y the class of writing that I cultivate, and which
necessitates a calm study of the passions, I am an authority on such
subjects, better than most women can be. And alas, my child, I come to
this result: there is no prescribing to men or to women whom to select,
whom to refuse. I cannot refute the axiom of the ancient poet, "In love
there is no wherefore." But there is a time--it is often but a moment
of time--in which love is not yet a master, in which we can say, "I will
love, I will not love."

Now, if I could find you in such a moment, I would say to you, "Artist,
do not love, do not marry, an artist." Two artistic natures rarely
combine. The artistic nature is wonderfully exacting. I fear it is
supremely egotistical,--so jealously sensitive that it writhes at the
touch of a rival. Racine was the happiest of husbands; his wife adored
his genius, but could not understand his plays. Would Racine have been
happy if he had married a Corneille in petticoats? I who speak have
loved an artist, certainly equal to myself. I am sure that he loved
me. That sympathy in pursuits of which you speak drew us together, and
became very soon the cause of antipathy. To both of us the endeavour to
coalesce was misery.

I don't know your M. Rameau. Savarin has sent me some of his writings;
from these I judge that his only chance of happiness would be to marry a
commonplace woman, with separation de biens. He is, believe me, but
one of the many with whom New Paris abounds, who because they have the
infirmities of genius imagine they have its strength.

I come next to the Englishman. I see how serious is your questioning
about him. You not only regard him as a being distinct from the crowd of
a salon; he stands equally apart in the chamber of your thoughts,--you
do not mention him in the same letter as that which treats of Rameau and
Savarin. He has become already an image not to be lightly mixed up with
others. You would rather not have mentioned him at all to me, but you
could not resist it. The interest you feel in him so perplexed you, that
in a kind of feverish impatience you cry out to me, "Can you solve
the riddle? Did you ever know well Englishmen? Can an Englishman
be understood out of his island?" etc. Yes, I have known well many
Englishmen; in affairs of the heart they are much like all other men.
No; I do not know this Englishman in particular, nor any one of his
name.

Well, my child, let us frankly grant that this foreign