A Remarkable Old Age
When Ninon had reached the age of sixty-five years, there were those
among the beauties of the royal court who thought she ought to retire
from society and make way for them, but there appeared to be no
diminution of her capacity for pleasure, no weakening of her powers of
attraction. The legend of the Noctambule, or the little black man, who
appeared to Ninon when she was at the age of twenty years, and
promised her perpetual beauty and the conquest of all hearts, was
revived, and there was enough probability in it to justify a strong
belief in the story. Indeed, the Abbé Servien spread it about again
when Ninon was seventy years of age, and even then there were few who
disputed the mysterious gift as Ninon showed little change.
As old age approached, Ninon ceased to be regarded with that
familiarity shown her by her intimates in her younger days, and a
respect and admiration took its place. She was no longer "Ninon," but
"Mademoiselle de l'Enclos." Her social circle widened, and instead of
being limited to men exclusively, ladies eagerly took advantage of the
privilege accorded them to frequent the charming circle. That circle
certainly became celebrated. The beautiful woman had lived the life of
an earnest Epicurean in her own way, regardless of society's
conventionalities, and had apparently demonstrated that her way was
the best. She had certainly attained a long life, and what was more to
the purpose she had preserved her beauty and the attractions of her
person were as strong as when she was in her prime. Reason enough why
the women of the age thronged her apartments to learn the secret of
her life. Moreover, her long and intimate associations with the most
remarkable men of the century had not failed to impart to her, in
addition to her exquisite femininity, the wisdom of a sage and the
polish of a man of the world.
Madame de La Fayette, that "rich field so fertile in fruits," as Ninon
said of her, and Madame de la Sablière, "a lovely garden enameled with
eye-charming flowers," another of Ninon's descriptive metaphors,
passed as many hours as they could in her society with the illustrious
Duke de la Rochefoucauld, who, up to the time of his death honored
Ninon with his constant friendship and his devoted esteem. Even Madame
de Sévigné put aside her envy and jealousy and never wearied of the
pleasure of listening to the conversation of this wise beauty, in
company with her haughty daughter, Madame de Grignan, Madame de
Coulanges, Madame de Torp, and, strange to say, the Duchess de
Bouillon.
Her friends watched over her health with the tenderest care and
affection, and even her slightest indisposition brought them around
her with expressions of the deepest solicitude. They dreaded losing
her, for having had her so long among them they hoped to keep her
always, and they did, practically, for she outlived the most of them.
As proof of the anxiety of her friends and the delight they
experienced at her recovery from the slightest ailment, one
illustration will suffice.
On one occasion she had withdrawn from her friends for a single
evening, pleading indisposition. The next evening she reappeared and
her return was celebrated by an original poem written by no less a
personage than the Abbé Regnier-Desmarais, who read it to the friends
assembled around her chair:
"Clusine qui dans tous les temps
Eut de tous les honnêtes gens
L'amour et l'estime en partage:
Qui toujours pleine de bon sens
Sut de chaque saison de l'âge
Faire à propos un juste usage:
Qui dans son entretien, dont on fut enchanté
Sut faire un aimable alliage
De l'agreable badinage,
Avec la politesse et la solidité,
Et que le ciel doua d'un esprit droit et sage,
Toujours d'intelligence avec la verité,
Clusine est, grâce au ciel, en parfaite santé."
Such a poem would not be accorded much praise nowadays, but the hearts
of her friends regarded the sentiments more than the polish, as a
substantial translation into English will serve to show appeared in
the lines:
Clusine who from our earliest ken
Had from all good and honest men
Love and esteem a generous share:
Who knew so well the season when
Her heritage of sense so rare
To use with justice and with care:
Who in her discourse, friends enchanted all-around,
Could fashion out of playful ware
An alloy of enduring wear,
Good breeding and with solid ground,
A heavenly spirit wise and fair,
With truth and intellect profound,
Clusine, thanks be to Heaven, her perfect health has found.
Her salon was open to her friends in general from five o'clock in the
evening until nine, at which hour she begged them to permit her to
retire and gain strength for the morrow. In winter she occupied a
large apartment decorated with portraits of her dearest male and
female friends, and numerous paintings by celebrated artists. In
summer, she occupied an apartment which overlooked the boulevard, its
walls frescoed with magnificent sketches from the life of Psyche. In
one or the other of these salons, she gave her friends four hours
every evening, after that retiring to rest or amusing herself with a
few intimates. Her friendship finds an apt illustration in the case of
the Comte de Charleval. He was always delicate and in feeble health,
and Ninon when he became her admirer in his youth, resolved to
prolong his life through the application of the Epicurian philosophy.
De Marville, speaking of the Count, whom no one imagined would survive
to middle age, says: "Nature, which gave him so delicate a body in
such perfect form, also gave him a delicate and perfect intelligence."
This frail and delicate invalid, lived, however, until the age of
eighty years, and was always grateful to Ninon for her tenderness. He
never missed a reception and sang her praises on every occasion.
Writing to Saint-Evremond to announce his death, Ninon, herself very
aged, says: "His mind had retained all the charms of his youth, and
his heart all the sweetness and tenderness of a true friend." She felt
the loss of this common friend, for she again writes of him afterward:
"His life and that I live had much in common. It is like dying oneself
to meet with such a loss."
It was at this period of her life that Ninon occupied her time more
than ever in endearing herself to her friends. As says Saint-Evremond:
"She contents herself with ease and rest, after having enjoyed the
liveliest pleasures of life." Although she was never mistress of the
invincible inclination toward the pleasures of the senses which nature
had given her, it appears that Ninon made some efforts to control
them. Referring to the ashes which are sprinkled on the heads of the
penitent faithful on Ash Wednesday, she insisted that instead of the
usual prayer of abnegation there should be substituted the words: "We
must avoid the movements of love." What she wrote Saint-Evremond
might give rise to the belief that she sometimes regretted her
weakness: "Everybody tells me that I have less to complain of in my
time than many another. However that may be, if any one had proposed
to me such a life I would have hanged myself." One of her favorite
maxims, however, was: "We must provide a stock of provisions and not
of pleasures, they should be taken as they come."
That her philosophical principles did not change, is certain from the
fact that she retained all her friends and gained new ones who flocked
to her reunions. Says Madame de Coulanges in one of her letters: "The
women are running after Mademoiselle de l'Enclos now as much as the
men used to do. How can any one hate old age after such an example."
This reflection did not originate with Ninon, who regretted little her
former pleasures, and besides, friendship with her had as many sacred
rights as love. From what Madame de Coulanges says, one might suppose
that the men had deserted Ninon in her old age, leaving women to take
their place, but Madame de Sévigné was of a different opinion. She
says: "Corbinelli asks me about the new marvels taking place at
Mademoiselle de l'Enclos' house in the way of good company. She
assembles around her in her old age, whatever Madame de Coulanges may
say to the contrary, both men and women, but even if women did not
flock to her side, she could console herself for having had men in her
young days to please."
The celebrated English geometrician, Huygens, visited Ninon during a
sojourn at Paris in the capacity of ambassador. He was so charmed
with the attractions of her person, and with her singing, that he fell
into poetry to express his admiration. French verses from an
Englishman who was a geometrician and not a poet, were as surprising
to Ninon and her friends as they will be to the reader. They are not
literature but express what was in the mind of the famous scientist:
"Elle a cinq instruments dont je suis amoureux,
Les deux premiers, ses mains, les deux autres, ses yeux;
Pour le dernier de tous, et cinquième qui reste,
Il faut être galant et leste."
In the year 1696, when Ninon had reached eighty, she had several
attacks of illness which worried her friends exceedingly. The Marquis
de Coulanges writes: "Our amiable l'Enclos has a cold which does not
please me." A short time afterward he again wrote: "Our poor l'Enclos
has a low fever which redoubles in the evening, and a sore throat
which worries her friends." These trifling ailments were nothing to
Ninon, who, though growing feeble, maintained her philosophy, as she
said: "I am contenting myself with what happens from day to day;
forgetting to-day what occurred yesterday, and holding on to a used up
body as one that has been very agreeable." She saw the term of her
life coming to an end without any qualms or fear. "If I could only
believe with Madame de Chevreuse, that by dying we can go and talk
with all our friends in the other world, it would be a sweet thought."
Madame de Maintenon, then in the height of her power and influence,
had never forgotten the friend of her youth, and now, she offered her
lodgings at Versailles. It is said that her intention was to enable
the king to profit by an intimacy with a woman of eighty-five years
who, in spite of bodily infirmities, possessed the same vivacity of
mind and delicacy of taste which had contributed to her great renown,
much more than her personal charms and frailties. But Ninon was born
for liberty, and had never been willing to sacrifice her philosophical
tranquility for the hope of greater fortune and position in the world.
Accordingly, she thanked her old friend, and as the only concession
she would grant, consented to stand in the chapel of Versailles where
Louis the Great could pass and satisfy his curiosity to see once, at
least, the astonishing marvel of his reign.
During the latter years of her life, she took a fancy to young
Voltaire, in whom she detected signs of future greatness. She
fortified him with her counsel, which he prayed her to give him, and
left him a thousand francs in her will to buy books. Voltaire
attempted to earn the money by ridiculing the memory of his
benefactress.
At the age of ninety years, Mademoiselle de l'Enclos grew feebler
every day, and felt that death would not be long coming. She performed
all her social duties, however, until the very end, refusing to
surrender until compelled. On the last night of her life, unable to
sleep, she arose, and at her desk wrote the following verses:
"Qu'un vain espoir ne vienne point s'offrir,
Qui puisse ébranler mon courage;
Je suis en age de mourir;
Que ferais-je ici davantage?"
(Let no vain hope now come and try,
My courage strong to overthrow;
My age demands that I shall die,
What more can I do here below?)
On the seventeenth of October, 1706, she expired as gently as one who
falls asleep.
LETTERS
OF
NINON de L'ENCLOS
TO THE
MARQUIS de SÉVIGNÉ.
INTRODUCTION TO LETTERS
The celebrated Abbé de Châteauneuf, in his "Dialogues on Ancient
Music," refers to Mademoiselle de l'Enclos under the name of
"Leontium," a name given her by le Maréchal de Saint-Evremond, and in
his eulogy upon her character, lays great stress on the genius
displayed in her epistolary style. After censuring the affectation to
be found in the letters of Balzac and Voiture, the learned Abbé says:
"The letters of Leontium, although novel in their form of expression,
although replete with philosophy, and sparkling with wit and
intelligence contain nothing stilted, or overdrawn.
"Inasmuch as the moral to be drawn from them is always seasoned with
sprightliness, and the spirit manifested in them, displays the
characteristics of a liberal and natural imagination, they differ in
nothing from personal conversation with her choice circle of friends.
"The impression conveyed to the mind of their readers is, that she is
actually conversing with them personally."
Mademoiselle de l'Enclos writes about the heart, love, and women.
Strange subjects, but no woman ever lived who was better able to do
justice to them. In her frame of mind, she could not see men without
studying their dispositions, and she knew them thoroughly, her
experience extending over a period of seventy-five years of intimate
association with men of every stamp, from the Royal prince to the
Marquis de Sévigné, the latter wearying her to such an extent that she
designated him as "a man beyond definition; with a soul of pulp, a
body of wet paper, and a heart of pumpkin fricasseed in snow," his own
mother, the renowned Madame de Sévigné, admitting that he was "a heart
fool."
Ninon took this weak Chevalier in charge and endeavored to make a man
of him by exposing his frailties, and, entering into a long
correspondence, to instruct him in the pathology of the female heart,
with which he was disposed to tamper on the slightest provocation. Her
letters will show that she succeeded finally in bringing him to
reason, but that in doing so, she was compelled to betray her own sex
by exposing the secret motives of women in their relations with men.
That she knew women as well as men, can not be disputed, for,
beginning with Madame de Maintenon and the Queen of Sweden, Christine,
down along the line to the sweet Countess she guards so successfully
against the evil designs of the Marquis de Sévigné, including Madame
de La Fayette, Madame de Sévigné, Madame de La Sablière, and the most
distinguished and prominent society women of France, they all were her
particular friends, as well as intimates, and held her in high esteem
as their confidante in all affairs of the heart.
No other woman ever held so unique a position in the world of society
as Mademoiselle de l'Enclos, and her letters to the Marquis de Sévigné
may, therefore, be considered as standards of the epistolary art upon
the subjects she treats; as containing the most profound insight into
the female heart where love is concerned, and as forming a study of
the greatest value in everything that pertains to the relations
between the sexes.
There is an entire absence of mawkish sentimentality, of effort to
conceal the secret motives and desires of the heart beneath specious
language and words of double meaning. On the contrary, they tear away
from the heart the curtain of deceit, artifice and treachery, to
expose the nature of the machinery behind the scenes.
These letters must be read in the light of the opinions of the wisest
philosophers of the seventeenth century upon her character.
"Inasmuch as the first use she (Mademoiselle de l'Enclos) made of her
reason, was to become enfranchised from vulgar errors, it is
impossible to be further removed from the stupid mistake of those who,
under the name of "passion," elevate the sentiment of love to the
height of a virtue. Ninon understood love to be what it really is, a
taste founded upon the senses, a blind sentiment, which admits of no
merit in the object which gives it birth, and which promises no
recompense; a caprice, the duration of which does not depend upon our
volition, and which is subject to remorse and repentance."
LETTERS OF NINON de L'ENCLOS
TO THE
MARQUIS de SÉVIGNÉ
I.
A Hazardous Undertaking.
What, I, Marquis, take charge of your education, be your guide in the
enterprise upon which you are about to enter? You exact too much of my
friendship for you. You ought to be aware of the fact, that when a
woman has lost the freshness of her first youth, and takes a special
interest in a young man, everybody says she desires to "make a
worldling of him." You know the malignity of this expression. I do not
care to expose myself to its application. All the service I am willing
to render you, is to become your confidante. You will tell me your
troubles, and I will tell you what is in my mind, likewise aid you to
know your own heart and that of women.
It grieves me to say, that whatever pleasure I may expect to find in
this correspondence, I can not conceal the difficulties I am liable to
encounter. The human heart, which will be the subject of my letters,
presents so many contrasts, that whoever lays it bare must fall into
a flood of contradictions. You think you have something stable in your
grasp, but find you have seized a shadow. It is indeed a chameleon,
which, viewed from different aspects, presents a variety of opposite
colors, and even they are constantly shifting. You may expect to read
many strange things in what I shall say upon this subject. I will,
however, give you my ideas, though they may often seem strange;
however, that shall be for you to determine. I confess that I am not
free from grave scruples of conscience, foreseeing that I can scarcely
be sincere without slandering my own sex a little. But at least you
will know my views on the subject of love, and particularly everything
that relates to it, and I have sufficient courage to talk to you
frankly upon the subject.
I am to dine to-night with the Marquis de la Rochefoucauld. Madame de
la Sablière and La Fontaine will also be guests. If it please you to
be one of us, La Fontaine will regale you with two new stories, which,
I am told, do not disparage his former ones. Come Marquis--But, again
a scruple. Have I nothing to fear in the undertaking we contemplate?
Love is so malicious and fickle! Still, when I examine my heart, I do
not feel any apprehension for myself, it being occupied elsewhere, and
the sentiments I possess toward you resemble love less than
friendship. If the worst should happen and I lose my head some day, we
shall know how to withdraw in the easiest possible manner.
We are going to take a course of morals together. Yes, sir, MORALS!
But do not be alarmed at the mere word, for there will be between us
only the question of gallantry to discuss, and that, you know, sways
morals to so high a degree that it deserves to be the subject of a
special study. The very idea of such a project is to me infinitely
risible. However, if I talk reason to you too often, will you not grow
weary? This is my sole anxiety, for you well know that I am a pitiless
reasoner when I wish to be. With any other heart than that which you
misunderstand, I could be a philosopher such as the world never knew.
Adieu, I await your good pleasure.
II
Why Love is Dangerous
I assure you, Marquis, I shall keep my word, and on all occasions, I
shall speak the truth, even though it be to my own detriment. I have
more stability in my disposition than you imagine, and I fear
exceedingly that the result of our intercourse may sometimes lead you
to think that I carry this virtue into severity. But you must remember
that I have only the external appearance of a woman, and that in mind
and heart I am a man. Here is the method that I wish to follow with
you. As I ask only to acquire information for myself before
communicating to you my ideas, my intention is to propound them to the
excellent man with whom we supped yesterday. It is true that he has
none too good an opinion of poor humanity. He believes neither in
virtue nor in spiritual things. But this inflexibility, mitigated by
my indulgence for human frailties, will give you, I believe, the kind
and the quantity of philosophy which is required in all intercourse
with women. Let us come to the gist of your letter.
Since your entrance into the world it has offered you nothing, you
say, of what you had imagined you would find there. Disgust and
weariness follow you everywhere. You seek solitude, and as soon as
you are enjoying it, it wearies you. In a word, you do not know to
what cause to attribute the restlessness which torments you. I am
going to save you the trouble, I am, for my burden is to speak my
thoughts on everything that may perplex you; and I do not know but you
will often ask me questions as embarrassing for me to answer as they
may have been for you to ask.
The uneasiness which you experience is caused only by the void in your
heart. Your heart is without love, and it is trying to make you
comprehend its wants. You have really what one calls the "need of
loving." Yes, Marquis, nature, in forming us, gave us an allowance of
sentiments which must expend themselves upon some object. Your age is
the proper period for the agitations of love; as long as this
sentiment does not fill your heart, something will always be wanting;
the restlessness of which you complain will never cease. In a word,
love is the nourishment of the heart as food is of the body; to love
is to fulfill the desire of nature, to satisfy a need. But if
possible, manage it so that it will not become a passion. To protect
you from this misfortune, I could almost be tempted to disprove the
counsel given you, to prefer, to the company of women capable of
inspiring esteem rather than love, the intercourse of those who pride
themselves on being amusing rather than sedate and prim. At your age,
being unable to think of entering into a serious engagement, it is not
necessary to find a friend in a woman; one should seek to find only
an amiable mistress.
The intercourse with women of lofty principles, or those whom the
ravages of time force into putting themselves forward only by virtue
of great qualities, is excellent for a man who, like themselves, is on
life's decline. For you, these women would be too good company, if I
dare so express myself. Riches are necessary to us only in proportion
to our wants; and what you would better do, I think, is to frequent
the society of those who combine, with agreeable figure, gentleness in
conversation, cheerfulness in disposition, a taste for the pleasures
of society, and strong enough not to be frightened by one affair of
the heart.
In the eyes of a man of reason they appear too frivolous, you will
say: but do you think they should be judged with so much severity? Be
persuaded, Marquis, that if, unfortunately, they should acquire more
firmness of character, they and you would lose much by it. You require
in women stability of character! Well, do you not find it in a
friend?--Shall I tell you what is in my mind? It is not our virtues
you need; but our playfulness and our weakness. The love which you
could feel for a woman who would be estimable in every respect, would
become too dangerous for you. Until you can contemplate a contract of
marriage, you should seek only to amuse yourself with those who are
beautiful; a passing taste alone should attach you to one of them: be
careful not to plunge in too deep with her; there can nothing result
but a bad ending. If you did not reflect more profoundly than the
greater part of young people, I should talk to you in an entirely
different tone; but I perceive that you are ready to give to excess, a
contrary meaning to their ridiculous frivolity. It is only necessary,
then, to attach yourself to a woman who, like an agreeable child,
might amuse you with pleasant follies, light caprices, and all those
pretty faults which make the charm of a gallant intercourse.
Do you wish me to tell you what makes love dangerous? It is the
sublime view that one sometimes takes of it. But the exact truth is,
it is only a blind instinct which one must know how to appreciate: an
appetite which you have for one object in preference to another,
without being able to give the reason for your taste. Considered as a
friendly intimacy when reason presides, it is not a passion, it is no
longer love, it is, in truth, a warm hearted esteem, but tranquil;
incapable of drawing you away from any fixed position. If, walking in
the footsteps of our ancient heroes of romance, you aim at great
sentiments, you will see that this pretended heroism makes of love
only a sad and sometimes fatal folly. It is a veritable fanaticism;
but if you disengage it from all that opinion makes it, it will soon
be your happiness and pleasure. Believe me, if it were reason or
enthusiasm which formed affairs of the heart, love would become
insipid, or a frenzy. The only means of avoiding these two extremes is
to follow the path I have indicated. You need only to be amused, and
you will find amusement only among the women I mention to you as
capable of it. Your heart wishes occupation, they are made to fill it.
Try my recipe and you will find it good--I made you a fair promise,
and it seems to me I am keeping my word with you exactly. Adieu, I
have just received a charming letter from M. de Saint-Evremond, and I
must answer it. I wish at the same time to propose to him the ideas
which I have communicated to you, and I shall be very much mistaken if
he does not approve of them.
To-morrow I shall have the Abbé de Châteauneuf, and perhaps Molière.
We shall read again the Tartuffe, in which some changes should be
made. Take notice, Marquis, that those who do not conform to all I
have just told you, have a little of the qualities of that character.
III
Why Love Grows Cold
In despite of everything I may say to you, you still stick to your
first sentiment. You wish a respectable person for a mistress, and one
who can at the same time be your friend. These sentiments would
undoubtedly merit commendation if in reality they could bring you the
happiness you expect them to; but experience teaches you that all
those great expectations are pure illusions. Are serious qualities the
only question in pastimes of the heart? I might be tempted to believe
that romances have impaired your mental powers. Poor Marquis! He has
allowed himself to become fascinated by the sublime talk common in
conversation. But, my dear child, what do you mean to do with these
chimeras of reason? I willingly tell you, Marquis: it is very fine
coin, but it is a pity that it can not enter into commercial
transactions.
When you wish to begin housekeeping, look for a reliable woman, full
of virtue and lofty principles. All this is becoming to the dignity of
the marriage tie; I intended to say, to its gravity. But at present,
as you require nothing but a love affair, beware of being serious, and
believe what I tell you; I know your wants better than you yourself
know them. Men usually say that they seek essential qualities in those
they love. Blind fools that they are! How they would complain could
they find them! What would they gain by being deified? They need only
amusement. A mistress as reasonable as you require would be a wife for
whom you would have an infinite respect, I admit, but not a particle
of ardor. A woman estimable in all respects is too subduing,
humiliates you too much, for you to love her long. Forced to esteem
her, and even sometimes to admire her, you can not excuse yourself for
ceasing to love her. So many virtues are a reproach too discreet, too
tiresome a critic of our eccentricities, not to arouse your pride at
last, and when that is humbled, farewell to love. Make a thorough
analysis of your sentiments, examine well your conscience, and you
will see that I speak the truth. I have but a moment left to say
adieu.
IV
The Spice of Love
Do you know, Marquis, that you will end by putting me in a temper?
Heavens, how very stupid you are sometimes! I see it in your letter;
you have not understood me at all. Take heed; I did not say that you
should take for a mistress a despicable object. That is not at all my
idea. But I said that in reality you needed only a love affair, and
that, to make it pleasant, you should not attach yourself exclusively
to substantial qualities. I repeat it; when in love, men need only to
be amused; and I believe on this subject I am an authority. Traces of
temper and caprice, a senseless quarrel, all this has more effect upon
women, and retains their affection more than all the reason
imaginable, more than steadiness of character.
Someone whom you esteem for the justice and strength of his ideas,
said one day at my house, that caprice in women was too closely allied
to beauty to be an antidote. I opposed this opinion with so much
animation, that it could readily be seen that the contrary maxim was
my sentiment, and I am, in truth, well persuaded that caprice is not
close to beauty, except to animate its charms in order to make them
more attractive, to serve as a goad, and to flavor them. There is no
colder sentiment, and none which endures less than admiration. One
easily becomes accustomed to see the same features, however regular
they may be, and when a little malignity does not give them life or
action, their very regularity soon destroys the sentiment they excite.
A cloud of temper, even, can give to a beautiful countenance the
necessary variety, to prevent the weariness of seeing it always in the
same state. In a word, woe to the woman of too monotonous a
temperament; her monotony satiates and disgusts. She is always the
same statue, with her a man is always right. She is so good, so
gentle, that she takes away from people the privilege of quarreling
with her, and this is often such a great pleasure! Put in her place a
vivacious woman, capricious, decided, to a certain limit, however, and
things assume a different aspect. The lover will find in the same
person the pleasure of variety. Temper is the salt, the quality which
prevents it from becoming stale. Restlessness, jealousy, quarrels,
making friends again, spitefulness, all are the food of love.
Enchanting variety! which fills, which occupies a sensitive heart much
more deliciously than the regularity of behavior, and the tiresome
monotony which is called "good disposition."
I know how you men must be governed. A caprice puts you in an
uncertainty, which you have as much trouble and grief in dispelling as
though it were a victory obtained over a new object. Roughness makes
you hold your breath. You do not stop disputing, but neither do you
cease to conquer and to be conquered. In vain does reason sigh. You
can not comprehend how such an imp manages to subjugate you so
tyrannically. Everything tells you that the idol of your heart is a
collection of caprices and follies, but she is a spoiled child, whom
you can not help but love. The efforts which reflection causes you to
make to loosen them, serve only to forge still tighter your chains;
for love is never so strong as when you believe it ready to break away
in the heat of a quarrel. It loves, it storms; with it, everything is
convulsive. Would you reduce it to rule? It languishes, it expires. In
a word, this is what I wanted to say; do not take for a mistress a
woman who has only reliable qualities; but one who is sometimes
dominated by temper, and silences reason; otherwise I shall say that
it is not a love affair you want, but to set up housekeeping.
V
Love and Temper
Oh, I agree with you, Marquis, a woman who has only temper and
caprices is very thorny for an acquaintance and in the end only
repels. I agree again that these irregularities must make of love a
never ending quarrel, a continual storm. Therefore, it is not for a
person of this character that I advise you to form an attachment. You
always go beyond my ideas. I only depicted to you in my last letter an
amiable woman, one who becomes still more so by a shade of diversity,
and you speak only of an unpleasant woman, who has nothing but
ungracious things to say. How we have drifted away from the point!
When I spoke of temper I only meant the kind which gives a stronger
relish, anxiety, and a little jealousy: that, in a word, which springs
from love alone, and not from natural brutality, that roughness which
one ordinarily calls "bad temper." When it is love which makes a woman
rough, when that alone is the cause of her liveliness, what sort can
the lover be who has so little delicacy as to complain of it? Do not
these errors prove the violence of passion? For myself, I have always
thought that he who knew how to keep himself within proper bounds,
was moderately amorous. Can one be so, in effect, without allowing
himself to be goaded by the fire of a devouring impetuosity, without
experiencing all the revolutions which it necessarily occasions? No,
undoubtedly. Well! who can see all these disturbances in a beloved
object without a secret pleasure? While complaining of its injustice
and its transports, one feels no less deliciously at heart that he is
loved, and with passion, and that these same aggravations are most
convincing proofs that it is voluntary.
There, Marquis, is what constitutes the secret charm of the troubles
which lovers sometimes suffer, of the tears they shed. But if you are
going to believe that I wished to tell you that a woman of bad temper,
capricious, can make you happy, undeceive yourself. I said, and I
shall always persist in my idea, that diversity is necessary,
caprices, bickerings, in a gallant intercourse, to drive away
weariness, and to perpetuate the strength of it. But consider that
these spices do not produce that effect except when love itself is the
source. If temper is born of a natural brusqueness, or of a restless,
envious, unjust disposition, I am the first one to say that such a
woman will become hateful, she will be the cause of disheartening
quarrels. A connection of the heart becomes then a veritable torment,
from which it is desirable to free oneself as quickly as possible.
VI
Certain Maxims Concerning Love
You think, then, Marquis, that you have brought up an invincible
argument, when you tell me that one is not the master of his own
heart, in disposing of it where he wishes, and that consequently you
are not at liberty to choose the object of your attachment? Morals of
the opera! Abandon this commonplace to women who expect, in saying so,
to justify their weaknesses. It is very necessary that they should
have something to which to cling: like the gentleman of whom our
friend Montaigne speaks who, when the gout attacked him, would have
been very angry if he had not been able to say: "Cursed ham!" They say
it is a sympathetic stroke. That is too strong for me. Is anyone
master of his heart? He is no longer permitted to reply when such good
reasons are given. They have even so well sanctioned these maxims that
they wish to attract everyone to their arms in order to try to
overcome them. But these same maxims find so much approbation only
because everyone is interested in having them received. No one
suspects that such excuses, far from justifying caprices, may be a
confession that one does not wish to correct them.
For myself, I take the liberty of being of a different opinion from
the multitude. It is enough for me that it is not impossible to
conquer one's inclination to condemn all those who are unreasonable or
dishonorable. Dear me! Have we not seen women succeed in destroying in
their hearts a weakness which has taken them by surprise, as soon as
they have discovered that the object of their affections was unworthy
of them? How often have they stifled the most tender affection, and
sacrificed it to the conventionalities of an establishment? Rest,
time, absence, are remedies which passion, however ardent one may have
supposed it, can never resist; insensibly it weakens, and dies all at
once. I know that to withdraw honorably from such a liaison requires
all the strength of reason. I comprehend still more, that the
difficulties you imagine stand in the way of maintaining a victory, do
not leave you enough courage to undertake it; so that, although I may
say that there are no invincible inclinations in the speculation, I
will admit that there are few of them to be vanquished by practice;
and it happens so, only because one does not like to attempt without
success. However that may be, on the whole, I imagine that there being
here only a question of gallantry, it would be folly to put you to the
torture, in order to destroy the inclination which has seized upon you
for a woman more or less amiable; but also, because you are not
smitten with anyone, I persist in saying that I was right in
describing to you the character which I believed would be the most
capable of making you happy.
It is without doubt to be desired, that delicate sentiments, real
merit, should have more power over our hearts, and that they might be
able to occupy them and find a permanent place there forever. But
experience proves that this is not so. I do not reason from what you
should be, but from what you really are. My intention is to give you a
knowledge of the heart such as it is, and not what it ought to be. I
am the first one to regret the depravity of your taste, however
indulgent I may be to your caprices. But not being able to reform the
vices of the heart, I would at least teach you to draw out of them
whatever good you can. Not being able to render you wise, I try to
make you happy. It is an old saying: to wish to destroy the passions
would be to undertake our annihilation. It is only necessary to
regulate them. They are in our hands like the poison in a pharmacy;
compounded by a skillful chemist they become beneficent remedies.
VII
Women Expect a Quid Pro Quo From Men
Oh, who doubts, Marquis, that it may be only by essential qualities
that you can succeed in pleasing women? It is simply a question of
knowing what meaning you attach to this expression. Do you call
essential qualities, worth, firmness of character, precision of
judgment, extent of learning, prudence, discretion, how can I tell the
number of virtues which often embarrass you more than they make you
happy? Our minds are not in accord upon this matter. Reserve all the
qualities I have specified for the intercourse you are obliged to have
with men, they are quite proper under such circumstances. But when it
comes to gallantry, you will have to change all such virtues for an
equal number of charming traits; those that captivate, it is the only
coin that passes current in this country; it is the only merit, and
you must be on your guard against calling it spurious money. It may be
that true merit consists less in real perfection than in that which
the world requires. It is far more advantageous to possess the
qualities agreeable to those whom we desire to please, than to have
those we believe to be estimable. In a word, we must imitate the
morals and even the caprices of those with whom we associate, if we
expect to live in peace with them.
What is the destiny of women? What is their rôle on earth? It is to
please. Now, a charming figure, personal graces, in a word, all the
amiable and brilliant qualities are the only means of succeeding in
that role. Women possess them to a superlative degree, and it is in
these qualities that they wish men to resemble them. It will be vain
for you to accuse them of frivolity, for they are playing the beauty
rôle, since they are destined to make you happy. Is it not, indeed,
due to the charm of our companionship, to the gentleness of our
manners, that you owe your most satisfying pleasures, your social
virtues, in fact, your whole happiness? Have some good faith in this
matter. Is it possible for the sciences of themselves, the love of
glory, valor, nay, even that friendship of which you boast so much, to
make you perfectly happy? The pleasure you draw from any of them, can
it be keen enough to make you feel happy? Certainly not. None of them
have the power to relieve you from a wearisome monotony which crushes
you and makes you an object of pity.
It is women who have taken upon themselves to dissipate these mortal
languors by the vivacious gayety they inject into their society; by
the charms they know so well how to lavish where they will prove
effectual. A reckless joy, an agreeable delirium, a delicious
intoxication, are alone capable of awakening your attention, and
making you understand that you are really happy, for, Marquis, there
is a vast difference between merely enjoying happiness and relishing
the sensation of enjoying it. The possession of necessary things does
not make a man comfortable, it is the superfluous which makes him
rich, and which makes him feel that he is rich.
It is not because you possess superior qualities that you are a
pleasant companion, it may be a real defect which is essential to you.
To be received with open arms, you must be agreeable, amusing,
necessary to the pleasure of others. I warn you that you can not
succeed in any other manner, particularly with women. Tell me, what
would you have me do with your learning, the geometry of your mind,
with the precision of your memory, etc.? If you have only such
advantages, Marquis, if you have no charming accomplishments to offset
your crudity--I can vouch for their opinion--far from pleasing women,
you will seem to them like a critic of whom they will be afraid, and
you will place them under so much constraint, that the enjoyment they
might have permitted themselves in your society will be banished. Why,
indeed, try to be amiable toward a man who is a source of anxiety to
you by his nonchalance, who does not unbosom himself? Women are not at
their ease except with those who take chances with them, and enter
into their spirit. In a word, too much circumspection gives others a
chill like that felt by a man who goes out of a warm room into a cold
wind. I intended to say that habitual reserve locks the doors of the
hearts of those who associate with us; they have no room to expand.
You must also bear this in mind, Marquis, that in cases of gallantry,
your first advances must be made under the most favorable
circumstances. You must have read somewhere, that one pleases more by
agreeable faults than by essential qualities. Great virtues are like
pieces of gold of which one makes less use than of ordinary currency.
This idea calls to my mind those people who, in place of our kind of
money, use shells as their medium of exchange. Well, do you imagine
that these people are not so rich as we with all the treasures of the
new world? We might, at first blush, take this sort of wealth as
actual poverty, but we should be quickly undeceived upon reflection,
for metals have no value except in opinion. Our gold would be false
money to those people. Now, the qualities you call essential are not
worth any more in cases of gallantry, where only pebbles are
sufficient. What matters the conventional mark provided there is
commerce?
Now, this is my conclusion: If it be true, as you can not doubt, that
you ought not to expect happiness except from an interchange of
agreeable qualities in women, you may be sure that you will never
please them unless you possess advantages similar to theirs. I stick
to the point. You men are constantly boasting about your science, your
firmness, etc., but tell me, how weary would you not be, how disgusted
even, with life, if, always logical, you were condemned to be forever
learned and sordid, to live only in the company of philosophers? I
know you, you would soon become weary of admiration for your good
qualities, and the way you are made, you would rather do without
virtue than pleasure. Do not amuse yourself, then, by holding
yourself out as a man with great qualities in the sense you consider
them. True merit is that which is esteemed by those we aim to please.
Gallantry has its own laws, and Marquis, amiable men are the sages of
this world.
VIII
The Necessity for Love and Its Primitive Cause.
This time, Marquis, you have not far to go, your hour has come. The
diagnosis you give me of your condition tells me that you are in love.
The young widow you mention is certainly capable of rousing an
inspiration in your heart. The Chevalier de ---- has given me a very
favorable portrait of her. But scarcely do you begin to feel a few
scruples, than you turn into a crime the advice I have been giving
you. The disorder which love brings to the soul, and the other evils
which follow in its train, appear to you, so you say, more to be
feared than the pleasures it gives are to be desired.
It is true that some very good people are of the opinion that the
sorrows of love are about equal to its pleasures, but without entering
upon a tiresome discussion to ascertain whether they are right or
wrong, if you would have my opinion, here it is: Love is a passion
which is neither good nor bad of itself; it is only those who are
affected by it that determine whether it is good or bad. All that I
shall say in its favor is, that it gives us an advantage with which
any of the discomforts of life can not enter into comparison. It drags
us out of the rut, it stirs us up, and it is love which satisfies one
of our most pressing wants. I think I have already told you that our
hearts are made for emotion; to excite it therefore, is to satisfy a
demand of nature. What would vigorous youth be without love? A long
illness: it would not be existence, it would be vegetating. Love is to
our hearts what winds are to the sea. They grow into tempests, true;
they are sometimes even the cause of shipwrecks. But the winds render
the sea navigable, their constant agitation of its surface is the
cause of its preservation, and if they are often dangerous, it is for
the pilot to know how to navigate in safety.
But I have wandered from my text, and return to it. Though I shock
your sensitive delicacy by my frank speaking, I shall add, that
besides the need of having our emotions stirred, we have in connection
with them a physical machinery, which is the primitive cause and
necessity of love. Perhaps it is not too modest for a woman to use
such language to you, but you will understand that I would not talk to
every one so plainly. We are not engaged in what may be called "nice"
conversation, we are philosophizing. If my discussions seem to you to
be sometimes too analytical for a woman, remember what I told you in
my last letter. From the time I was first able to reason, I made up my
mind to investigate and ascertain which of the two sexes was the more
favored. I saw that men were not at all stinted in the distribution of
the roles to be played, and I therefore became a man.
If I were you, I would not investigate whether it be a good or a bad
thing to fall in love. I would prefer to have you ask whether it is
good or bad to be thirsty; or, that it be forbidden to give one a
drink because there are men who become intoxicated. Inasmuch as you
are not at liberty to divest yourself of an appetite belonging to the
mechanical part of your nature, as could our ancient romancers, do not
ruin yourself by speculating and meditating on the greater or less
advantages in loving. Take love as I have advised you to take it, only
do not let it be to you a passion, only an amusement.
I understand what you are going to say: you are going to overwhelm me
again with your great principles, and tell me that a man has not
sufficient control over his feelings to stop when he would. Pooh! I
regard those who talk in that fashion in the same light as the man,
who believes he is in honor bound to show great sorrow on the occasion
of a loss or accident, which his friends consider great, but which is
nothing to him. Such a man feels less than any one the need of
consolation, but he finds pleasure in showing his tears. He rejoices
to know that he possesses a heart capable of excessive emotion, and
this softens it still more. He feeds it with sorrow, he makes an idol
of it, and offers it incense so often that he acquires the habit. All
such admirers of great and noble sentiments, spoiled by romances or by
prudes, make it a point of honor to spiritualize their passion. By
force of delicate treatment, they become all the more infatuated with
it, as they deem it to be their own work, and they fear nothing so
much as the shame of returning to common sense and resuming their
manhood.
Let us take good care, Marquis, not to make ourselves ridiculous in
this way. This fashion of straining our intelligence is nothing more,
in the age in which we are living, than playing the part of fools. In
former times people took it into their heads that love should be
something grave, they considered it a serious matter, and esteemed it
only in proportion to its dignity. Imagine exacting dignity from a
child! Away would go all its graces, and its youth would soon become
converted into old age. How I pity our good ancestors! What with them
was a mortal weariness, a melancholy frenzy, is with us a gay folly, a
delicious delirium. Fools that they were, they preferred the horrors
of deserts and rocks, to the pleasures of a garden strewn with
flowers. What prejudices the habit of reflection has brought upon us!
The proof that great sentiments are nothing but chimeras of pride and
prejudice, is, that in our day, we no longer witness that taste for
ancient mystic gallantry, no more of those old fashioned gigantic
passions. Ridicule the most firmly established opinions, I will go
further, deride the feelings that are believed to be the most natural
and soon both will disappear, and men will stand amazed to see that
ideas for which they possessed a sort of idolatry, are in reality
nothing but trifles which pass away like the ever changing fashions.
You will understand, then, Marquis, that it is not necessary to
acquire the habit of deifying the fancy you entertain for the
Countess. You will know, at last, that love to be worthy of the name,
and to make us happy, far from being treated as a serious affair,
should be fostered lightly, and above all with gayety. Nothing can
make you understand more clearly the truth of what I am telling you,
than the result of your adventure, for I believe the Countess to be
the last woman in the world to harbor a sorrowful passion. You, with
your high sentiments will give her the blues, mark what I tell you.
My indisposition continues, and I would feel like telling you that I
never go out during the day, but would not that be giving you a
rendezvous? If, however, you should come and give me your opinion of
the "Bajazet" of Racine, you would be very kind. They say that the
Champmesle has surpassed herself.
I have read over this letter, Marquis, and the lecture it contains
puts me out of humor with you. I recognize the fact that truth is a
contagious disease. Judge how much of it goes into love, since you
bestow it even upon those who aim to undeceive you. It is quite
strange, that in order to prove that love should be treated with
levity, it was necessary to assume a serious tone.
IX
Love is a Natural Inclination
So you have taken what I said about love in my last letter as a crime?
I have blasphemed love; I have degraded it by calling it a
"necessity?" You have such noble thoughts, Marquis. What is passing in
your mind is proof of it. You can not realize, or imagine anything
less than the pure and delicate sentiments which fill your heart. To
see the Countess, hold sweet discourse with her, listen to the sound
of her gentle voice, dance attendance upon her, that is the height of
your desires, it is your supreme happiness. Far from you are those
vulgar sentiments which I unworthily substitute for your sublime
metaphysics; sentiments created for worldly souls occupied solely with
sensual pleasures. What a mistake I made! Could I imagine that the
Countess was a woman to be captured by motives so little worthy of
her? To raise the suspicion in her mind that you possessed such views,
would it not inevitably expose you to her hate, her scorn, etc.?
Are not these the inconveniences which my morality leads you to
apprehend? My poor Marquis! you are yourself deceived by your
misunderstanding of the real cause of your sentiments. Give me all
your attention: I wish to draw you away from error, but in a manner
that will best accord with the importance of what I am about to say. I
mount the tribune; I feel the presence of the god who inspires me. I
rub my forehead with the air of a person who meditates on profound
truths, and who is going to utter great thoughts. I am going to reason
according to rule.
Men, I know not by what caprice, have attached shame to the indulgence
of that reciprocal inclination which nature has bestowed upon both
sexes. They knew, however, that they could not entirely stifle its
voice, so what did they do to relieve themselves of their
embarrassment? They attempted to substitute the mere shell of an
affection wholly spiritual for the humiliating necessity of appearing
in good faith to satisfy a natural want. Insensibly, they have grown
accustomed to meddle with a thousand little sublime nothings connected
with it, and as if that were not enough, they have at last succeeded
in establishing the belief that all these frivolous accessories, the
work of a heated imagination, constitute the essence of the
inclination. There you are; love erected into a fine virtue; at least
they have given it the appearance of a virtue. But let us break
through this prestige and cite an example.
At the beginning of their intercourse, lovers fancy themselves
inspired by the noblest and most delicate sentiments. They exhaust
their ingenuity, exaggerations, the enthusiasm of the most exquisite
metaphysics; they are intoxicated for a time with the idea that their
love is a superior article. But let us follow them in their liaison:
Nature quickly recovers her rights and re-assumes her sway; soon,
vanity, gorged with the display of an exaggerated purpose, leaves the
heart at liberty to feel and express its sentiments without restraint,
and dissatisfied with the pleasures of love, the day comes when these
people are very much surprised to find themselves, after having
traveled around a long circuit, at the very point where a peasant,
acting according to nature, would have begun. And thereby hangs a
tale.
A certain Honesta, to give her a fictitious name, in whose presence I
was one day upholding the theory I have just been maintaining, became
furious.
"What!" she exclaimed in a transport of indignation, "do you pretend,
Madame, that a virtuous person, one who possesses only honest
intentions, such as marriage, is actuated by such vulgar motives? You
would believe, in that case, that I, for instance, who 'par vertu,'
have been married three times, and who, to subdue my husbands, have
never wished to have a separate apartment, that I only acted thus to
procure what you call pleasure? Truly you would be very much mistaken.
Indeed, never have I refused to fulfill the duties of my state, but I
assure you that the greater part of the time, I yielded to them only
through complaisance, or as a distraction, always with regret at the
importunities of men. We love men and marry them because they have
certain qualities of mind and heart; and no woman, with the exception
of those, perhaps, whom I do not care to name, even attaches any
importance to other advantages----"
I interrupted her, and more through malice than good taste, carried
the argument to its logical conclusion. I made her see that what she
said was a new proof of my contention:
"The reasons you draw from the legitimate views of marriage," said I,
"prove that those who hold them, fend to the same end as two ordinary
lovers, perhaps, even in better faith, with this difference only, that
they wish an extra ceremony attached to it."
This shot roused the indignation of my adversary.
"You join impiety to libertinage," said she, moving away from me.
I took the liberty of making some investigations, and would you
believe it, Marquis? This prude so refined, had such frequent
'distractions' with her three husbands, who were all young and
vigorous, that she buried them in a very short time.
Come now, Marquis, retract your error; abandon your chimera, reserve
delicacy of sentiment for friendship; accept love for what it is. The
more dignity you give it, the more dangerous you make it; the more
sublime the idea you form of it, the less correct it is. Believe de la
Rochefoucauld, a man who knows the human heart well: "If you expect to
love a woman for love of herself," says he, "you will be much
mistaken."
X
The Sensation of Love Forms a Large Part of a Woman's Nature
The commentaries the Countess has been making you about her virtue,
and the refinement she expects in a lover, have certainly alarmed you.
You think she will always be as severe as she now appears to you. All
I have told you does not reassure you. You even esteem it a favor to
me that you stop with doubting my principles. If you dared you would
condemn them entirely. When you talk to me in that fashion, I feel at
liberty to say that I believe you. It is not your fault if you do not
see clearly into your own affair, but in proportion as you advance,
the cloud will disappear, and you will perceive with surprise the
truth of what I have been telling you.
The more cold blooded you are, or at least, as long as passion has not
yet reached that degree of boldness its progress will ultimately lead
you to, the mere hope of the smallest favor is a crime; you tremble at
the most innocent caress. At first you ask for nothing, or for so
slight a favor, that a woman conscientiously believes herself obliged
to grant it, delighted with you on account of your modesty. To obtain
this slight favor, you protest never to ask another, and yet, even
while making your protestations, you are preparing to exact more. She
becomes accustomed to it and permits further trifling, which seems to
be of so little importance that she would endure it from any other
man, if she were on the slightest terms of intimacy with him. But, to
judge from the result, what appears to be of so little consequence on
one day when compared with the favor obtained the day before, becomes
very considerable when compared with that obtained on the first day. A
woman, re-assured by your discretion, does not perceive that her
frailties are being graduated upon a certain scale. She is so much
mistress of herself, and the little things which are at first exacted,
appear to her to be so much within her power of refusal, that she
expects to possess the same strength when something of a graver
character is proposed to her. It is just this way: she flatters
herself that her power of resistance will increase in the same
proportion with the importance of the favors she will be called upon
to grant. She relies so entirely upon her virtue, that she challenges
danger by courting it. She experiments with her power of resistance;
she wishes to see how far the granting of a few unimportant favors can
lead her. Here is where she is imprudent, for by her very rashness she
accustoms her imagination to contemplate suggestions which are the
final cause of her seduction. She travels a long way on the road
without perceiving that she has moved a single step. If upon looking
back along the route, she is surprised at having yielded so much, her
lover will be no less surprised at having obtained so much.
But I go still further. I am persuaded that love is not always
necessary to bring about the downfall of a woman. I knew a woman, who,
although amiable in her manner with everybody, had never been
suspected of any affair of the heart. Fifteen years of married life
had not diminished her tenderness for her husband, and their happy
union could be cited as an example to imitate.
One day at her country place, her friends amused themselves so late
that they were constrained to remain at her house all night. In the
morning, her servants happening to be occupied with her guests, she
was alone in her apartment engaged in making her toilet. A man whom
she knew quite well, but who was without social position, dropped in
for a short visit and to pass the compliments of the day. Some
perplexity in her toilette, induced him to offer his services. The
neglige dress she wore, naturally gave him an opportunity to
compliment her upon her undiminished charms. Of course she protested,
but laughingly, claiming they were unmerited. However, one thing
followed another, they became a trifle sentimental, a few
familiarities which they did not at first deem of any consequence,
developed into something more decided, until, finally, unable to
resist, they were both overcome, the woman being culpable, for she
regarded his advances in the nature of a joke and let them run on.
What was their embarrassment after such a slip? They have never since
been able to understand how they could have ventured so far without
having had the slightest intention of so doing.
I am tempted to exclaim here: Oh, you mortals who place too much
reliance upon your virtue, tremble at this example! Whatever may be
your strength, there are, unfortunately, moments when the most
virtuous is the most feeble. The reason for this strange phenomenon
is, that nature is always on the watch; always aiming to attain her
ends. The desire for love is, in a woman, a large part of her nature.
Her virtue is nothing but a piece of patchwork.
The homilies of your estimable Countess may be actually sincere,
although in such cases, a woman always exaggerates, but she deludes
herself if she expects to maintain to the end, sentiments so severe
and so delicate. Fix this fact well in your mind, Marquis, that these
female metaphysicians are not different in their nature from other
women. Their exterior is more imposing, their morals more austere, but
inquire into their acts, and you will discover that their heart
affairs always finish the same as those of women less refined. They
are a species of the "overnice," forming a class of their own, as I
told Queen Christine of Sweden, one day: "They are the Jansenists of
love." (Puritans.)
You should be on your guard, Marquis, against everything women have to
say on the chapter of gallantry. All the fine systems of which they
make such a pompous display, are nothing but vain illusions, which
they utilize to astonish those who are easily deceived. In the eyes of
a clear sighted man, all this rubbish of stilted phrases is but a
parade at which he mocks, and which does not prevent him from
penetrating their real sentiments. The evil they speak of love, the
resistance they oppose to it, the little taste they pretend for its
pleasures, the measures they take against it, the fear they have of
it, all that springs from love itself. Their very manner renders it
homage, indicates that they harbor the thought of it. Love assumes a
thousand different forms in their minds. Like pride, it lives and
flourishes upon its own defeat; it is never overthrown that it does
not spring up again with renewed force.
What a letter, good heavens! To justify its length would be to
lengthen it still more.
XI
The Distinction Between Love and Friendship
I was delighted with your letter, Marquis. Do you know why? Because it
gives me speaking proof of the truth of what I have been preaching to
you these latter days. Ah! for once you have forgotten all your
metaphysics. You picture to me the charms of the Countess with a
complacency which demonstrates that your sentiments are not altogether
so high flown as you would have me believe, and as you think down in
your heart. Tell me frankly: if your love were not the work of the
senses, would you take so much pleasure in considering that form,
those eyes which enchant you, that mouth which you describe to me in
such glowing colors? If the qualities of heart and mind alone seduce
you, a woman of fifty is worth still more in that respect than the
Countess. You see such a one every day, it is her mother; why not
become enamored of her instead? Why neglect a hundred women of her
age, of her plainness, and of her merit, who make advances to you, and
who would enact the same role with you that you play with the
Countess? Why do you desire with so much passion to be distinguished
by her from other men? Why are you uneasy when she shows them the
least courtesy? Does her esteem for them diminish that which she
pretends for you? Are rivalries and jealousies recognized in
metaphysics? I believe not I have friends and I do not observe such
things in them; I feel none in my own heart when they love other
women.
Friendship is a sentiment which has nothing to do with the senses; the
soul alone receives the impression of it, and the soul loses nothing
of its value by giving itself up to several at the same time. Compare
friendship with love, and you will perceive the difference between a
desire which governs a friend, and that which offers itself to a
lover. You will confess, that at heart, I am not so unreasonable as
you at first thought, and that it might be very well if it should
happen that in love, you might have a soul as worldly as that of a
good many people, whom it pleases you to accuse of very little
refinement.
I do not wish, however, to bring men alone to trial. I am frank, and I
am quite sure that if women would be honest, they would soon confess
that they are not a bit more refined than men. Indeed, if they saw in
love only the pleasures of the soul, if they hoped to please only by
their mental accomplishments and their good character, honestly, now,
would they apply themselves with such particular care to please by the
charms of their person? What is a beautiful skin to the soul; an
elegant figure; a well shaped arm? What contradictions between their
real sentiments and those they exhibit on parade! Look at them, and
you will be convinced that they have no intention of making themselves
valued except by their sensual attractions, and that they count
everything else as nothing. Listen to them: you will be tempted to
believe that it is not worldly things which they consider the least. I
think I deserve credit for trying to dispel your error in this
respect, and ought I not to expect everything from the care they will
take to undeceive you themselves? Perhaps they will succeed only too
easily in expressing sentiments entirely contrary to those you have
heard to-day from me.
I am due at Mademoiselle de Raymond's this evening, to hear the two
Camus and Ytier who are going to sing. Mesdames de la Sablière, de
Salins, and de Monsoreau will also be there. Would you miss such a
fine company?
XII
A Man in Love is an Amusing Spectacle
You take things too much to heart, Marquis. Already two nights that
you have not slept. Oh! it is true love, there is no mistaking that.
You have made your eyes speak, you, yourself, have spoken quite
plainly, and not the slightest notice has been taken of your
condition. Such behavior calls for revenge. Is it possible that after
eight whole days of devoted attention she has not given you the least
hope? Such a thing can not be easily imagined. Such a long resistance
begins to pass beyond probability. The Countess is a heroine of the
last century. But if you are beginning to lose patience, you can
imagine the length of time you would have had to suffer, if you had
continued to proclaim grand and noble sentiments. You have already
accomplished more in eight days than the late Celadon could in eight
months. However, to speak seriously, are your complaints just? You
call the Countess ungrateful, insensible, disdainful, etc. But by what
right do you talk thus? Will you never believe what I have told you a
hundred times? Love is a veritable caprice, involuntary, even in one
who experiences its pangs. Why should, you say that the beloved object
is bound to recompense a blind sentiment acquired without her
connivance?
You are very queer, you men. You consider yourselves offended because
a woman does not respond with eagerness to the languishing looks you
deign to cast upon her. Your revolted pride immediately accuses her of
injustice, as if it were her fault that your head is turned; as if she
were obliged, at a certain stage, to be seized with the same disease
as you. Tell me this: is the Countess responsible if she is not
afflicted with the same delirium as soon as you begin to rave? Cease,
then, to accuse her and to complain, and to try to communicate your
malady to her; I know you, you are seductive enough. Perhaps she will
feel, too soon for her peace of mind, sentiments commensurate with
your desires. I believe she has in her everything to subjugate you,
and to inspire you with the taste I hope will be for your happiness,
but so far, I do not think she is susceptible of a very serious
attachment.
Vivacious, inconsistent, positive, decided, she can not fail to give
you plenty of exercise. An attentive and caressing woman would weary
you; you must be handled in a military fashion, if you are to be
amused and retained. As soon as the mistress assumes the rôle of
lover, love begins to weaken; it does more, it rises like a tyrant,
and ends in disdain which leads directly to disgust and inconstancy.
Have you found, perchance, everything you required in the little
mistress who is the cause of your dolorous martyrdom? Poor Marquis!
What storms will blow over you. What quarrels I foresee! How many
vexations, how many threats to leave her! But do not forget this: So
much emotion will become your punishment, if you treat love after the
manner of a hero of romance, and you will meet a fate entirely the
contrary if you treat it like a reasonable man.
But ought I to continue to write you? The moments you employ to read
my letters will be so many stolen from love. Great Heavens! how I
should like to be a witness of your situations! Indeed, for a
sober-minded person, is there a spectacle more amusing than the
contortions of a man in love?
XIII
Vanity Is a Fertile Soil for Love.
You are not satisfied, then, Marquis, with what I so cavalierly said
about your condition? You wish me by all means to consider your
adventure as a serious thing, but I shall take good care not to do so.
Do you not see that my way of treating you is consistent with my
principles? I speak lightly of a thing I believe to be frivolous, or
simply amusing. When it comes to an affair on which depends a lasting
happiness, you will see me take on an appropriate tone. I do not want
to pity you, because it depends upon yourself whether you are to be
pitied or not. By a trick of your imagination, what now appears to be
a pain to you may become a pleasure. To succeed, make use of my recipe
and you will find it good. But to refer to the second paragraph of
your letter:
You say you are all the more surprised at the coldness of the Countess
as you did not think it in earnest. According to what you say, your
conjectures are based on the indiscretions of her friends. The good
she spoke about you to them, was the main cause of your taking a fancy
to her. I know men by this trait. The smallest word that escapes a
woman's lips leads them into the belief that she has designs upon
them. Everything has some reference to their merits; their vanity
seizes upon everything, and they turn everything into profit. To
examine them closely, nearly all of them love through gratitude, and
on this point, women are not any more reasonable. So that gallantry is
an intercourse in which we want the others to go along with us, always
want to be their debtors. And you know pride is much more active in
paying back than in giving. If two lovers would mutually explain,
without reservation, the beginning and progress of their passion, what
confidences would they not exchange?
Elise, to whom Valère uttered a few general compliments, responded,
perhaps without intending to, in a more affectionate manner than is
usual in the case of such insipidities. It was enough. Valère is
carried away with the idea that from a gallant he must become a lover.
The fire is insensibly kindled on both sides; finally, it bursts
forth, and there you are, a budding passion. If you should charge
Elise with having made the first advances, nothing would appear more
unjust to her, and yet nothing could be more true. I conclude from
this that to take love for what it really is, it is less the work of
what is called invincible sympathy, than that of our vanity. Notice
the birth of all love affairs. They begin by the mutual praises we
bestow upon each other. It has been said that it is folly which
conducts love; I should say that it is flattery, and that it can not
be introduced into the heart of a belle until after paying tribute to
her vanity. Add to all this, the general desire and inclination we
have to be loved, and we are bravely deceived. Like those enthusiasts
who, by force of imagination, believe they can really see the images
they conjure up in their minds, we fancy that we can see in others the
sentiments we desire to find there.
Be careful, then, Marquis, not to let yourself be blinded by a false
notion. The Countess may have spoken well of you with the sole object
of doing you justice, without carrying her intention any farther. And
be sure you are wrong when you suspect her of insincerity in your
regard. After all, why should you not prefer to have her dissemble her
sentiments toward you, if you are the source of their inspiration? Are
not women in the right to hide carefully their sentiments from you,
and does not the bad use you make of the certainty of their love
justify them in so doing?
XIV
Worth and Merit Are Not Considered in Love
No, Marquis, the curiosity of Madame de Sévigné has not offended me.
On the contrary, I am very glad that she wished to see the letters you
receive from me. Without doubt, she thought that if it were a question
of gallantry, it could only be to my profit; she now knows the
contrary. She will also know that I am not so frivolous as she
imagined, and I believe her just enough to form hereafter another idea
of Ninon than the one she has heretofore had of her, for I am not
ignorant of the fact that she does not speak of me much to my
advantage. But her injustice will never influence my friendship for
you. I am philosophic enough to console myself for not securing the
commendation of people who judge me without knowing me. Whatever may
happen, I shall continue to talk to you with my ordinary frankness,
and I am sure that Madame de Sévigné, in spite of her refined mind,
will, at heart, be more of my opinion than she cares to show. Now, I
come to what relates to you.
Well, Marquis, after infinite care and trouble, you think you have at
last softened that stony heart? I am glad of it; but I laugh at your
interpretation of the Countess' sentiments. You share with all men a
common error which it is necessary to remove, however flattering it
may be to you to foster it. You believe, every one of you, that it is
your worth alone that kindles passion in the heart of women, and that
qualities of heart and mind are the causes of the love they feel
toward you. What a mistake! You only think so, it is true, because
your pride finds satisfaction in the thought. But, if you can do so
without prejudice, inquire into the motives that actuate you, and you
will soon perceive that you are laboring under a delusion, and that we
deceive you; that, everything well considered, you are the dupe of
your vanity and of ours; that the worth of the person loved is only an
excuse which gives an occasion for love, and is not the real cause.
Finally, that all this sublime by-play, which is paraded on both
sides, is a mere preliminary which enters into the desire to satisfy
the need I first indicated to you as the prime exciting cause of this
passion. I tell you this is a hard and humiliating truth, but it is
none the less certain. We women enter the world with this necessity of
loving undefined, and if we take one man in preference to another, let
us say so honestly, we yield less to the knowledge of merit than to a
mechanical instinct which is nearly always blind.
For proof of this I need only refer to the foolish passions with which
we sometimes become intoxicated for strangers, or at least for men
with whom we are not sufficiently acquainted, to relieve our selection
of them from the odium of imprudence from the beginning; in which case
if there is a mutual response, well, it is pure chance. We are always
forming attachments without sufficient circumspection, hence I am not
wrong in comparing love to an appetite which one sometimes feels for
one kind of food rather than for another, without being able to give
the reason. I am very cruel to thus dissipate the phantoms of your
self love, but I am telling you the truth. You are flattered by the
love of a woman, because you believe it implies the worthiness of the
object loved. You do her too much honor: let us say rather, that you
have too good an opinion of yourself. Understand that it is not for
yourself that we love you, to speak with sincerity, it is our own
happiness we seek. Caprice, interest, vanity, disposition, the
uneasiness that affects our hearts when they are unoccupied, these are
the sources of the great sentiment we wish to deify! It is not great
qualities that affect us; if they enter for anything into the reasons
which determine us in your favor, it is not the heart which receives
the impression, it is vanity; and the greater part of the things in
you which please us, very often makes you ridiculous or contemptible.
But, what will you have? We need an admirer who can entertain us with
ideas of our perfections; we need an obliging person who will submit
to our caprices; we need a man! Chance presents us with one rather
than another; we accept him, but we do not choose him. In a word, you
believe yourselves to be the objects of our disinterested affection. I
repeat: You think women love you for yourselves. Poor dupes! You are
only the instruments of their pleasures, the sport of their caprices.
I must, however, do women justice; it is not that you are what I have
just enumerated with their consent, for the sentiments which I develop
here are not well defined in their minds, on the contrary, with the
best faith in the world, women imagine themselves influenced and
actuated only by the grand ideas which your vanity and theirs has
nourished. It would be a crying injustice to accuse them of deceit in
this respect; but, without being aware of it, they deceive themselves,
and you are equally deceived.
You see that I am revealing the secrets of the good goddess. Judge of
my friendship, since, at the expense of my own sex, I labor to
enlighten you. The better you know women, the fewer follies they will
lead you to commit.
XV
The Hidden Motives of Love
Really, Marquis, I do not understand how you can meekly submit to the
serious language I sometimes write you. It seems as if I had no other
aim in my letters than to sweep away your agreeable illusions and
substitute mortifying truths. I must, however, get rid of my mania for
saying deeply considered things. I know better than any one else that
pleasant lies are more agreeable than the most reasonable
conversation, but my disposition breaks through everything in spite of
me. I feel a fit of philosophy upon me again to-day, and I must ask
you to prepare to endure the broadside of morality I am making ready
to give you. Hereafter, I promise you more gayety. So now to answer
your letter.
No, I will not take back anything. You may make war on me as much as
it please you, because of the bad opinion of my sex I expressed in my
last letter. Is it my fault if I am furnished with disagreeable truths
to utter? Besides, do you not know, Marquis, that the being on earth
who thinks the most evil of women, is a woman?
I wish, however, very seriously, to justify the ideas, to my manner of
expressing which you have taken an exception. I am neither envious nor
unjust. Because I happened to mention my own sex rather than yours,
you must not imagine that it is my intention to underrate women. I
hoped to make you understand that, without being more culpable than
men, they are more dangerous because they are accustomed more
successfully to hide their sentiments. In effect, you will confess the
object of your love sooner than they will acknowledge theirs. However,
when they assure you that their affection for you has no other source
than a knowledge of your merit and of your good qualities, I am
persuaded that they are sincere. I do not even doubt that when they
realize that their style of thought is becoming less refined, they do
everything in their power to hide the fact from themselves. But the
motives, about which I have been telling you, are in the bottom of
their hearts just the same. They are none the less the true causes of
the liking they have for you, and whatever efforts they may make to
persuade themselves that the causes are wholly spiritual, their desire
changes nothing in the nature of things. They hide this deformity with
as much care as they would conceal teeth that might disfigure an
otherwise perfect face. In such case, even when alone they would be
afraid to open their mouth, and so, by force of habit in hiding this
defect from others as well as from themselves, they succeed in
forgetting all about it or in considering that it is not much of a
defect.
I agree with you that you would lose too much if men and women were to
show themselves in their true colors. The world has agreed to play a
comedy, and to show real, natural sentiments would not be acting, it
would be substituting the real character for the one it has been
agreed to feign. Let us then enjoy the enchantment without seeking to
know the cause of the charm which amuses and seduces us. To anatomize
love would be to enter upon its cure. Psyche lost it for having been
too curious, and I am tempted to believe that this fable is a lesson
for those who wish to analyze pleasure.
I wish to make some corrections in what I have said to you: If I told
you that men are wrong in priding themselves on their choice of a
woman, and their sentiments for her; if I said that the motives which
actuate them are nothing less than glorious for the men, I desire to
add, that they are equally deceived if they imagine that the
sentiments which they show with so much pompous display are always
created by force of female charms, or by an abiding impression of
their merits. How often does it happen that those men who make
advances with such a respectful air, who display such delicate and
refined sentiments, so flattering to vanity, who, in a word, seem to
breathe only through them, only for them, and have no other desire
than their happiness; how often, I repeat, are those men, who adorn
themselves with such beautiful sentiments, influenced by reasons
entirely the contrary? Study, penetrate these good souls, and you will
see in the heart of this one, instead of a love so disinterested, only
desire; in that one, it will be only a scheme to share your fortune,
the glory of having obtained a woman of your rank; in a third you
will discover motives still more humiliating to you; he will use you
to rouse the jealousy of some woman he really loves, and he will
cultivate your friendship merely to distinguish himself in her eyes by
rejecting you. I can not tell you how many motives, there are so many.
The human heart is an insolvable enigma. It is a whimsical combination
of all the known contrarieties. We think we know its workings; we see
their effects; we ignore the cause. If it expresses its sentiments
sincerely, even that sincerity is not reassuring. Perhaps its
movements spring from causes entirely contrary to those we imagine we
feel to be the real ones. But, after all, people have adopted the best
plan, that is, to explain everything to their advantage, and to
compensate themselves in imagination for their real miseries, and
accustom themselves, as I think I have already said, to deifying all
their sentiments. Inasmuch as everybody finds in that the summit of
his vanity, nobody has ever thought of reforming the custom, or of
examining it to see whether it is a mistake.
Adieu; if you desire to come this evening you will find me with those
whose gayety will compensate you for this serious discourse.
XVI
How to Be Victorious in Love
Is what you write me possible, Marquis, what, the Countess continues
obdurate? The flippant manner in which she receives your attentions
reveals an indifference which grieves you? I think I have guessed the
secret of the riddle. I know you. You are gay, playful, conceited
even, with women as long as they do not impress you. But with those
who have made an impression upon your heart, I have noticed that you
are timid. This quality might affect a bourgeoise, but you must attack
the heart of a woman of the world with other weapons. The Countess
knows the ways of the world. Believe me, and leave to the Celadons,
such things as sublime talk, beautiful sentiments; let them spin out
perfection. I tell you on behalf of women: there is not one of us who
does not prefer a little rough handling to too much consideration. Men
lose through blundering more hearts than virtue saves.
The more timidity a lover shows with us the more it concerns our pride
to goad him on; the more respect he has for our resistance, the more
respect we demand of him. We would willingly say to you men: "Ah, in
pity's name do not suppose us to be so very virtuous; you are forcing
us to have too much of it. Do not put so high a price upon your
conquest; do not treat our defeat as if it were something difficult.
Accustom our imagination by degrees to seeing you doubt our
indifference."
When we see a lover, although he may be persuaded of our gratitude,
treat us with the consideration demanded by our vanity, we shall
conclude without being aware of it, that he will always be the same,
although sure of our inclination for him. From that moment, what
confidence will he not inspire? What flattering progress may he not
make? But if he notifies us to be always on our guard, then it is not
our hearts we shall defend; it will not be a battle to preserve our
virtue, but our pride; and that is the worst enemy to be conquered in
women. What more is there to tell you? We are continually struggling
to hide the fact that we have permitted ourselves to be loved. Put a
woman in a position to say that she has yielded only to a species of
violence, or to surprise; persuade her that you do not undervalue her,
and I will answer for her heart.
You must manage the Countess as her character requires; she is lively,
and playful, and by trifling follies you must lead her to love. Do not
even let her see that she distinguishes you from other men, and be as
playful as she is light hearted. Fix yourself in her heart without
giving her any warning of your intention. She will love you without
knowing it, and some day she will be very much astonished at having
made so much headway without really suspecting it.
XVII
Women Understand the Difference Between Real Love and Flirtation
Perhaps, Marquis, you will think me still more cruel than the
Countess. She is the cause of your anxieties, it is true, but I am the
cause of something worse; I feel a great desire to laugh at them. Oh,
I enter into your troubles seriously enough, I can not do more, and
your embarrassment appears great to me. Really, why risk a declaration
of love to a woman who takes a wicked pleasure in avoiding it on every
occasion? Now, she appears affected, and then again, she is the most
unmindful woman in the world in spite of all you do to please her. She
listens willingly and replies gaily to the gallant speeches and bold
conversation of a certain Chevalier, a professional coxcomb, but to
you she speaks seriously and with a preoccupied air. If you take on a
tender and affectionate tone, she replies flippantly, or perhaps
changes the subject. All this intimidates you, troubles you, and
drives you to despair. Poor Marquis!--and I answer you, that all this
is love, true and beautiful. The absence of mind which she affects
with you, the nonchalance she puts on for a mask, ought to make you
feel at heart that she is far from being indifferent. But your lack of
boldness, the consequences which she feels must follow such a passion
as yours, the interest which she already takes in your condition, all
this intimidates the countess herself, and it is you who raise
obstacles in her path. A little more boldness on your part would put
you both at your ease. Do you remember what M. de la Rochefoucauld
told you lately: "A reasonable man in love may act like a madman, but
he should not and can not act like an idiot."
Besides, when you compare your respect and esteem with the free and
almost indecent manner of the Chevalier; when you draw from it the
conclusion that she should prefer you to him, you do not know how
incorrectly you argue. The Chevalier is nothing but a gallant, and
what he says is not worth considering, or at least appears so.
Frivolity alone, the habit of romancing to all the pretty women he
finds in his way, makes him talk. Love counts for nothing, or at least
for very little, in all his liaisons. Like the butterfly, he hovers
only a moment over each flower. An amusing episode is his only object.
So much frivolity is not capable of alarming a woman. She is delighted
at the trifling danger she incurs in listening to such a man.
The Countess knows very well how to appreciate the discourse of the
Chevalier; and to say everything in a word, she knows him to be a man
whose heart is worn out. Women, who, to hear them talk, go in more for
metaphysics, know admirably how to tell the difference between a lover
of his class and a man like you. But you will always be more
formidable and more to be dreaded by your manner of making yourself
felt.
You boast to me of your respectful esteem, but I reply that it is
nothing of the kind, and the Countess knows it well. Nothing ends with
so little respect as a passion like yours. Quite different from the
Chevalier, you require recognition, preference, acknowledgment, even
sacrifices. The Countess sees all these pretensions at a glance, or at
least, if in the cloud which still envelops them, she does not
distinguish them clearly, nature gives her a presentiment of what the
cost will be if she allows you the least opportunity to instruct her
in a passion which she doubtless already shares. Women rarely inquire
into the reasons which impel them to give themselves up or to resist;
they do not even amuse themselves by trying to understand or explain
them, but they have feelings, and sentiment with them is correct, it
takes the place of intelligence and reflection. It is a sort of
instinct which warns them in case of danger, and which leads them
aright perhaps as surely as does the most enlightened reason. Your
beautiful Adelaide wishes to enjoy an incognito as long as she can.
This plan is very congenial to her real interests, and yet I am fully
persuaded that it is not the work of reflection. She sees it only from
the point of view of a passion, outwardly constrained, making stronger
impressions and still greater progress inwardly. Let it have an
opportunity to take deep root, and give to this fire she tries to
hide, time to consume the heart in which you wish to confine it.
You must also admit, Marquis, that you deceive yourself in two ways
in your calculation. You thought you respected the Countess more than
the Chevalier does, on the contrary you see that the gallant speeches
of the Chevalier are without effect, while you begrudge them to the
heart of your beauty. On the other hand, you figure that her
preoccupied air, indifferent and inattentive manner are proofs or
forewarnings of your unhappiness. Undeceive yourself. There is no more
certain proof of a passion than the efforts made to hide it. In a
word, when the Countess treats you kindly, whatever proofs you may
give her of your affection, when she sees you without alarm on the
point of confessing your love, I tell you that her heart is caught;
she loves you, on my word.
By the way, I forgot to reply to that part of your letter concerning
myself. Yes, Marquis, I constantly follow the method which I
prescribed at the commencement of our correspondence. There are few
matters in my letters that I have not used as subjects of conversation
in my social reunions. I rarely suggest ideas of any importance to
you, without having taken the opinions of my friends on their verity.
Sometimes it is Monsieur de la Bruyère, sometimes Monsieur de
Saint-Evremond whom I consult; another time it will be Monsieur l'Abbé
de Châteauneuf. You must admire my good faith, Marquis, for I might
claim the credit of the good I write you, but I frankly avow that you
owe it only to the people whom I receive at my house.
Apropos of men of distinguished merit, M. de la Rochefoucauld has
just sent me word that he would like to call on me. I fixed to-morrow,
and you might do well to be present, but do not forget how much he
loves you. Adieu.
XVIII
When a Woman Is Loved She Need Not Be Told of It
I have been engaged in some new reflections on the condition you are
in, Marquis, and on the embarrassment in which you continue. After
all, why do you deem it necessary to make a formal declaration of
love? Can it be because you have read about such things in our old
romances, in which the proceedings in courtship were as solemn as
those of the tribunals? That would be too technical. Believe me, let
it alone; as I told you in my last letter, the fire lighted, will
acquire greater force every day, and you will see, that without having
said you love, you will be farther advanced than if you were
frightened by avowals which our fathers insisted should worry the
women. Avowals absolutely useless in themselves, and which always
incumber a passion with several nebulous days. They retard its
progress. Bear this well in mind, Marquis: A woman is much better
persuaded that she is loved by what she guesses than by what she is
told.
Act as if you had made the declaration which is costing you so much
anxiety; or imitate the Chevalier; take things easy. The way the
Countess conducts herself with him in your presence seems to be a law
in your estimation. With your circumspection and pretended respect,
you present the appearance of a man who meditates an important design,
of a man, in a word, who contemplates a wrong step. Your exterior is
disquieting to a woman who knows the consequences of a passion such as
yours. Remember that as long as you let it appear that you are making
preparations for an attack, you will find her on the defensive. Have
you ever heard of a skillful general, who intends to surprise a
citadel, announce his design to the enemy upon whom the storm is to
descend? In love as in war, does any one ever ask the victor whether
he owes his success to force or skill? He has conquered, he receives
the crown, his desires are gratified, he is happy. Follow his example
and you will meet the same fate. Hide your progress; do not disclose
the extent of your designs until it is no longer possible to oppose
your success, until the combat is over, and the victory gained before
you have declared war. In a word, imitate those warlike people whose
designs are not known except by the ravaged country through which they
have passed.
XIX
Why a Lover's Vows Are Untrustworthy
At last, Marquis, you are listened to dispassionately when you protest
your love, and swear by everything lovers hold sacred that you will
always love. Will you believe my predictions another time? However,
you would be better treated if you were more reasonable, so you are
told, and limit your sentiments to simple friendship. The name of
lover assumed by you is revolting to the Countess. You should never
quarrel over quality when it is the same under any name, and follow
the advice Madame de la Sablière gives you in the following madrigal:
Bélise ne veut point d'amant,
Mais voudrait un ami fidèle,
Qui pour elle eût des soins et de l'empressement,
Et qui même la trouvât belle.
Amants, qui soupirez pour elle,
Sur ma parole tenez bon,
Bélise de l'amour ne hait que le nom.
(Bélise for a lover sighed not,
But she wanted a faithful friend,
Who would cuddle her up and care for her lot,
And even her beauty defend.
Oh, you lovers, whose sighs I commend,
'Pon my word, hold fast to such game,
What of love Bélise hates is only the name.)
But you are grieved by the injurious doubts cast upon your sincerity
and constancy. You are disbelieved because all men are false and
perjured, and because they are inconstant, love is withheld. How
fortunate you are! How little the Countess knows her own heart, if she
expects to persuade you of her indifference in that fashion! Do you
wish me to place a true value on the talk she is giving you? She is
very much affected by the passion you exhibit for her, but the
warnings and sorrows of her friends have convinced her that the
protestations of men are generally false. I do not conceive any
injustice in this, for I, who do not flatter men willingly, am
persuaded that they are usually sincere on such occasions. They become
amorous of a woman, that is they experience the desire of possession.
The enchanting image of that possession bewitches them; they calculate
that the delights connected with it will never end; they do not
imagine that the fire which consumes them can ever weaken or die out;
such a thing seems impossible to them. Hence they swear with the best
faith in the world to love us always; and to cast a doubt upon their
sincerity would be inflicting a mortal injury.
But the poor fellows make more promises than they can keep. They do
not perceive that their heart has not enough energy always to hold the
same object. They cease to love without knowing why. They are good
enough to be scrupulous over their growing coldness. Long after love
has fled they continue to insist that they still love. They exert
themselves to no purpose, and after having tormented themselves as
long as they can bear it, they surrender to dissatisfaction, and
become inconstant with as much good faith as they possessed when they
protested that they would be forever constant. Nothing is simpler and
easier to explain. The fermentation of a budding love, excited in
their heart the charm that seduced them; by and by, the enchantment is
dispelled, and nonchalance follows. With what can they be charged?
They counted upon keeping their vows. Dear me, how many women are too
happy with what is lacking, since men give them a free rein to their
lightness!
However this may be, the Countess has charged up to you the
inconstancy of your equals; she apprehends that you are no better than
all other lovers. Ready to yield to you, however little you may be
able to reassure her, she is trying to find reasons for believing you
sincere. The love you protest for her does not offend her. What am I
saying? It enchants her. She is so much flattered by it, that her sole
fear is that it may not be true. Dissipate her alarms, show her that
the happiness you offer her and of which she knows the price, is not
an imaginary happiness. Go farther; persuade her that she will enjoy
it forever, and her resistance will disappear, her doubts will vanish,
and she will seize upon everything that will destroy her suspicions
and uncertainty. She would have already believed you; already she
would have resolved to yield to the pleasure of being loved, if she
had believed herself really loved, and that it would last forever.
How maladroit women are if they imagine that by their fears and their
doubts of the sincerity and constancy of men, they can make any one
believe they are fleeing from love, or despise it! As soon as they
fear they will be deceived in the enjoyment of its pleasures; when
they fear they will not long enjoy it, they already know the charms of
it, and the only source of anxiety then is, that they will be deprived
of its enjoyment too soon. Forever haunted by this fear, and attacked
by the powerful inclination toward pleasure, they hesitate, they
tremble with the apprehension that they will not be permitted to enjoy
it but just long enough to make the privation of it more painful.
Hence, Marquis, you may very easily conjecture a woman who talks to
you as does the Countess, using this language:
"I can imagine all the delights of love. The idea I have formed of it
is quite seductive. Do you think that deep in my heart I desire to
enjoy its charms less than you? But the more its image is ravishing to
my imagination, the more I fear it is not real, and I refuse to yield
to it lest my happiness be too soon destroyed. Ah, if I could only
hope that my happiness might endure, how feeble would be my
resistance? But will you not abuse my credulity? Will you not some day
punish me for having had too much confidence in you? At least is that
day very far off? Ah, if I could hope to gather perpetually the
fruits of the sacrifice I am making of my repose for your sake, I
confess it frankly, we would soon be in accord."
XX
The Half-way House to Love
The rival you have been given appears to me to be all the more
redoubtable, as he is the sort of a man I have been advising you to
be. I know the Chevalier; nobody is more competent than he to carry a
seduction to a successful conclusion. I am willing to wager anything
that his heart has never been touched. He makes advances to the
Countess in cold blood. You are lost. A lover as passionate as you
have appeared to be, makes a thousand blunders. The most favorable
designs would perish under your management. He permits everybody to
take the advantage of him on every occasion. Indeed, such is his
misfortune that his precipitation and his timidity injure his
prospects by turns.
A man who makes love for the pleasure he finds in it, profits by the
smallest advantage; he knows the feeble places and makes himself
master of them. Everything leads his way, everything is combined for
his purpose. Even his imprudences are often the result of wise
reflection; they help him along the road to success; they finally
acquire so superior a position that, from their beginning, so to
speak, dates the hour of his triumph.
You must be careful, Marquis, not to go to extremes; you must not show
the Countess enough love to lead her to understand the excess of your
passion. Give her something to be anxious about; compel her to take
heed lest she lose you, by giving her opportunities to think that she
may. There is no woman on earth who will treat you more cavalierly
than one who is absolutely certain that your love will not fail her.
Like a merchant for whose goods you have manifested too great an
anxiety to acquire, she will overcharge you with as little regard to
consequences. Moderate, therefore, your imprudent vivacity; manifest
less passion and you will excite more in her heart. We do not
appreciate the worth of a prize more than when we are on the point of
losing it. Some regulation in matters of love are indispensable for
the happiness of both parties. I think I am even justified in advising
you on certain occasions to be a trifle unprincipled. On all other
occasions, though, it is better to be a dupe than a knave; but in
affairs of gallantry, it is only the fools who are the dupes, and
knaves always have the laugh on their side. Adieu.
I have not the conscience to leave you without a word of consolation.
Do not be discouraged. However redoubtable may be the Chevalier, let
your heart rest in peace. I suspect that the cunning Countess is
making a play with him to worry you. I have no desire to flatter you,
but it gives me pleasure to say, that you are worth more than he. You
are young, you are making your debut in the world, and you are
regarded as a man who has never yet had any love affairs. The
Chevalier has lived; what woman will not appreciate these differences?
XXI
The Comedy of Contrariness
Probity in love, Marquis? How can you think of such a thing? Ah, you
are like a drowned man. I shall take good care not to show your letter
to any one, it would dishonor you. You do not know how to undertake
the manoeuvres I have advised you to make, you say? Your candor, your
high sentiments made your fortune formerly! Well, love was then
treated like an affair of honor, but nowadays, the corruption of the
age has changed all that; love is now nothing more than a play of the
humor and of vanity.
Your inexperience still leaves your virtues in an inflexible condition
that will inevitably cause your ruin, if you have not enough
intelligence to bring them into accord with the morals of the times.
One can not now wear his sentiments on his sleeve. Everything is show;
payment is made in airs, demonstrations, signs. Everybody is playing a
comedy, and men have had excellent reasons for keeping up the farce.
They have discovered the fact that nobody can gain anything by telling
the actual truth about women. There is a general agreement to
substitute for this sincerity a collection of contrary phrases. And
this custom has proved contagious in cases of gallantry.
In spite of your high principles, you will agree with me, that unless
that custom, called "politeness," is not pushed so far as irony or
treason, it is a sociable virtue to follow, and of all the relations
among men, the true meaning of gallantry has more need of being
concealed than that of any other social affair. How many occasions do
you not find where a lover gains more by dissimulating the excess of
his passion, than another who pretends to have more than he really
has?
I think I understand the Countess; she is more skillful than you. I am
certain she dissimulates her affection for you with greater care than
you take to multiply proofs of yours for her. I repeat; the less you
expose yourself, the better you will be treated. Let her worry in her
turn; inspire her with the fear that she will lose you, and see her
come around. It is the surest way of finding out the true position you
occupy in her heart. Adieu.
XXII
Vanity and Self-Esteem Obstacles to Love
A silence of ten days, Marquis. You begin to worry me in earnest. The
application you made of my counsel has, then, been successful? I
congratulate you. What I do not approve, however, is your
dissatisfaction with her for refusing to make the confession you
desired. The words: "I love you" seem to be something precious in your
estimation. For fifteen days you have been trying to penetrate the
sentiments of the Countess, and you have succeeded; you know her
affection for you. What more can you possibly want? What further right
over her heart would a confession give you? Truly, I consider you a
strange character. You ought to know that nothing is more calculated
to cause a reasonable woman to revolt, than the obstinacy with which
ordinary men insist upon a declaration of their love. I fail to
understand you. Ought not her refusal to be a thousand times more
precious to a delicate minded lover than a positive declaration? Will
you ever know your real interests? Instead of persecuting a woman on
such a point, expend your energies in concealing from her the extent
of her affection. Act so that she will love you before you call her
attention to the fact, before compelling her to resort to the
necessity of proclaiming it. Is it possible to experience a situation
more delicious than that of seeing a heart interested in you without
suspicion, growing toward you by degrees, finally becoming
affectionate? What a pleasure to enjoy secretly all her movements, to
direct her sentiments, augment them, hasten them, and glory in the
victory even before she has suspected that you have essayed her
defeat! That is what I call pleasure.
Believe me, Marquis, your conduct toward the Countess must be as if
the open avowal of her love for you had escaped her. Of a truth, she
has not said in words: "I love you," but it is because she really
loves you that she has refrained from saying it. Otherwise she has
done everything to convince you of it.
Women are under no ordinary embarrassment. They desire for the very
least, as much to confess their affection as you are anxious to
ascertain it, but what do you expect, Marquis? Women ingenious at
raising obstacles, have attached a certain shame to any avowal of
their passion, and whatever idea you men may have formed of our way of
thinking, such an avowal always humiliates us, for however small may
be our experience, we comprehend all the consequences. The words "I
love you" are not criminal, that is true, but their sequel frightens
us, hence we find means to dissimulate, and close our eyes to the
liabilities they carry with them.
Besides this, be on your guard; your persistence in requiring an open
avowal from the Countess, is less the work of love than a persevering
vanity. I defy you to find a mistake in the true motives behind your
insistence. Nature has given woman a wonderful instinct; it enables
her to discern without mistake whatever grows out of a passion in one
who is a stranger to her. Always indulgent toward the effects produced
by a love we have inspired, we will pardon you many imprudences, many
transports; how can I enumerate them all? All the follies of which you
lovers are capable, we pardon, but you will always find us intractable
when our self-esteem meets your own. Who would believe it? You inspire
us to revolt at things that have nothing to do with your happiness.
Your vanity sticks at trifles, and prevents you from enjoying actual
advantages. Will you believe me when I say it? You will drop your idle
fancies, to delight in the certainty that you are beloved by an
adorable woman; to taste the pleasure of hiding the extent of her love
from herself, to rejoice in its security. Suppose by force of
importunities you should extract an "I love you," what would you gain
by it? Would your uncertainty reach an end? Would you know whether you
owe the avowal to love or complaisance? I think I know women, I ought
to. They can deceive you by a studied confession which the lips only
pronounce, but you will never be the involuntary witness of a passion
you force from them. The true, flattering avowals we make, are not
those we utter, but those that escape us without our knowledge.
XXIII
Two Irreconcilable Passions in Women
Will you pardon me, Marquis, for laughing at your afflictions? You
take things too much to heart. Some imprudences, you say, have drawn
upon you the anger of the Countess, and your anxiety is extreme. You
kissed her hand with an ecstasy that attracted the attention of
everybody present. She publicly reprimanded you for your indiscretion,
and your marked preference for her, always offensive to other women,
has exposed you to the railleries of the Marquise, her sister-in-law.
Dear me, these are without contradiction terrible calamities! What,
are you simple enough to believe that you are lost beyond salvation
because of an outward manifestation of anger, and you do not even
suspect that inwardly you are justified? You impose upon me the burden
of convincing you of the fact, and in doing so I am forced to reveal
some strange mysteries concerning women. But, I do not intend, in
writing you, to be always apologizing for my sex. I owe you frankness,
however, and having promised it I acquit myself of the promise.
A woman is always balancing between two irreconcilable passions which
continually agitate her mind: the desire to please, and the fear of
dishonor. You can judge of our embarrassment. On the one hand, we are
consumed with the desire to have an audience to notice the effect of
our charms. Ever engaged in schemes to bring us into notoriety;
ravished whenever we are fortunate enough to humiliate other women, we
would make the whole world witness of the preferences we encounter,
and the homage bestowed upon us. Do you know the measure of our
satisfaction in such cases? The despair of our rivals, the
indiscretions that betray the sentiments we inspire, this enchants us
proportionately to the misery they suffer. Similar imprudences
persuade us much more that we are loved, than that our charms are
incapable of giving us a reputation.
But what bitterness poisons such sweet pleasures! Beside so many
advantages marches the malignity of rival competitors, and sometimes
your disdain. A fatality which is mournful. The world makes no
distinction between women who permit you to love them, and those whom
you compensate for so doing. Uninfluenced, and sober-minded, a
reasonable woman always prefers a good reputation to celebrity. Put
her beside her rivals who contest with her the prize for beauty, and
though she may lose that reputation of which she appears so jealous,
though she compromise herself a thousand times, nothing is equal in
her opinion to see herself preferred to others. By and by, she will
recompense you by preferences; she will at first fancy that she grants
them out of gratitude, but they will be proofs of her attachment. In
her fear of appearing ungrateful, she becomes tender.
Can you not draw from this that it is not your indiscretions which vex
us? If they wound us, we must pay tribute to appearances, and you
would be the first to censure an excessive indulgence.
See that you do not misunderstand us. Not to vex us on such occasions
would be really to offend. We recommend you to practice discretion and
prudence, that is the rôle we enact, is it not? Is it necessary for me
to tell you the part you are to play? I am often reminded that
accepting the letter of the law, is to fail to understand it. You may
be sure that you will be in accord with our intentions as soon as you
are able to interpret them properly.
XXIV
An Abuse of Credulity Is Intolerable
The Countess no longer retreats? You think she has no other object in
view than to put your love to the proof? Whatever preference you have
manifested for her; however little precaution you have taken to
testify to your passion, she finds nothing in you but cause for
scolding. The least excuse, however, and the reproaches die upon her
lips, and her anger is so delightful that you do everything to deserve
it. Permit me to share in your joy with all my heart. But although
this behavior flatters you, if you consider that such acts are not
intended to be of long duration, how badly reasonable women, who value
their reputation, misunderstand their true interests by thus
multiplying through an affected incredulity, occasions for slandering
them. Do they not understand and feel that it is not always the moment
when they are tender which gives a blow to their reputation? The doubt
they cast upon the sincerity of the affection they have inspired, does
them more harm in the eyes of the world than even their defeat. As
long as they continue incredulous the slightest imprudence compromises
them. They dispose of their reputation at retail.
Whenever a lover finds a woman incredulous of the truth of his
sentiments, he goes full lengths, every time he has an opportunity, to
furnish proofs of his sincerity. The most indiscreet eagerness, the
most marked preferences, the most assiduous attentions, seem to him
the best means of succeeding. Can he make use of them without calling
the attention of the whole world to the fact; without offending every
other woman and giving them occasions to be revenged by their sharpest
arrows?
As soon as the preliminaries are settled, that is to say, as soon as
we commence to believe ourselves sincerely loved, nothing appears on
the surface, nothing happens; and if outsiders perceive our liaison,
if they put a malicious construction upon it, it will only be by the
recollection of what passed during a time when love was not in
question.