Stendhal was beset with a horror of being artistic. Was it not he who said of an artist, whose dress was particularly elaborate: "Depend upon it, a man who adorns his person will also adorn his work"? Stendhal was a soldier first, then a writer--Salviati[2] is a soldier. Certainly it is his contempt for the type of person--even commoner, perhaps, in 1914 than in 1814--who carries his emotions on his sleeve, which accounts for Stendhal's naive disclaimer of personal responsibility, the invention of Lisio[3] and Salviati, mythical authors of this work on love--all a thin screen to hide his own obsession, which manages, none the less, to break through unmasked on almost every page. The translation makes no attempt to hide these peculiarities or even to make too definite a sense from a necessarily doubtful passage.[4] Its whole aim is to reproduce [Pg ix] Stendhal's essay in English, just as it stands in French. No other English translation of the whole work exists: only a selection of its maxims translated piece-meal.[5] Had a translation existed, we should certainly not have undertaken another. As it is, we have relied upon a great sympathy with the author, and a studied adhesion to what he said, in order to reconstruct this essay--encouraged by the conviction that the one is as necessary as the other in order to obtain a satisfactory result. Charles Cotton's _Montaigne_ seems to us the pattern of all good translations. * * * * * In spite of the four prefaces of the original, we felt it advisable to add still another to the English translation. Stendhal said that no book stood in greater need of a word of introduction. That was in Paris--here it is a foreigner, dressed up, we trust, quite _à l'anglaise_, but still, perhaps, a little awkward, and certainly in need of something more than the chilly announcement of the title page--about as encouraging as the voice of the flunkey, who bawls out your name at a party over the heads of the crowd already assembled. True, the old English treatment of foreigners has sadly degenerated: more bows than brickbats are their portion, now London knows the charm of _cabarets, revues_ and cheap French cooking.[6] The work in itself is conspicuous, if not unique. Books on Love are legion: how could it be otherwise? It was probably the first topic of conversation, and none has since been found more interesting. But Stendhal has devised a new treatment of the subject. His method is analytical and scientific, but, at the same time, [Pg x] there is no attempt at bringing the subject into line with a science; it is no part of erotology--there is no Greek ending with a little passing bell That signifies some faith about to die.[7]