[5] See Saint-Simon and Werther. However gentle and delicate are the solitary, their soul is distracted, and part of their imagination is busy in foreseeing the world of men. Force of character is one of the charms which most readily seduces the truly feminine heart. Hence the success of serious young officers. Women well know how to make the distinction between force of character and the violence of those movements of passion, the possibility of which they feel strongly in their own hearts. The most distinguished women are sometimes duped by a little charlatanism in this matter. It can be used without fear, as soon as crystallisation is seen to have begun. [Pg 49] CHAPTER XIV The following point, which will be disputed, I offer only to those--shall I say unhappy enough?--to have loved with passion during long years, and loved in the face of invincible obstacles:-- The sight of all that is extremely beautiful in nature and in art recalls, with the swiftness of lightning, the memory of that which we love. It is by the process of the jewelled branch in the mines of Salzburg, that everything in the world which is beautiful and lofty contributes to the beauty of that which we love, and that forthwith a sudden glimpse of delight fills the eyes with tears. In this way, love and the love of beauty give life mutually to one another. One of life's miseries is that the happiness of seeing and talking to the object of our love leaves no distinct memories behind. The soul, it seems, is too troubled by its emotions for that which causes or accompanies them to impress it. The soul and its sensations are one and the same. It is perhaps because these pleasures cannot be used up by voluntary recollection, that they return again and again with such force, as soon as ever some object comes to drag us from day-dreams devoted to the woman we love, and by some new connexion[1] to bring her still more vividly to our memory. A dry old architect used to meet her in society every evening. Following a natural impulse, and without paying attention to what I was saying to her,[2] I one day sang his praises in a sentimental and pompous strain, [Pg 50] which made her laugh at me. I had not the strength to say to her: "He sees you every evening." So powerful is this sensation that it extends even to the person of my enemy, who is always at her side. When I see her, she reminds me of Léonore so much, that at the time I cannot hate her, however much I try. It looks as if, by a curious whim of the heart, the charm, which the woman we love can communicate, were greater than that which she herself possesses. The vision of that distant city, where we saw her a moment,[3] throws us into dreams sweeter and more profound than would her very presence. It is the effect of harsh treatment.