In that garden of Gethsemane, where all men drink of the cup of doubt, in that garden of perplexity which we ought to leave with a _yes_ or _no_ and turn to the right or left, knowing that one path leads to happiness, the other to desperation, without knowing, however, which of the two ways leads whither; in that garden, I say, my little book ought to serve as a guide to resolve one of the most difficult problems of marriage. And I, who have arrogated to myself this right of counsel, will tell with a loud voice those who do care for my advice, my fundamental and organic precept on which all the other minor points must rest. Marriage between an old man and a young woman may lead to happiness, if inspired on both sides by love. Less surely will it lead to the same end if the love that leads them to the altar is all on one side. It nearly always leads to unhappiness and ruin if the man is induced by sensuality, or the woman by the desire of riches or by ambition. And as this third case is the most common, I will explain at once why those terrible arithmetical combinations are so fruitful in domestic misery, adultery, and let us say crime, including those which the code does not regard. ⁂ At this point I see a malicious reader smiling, and hear him say that I ought to be classed among those madmen and deceivers who think they have solved the problem of squaring the circle or of perpetual motion. You tell me a marriage between an old man and a young woman may be happy, provided there be love on both sides. But this is an impudent joke. You may assure me with equal seriousness that I can catch a sparrow if I put salt upon its tail. How, when, and where can a young woman, fragrant of spring, who seeks with eyes, mouth, nostrils, with all senses, the pollen which will fructify her and make her a mother; how can she desire or love a man who is already on the decline of life and can offer his companion nothing but lasciviousness framed by rheumatism, catarrh, dyspepsia, and cough? No, malicious reader, I do not joke; neither have I endeavoured to solve insoluble problems. I sincerely believe a young woman can love an old man, but he must still be a man and handsome; for robust, flourishing, and cheerful old age has a beauty of its own, and if much is wanting it has the greatest resources and a certain delicate virtue, too, which a young man does not possess. Love, too, has so many and such different forms, and is composed of so many different elements, that it can vibrate and burn even in the gray-headed. The last love of Goethe speaks of all these; and the many warm and enduring passions awakened in young women by men eminent in politics, arts, letters, and science join in the chorus. If in these loves the ardour of the senses fails—and it must fail—we find much veneration, tenderness, and often a sweet compassion, a sentiment that always predominates in the female breast.