he whispered, \"I thought you might be\nsome poor fugitive. I've told them you are a friend I was expecting;\npretend to be sea-sick and go and hide below in a dark corner of the\ncabin.\"\n\n\"Oh, what a fine touch!\" cried our hostess. She was almost speechless\nand had been moved to tears by the Abb\u00e9's long and excellently\ntold story of his perils. \"How you must have thanked your unknown\nbenefactor! What was his name?\"\n\n\"I do not know his name,\" the Abb\u00e9 answered, a little confused.\n\nAnd there was a moment of profound silence in the room.\n\n\n                                CLXVII\n\n                        THE FATHER AND THE SON\n\n                         (A dialogue of 1787)\n\n_The Father_ (Minister of ----): \"I congratulate you, my son; it's\na splendid thing for you to be invited to the Duke of ----; it's a\ndistinction for a man of your age. Don't fail to be at the Palace\npunctually at six o'clock.\"\n\n_The Son:_ \"I believe, sir, you are dining there also.\"\n\n_The Father:_ \"The Duke of ---- is always more than kind to our family,\nand, as he's asking you for the first time, he has been pleased to\ninvite me as well.\"\n\nThe son, a young man of high birth and most distinguished intellect,\ndoes not fail to be at the Palace punctually at six o'clock. Dinner was\nat seven. The son found himself placed opposite his father. Each guest\nhad a naked woman next to him. The dinner was served by a score of\nlackeys in full livery.[1]\n\n\n[1] From December 27, 1819, till 3 June, 1820, Mil. [This note is\nwritten thus in English by Stendhal.--Tr.]\n\n[Pg 331]\n                                CLXVIII\n\nLondon, _August_, 1817.\n\nNever in my life have I been so struck or intimidated by the presence\nof beauty as to-night, at a concert given by Madame Pasta.\n\nShe was surrounded, as she sang, by three rows of young women, so\nbeautiful--of a beauty so pure and heavenly--that I felt myself lower\nmy eyes, out of respect, instead of raising them to admire and enjoy.\nThis has never happened to me in any other land, not even in my beloved\nItaly.\n\n\n                                 CLXIX\n\nIn France one-thing is absolutely impossible in the arts, and that is\n\"go.\" A man really carried away would be too much laughed at--he would\nlook too happy. See a Venetian recite Buratti's satires.\n\n[Pg 332]\n                               APPENDIX\n\n                      ON THE COURTS OF LOVE(68)\n\n\nThere were Courts of Love in France from the year 1150 to the year\n1200. So much has been proved. The existence of these Courts probably\ngoes back to a more remote period.\n\nThe ladies, sitting together in the Courts of Love, gave out their\ndecrees either on questions of law--for example: Can love exist between\nmarried people?--\n\nOr on the particular cases which lovers submitted to them.[1]\n\nSo far as I can picture to myself the moral side of this jurisprudence,\nit must have resembled the Courts of the Marshals of France established\nfor questions of honour by Louis XIV--that is, as they would have been,\nif only public opinion had upheld that institution.\n\nAndr\u00e9, chaplain to the King of France, who wrote about the year 1170,\nmentions the Courts of Love\n\n    of the ladies of Gascony,\n    of Ermengarde, Viscountess of Narbonne (1144-1194),\n    of Queen El\u00e9onore,\n    of the Countess of Flanders,\n    of the Countess of Champagne (1174).\n\nAndr\u00e9 mentions nine judgments pronounced by the Countess of Champagne.\n\nHe quotes two judgments pronounced by the Countess of Flanders.\n\nJean de Nostradamus, _Life of the Proven\u00e7al Poets_, says (p. 15):--\n\n \"The '_tensons_' were disputes of Love, which took place between\n poets, both knights and ladies, arguing together on some fair and\n sublime question of love. Where they could not agree,\n\n[Pg 333]\n they sent them, that they might get a decision thereon, to the\n illustrious ladies president who held full and open Court of Love at\n Signe and Pierrefeu, or at Romanin, or elsewhere, and they gave out\n decrees thereon which were called '_Lous Arrests d'Amours_.'\"\n\nThese are the names of some of the ladies who presided over the Courts\nof Love of Pierrefeu and Signe:--\n\n   \"Stephanette, Lady of Brulx, daughter of the Count of Provence.\n    Adalarie, Viscountess of Avignon;\n    Alal\u00e8te, Lady of Ongle;\n    Hermissende, Lady of Posqui\u00e8res;\n    Bertrane, Lady of Urgon;\n    Mabille, Lady of Y\u00e8res;\n    The Countess of Dye;\n    Rostangue, Lady of Pierrefeu;\n    Bertrane, Lady of Signe;\n    Jausserande of Claustral.\"--(Nostradamus, p. 27.)\n\nIt is probable that the same Court of Love met sometimes at the Castle\nof Pierrefeu, sometimes at that of Signe. These two villages are just\nnext to each other, and situated at an almost equal distance from\nToulon and Brignoles.\n\nIn his _Life of Bertrand d'Alamanon_, Nostradamus says:\n\n \"This troubadour was in love with Phanette or Estephanette of Romanin,\n Lady of the said place, of the house of Gantelmes, who held in her\n time full and open Court of Love in her castle of Romanin, near the\n town of Saint-Remy, in Provence, aunt of Laurette of Avignon, of the\n house of Sado, so often celebrated by the poet Petrarch.\"\n\nUnder the heading Laurette, we read that Laurette de Sade, celebrated\nby Petrarch, lived at Avignon about the year 1341; that she was\ninstructed by Phanette of Gantelmes, her aunt, Lady of Romanin; that\n\"both of them improvised in either kind of Proven\u00e7al rhythm, and\naccording to the account of the monk of the Isles d'Or(69), their works\ngive ample witness to their learning.... It is true (says the monk)\nthat Phanette or Estephanette, as being most excellent in poetry, had\na divine fury or inspiration, which fury was esteemed a true gift from\nGod. They were accompanied by many illustrious and high-born[2]\n\n[Pg 334]\nladies of Provence, who flourished at that time at Avignon, when the\nRoman court resided there, and who gave themselves up to the study of\nletters, holding open Court of Love, and therein deciding the questions\nof love which had been proposed and sent to them....\n\n\"Guillen and Pierre Balbz and Loys des Lascaris, Counts of Ventimiglia,\nof Tende and of Brigue, persons of great renown, being come at\nthis time to visit Pope Innocent VI of that name, went to hear the\ndefinitions and sentences of love pronounced by these ladies; and\nastonished and ravished with their beauty and learning, they were taken\nwith love of them.\"\n\nAt the end of their \"_tensons_\" the troubadours often named the ladies\nwho were to pronounce on the questions in dispute between them.\n\nA decree of the Ladies of Gascony runs:--\n\n \"The Court of ladies, assembled in Gascony, have laid down, with the\n consent of the whole Court, this perpetual constitution, etc., etc.\"\n\nThe Countess of Champagne in a decree of 1174, says:--\n\n \"This judgment, that we have carried with extreme caution, is\n supported by the advice of a very great number of ladies...\"\n\nIn another judgment is found:--\n\n \"The knight, for the fraud that has been done him, denounced this\n whole affair to the Countess of Champagne, and humbly begged that this\n crime might be submitted to the judgment of the Countess of Champagne\n and the other ladies.\"\n\n \"The Countess, having summoned around her sixty ladies, gave this\n judgment, etc.\"\n\n[Pg 335]\nAndr\u00e9 le Chapelain, from whom we derive this information, relates that\nthe Code of Love had been published by a Court composed of a large\nnumber of ladies and knights.\n\nAndr\u00e9 has preserved for us the petition, which was addressed to the\nCountess of Champagne, when she decided the following question in the\nnegative: \"Can real love exist between husband and wife?\"\n\nBut what was the penalty that was incurred by disobedience to the\ndecrees of the Courts of Love?\n\nWe find the Court of Gascony ordering that such or such of its\njudgments should be observed as a perpetual institution, and that those\nladies who did not obey should incur the enmity of every honourable\nlady.\n\nUp to what point did public opinion sanction the decrees of the Courts\nof Love?\n\nWas there as much disgrace in drawing back from them, as there would be\nto-day in an affair dictated by honour?\n\nI can find nothing in Andr\u00e9 or Nostradamus that puts me in a position\nto solve this question.\n\nTwo troubadours, Simon Boria and Lanfranc Cigalla, disputed the\nquestion: \"Who is worthier of being loved, he who gives liberally, or\nhe who gives in spite of himself in order to pass for liberal?\"\n\nThis question was submitted to the ladies of the Court of Pierrefeu and\nSigne; but the two troubadours, being discontented with the verdict,\nhad recourse to the supreme Court of Love of the ladies of Romanin.[3]\n\nThe form of the verdicts is conformable to that of the judicial\ntribunals of this period.\n\nWhatever may be the reader's opinion as to the degree of importance\nwhich the Courts of Love occupied in the attention of their\ncontemporaries, I beg him to consider what to-day, in 1822, are the\nsubjects of conversation among the most considerable and richest ladies\nof Toulon and Marseilles.\n\nWere they not more gay, more witty, more happy in 1174 than in 1882?\n\nNearly all the decrees of the Courts of Love are based on the\nprovisions of the Code of Love.\n\nThis Code of Love is found complete in the work of Andr\u00e9 le Chapelain.\n\n\n[1] Andr\u00e9 le Chapelain, Nostradamus, Raynouard, Crescimbeni, d'Ar\u00e9tin.\n\n[2] Jehanne, Lady of Baulx,\n    Hugnette of Forcarquier, Lady of Trects,\n    Briande d'Agoult, Countess de la Lune,\n    Mabille de Villeneufve, Lady of Vence,\n    Beatrix d'Agoult, Lady of Sault,\n    Ysoarde de Roquefueilh, Lady of Ansoys,\n    Anne, Viscountess of Tallard,\n    Blanche of Flassans, surnamed Blankaflour,\n    Doulce of Monestiers, Lady of Clumane,\n    Antonette of Cadenet, Lady of Lambesc,\n    Magdalene of Sallon, Lady of the said place,\n    Rixende of Puyvard, Lady of Trans.\"\n                        (Nostradamus, p. 217.)\n\n[3] Nostradamus, p. 131.\n\n[Pg 336]\nThere are thirty-one articles and here they are:--\n\n\n                  CODE OF LOVE OF THE TWELFTH CENTURY\n\n\n     I. The allegation of marriage is not a valid plea against love.\n\n    II. Who can dissemble cannot love.\n\n   III. No one can bind himself to two loves at once.\n\n    IV. Love grows continually or wanes.\n\n     V. That which a lover takes from another by force has no savour.\n\n    VI. Generally the male does not love except in full puberty.\n\n   VII. A widowhood of two years is prescribed to one lover for the\n          death of the other.\n\n  VIII. Without over-abundant reason no one ought to be deprived of his\n          rights in love.\n\n    IX. No one can love, unless urged thereto by the persuasion of love\n          (by the hope of being loved).\n\n     X. Love will be driven out by avarice.\n\n    XI. It is not right to love her whom you would be ashamed to ask in\n          marriage.\n\n   XII. True love has no desire for caresses except from the beloved.\n\n  XIII. Love once divulged is rarely lasting.\n\n   XIV. Success too easy takes away the charm of love; obstacles give it\n          worth.\n\n    XV. Everyone who loves turns pale at the sight of the beloved.\n\n   XVI. At the unexpected sight of the beloved the lover trembles.\n\n  XVII. New love banishes old.\n\n XVIII. Merit alone makes man worthy of love.\n\n   XIX. Love that wanes is quickly out and rarely rekindled.\n\n    XX. The lover is always timid.\n\n   XXI. Real jealousy always increases love's warmth.\n\n  XXII. Suspicion, and the jealousy it kindles, increases love's warmth.\n\n XXIII. He sleeps less and he eats less who is beset with thoughts of\n          love.\n\n  XXIV. Every act of the lover ends in thought of the beloved.\n\n[Pg 337]\n   XXV. The true lover thinks nothing good but what he knows will please\n          the beloved.\n\n  XXVI. Love can deny love nothing.\n\n XXVII. The lover cannot have satiety of delight in the beloved.\n\nXXVIII. The slightest presumption causes the lover to suspect the\n          beloved of sinister things.\n\n  XXIX. The habit of too excessive pleasure hinders the birth of love.\n\n   XXX. The true lover is occupied with the image of the beloved\n          assiduously and without interruption.\n\n  XXXI. Nothing prevents a woman from being loved by two men, nor a man\n          by two women.[1]\n\n[Pg 338]\nHere is the preamble of a judgment given by a Court of Love.\n\n_Question:_ Can true love exist between married people?\n\n_Judgment_ of the Countess of Champagne: We pronounce and determine by\nthe tenour of these presents, that love cannot extend its powers over\ntwo married persons; for lovers must grant everything, mutually and\ngratuitously, the one to the other without being constrained thereto\nby any motive of necessity, while husband and wife are bound by duty\nto agree the one with the other and deny each other in nothing.... Let\nthis judgment, which we have passed with extreme caution and with the\nadvice of a great number of other ladies, be held by you as the truth,\nunquestionable and unalterable.\n\nIn the year 1174, the third day from the Calends of May, the VIIth:\nindiction.[2]\n\n\n[1]  I. Causa conjugii ab amore non est excusatio recta.\n\n    II. Qui non celat amare non potest.\n\n   III. Nemo duplici potest amore ligari.\n\n    IV. Semper amorem minui vel crescere constat.\n\n     V. Non est sapidum quod amans ab invito sumit amante.\n\n    VI. Masculus non solet nisi in plena pubertate amare.\n\n   VII. Biennalis viduitas pro amante defuncto superstiti praescribitur\n          amanti.\n\n  VIII. Nemo, sine rationis excessu, suo debet amore privari.\n\n    IX. Amare nemo potest, nisi qui amoris suasione compellitur.\n\n     X. Amor semper ab avaritia consuevit domiciliis exulare.\n\n    XI. Non decet amare quarum pudor est nuptias affectare.\n\n   XII. Verus amans alterius nisi suae coamantis ex affectu non cupit\n          amplexus.\n\n  XIII. Amor raro consuevit durare vulgatus.\n\n   XIV. Facilis perceptio contemptibilem reddit amorem, difficilis eum\n          parum facit haberi.\n\n    XV. Omnis consuevit amans in coamantis aspectu pallescere.\n\n   XVI. In repertina coamantis visione, cor tremescit amantis.\n\n  XVII. Novus amor veterem compellit abire.\n\n XVIII. Probitas sola quemcumque dignum facit amore.\n\n   XIX. Si amor minuatur, cito deficit et raro convalescit.\n\n    XX. Amorosus semper est timorosus.\n\n   XXI. Ex vera zelotypia affectus semper crescit amandi.\n\n  XXII. De coamante suspicione percepta zelus interea et affectus\n          crescit amandi.\n\n XXIII. Minus dormit et edit quem amoris cogitatio vexat.\n\n  XXIV. Quilibet amantis actus in coamantis cogitatione finitur.\n\n   XXV. Verus amans nihil beatum credit, nisi quod cogitat amanti\n          placere.\n\n  XXVI. Amor nihil posset amori denegare.\n\n XXVII. Amans coamantis solatiis satiari non potest.\n\nXXVIII. Modica praesumptio cogit amantem de coamante suspicari sinistra.\n\n  XXIX. Non solet amare quem nimia voluptatis abundantia vexat.\n\n   XXX. Verus amans assidua, sine intermissione, coamantis imagine\n          detinetur.\n\n  XXXI. Unam feminam nihil prohibet a duobus amari, et a duabus\n          mulieribus unum. (Fol. 103.)\n\n[2] Utrum inter conjugatos amor possit habere locum?\n\nDicimus enim et stabilito tenore firmamus amorem non posse inter duos\njugales suas extendere vires, nam amantes sibi invicem gratis omnia\nlargiuntur, nullius necessitatis ratione cogente; jugales vero mutuis\ntenentur ex debito voluntatibus obedire et in nullo seipsos sibi ad\ninvicem denegare....\n\nHoc igitur nostrum judicium, cum nimia moderatione prolatum, et aliarum\nquamplurium dominarum consilio roboratum, pro indubitabili vobis sit ac\nveritate constanti.\n\nAb anno M.C.LXXIV, tertio calend. maii, indictione VII. (Fol. 56.)\n\nThis judgment conforms to the first provision of the Code of Love;\n\"Causa conjugii non est ab amore excusatio recta.\"\n\n\n[Pg 339]\n                    NOTE ON ANDR\u00c9 LE CHAPELAIN(70)\n\n\nANDR\u00c9 LE CHAPELAIN appears to have written about the year 1176.\n\nIn the Biblioth\u00e8que du Roi may be found a manuscript (No. 8758) of\nthe work of Andr\u00e9, which was formerly in the possession of Baluze.\nIts first title is as follows: \"Hic incipiunt capitula libri de Arte\namatoria et reprobatione amoris.\"\n\nThis title is followed by the table of chapters.\n\nThen we have the second title:--\n\n\"Incipit liber de Arte amandi et de reprobatione amoris editus et\ncompillatus a magistro Andrea, Francorum aulae regi\u00e6 capellano, ad\nGalterium amicum suum, cupientem in amoris exercitu militari: in quo\nquidem libro, cujusque gradus et ordinis mulier ab homine cujusque\nconditionis et status ad amorem sapientissime invitatur; et ultimo in\nfine ipsius libri de amoris reprobatione subjungitur.\"\n\nCrescimbeni, _Lives of the Proven\u00e7al Poets_, sub voce Percivalle Boria,\ncites a manuscript in the library of Nicolo Bargiacchi, at Florence,\nand quotes various passages from it. This manuscript is a translation\nof the treatise of Andr\u00e9 le Chapelain. The Accademia della Crusca\nadmitted it among the works which furnished examples for its dictionary.\n\nThere have been various editions of the original Latin. Frid. Otto\nMenckenius, in his _Miscellanea Lipsiensia nova, Leipsic_ 1751, Vol.\nVIII, part I, pp. 545 and ff., mentions a very old edition without date\nor place of printing, which he considers must belong to the first age\nof printing: \"Tractatus amoris et de amoris remedio Andreae cappellani\nInnocentii papae quarti.\"\n\nA second edition of 1610 bears the following title:--\n\n\"_Erotica seu amatoria_ Andreae capellani regii, vetustissimi\nscriptoris ad venerandum suum amicum Guualterium scripta, nunquam ante\nhac edita, sed saepius a multis desiderata; nunc tandem fide diversorum\nMSS. codicum in publicum emissa a Dethmaro Mulhero, Dorpmundae, typis\nWesthovianis, anno Una Caste et Vere amanda.\"\n\nA third edition reads: \"Tremoniae, typis Westhovianis, anno 1614.\".\n\n[Pg 340]\nAndr\u00e9 divides thus methodically the subjects which he proposes to\ndiscuss:--\n\n1. Quid sit amor et unde dicatur.[1]\n\n2. Quis sit effectus amoris.\n\n3. Inter quos possit esse amor.\n\n4. Qualiter amor acquiratur, retineatur, augmentetur, minuatur,\nfiniatur.\n\n5. De notitia mutui amoris, et quid unus amantium agere debeat, altero\nfidem fallente.\n\nEach of these questions is discussed in several paragraphs.\n\nAndreas makes the lover and his lady speak alternately. The lady raises\nobjections, the lover tries to convince her with reasons more or less\nsubtle. Here is a passage which the author puts into the mouth of the\nlover:--\n\n \"... Sed si forte horum sermonum te perturbet obscuritas,\" eorum tibi\n sententiam indicabo[2]\n\n Ab antiquo igitur quatuor sunt in amore gradus distincti:\n\n _Primus_, in spei datione consistit.\n\n _Secundus_, in osculi exhibitione.\n\n _Tertius_, in amplexus fruitione.\n\n _Quartus_, in totius concessione personae finitur.\"\n\n\n[1] 1. What love is and whence it is so-called.\n\n2. What are the effects of love?\n\n3. Between whom love can exist.\n\n4. In what way love is won, kept, made to increase, to wane or to end.\n\n5. The way to know if love is returned, and what one of the lovers\nshould do when the other proves faithless.]\n\n[2] But lest perchance you are troubled by the obscurity of this\ndiscourse, I shall give you the argument:--\n\nFrom all antiquity there are four different degrees of love:\n\nThe first consists in giving hope.\n\nThe second in the offer of a kiss.\n\nThe third in the enjoyment of the most intimate caresses.\n\nThe fourth in the surrender of body and soul.]\n\n[Pg 341]\n                          TRANSLATORS' NOTES\n\n\n1. The Portuguese Nun, Marianna Alcaforado, was born of a distinguished\nPortuguese family in the second half of the seventeenth century. About\n1662, while still a nun, she fell in love with a French officer, the\nChevalier de Chamilly, to whom she addressed her famous letters. The\nworthiness of the object of her passion may be judged by the fact that,\non his return to Paris, the Chevalier handed over these letters to\nSublingy, a lawyer, to be translated and published. They appeared in\n1669, published by Barbin, under the title _Lettres Portuguaises_, and\nhave since been often reprinted. Marianna Alcaforado died at the end of\nthe seventeenth or the beginning of the eighteenth century.\n\nThere are only five original letters, though many editions contain the\nseven spurious letters, attributed to a \"femme du monde\"--they are\nalready in Barbin's second edition.\n\nThere is an admirable seventeenth-century English translation of her\nletters by Sir Roger L'Estrange.\n\nThe passion of H\u00e9lo\u00efse for Abelard hardly calls for commentary. There\nis no clue to the identity of Captain de V\u00e9sel and Sergeant de Cento.\nA note in Calmann-L\u00e9vy's edition tells us that, in reply to enquiries\nabout these two mysterious people, Stendhal said that he had forgotten\ntheir stories.\n\n2. _Justine ou les Malheurs de la Vertu_, by the famous Marquis de\nSade, was published in Holland, 1791.\n\n3. Cf. Coleridge, _Love's Apparition and Evanishment_:--\n\n    ... Genial Hope,\n    Love's eldest sister.\n\n4. Cf. Chapter VIII, p. 35 below. The ideas contained in these two\npassages are the germ of a story written by Stendhal with the obvious\nintention of illustrating his theories. The story--\"Ernestine\"--is\nincluded in the Calmann-L\u00e9vy edition of _De l'Amour_.\n\n\n[Pg 342]\n5. Cf. a letter of Sir John Suckling \"_to a Friend to dissuade him from\nmarrying a widow, which he formerly had been in love with_\":--\n\n\"Love is a natural distemper, a kind of Small Pox: Every one either\nhath had it or is to expect it, and the sooner the better.\"\n\n6. L\u00e9onore: under this name Stendhal refers to M\u00e9tilde Dembowski\n(_n\u00e9e_ Viscontini). His passion for the wife of General Dembowski,\nwith whom he became intimate during his stay in Milan (1814-1821),\nforms one of the most important chapters in Stendhal's life, but it\nis a little disappointing to enquire too deeply into the object of\nthis passion. At any rate, as far as one can see, the great qualities\nwhich Stendhal discovered in M\u00e9tilde Dembowski had their existence\nrather in his expert crystallisation than in reality. It was an unhappy\naffair. M\u00e9tilde's cousin used her influence to injure Stendhal, and\nin 1819 she cut off all communication with him. Stendhal was still\nbemoaning his fate on his arrival in England, 1821. There is, none\nthe less, something unconvincing in certain points in the history\nof this attachment; in spite of his sorrow, Stendhal seems to have\nconsoled himself in the Westminster Road with \"little Miss Appleby.\"\nIt is worth noticing that M\u00e9tilde Dembowski had been the confidante of\nSignora Pietra Grua, his former mistress, and it was from the date of\nStendhal's discovery of the latter's shameless infidelity to himself\nand other lovers, that his admiration for M\u00e9tilde seems to have started.\n\n7. It is here worth turning to a passage from Baudelaire--which is\ngiven in the Translators' note (11) below. Liberty in love, he says,\nconsists in avoiding the kind of woman dangerous to oneself. He\npoints out that a natural instinct prompts one to this spontaneous\nself-preservation. Stendhal here gives a more exact explanation of\nthe operation of this instinctive selection in love. Schopenhauer's\nconception of the utilitarian nature of bodily beauty is a more general\napplication of the same idea. The breasts of a woman _\u00e0 la_ Titian\nare a pledge of fitness for maternity--therefore they are beautiful.\nStendhal would have said a pledge of fitness for giving pleasure.\n\n8. The well-known Dr. Edwards, in whose house Stendhal was introduced\nto one side of English life--and a very bourgeois side. He was\nintroduced by a brother of Dr. Edwards, a\n\n[Pg 343]\nman given to the peculiarly gloomy kind of debauch of which Stendhal\ngives such an exaggerated picture in his account of England. See note\n31 below.\n\n9. This brings to mind Blake's view of imagination and \"the rotten\nrags\" of memory.\n\n10. _Bianca e Faliero ossia il consiglio di tre_--opera by Rossini\n(1819).\n\n11. Cf. Baudelaire, _Choix de maximes consolantes sur l'amour_ in _Le\nCorsaire Satan_ (March 3, 1846) and reprinted in _\u0152uvres Posthumes_,\nParis, 1908.\n\n\"Sans nier les coups de foudre, ce qui est impossible--voyez\nStendhal...--il faut que la fatalit\u00e9 jouit d'une certaine \u00e9lasticit\u00e9\nqui s'appelle libert\u00e9 humaine.... En amour la libert\u00e9 consiste \u00e0 \u00e9viter\nles cat\u00e9gories de femmes dangereuses, c'est-\u00e0-dire dangereuses pour\nvous.\"\n\n[\"Without denying the possibility of 'thunderbolts,' for that is\nimpossible (see Stendhal)--one may yet believe that fatality enjoys\na certain elasticity, called human liberty.... In love human liberty\nconsists in avoiding the categories of dangerous women--that is, women\ndangerous for you.\"]\n\n12. Paul Louis Courier (1772-1825) served with distinction as an\nofficer in Napoleon's army. He resigned his commission in 1809, in\norder to devote himself to literature, and especially to the study\nof Greek. His translation of _Daphnis and Chloe_, from the Greek of\nLongus, is well known, and was the cause of his long controversy\nwith Del Furia, the under-librarian of the Laurentian Library at\nFlorence, to which Stendhal here refers. Courier had discovered\na complete manuscript of this romance in the famous Florentine\nLibrary. By mistake, he soiled with a blot of ink the page of the\nmanuscript containing the all-important passage, which was wanting\nin all previously known manuscripts. Del Furia, jealous of Courier's\ndiscovery, accused him of having blotted the passage on purpose, in\norder to monopolise the discovery. A lively controversy followed, in\nwhich the authorities entered. Courier was guilty of nothing worse than\ncarelessness, and, needless to say, got the better of his adversaries,\nwhen it came to a trial with the pen.\n\n[Pg 344]\n13. The Viscomte de Valmont and the Pr\u00e9sidente de Tourvel are the two\ncentral figures in Choderlos de Laclos' _Liaisons Dangereuses_ (1782).\n\n14. Modern criticism has made it uncertain who Dante's la Pia really\nwas. The traditional identification is now given up, but there seems no\nreason to doubt the historical fact of the story.\n\n15. Napoleon crowned himself with the Iron Crown of the old Lombard\nkings at Milan in 1805.\n\n16. The reader is aware by now that Salviati is none other than\nStendhal. The passage refers to the campaign of 1812, in which Stendhal\nplayed a prominent part, being present at the burning of Moscow.\n\n17. _Don Carlos_, Tragedy of Schiller (1787); Saint-Preux--from\nRousseau's _Nouvelle H\u00e9lo\u00efse_.\n\n18. Stendhal's first book. For the history of this work, which is an\nadmirable example of Stendhal's bold method of plagiarism, see the\nintroduction to the work in the complete edition of Stendhal now in\ncourse of publication by Messrs. Champion (Paris, 1914) or Lumbroso,\n_Vingt jugements in\u00e9dits sur Henry Beyle_ (1902), pp. 10 and ff.\n\n19. _Jacques le Fataliste_--by Diderot (1773).\n\n20. The note, as it stands, in the French text, against the word\n\"pique,\" runs as follows:--\n\n\"I think the word is none too French in this sense, but I can find\nno better substitute. In Italian it is 'puntiglio,' and in English\n'pique.'\"\n\n21. The _Lettres \u00e0 Sophie_ were written by Mirabeau (1749-1791) during\nhis imprisonment at Vincennes (1777-1780). They were addressed to\nSophie de Monnier; it was his relations with her which had brought\nhim into prison. They were published in 1792, after Mirabeau's death,\nunder the title: _Lettres originales de Mirabeau \u00e9crites du donjon de\nVincennes_.\n\n[Pg 345]\n22. Catherine Marie, Duchesse de Montpensier, was the daughter of\nthe Duc de Guise, assassinated in 1563. In 1570 she married the Duc\nde Montpensier. She was lame, but she had other reasons besides his\nscoffing at her infirmity for her undying hatred of Henry III; for she\ncould lay at his door the death of her brother Henry, the third Duke.\nShe died in 1596.\n\n23. Julie d'\u00c9tanges--the heroine of Rousseau's _Nouvelle H\u00e9lo\u00efse_.\n\n24. Stendhal, we must remember, is writing as a staunch liberal in the\nperiod of reaction which followed the fall of Napoleon and the end of\nthe revolutionary period. Stendhal had been one of Napoleon's officers,\nand the Bourbon restoration put an end to his career. His liberalism\nand his pride at having been one of those who followed Napoleon's\nglorious campaigns, colour everything he writes about the state of\nEurope in his time. In reading Stendhal's criticisms of France, England\nand Italy, we must put ourselves back in 1822--remember that in France\nwe have the Royalist restoration, in England the cry for reform always\ngrowing greater and beginning to penetrate even into the reactionary\ngovernment of Lord Liverpool (Peel, Canning, Huskisson), in Italy\nthe rule of the \"Pacha\" (see below, note 29) and the beginning of\nCarbonarism (of which Stendhal was himself suspected, see below, note\n27), and the long struggle for unity and independence.\n\n25. Charles Ferdinand, Duke de Berri (1778-1820), married a Bourbon\nPrincess and was assassinated by a fanatic enemy of the Bourbons.\n\n26. Bayard. Pierre Bayard (1476-1524), the famous French knight\n\"without fear or reproach.\"\n\n27. Of all foreign countries then to which Stendhal went Italy was not\nonly his favourite, but also the one he knew and understood best. He\nwas pleased in later years to discover Italian blood in his own family\non the maternal side. The Gagnon family, from which his mother came,\nhad, according to him, crossed into France about 1650.\n\nHe was in Italy with little interruption from 1814-1821, and again from\n1830-1841 as consul at Civita Vecchia, during which time he became\nintimately acquainted with the best, indeed every\n\n[Pg 346]\nkind of Italian society. He tells us that fear of being implicated in\nthe _Carbonari_ troubles drove him from Italy in 1821.\n\nOne can well believe that a plain speaker and daring thinker like\nStendhal would have been looked upon by the Austrian police with\nconsiderable suspicion.\n\n28. Racine and Shakespeare. Very early in life Stendhal refused to\naccept the conventional literary valuations. Racine he put below\nCorneille--Racine, like Voltaire, he says, fills his works with\n\"bavardage \u00e9ternel.\" Shakespeare became for Stendhal the master\ndramatist, and he is never tired of the comparison between him and\nRacine. Cf. _Rome, Naples et Florence_ (1817), and _Histoire de la\nPeinture en Italie_ (1817). Finally he published his work on the\nsubject: _Racine et Shakespeare par M. de Stendhal_ (1823).\n\n29. Stendhal knew Italy and was writing in Italy in the dark period\nthat followed the fall of Napoleon. The \"Pacha\" is, of course, the\nrepressive and reactionary government, whether that of the Austrians\nin Lombardy, of the Pope in Rome, or of the petty princes in the minor\nItalian states. See above, note 27.\n\n30. Count Almaviva--character from Beaumarchais' _Marriage de Figaro_,\nfirst acted April, 1784. The play was censored by Louis XVI and\nproduced none the less six months later. Its production is an event\nin the history of the French Revolution. Almaviva stands for the\naristocracy and cuts a sad figure beside Figaro, a poor barber.\n\n\n                 STENDHAL'S ACQUAINTANCE WITH ENGLAND\n\n31. Baretti, Dr. Johnson's friend, has the reputation of having learnt\nEnglish better than any other foreigner. Stendhal might well claim a\nsimilar distinction for having acquired in a short stay a grasp so\nsingularly comprehensive of England--of English people and their ways.\nHe was four times in England--in 1817, 1821, 1826, and 1838--never\nfor a whole year in succession, and on the first occasion merely on a\nflying trip. But Stendhal had not only a great power of observing and\nassimilating ideas; he was also capable of accommodating himself to\nassociation with the most varied types. Stendhal was as appreciative of\nMiss Appleby--his\n\n[Pg 347]\nlittle mistress in the Westminster Road--as of Lord Byron and Shelley:\nhe was at home in the family circle of the Edwards and the Clarkes.\nFrom the first he was sensible of the immense value of his friendship\nwith the lawyer, Sutton Sharpe (1797-1843). Sharpe was one of those\nEnglishmen who seem made for the admiration of foreigners--possessing\nall the Englishman's sense and unaffected dignity and none of his\nmorbid reserve or insularity. Porson, Opie, Flaxman, Stothard were\nfamiliar figures in the house of Sharpe's father, and Sharpe and his\ncharming sister continued to be the centre of a large and intelligent\ncircle. In 1826 Sharpe took Stendhal with him on circuit. Stendhal was\noften present in court and learnt from his friend, who in 1841 became\nQ. C., to admire the real character, so rarely appreciated abroad, of\nEnglish justice. He took this opportunity of visiting also Manchester,\nYork, and the Lake district. Likewise to Sharpe he owed the privilege\nof meeting Hook, the famous wit and famous bibber, at the Athenaeum.\nHe was present even at one of Almack's balls--the most select\nentertainment of that time.\n\nWith an acquaintance with England at once so varied, so full and yet\nso short, as regards direct intercourse with the country and people,\nit is rather natural that Stendhal was wary of subscribing to any\none very settled conception of the English. He felt the incongruity\nof their character. At one time he called them \"la nation la plus\ncivilis\u00e9e et la plus puissante du monde entier\"--the most civilised and\npowerful people on the face of the earth; at another they were only\n\"les premiers hommes pour le steam-engine\"; and then, he merely felt a\nsorrowful affection for them--as for a people who just missed getting\nthe profit of their good qualities by shutting their eyes to their bad.\n\nAs for Stendhal's knowledge of English literature--of that the\nfoundations were laid early in life. His enthusiasm for Shakespeare\nwas a very early passion (cf. Translators' note 28). As years went on,\nhis acquaintance with English thought and English literature became\nsteadily wider. Significant is his familiarity with Bentham, whose\nviews were congenial to Stendhal: Stendhal quotes him more than once.\nHobbes he was ready to class with Condillac, Helv\u00e9tius, Cabanis and\nDestutt de Tracy, as one of the philosophers most congenial and useful\nto his mind. For the rest, the notes and quotations in this book leave\nno doubt of the extent of his English reading--they\n\n[Pg 348]\ngive one a poorer opinion of his purely linguistic capacities;\nStendhal's own English is often most comical. For a very complete\nconsideration of his connexion with England see _Stendhal et\nl'Angleterre_, by Doris Gunnell (Paris, 1909). Cf. also Chuquet's\n_Stendhal-Beyle_ (Paris, 1902), Chap. IX, pp. 178 and ff.\n\n32. Of the three Englishmen referred to here, James Beattie\n(1735--1803), the author of _The Minstrel_ (published 1771-1774), and\nRichard Watson (1737-1816), Bishop of Llandaff (1782), a distinguished\nchemist and a man of liberal political views, will both be familiar to\nreaders of Boswell. The third, John Chetwode Eustace (1762?-1815) was\na friend of Burke and a Roman Catholic, who seems to have given some\ntrouble to the Catholic authorities in England and Ireland. His _Tour\nthrough Italy_, to which Stendhal refers, was published in 1813.\n\n33. The Divorce Bill, introduced in 1820 into the House of Lords by\nGeorge IV's ministers, to annul his marriage with Queen Caroline, but\nabandoned on account of its unpopularity both in Parliament and in the\ncountry generally.\n\n34. The Whiteboys were a secret society, which originated in Ireland\nabout 1760 and continued spasmodically till the end of the century.\nIn 1821 it reappeared and gave great trouble to the authorities; in\n1823 the society adopted another name. The yeomanry was embodied in\nUlster in September 1796, and was mainly composed of Orangemen and\nProtestants. The body was instrumental in disarming Ulster and in\nsuppressing the rebellion of 1798--not, it has been maintained, without\nunnecessary cruelty.\n\n35. Sir Benjamin Bloomfield (1786-1846), a distinguished soldier,\nultimately did get his peerage in 1825. In 1822 he had resigned his\noffice of receiver of the duchy of Cornwall, having lost the King's\nconfidence after many years of favour.\n\n\n                  STENDHAL'S ACQUAINTANCE WITH SPAIN\n\n36. Stendhal's personal knowledge of Spain was less extensive than that\nof Italy, England and Germany. He was early interested in the country\nand its literature. In 1808 at Richemont he was reading a _Histoire de\nla guerre de la succession d'Espagne_, and the same year speaks of his\nplan of going to Spain to study the\n\n[Pg 349]\nlanguage of Cervantes and Calderon. In 1810 he actually took Spanish\nlessons and the next year applied from Germany for an official\nappointment in Spain. In 1837 he made his way as far as Barcelona.\n\n\n                 STENDHAL'S ACQUAINTANCE WITH GERMANY\n\n37. In 1806 Stendhal returned to Paris from Marseilles whither he\nhad followed the actress Melanie Guilbert and taken up a commercial\nemployment in order to support himself at her side. He now again put\nhimself under the protection of Daru, and followed him into Germany,\nthough at first without any fixed title. He was not at Jena, as he\npretends (being still in Paris the 7th October), but on the 27th of the\nmonth he witnessed Napoleon's triumphal entry into Berlin. Two days\nlater he was nominated by Daru to the post of assistant _commissaire\ndes guerres_.\n\nStendhal arrived in Brunswick in 1806 to take up his official duties.\nAlthough his time was occupied with a considerable amount of business,\nhe found leisure also for visiting the country at ease. In 1807 he\nwent as far as Hamburg. His observations on the country and people are\noccurring continually in his works, particularly in his letters and in\nhis _Voyage \u00e0 Brunswick_ (in _Napol\u00e9on_, ed. de Mitty, Paris, 1897),\npp. 92-125. In 1808 he left Brunswick, but soon returned with Daru to\nGermany. This time he was employed at Strasbourg--whence he passed to\nIngolstadt, Landshut, etc., etc. Facts prove that he was not at the\nbattle of Wagram, as he says in his _Life of Napoleon_. He was at the\ntime at Vienna, where he managed to remain for the _Te Deum_ sung in\nhonour of the Emperor Francis II after the evacuation by the French.\nHe returned in 1810, after the peace of Schonnbrunn, to Paris. It was\nduring his stay in Brunswick that Stendhal made the acquaintance of\nBaron von Strombeck, for whom he always preserved a warm affection.\nHe was a frequent guest at the house of von Strombeck and a great\nadmirer of his sister-in-law, Phillippine von B\u00fclow--who died Abbess\nof Steterburg--_la celeste Phillippine_. Baron von Strombeck is\nreferred to in this work as M. de Mermann. See generally Chuquet,\n_Stendhal-Beyle_, Chap. V.\n\n38. Triumph of the Cross. In Arthur Schuig's sprightly, but inaccurate,\nGerman edition of _De l'Amour--\u00dcber die Liebe_ (Jena, 1911)--occurs\nthis note:--\n\n\"Stendhal names the piece _Le Triomphe de la Croix_, but must\n\n[Pg 350]\nmean either _Das Kruez an der Ostsee_ (1806), or _Martin Luther oder\ndie Weihe der Kraft_ (1807)--both tragedies by Zacharias Werner.\"\n\n39. The Provencal story in this chapter, and the Arabic anecdotes in\nthe next, were translated for Stendhal by his friend Claude Fauriel\n(1772-1806)--\"the only savant in Paris who is not a pedant,\" he calls\nhim in a letter written in 1829 (_Correspondance de Stendhal_, Paris,\nCharles Brosse, 1908, Vol. II, p. 516). A letter of 1822 (Vol. II, p.\n247) thanks M. Fauriel for his translations. \"If I were not so old,\"\nhe writes, \"I should learn Arabic, so charmed am I to find something\nat last that is not a mere academic copy of the antique.... My little\nideological treatise on Love will now have some variety. The reader\nwill be carried beyond the circle of European ideas.\" Saint-Beuve\nrelates that he was present when Fauriel showed Stendhal, then engaged\non his _De l'Amour_, an Arab story which he had translated. Stendhal\nseized on it, and Fauriel was only able to recover his story by\npromising two more like it in exchange. M. Fauriel is referred to p.\n188, note 3, above.\n\n40. The reference is to a piece by Scribe (1791-1861).\n\n41. Stendhal had no first-hand knowledge of America.\n\n42. Stendhal was writing before Whitman and Whistler; yet he had read\nPoe.\n\n43. The entire material for these three chapters, and to a very great\nextent their language too, is taken straight from an article in the\n_Edinburgh Review_--January 1810--by Thomas Broadbent. See for a full\ncomparison of the English and French, Doris Gunnell--_Stendhal et\nl'Angleterre_, Appendix B.\n\nStendhal has not only adapted the ideas--he has to a great extent\ntranslated the words of Thomas Broadbent. He has changed the order of\nideas here and there--not the ideas themselves--and in some cases he\nhas enlarged their application. Where he has translated the English\nword for word, it has often been possible in this translation to\nrestore the original English, which Stendhal borrowed and turned into\nFrench. Where we have done this, we have printed the words, which\nbelong to Thomas Broadbent, in italics.\n\n\n[Pg 351]\nHowever, as Stendhal often introduced slight, but important, changes\nof language, we also give below, as an example of his methods, longer\npassages chosen from the article in the _Edinburgh Review_, to compare\nwith the corresponding passages literally translated by us from\nStendhal.\n\nThese are the passages:--\n\nP. 225, l. 2:\n\n \"As if women were more quick and men more judicious, as if women were\n more remarkable for delicacy of expression and men for stronger powers\n of attention.\"\n\nP. 228, l. 9:\n\n \"Knowledge, where it produces any bad effects at all, does as much\n mischief to one sex as to the other.... Vanity and conceit we shall of\n course witness in men and women, as long as the world endures.... The\n best way to make it more tolerable is to give it as high and dignified\n an object as possible.\"\n\nP. 229, l. 21:\n\n \"Women have, of course, all ignorant men for enemies to their\n instruction, who being bound (as they think) in point of sex to know\n more, are not well pleased in point of fact to know less.\"\n\nP. 230, l. 24:\n\n \"The same desire of pleasing, etc.... We are quite astonished in\n hearing men converse on such subjects to find them attributing such\n beautiful effects to ignorance.\"\n\nP. 232, l. 31:\n\n \"We do not wish a lady to write books any more than we wish her to\n dance at the opera.\"\n\nP. 237, l. 13:\n\n \"A merely accomplished woman cannot infuse her tastes into the minds\n of her sons....\n\n \"By having gained information a mother may inspire her sons with\n valuable tastes, which may abide by them through life and carry him up\n to all the sublimities of knowledge.\"\n\nP. 237, l. 27:\n\n \"Mankind are much happier for the discovery of barometers,\n thermometers, steam-engines and all the innumerable inventions in the\n arts and the sciences.... The same observation is true of such works\n as those of Dryden, Pope, Milton and Shakespeare.\"\n\n[Pg 352]\nStendhal's habit of quoting without acknowledgment from all kinds of\nwritings is so curious, that it demands a word to itself. His wholesale\nmethod of plagiarism has been established in other works beside the\npresent one; almost the whole of his first work--_La Vie de Haydn_\n(1814)--is stolen property. See above, note 18. Goethe was amused to\nfind his own experiences transferred to the credit of the author of\n_Rome, Naples et Florence!_\n\nIf there is any commentary necessary on this literary piracy--it is to\nbe found in a note by Stendhal (_vide_ above, Chapter XXXVII, p. 132)\non a passage where, for once, he actually acknowledges a thought from\nLa Rochefoucauld:--\n\n \"The reader will have recognised, without my marking it each time,\n several other thoughts of celebrated writers. It is history which I am\n attempting to write, and such thoughts are the facts.\"\n\n44. The monitorial system (_Enseignement mutuel_) was introduced into\nFrance soon after the Bourbon Restoration; but it was not, like our\nmonitorial system, designed with a view primarily to the maintenance of\ndiscipline, but rather to supplying the want of schools and masters and\nremedying the official indifference to popular education, which then\nexisted in France. As such, it was warmly espoused by the liberals, and\nas warmly opposed by the reactionaries. The monitors, it was thought,\ncould hand on to the younger pupils the knowledge they had already\nreceived; after the Revolution of 1830, when no longer the object\nof political controversy, the system gave way to more practical and\nefficient methods of public instruction.\n\n45. Porlier (Don Juan Diaz), born in 1783, was publicly hanged in\n1815 as the result of a conspiracy against Ferdinand VII of Spain.\nAfter having been one of the most active and bravest supporters of\nFerdinand's cause in the effort to re-establish his throne and the\nnational honour, he now sacrificed his life to an unsuccessful attempt\nto set up a constitutional government.\n\nAntonio Quiroga (born 1784), also after having distinguished himself in\nthe national struggle against Napoleon, was tried for complicity in the\nconspiracy, after the fall of Porlier. After a series of adventures, in\nwhich he was more lucky than Riego, his\n\n[Pg 353]\nsubaltern, to whom he owed so much, he again distinguished himself,\nafter a temporary withdrawal from active service in 1822, by the stout\nopposition he offered to the French invasion of 1823. His efforts,\nhowever, were of no avail and he escaped to England, and thence made\nhis way to South America. Some years later he returned to Spain, was\nnominated Captain General of Grenada, and died in 1841.\n\nRafael del Riego (born 1785), after serving against the French,\nfirst became prominent in connexion with the effort to restore the\nconstitution which Ferdinand had abolished in 1812. He was elected by\nhis troops second in command to Quiroga, whom he himself proposed as\ntheir leader. This rising was a failure and Riego was exiled to Oviedo,\nhis birthplace. After being repeatedly recalled and re-exiled, he ended\nby being one of the first victims of Ferdinand's restoration in 1823,\nand was dragged to the place of execution at the back of a donkey, amid\nthe outrages of the mob.\n\n46. Father Paolo Sarpi (1552-1623), the famous historian of the\nCouncil of Trent, a Servite monk, and the ecclesiastical adviser of\nthe Venetian Government, at a time when it seemed not impossible that\nVenice would break away, like Northern Europe, from the Roman Catholic\nChurch.\n\n47. Destutt de Tracy (1754-1836) was, according to Stendhal, our only\nphilosopher. It is on Tracy, one of the Ideologists, that Stendhal,\none might say, modelled his philosophic attitude. Tracy's _Id\u00e9ologie_\n(1801), he says, gave him \"milles germes de pens\u00e9es nouvelles\"--gave\nhim also his worship of logic. He was equally impressed by the _Trait\u00e9\nde la Volont\u00e9_ (1815). Cf. Picavet's Sorbonne Thesis (Paris, 1891)\n_Les Id\u00e9ologues_, pp. 489-92, in which he speaks of Stendhal as \"a\nsuccessor and a defender, _mutatis mutandis_, of the eighteenth-century\n'Id\u00e9ologues.'\"\n\n48. Giovanni Luigi Fiescho (15 23-1547), a great Genoese noble, formed\na conspiracy in 1547 against the all-powerful Admiral of the Republic,\nAndrea Doria. The state fleet in the harbour was to be seized, but in\nattempting this Fiescho was drowned, and the conspiracy collapsed.\n\n[Pg 354]\n49. Henri Gr\u00e9goire (1750-1831), one of the most original fearless and\nsincere of the Revolutionary leaders, was the constitutional Bishop\nof Blois, who refused to lay down his episcopal office under the\nTerror, and when the Reign of Terror was over, took an active part in\nrestoring Religion and the Church. He resigned his bishopric in 1801.\nNapoleon made him a count but he was always hostile to the Empire. He\nwas a staunch Gallican, and never forgave Napoleon his concordat with\nthe Papacy. He was naturally hated and feared by the Royalists at the\nRestoration, but he remained popular with the people, and was elected\na member of the lower chamber in 1819, though he was prevented by the\nGovernment from sitting.\n\n50. _La G\u00e9nie du Christianisme_, by Chateaubriand (1802).\n\n51. See note 47.\n\n52. See note 37.\n\n53. See note 37.\n\n54. Johannes von M\u00fcller--the German historian (1752-1809).\n\n55. La Trappe--the headquarters (near Mortagna) of a monastic body, the\nTrappists, a branch of the Cistercian order. The word is used for all\nTrappist monasteries.\n\n56. Samuel Bernard (1651-1739), son of the painter and engraver of\nthe same name, was a man of immense wealth and the foremost French\nfinancier of his day. He was born a Protestant, not, as has been\nthought, a Jew, but became a Catholic after the Revocation of the Edict\nof Nantes (1685). He was ennobled and became the Comte de Coubert\n(1725).\n\n57. Joseph Louis Lagrange (1736-1813), a celebrated mathematician and\nscientist.\n\n58. Hazlitt, in a note to his essay on _Self-Love and Benevolence_,\nremarked on Stendhal's absurdly exaggerated praise of Helv\u00e9tius. After\nquoting this passage, he adds: \"My friend Mr. Beyle here lays too much\nstress on a borrowed verbal fallacy.\"\n\n[Pg 355]\nHobbes and Mandeville, he says, had long before stated, and Butler\nanswered, this fallacy, which not unfrequently vitiates Stendhal's\npsychological views.\n\n59. Francois Guillaume Ducray-Duminil (1761-1819), the author of\nnumerous sentimental and popular novels.\n\n60. The _Argonautica_ of Apollonius of Rhodes (222-181 B. C.).\n\n61. Jean Francois de la Harpe (born 1739) is frequently mentioned by\nStendhal in this hostile spirit. After winning considerable notoriety,\nwithout very much merit, La Harpe in 1786 became professor of\nliterature at the newly founded Lyc\u00e9e. Having started as a Voltairian\nphilosopher, and still apparently favourable to the Revolution, he\nwas none the less arrested in 1794 as a suspect and put into prison.\nThere he was converted from his former Voltairian principles to Roman\nCatholicism. He died in 1803.\n\n62. _Notices sur Mme. de la Fayette, Mme. et Mlle. Deshouli\u00e8res, lues \u00e0\nl'Acad\u00e9mie fran\u00e7aise_, Paris, 1822.\n\n63. Pierre Jean de B\u00e9ranger (born 1780): The bold patriotic songs,\nwhich had made B\u00e9ranger's name, brought him in 1828, for the second\ntime, into prison. He refused office after the revolution (1830), for\nthe principles of which he had already suffered; he died in 1848.\n\n64. _La Gazza Ladra_, an opera by Rossini.\n\n65. Antoine Marie, Comte de Lavalette (1769-1830) was one of Napoleon's\ngenerals. After the Bourbon restoration of 1815 he was condemned to\ndeath, but escaped, chiefly owing to his wife's help.\n\n66. Alessandro, Conte Verri, the contemporary of Stendhal and a\ndistinguished _litt\u00e9rateur_ (1741-1816).\n\n67. Montenotte (April, 1796), and Rivoli (January, 1797), two victories\nin Bonaparte's Italian campaign.\n\n[Pg 356]\n68. The existence of these Courts of Love has been denied by many\nmodern historians. For a brief statement of the arguments against\ntheir historical existence the English reader may be referred to\nChaytor, _The Troubadours_ (in the _Cambridge Manuals of Science and\nLiterature_, 1912), pp. 19-21. But while the direct evidence for their\nexistence is very flimsy, the direct evidence against them is no less\nso.\n\n69. The monk of the Isles d'Or, on whose manuscript Nostradamus\nprofessed to rely, is now considered to be a purely fictitious person,\nan anagram on a friend's name.\n\n70. The date of Andr\u00e9 le Chapelain's treatise is a disputed point.\nStendhal gives its date as 1176; Reynouard and others, 1170. Others\nagain have placed it as late as the fourteenth century, though this has\nbeen proved impossible, since thirteenth-century writers refer to the\nbook. The probability is that it was written at the beginning of the\nthirteenth or end of the twelfth century--there is no evidence to fix\nthe date with precision. For a full discussion of the question see the\npreface to the best modern edition of the work--_Andreae Capellani ...\nDe Amore_ (recensuit E. Trojel), 1892.\n\n71. Cf. Montesquieu, _Lettres Persanes_, passim, and especially Letter\n48: \".... Our foreign demeanour no longer gives offence. We even profit\nby people's surprise at finding us quite polite. Frenchmen cannot\nimagine that Persia produces men.","title":"On Love","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":111131}