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.