To the cradle of the eighteenth century came the customary gifts, in themselves a trifle unusual.  Queen Anne sent the dulness of perfect gentility.  Queen Maintenon gave bigotry.  Louis XIV provided the spectacle of a mythological monster.  But Molinos, a Spanish fairy, uninvited at the christening, malignantly sent his blessing.  The latter, known as quietism, was one of love’s aberrations.  It did not last for the reason that nothing does.  Besides the life of a century is long enough to outgrow many things, curses as well as blessings.  For the time being, however, throughout Europe generally and in certain sections of America, quietism found adherents.

The new evangel, originally published at Rome, had a woman, Mme. Guyon, for St. Paul.  Its purport Boileau summarized as the enjoyment in paradise of the pleasures of hell.  As is frequently the case with summaries, that of Boileau was not profound.  Diderot called it the true religion of the tender-hearted.  Diderot sometimes nodded.  Quietism was not that.  A little before rose-water had been distilled from mud.  Quietism reversed the process.  From the lilies of mysticity it extracted dirt.  In itself an etherealized creed of predeterminism, it put fatalism into love.  The added ingredient was demoralizing.  Already Maria d’Agreda, a Spanish nun, had written a tract that made Bossuet blush.  The doctrine of Molinos made him furious.  Against it, against Mme. Guyon, against Fenelon who indorsed her, against all adherents, he waged one of those memorable wars which the world has entirely forgotten.  It had though its justification.  Morbid as everything that came from Spain, quietism held that temptations are the means that God employs to purge the soul of passion.  It taught that they should not be shunned but welcomed.  The argument advanced was to the effect that, in the omnisapience of the divine, man is saved not merely by good works but by evil deeds, by sin as well as by virtue.

In the Roman circus, the Christian, once subtracted from life, was subtracted also from evil.  What then happened to his body was a matter of indifference to him.  In quietism that indifference was solicited before subtraction came.  It was disclosed as a means of grace to the living.  Through the exercise of will, or, more exactly through its extinction, the Christian was told, to separate soul from body.  The soul then, asleep in God, lost to any connection between itself and the flesh, was indifferent, as the martyr, to whatever happened.

The result is as obvious as it was commodious.  The body, artificially released from all restraint and absolved from any responsibility, was free to act as it listed.

In discussing the doctrine, Fenelon declared that there are souls so inflamed with the love of God and so resigned to His will that, if they believed themselves damned, they would accept eternal punishment with thanksgiving.

For propagating this insanity Fenelon was accorded the honors of a bishopric which was exile.  Mme. Guyon received the compliment of a lettre de cachet which was prison.  The Roman Inquisition cloistered Molinos.  That was fame.  The doctrine became notorious.  Moreover, there was in it something so old that it seemed quite new.  Society, always avid of novelties, adopted it.  But presently fresher fashions supervened.  In France these were originated by the Regent, in England by Germany.

At the accession of Louis XIV, Germany, for nearly thirty years, had been a battlefield.  The war waged there was in the interests of religion.  The Holy Office was not unique in its pastimes.  There was fiendishness everywhere, cruelty married to mania, in which Germany joined.  Germany employed the serviceable rack, the thumbscrew, the wheel, vats of vitriol, burning oil, drawing and quartering.  Occasionally there were iron cages in which the wicked were hung on church steeples with food suspended a little higher, just out of reach.  Occasionally also criminals were respited and released when, through some miracle of love there were those that agreed to marry them.

That indulgence occurred after the Peace of Westphalia.  Germany, then, decimated and desolate, was so depopulated that the Franconian Estates legalized bigamy.  Every man was permitted two wives.  Meanwhile barbarism had returned.  Domestic life had ceased.  Respect for women had gone.  Love had died with religion.  From the nervous strain recovery was slow.  It was a century before the pulse of the people was normal.  Previously love, better idealized by the Minnesaenger than by the minstrel, had been put on a pedestal from which convulsive conditions shook it.  Later, when it arose again, it was in two forms which, while distinct, were not opposed.  In one was the influence of France, in the other the native Schwaermerei.  The former affected kings, the latter appealed to urbaner folk among whom it induced an attitude that was maudlin when not anarchistic.  The anarchistic attitude was represented by artists generally.  For these love had no laws and its one approach was the swift current running from New Friendship to Tenderness-on-Inclination.  Similarly the conservatives landed at a village that Clelie overlooked, Tenderness-on-Sympathy, a spot where, through sheer contagion, everybody engaged in duels of emotion during which principals and seconds fell on each other’s neck, wept, embraced, swore affection auf immerdar-beyond the tomb and, in the process, discovered elective affinities, the Wahlverwandtschaften of which Goethe later told, relationships of choice that were also anarchistic.

The influence of France brooded over courts.  At Versailles love strolled on red heels through a minuet.  In the grosser atmosphere of the German Residenzen it kicked a chahut in sabots.  In all the world there was but one Versailles.  In Germany there were a hundred imitations, gaunt, gilded, hideous barracks where Louis Quatorze was aped.  In one of them, at Karlsruhe, the Margrave Karl Wilhelm peopled a Teuton Trianon with nameless nymphs.  In another, at Dresden, the Elector Augustus of Saxony became the father of three hundred and fifty children.  At Mannheim, Bayreuth, Stuttgart, Brunswick, Darmstadt, license was such that the Court of Charles the Second would have seemed by comparison puritan.  Beyond them, outside their gates and garden vistas, the people starved or, more humanely, were whipped off in herds to fight and die on the Rhine and Danube.  But within, at the various Wilhelmshoehe and Ludwigslust, kinglets danced with their Frauen.  At Versailles it was to the air of Amaryllis that the minuet was walked.  In the German Residenzen it was to the odor of schnapps that women chahuted.

The women lacked beauty.  They lacked the grace of the Latin, the charm of the Slav, the overgrown angel look of the English, the prettiness that the American has achieved.  But in girlhood generally they were endearing, almost cloying, naturally constant and, when otherwise, made so by man and the spectacle of court corruption.

European courts have always supplied the neighborhood with standards of morals and manners.  Those of eighteenth-century Germany were coarse.  The tone of society was similar.  “Berlin,” an observer wrote, “is a town where, if fortis may be construed honest, there is neither vir fortis nec foemina casta.  The example of neglect of all moral and social duties raised before the eyes of the people by the king show them vice too advantageously. In other words and in another tongue, similar remarks were made of Hanover. From there came George the First.  After him trooped his horrible Herrenhausen harem.

Since the departure of Charles the Second, London life had been relatively genteel.  Throughout the Georgian period it was the reverse.  The memoirs of the period echo still with shouts and laughter, with loud, loose talk, with toasts bawled over brimming cups, with the noise of feasting, of gaming and of pleasure.  The pages turn to the sound of fiddles.  From them arises the din of an immense Sir Roger de Coverley, in which the dancers go up and down, interchanging hearts and then all hands round together.  In England at the time a king, however vulgar, was superterrestrial, a lord was sacro-sanct, a gentleman holy and a lady divine.

The rest of the world was composed of insects, useful, obsequious, parasitic that swarmed beneath a social order less coarse than that of Germany, less amiably than that of France, but as dissolute and reckless as either, a society of macaronis and rouged women, of wits and prodigals, of dare-devils and fatted calves, a life of low scandals in high places, of great fortunes thrown into the gutter, of leisurely suppers and sudden elopements-runaways that had in their favor the poetry of the post-chaise, pistol-shots through the windows and the dignity of danger-a life mad but not maudlin, not sober but strong, free from hysteria and sentimentality, and in which, apart from the bacchanalian London world, there must have been room, as there always is, for real love and much sweetness besides, yet which, in its less alluring aspect was very faithfully followed by colonial New York.  Meanwhile the world that made the pace and kept it, saw it reflected back from boards and books, in plays and novels, some of which are not now even mentionable.  That pace, set by a boozing sovereign is summarizable in a scene that occurred at the death-bed of Queen Caroline, when the latter told old George II. to marry again, while he blubbered:  “Non, non, j’aurai des maîtresses,” and she retorted, “Ah! mon Dieu!  Cela n’empeche pas."

These Germans talked French.  It was the fashion, one adopted in servile homage of the Grand Monarque.  At the latter’s departure the Regency came.  With the Restoration England turned a moral handspring.  With the Regency, France turned a double one.  The Regency was the first act of the Revolution.  The second was Louis Quinze.  The third was the Guillotine-a climax for which great ladies rehearsed that they might die, as they had lived, with grace.

Moscow, meanwhile, was a bloody sewer, Vienna a reconstruction of the cities that overhung the Bitter Sea.  In Paris were the beginnings of humanitarianism, the commencements of to-day, preludes quavering and uncertain, hummed over things intolerably base, but none the less audible, none the less there.  In them was the dawn of liberty, the rebirth of real love, an explosion of evil but also of good.

Said Tartuffe: 

     Le scandale du monde est ce qui fait l’offensé
     Et ce n’est pas pêcher que pêcher en silence.

Under the Maintenon regime the theory had been very fully exploited.  Multiple turpitudes were committed but in the dark.  Under the Regency they occurred openly, unhypocritically, in the daylight.  The mud that was there was dried by the sun.  It ceased to be unwholesome.  Though vile it was not vicious.  Moreover, in the air was a carnival gayety, put there by the Regent, who, while not the best man in the world was not the worst, an artistic Lovelace that gave the tone to a Neronian society, already in dissolution, one that Law tossed into the Niagara of bankruptcy and Cartouche held up, a society of which Beranger said: 

     Tous les hommes plaisantaient,
     Et les femmes se pretaient
       A la gaudriole.

Mme. de Longueville being in the country was asked, would she hunt.  Mme. de Longueville did not care for hunting.  Would she fish, would she walk, would she drive?  No, she would not.  Mme. de Longueville did not care for innocent pleasures.  Mme. de Longueville was a typical woman of the day.  Life to such as she was a perpetual bal d’opera and love, the image of Fragonard’s Cupid, who, in the picture of the Chemise enlevée, divested it of modesty with a smirk.

Modesty then was neither appreciated nor ingrained.  The instinct of it was lacking.  It was a question of pins, a thing attachable or detachable at will.  Women of position received not necessarily in a drawing-room, or even in a boudoir but in bed.  In art and literature there was an equal sans-gene.  In affairs of the heart there was an equivalent indifference.  There was no romance, no dream, no beyond.  Chivalric ideals were regarded as mediaeval bric-a-brac and fine sentiments as rubbish.  Even gallantry with its mimic of being jealous and its pretended constancy was vieux jeu.  Love, or what passed for it, had become a fugitive caprice, lightly assumed and as readily discarded, without prejudice to either party.

     On s’enlace.  Puis, un jour,
     On s’en lasse.  C’est l’amour.

It had, however, other descents, a fall to depths of which history hitherto had been ignorant.  Meanwhile the Regent had gone.  Louis XV had come.  With him were the real sovereigns of the realm, Mme. de Châteauroux, Petticoat I; the Pompadour, Petticoat II; the Du Barry, Petticoat III-legitimatized queens of love, with courts of their own, with the rights, prerogatives and immunities of princesses of the blood, the privilege of dwelling with the king, of receiving foreign ambassadors and of pillaging France.

“Sire,” said Choiseul, “the people are starving.”  Louis XV answered:  “I am bored.”

The boredom came from precocious pleasures that had left him, without energy or conviction, a cold, dreary brute, Asiatic and animal, a sort of Oriental idol gloomy and gilded, who, while figuratively a spoke in the wheel of monarchy then rolling down to ’89, personally was a minotaur in a feminine labyrinth which he filled, emptied, renewed, indifferent to the inmates as he was to his wife, wringing for the various Petticoats prodigal sums from a desolate land, supplying incidentally to fermiers generaux and grands seigneurs an example in Tiberianism which, assured of immunity, they greedily followed and, generally, making himself so loathed that when he died, delight was national.

It was in those days that Casanova promenaded through palace and cottage, convent and inn, inveigling in the course of the promenade three thousand women, princesses and soubrettes, abbesses and ballet girls, matrons and maids.  The promenade, which was a continuous sin, he recited at length in his memoirs.  During the recital you see a hideous old man, slippered and slovenly, fumbling in a box in which are faded ribbons, rumpled notes, souvenirs and gages d’amour.

Richelieu was another of that type which the example of the throne had created and which de Sade alone eclipsed.  It was then there appeared in Petersburg, in Vienna, in London, wherever society was, a class of men, who depraved women for the pleasure of it, and a class of women who destroyed men for destruction’s sake, men and women who were the hyenas of love, monsters whose treachery was premeditated and malignant, and who, their object attained, departed with a laugh, leaving behind but ruin.  Ruin was insufficient.  Something acuter was required.  That something was found by de Sade.

In ways which Bluebeard had but outlined, the Marquis de Sade, lineal descendant of Petrarch’s Laura, mingled kisses with blood.  Into affection he put fright, into love he struck terror, he set the infernal in the divine.

It was the logical climax to which decadence had groped and to it already the austere guillotine was attending.

There love touched bottom.  It could not go lower.  But though it could and did remount it did not afterward reach higher altitudes than those to which it had previously ascended.  In the eighteenth century the possible situations of its infinite variety were, at least temporarily, exhausted.  Thereafter the frailties of great ladies, the obscurer liaisons of lesser ones, attachments perfect and imperfect, loves immaculate and the reverse, however amply set forth, disclose no new height.  As the pages of chronicles turn and faces emerge, lovers appear and vanish.  In the various annals of different lands their amours, pale or fervid as the case may be, differ perhaps but only in atmosphere and accessories.  On antecedent types no advance is accomplished.  Recitals of them cease to enlighten.  Love had become what it has since remained, a harper strumming familiar airs, strains hackneyed if delicate, melodies very old but always new, so novel even that they seem original.  To the music of it history discloses fresher mouths, further smiles, tears and kisses.  History will always do that.  Wrongly is it said that it repeats itself.  Except with love it never does.  In life as in death change is the one thing constant.  Between them love alone stands changeless.  Since it first appeared it has had many costumes, a wardrobe of tissues of every hue.  But in character it has not altered.  Influences favorable or prejudicial might degrade it or exalt.  In abasements and assumptions love, like beauty, being one and indivisible, remained unchangeably love.  What varied was the costume.