Monday, 16 July 1883

Crystallisation preoccupies me keenly, and I am convinced there is a book to be written on innocent crystallisations, the ones that come to nothing.
Myself, for example, for whom complete love passion would be possible only in marriage, or any other young girl, or even a married woman with principles. We are not exempt, for all that, from the things that set crystallisations going; these crystallisations come to nothing, and allow me to say here that I do not like the word crystallisation, but, as Stendhal says, it spares one a long explanatory phrase, so I use it. I was saying, we were saying, yes. love begins the crystallisation begins; if “the object has every perfection”, we let ourselves go and arrive at love. That is to say, we love; the essential thing is to love, and not to practise the thing that M. Alexandre Dumas fils calls love.
If the object does not have every perfection, if we discover in him a fault, or faults, whether an ugliness, or something ridiculous, or a want of wit, the thing stops halfway. I believe too that one can stop it at will.
There was a beginning of crystallisation for Cassagnac; I reason about him, examine him: he is a noisy tribune, Europe talks of him, women are mad about him, he is received in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. I grant myself permission to love him. The crystallisation goes on and I get there. Had I then discovered some flaw in him in the eyes of the world, the crystallisation would stop. Another example: suppose that I am preoccupied, and I am a little, I do not quite know why, with Bastien-Lepage.
But as I cannot give myself licence to get carried away in that direction, the crystallisation will not take place, and no love.
He is a man of talent, but in everyone’s eyes he is only “a painter of great talent”. My vanities would be wounded.
Then, you say, that is not real love. Possibly. I am telling you how I am made, and there are probably others like me. Suppose that the same painter were not only recognised as the greatest of artists (that would not be enough) but became an artist-god like the late Wagner, and with no more than what I have in my heart at present, I would undertake to feel the most complete and the maddest passion-love.
There will be no more obstacles, no more faults; the object will have every perfection and the crystallisation will take place.
Now I am going to note all the impressions relating to this feeling. The sight of a hat like the object’s stops the beating of the heart, says Stendhal. He blushed, besides, on hearing mention of the street corner near which his beloved’s friend lived.
I, at fourteen, used to blush on saying or hearing the word duke, because of the Duke of Hamilton. Since then I have never found that sensitivity again in so violent a form. When I read my English lessons, where historical dukes were often mentioned, it was torture; I trembled like a guilty creature. I have not found that again since, to that degree; I have sometimes spoken with pleasure the names of persons or things close to the Object of my dreams of the moment; smiled, blushed very slightly, and that is all.
Self-love or vanity still gives me emotions of the utmost violence.
I wait for a visit or a greeting with a beating heart and real fever, and that from people with whom the heart has nothing to do, women sometimes. This same Jules has thrown me into enormous agitation. Will he come, will he not come, will he go round the exhibition with us? I had gone to some trouble over my appearance and wanted my vanity repaid. It is these feelings that have made me think still of that artist. And then his brother profits by this preoccupation; it seemed to me that he was in love with me. What a man of taste! That feeling on the part of some other subordinate might not occupy me so much, but he is the other one’s brother, and that changes things. Then it seems to me that he is cooling off; that vexes me, and here I am very much taken up with it, agitated, and watching his behaviour. Is it holding? Is it over?
At such moments the sight of a hat like the insignificant architect’s can set my heart beating hard, upon my word. So one must not trust these things.
Then I go out with the Maréchale; it suddenly seems to me that she is not as gracious as usual, and there is my heart thrown into a flutter; I look for the cause, imagine a thousand things and lose my head. Then... As soon as one has hope of pleasing a man, whoever he may be, that man immediately stands out from the crowd. Then, of course, one does not care a fig... Take Carrier-Belleuse. He was charmed by my delightful person; perhaps he thought that, an original foreigner, an artist, there was some hope... And once enlightened about my person, he cooled off. He occupied my thoughts, and to this day he still counts for a little more than the others. Well, that is how I am made; there must be others!
But here I am, very attentive to crystallisation... If I were married to Saint-Amand, it would allow one to be less all-or-nothing and to be content with partial crystallisations. I could, it seems to me... But the pen makes all these ramblings look so definite that I stop.

Notes

In French in the original: amour-passion. Stendhal’s term in De l’Amour. ↩