And in the third, that neither did I doubt but what they would acquire, in consequence, more precise notions upon the extent of their rights.
Woman, like any other animal susceptible of education, possesses the most subtle faculties of imitation. Now if, her weak nature being overcome by those impulses towards mischief and malice with which she is peculiarly endowed, she is tempted to commit trivial derelictions of conduct—derelictions which, after all, are but faults of discernment—is there any reason why we should make such a fuss about it?
In the midst of the supremely refined existence which my sultanas lead, I seem to discover in these innocent little vagaries a frank simplicity of character, more nearly related to purity of conscience than are the accomplished manners of our most polished coquettes.
While on this subject I must reply to the sarcasms contained in your last letter.
Let me tell you first of all that I have never laid claim to the character of a superior being inaccessible to human vanities, as you are trying to make out. I am quite willing to admit with you that I, like any other man, am possessed by "the stupid satisfaction which every man experiences in watching the success of the woman he loves." It is quite possible that the effect produced by my odalisques upon the idle crowd (or as you term it la haute badauderie) of Paris, has suddenly invested them with new charms in my eyes. You say that the mystery with which they are enshrouded, and the silly conjectures which I hear people make about them as they pass by, have excited me and turned my head like that of a simpleton.
Well, I suppose you will hardly expect me to account for the human weakness which leads us to measure our own happiness by the degree of envy which it excites in others? Besides, what is the good of sifting my passion or testing my love in a crucible in order to estimate its value?
In the midst of my pagan indulgences, you ask me if I really love, in the usual sense of that word. This very reasonable question was at any rate worth asking, however simple it may seem. It is concerned with the great problem in psychology which I undertook to solve, namely, as to which predominates in love, the heart or the senses, and whether true love is possible when one loves four women at the same time?
It is clear that in the restricted limits of our ideas, and under the yoke of our customs and prejudices, we can only conceive of passion as concentrated upon a single object. Too far removed from our primitive origin and from the patriarchal age, and moulded by the influences of more refined customs, our minds have been stimulated to the contemplation of a certain recognized ideal. Still, as moralists and philosophers, we must admit that among Orientals there is, doubtless, another conception and another ideal of love, the character of which we cannot grasp. It is only by divesting ourselves of our moral clogs, or the restraints of our social conventionalities, that we can attain to the understanding of this lofty psychological problem. Indeed, no one has ever been able to say what love consists in. "Attraction of two hearts," say some, and "mutual exchange of fancies;" but these are nothing but words depending upon the particular instance in which they are employed.
The truth is that we are full of inconsistencies in all our definitions. From a purely sentimental point of view, we start by laying down, as an absolute axiom, that the human heart can only embrace one object of love, and that man can only fall truly in love once in his life. Yet if we abstract from love the distinct element which our senses contribute to it, it is seen to consist of nothing but a form of affection—an expansion of the soul analogous to friendship and to paternal or filial love, sentiments equally powerful, but which we recognize the duty of distributing between several objects.
Whence arises this strange contradiction?