To conclude, instead of distinguishing four different forms of love, we can easily admit eight or ten shades of difference. Perhaps mankind has as many ways of feeling as of seeing; but these differences of nomenclature alter in no degree the judgments which follow. Subject to the same laws, all forms of love, which can be seen here below, have their birth, life and death or ascend to immortality.[2] [1] Well-known dialogue of Pont de Veyle with Madame du Deffant, at the fireside. [2] This book is a free translation of an Italian MS. of M. Lisio Visconti, a young man of the highest distinction, who died recently at Volterra, the place of his birth. The day of his sudden death he gave the translator permission to publish his Essay on Love, if means were found to shape it to a decorous form. Castel Fiorentino, June 10th, 1819. [Pg 22] CHAPTER II OF THE BIRTH OF LOVE This is what takes place in the soul:-- 1. Admiration. 2. A voice within says: "What pleasure to kiss, to be kissed." 3. Hope(3). We study her perfections: this is the moment at which a woman should yield to realise the greatest possible physical pleasure. In the case even of the most reserved women, their eyes redden at the moment when hope is conceived: the passion is so strong, the pleasure so keen, that it betrays itself by striking signs. 4. Love is born. To love--that is to have pleasure in seeing, touching, feeling, through all the senses and as near as possible, an object to be loved and that loves us. 5. The first crystallisation begins. The lover delights in decking with a thousand perfections the woman of whose love he is sure: he dwells on all the details of his happiness with a satisfaction that is boundless. He is simply magnifying a superb bounty just fallen to him from heaven,--he has no knowledge of it but the assurance of its possession. Leave the mind of a lover to its natural movements for twenty-four hours, and this is what you will find. At the salt mines of Salzburg a branch stripped of its leaves by winter is thrown into the abandoned depths of the mine; taken out two or three months later it is covered with brilliant crystals; the smallest twigs, those [Pg 23] no stouter than the leg of a sparrow, are arrayed with an infinity of sparkling, dazzling diamonds; it is impossible to recognise the original branch. I call crystallisation the operation of the mind which, from everything which is presented to it, draws the conclusion that there are new perfections in the object of its love. A traveller speaks of the freshness of the orange groves at Genoa, on the sea coast, during the scorching days of summer.--What pleasure to enjoy that freshness with her!