Suddenly in the midst of the most violent and the most thwarted passion come moments, when a man believes that he is in love no longer--as it were a spring of fresh water in the middle of the sea. To think of his mistress is no longer very much pleasure, and, although he is worn-out by the severity of her treatment, the fact that everything in life has lost its interest is a still greater misery. After a manner of existence which, fitful though it was, gave to all nature a new aspect, passionate and absorbing, now follows the dreariest and most despondent void. It may be that your last visit to the woman, whom you love, left you in a situation, from which, once before, your imagination had gathered the full harvest of sensation. For example, after a period of coldness, she has treated you less badly, letting you conceive exactly the same degree of hope and by the same external signs as on a previous occasion--all this perhaps unconsciously. Imagination picks up memory and its sinister warnings by the way, and instantly crystallisation[1] ceases. [1] First, I am advised to cut out this word; next, if I fail in this for want of literary power, to repeat again and again that I mean by crystallisation a certain fever in the imagination, which transforms past recognition what is, as often as not, a quite ordinary object, and makes of it a thing apart. A man who looks to excite this fever in souls, which know no other path but vanity to reach their happiness, must tie his necktie well and constantly give his attention to a thousand details, which preclude all possibility of unrestraint. Society women own to the effect, denying at the same time or not seeing the cause. [Pg 53] CHAPTER XVI In a small port, the name of which I forget, near Perpignan, 25th February, 1822.[1] This evening I have just found out that music, when it is perfect, puts the heart into the same state as it enjoys in the presence of the loved one--that is to say, it gives seemingly the keenest happiness existing on the face of the earth. If this were so for all men, there would be no more favourable incentive to love. But I had already remarked at Naples last year that perfect music, like perfect pantomime, makes me think of that which is at the moment the object of my dreams, and that the ideas, which it suggests to me, are excellent: at Naples, it was on the means of arming the Greeks. Now this evening I cannot deceive myself--I have the misfortune _of being too great an admirer of milady L_.[2] And perhaps the perfect music, which I have had the luck to hear again, after two or three months of privation, although going nightly to the Opera, has simply had the effect, which I recognised long ago--I mean that of producing lively thoughts on what is already in the heart. March 4th--eight days later.