If your love is great and deep, if it pours out from the viscera of your whole organism, if she loves you well and enough, rest assured that the rocks will fall to pieces, the mountains be levelled, and the thorns be removed, for love is the most skilled magician, and knows even how to convert gall into honey. Woman is cleverer than all the rest of the world in this thaumaturgic work, and you must really be the most stupid egotist, the most antipathetic creature in the whole universe, if your companion cannot succeed in making you agree with her after a few months. And yet, take care. This harmony ought not to be that of a victim resigned or a slave subjected; that would be an artificial agreement which lasts a short time only, and thrives but ill. It must be a slow and clever adaptation of the sharpness of the one to the roundness of the other. It must be an intelligent and tender acclimation to surroundings, tastes, and habits, so that the rebellious sprig may be bent without pain or breaking, so that the vine leaves may seem pleased at their connection with the pollard[4] which supports them, and the bright and ruddy bunches of grapes seem to smile with joy on foliage and pollard alike. Happiness, too, is a tree which requires a wise and loving cultivation. We men are the pollards; the vine is our companion who leans upon us, bound there by the withes of love and of reciprocal indulgence. Above all things marry a good woman, one, too, who loves you—not for the title you bear, not for the gold which fills your chests, but because she admires and esteems you, and is proud to bear your name. [4] It is customary in Tuscany to plant pollards in the vineyards for the purpose of supporting the vines, and these are bound to the pollards with willow twigs.—TR. And then you may be sure that the little discords of character will be surmounted, and in the indulgence with which your companion so patiently bears with your defects you will find every day and every hour a proof of that love which will only cease with your last breath. CHAPTER VI. HARMONY OF THOUGHTS. Ought we to marry a silly, an intelligent, or a literary woman? If this question were to be answered by public vote we should probably have the following ratio: For the silly woman, 10 votes. For the literary woman, 0 vote. For the intelligent woman (that is, of normal ability), 90 votes. In this century, in which the voice of the majority takes the place of right and reason, the problem would be solved by that meeting of which I have guaranteed the result. In all cases, however, this verdict ought to be preceded by many and varied comments if it is to be converted into practical counsels to those about to take a wife.