OF THE BIRTH OF LOVE
This is what takes place in the soul:--
1. Admiration.
2. A voice within says: "What pleasure to kiss, to be kissed."
3. Hope(3).
We study her perfections: this is the moment at which a woman should
yield to realise the greatest possible physical pleasure. In the case
even of the most reserved women, their eyes redden at the moment when
hope is conceived: the passion is so strong, the pleasure so keen, that
it betrays itself by striking signs.
4. Love is born.
To love--that is to have pleasure in seeing, touching, feeling, through
all the senses and as near as possible, an object to be loved and that
loves us.
5. The first crystallisation begins.
The lover delights in decking with a thousand perfections the woman of
whose love he is sure: he dwells on all the details of his happiness
with a satisfaction that is boundless. He is simply magnifying a superb
bounty just fallen to him from heaven,--he has no knowledge of it but
the assurance of its possession.
Leave the mind of a lover to its natural movements for twenty-four
hours, and this is what you will find.
At the salt mines of Salzburg a branch stripped of its leaves by winter
is thrown into the abandoned depths of the mine; taken out two or three
months later it is covered with brilliant crystals; the smallest twigs,
those
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no stouter than the leg of a sparrow, are arrayed with an infinity
of sparkling, dazzling diamonds; it is impossible to recognise the
original branch.
I call crystallisation the operation of the mind which, from everything
which is presented to it, draws the conclusion that there are new
perfections in the object of its love.
A traveller speaks of the freshness of the orange groves at Genoa, on
the sea coast, during the scorching days of summer.--What pleasure to
enjoy that freshness with her!
One of your friends breaks his arm in the hunting-field.--How sweet
to be nursed by a woman you love! To be always with her, to see every
moment her love for you, would make pain almost a blessing: and
starting from the broken arm of your friend, you conclude with the
absolute conviction of the angelic goodness of your mistress. In a
word, it is enough to think of a perfection in order to see it in that
which you love.
This phenomenon, which I venture to call crystallisation, is the
product of human nature, which commands us to enjoy and sends warm
blood rushing to our brain; it springs from the conviction that the
pleasures of love increase with the perfections of its object, and from
the idea: "She is mine." The savage has no time to go beyond the first
step. He is delighted, but his mental activity is employed in following
the flying deer in the forest, and with the flesh with which he must
as soon as possible repair his forces, or fall beneath the axe of his
enemy.
At the other pole of civilisation, I have no doubt that a sensitive
woman may come to the point of feeling no physical pleasure but with
the man she loves.[1] It is the opposite with the savage. But among
civilised peoples, woman has leisure at her disposal, while the savage
is so pressed with necessary occupations that he is forced to
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treat his female as a beast of burden. If the females of many animals
are more fortunate, it is because the subsistence of the males is more
assured.
But let us leave the backwoods again for Paris. A man of passion sees
all perfections in that which he loves. And yet his attention may still
be distracted; for the soul has its surfeit of all that is uniform,
even of perfect bliss.[2]
This is what happens to distract his attention:--
6. Birth of Doubt.
After ten or twelve glances, or some other series of actions, which
can last as well several days as one moment, hopes are first given and
later confirmed. The lover, recovered from his first surprise and,
accustomed to his happiness or guided by theory, which, always based on
the most frequent cases, must only take light women into account--the
lover, I say, demands more positive proofs and wishes to press his good
fortune.
He is parried with indifference,[3] coldness, even anger, if he show
too much assurance--in France a shade of irony, which seems to say:
"You are not quite as far as you think."
A woman behaves in this way, either because she wakes up from a moment
of intoxication, and obeys the word of modesty, which she trembles to
have infringed, or simply through prudence or coquetry.
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The lover comes to doubt of the happiness, to which he looked forward:
he scans more narrowly the reasons that he fancied he had for hope.
He would like to fall back upon the other pleasures of life, and finds
them annihilated. He is seized with the fear of a terrible disaster,
and at the same time with a profound preoccupation.
7. Second crystallisation.
Here begins the second crystallisation, which forms diamonds out of the
proofs of the idea--"She loves me."
The night which follows the birth of doubts, every quarter of an hour,
after a moment of fearful unhappiness, the lover says to himself--"Yes,
she loves me"--and crystallisation has its turn, discovering new
charms. Then doubt with haggard eye grapples him and brings him to
a standstill, blank. His heart forgets to beat--"But does she love
me?" he says to himself. Between these alternatives, agonising and
rapturous, the poor lover feels in his very soul: "She would give me
pleasures, which she alone can give me and no one else."
It is the palpability of this truth, this path on the extreme
edge of a terrible abyss and within touch, on the other hand, of
perfect happiness, which gives so great a superiority to the second
crystallisation over the first.
The lover wanders from moment to moment between these three ideas:--
1. She has every perfection.
2. She loves me.
3. What means of obtaining the greatest proof of her love?
The most agonising moment of love, still young, is when it sees
the false reasoning it has made, and must destroy a whole span of
crystallisation.
Doubt is the natural outcome of crystallisation.
[1] If this peculiarity is not observed in the case of man, the reason
is that on his side there is no modesty to be for a moment sacrificed.
[2] That is to say, that the same tone of existence can give but one
instant of perfect happiness; but with a man of passion, his mood
changes ten times a day.
[3] The _coup de foudre_ (thunderbolt from the blue), as it was called
in the novels of the seventeenth century, which disposes of the fate of
the hero and his mistress, is a movement of the soul, which for having
been abused by a host of scribblers, is experienced none the less in
real life. It comes from the impossibility of this defensive manoeuvre.
The woman who loves finds too much happiness in the sentiment, which
she feels, to carry through successful deception: tired of prudence,
she neglects all precaution and yields blindly to the passion of
loving. Diffidence makes the _coup de foudre_ impossible.
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