Letters From Prison (48 page)

For example, today I had my mattresses beaten, and in so doing they stole from me a fourth of the wool they contained. Is that a signal? If it is, give the man a tip, for not only did he do it exceedingly well, but he even went on to reassure me that
there was no longer any reason for my mattresses to be beaten or, if there was a reason, they should be done in that manner.
Eternal and charming manner of reasoning! With these people, I either have to dispense with whatever I have asked for or else I pay for it very dearly, and even then it turns out to be of an extremely poor quality: there is no middle ground. In the old days, what used to be referred to as highwaymen did not hold the poor peasant for ransom with any greater impunity nor did they act in his regard any more coherently. ’Tis fair to say, the comparison is absolutely apt, and this is what they refer to as a house of correction! ’Tis surrounded by the most churlish and basest of vices that a poor wretch is supposed to learn how to cherish virtue! And ’tis for having failed to respect the ass of a whore that a father runs the risk of never knowing his children’s love, because they are separated from him, of being forcibly kept from his wife’s embrace, from the care of his estates and possessions, that he is robbed, ruined, dishonored, done in, that he is prevented both from guiding his children properly into the world and from improving his own lot, that he rather is made the butt and the plaything of jailers, the fodder for three or four other utter scoundrels, that he is compelled to waste his time, his money, see his health deteriorate, and that he be kept incarcerated for seven years like a madman in an iron cage! And all that, why? What causes can bring about such great effects? Has he betrayed his country? Has he plotted against his wife, his children, his sovereign? Not at all; not a single word even suggesting as much. He has the great misfortune of firmly believing that nothing is less respectable than a whore and the way in which one makes use of her should be of no greater consequence than the manner in which one passes one’s stool. Most assuredly, these are misdeeds, misdeeds of such gravity they deserve to have a man brought low.

If one were to go and say to King Achem, whose harem contains no fewer than seven hundred concubines, to whom he administers three or four hundred lashes a day to any who commit the slightest infraction, and who tries out his army sword on their heads; or to the Emperor of Golconda, who never goes out for a walk except on the backs of a dozen women arranged in the form of an elephant and who immolates a dozen of them with his own hand whenever a prince of royal blood dies; if, I say, one were to go and say to these gentlemen that in Europe there is a small parcel of earth in which one dismal man retains in his employ, day in and day out, some three thousand rogues whose task it is to verify the manner in which the citizens of this little parcel of earth (people who declare themselves to be
extremely enlightened)
attach the greatest importance to spermatic matters; and that there are dungeons and prisons ready and waiting, gallows constructed, especially for those members of this
extremely enlightened people
who have not been able to understand that ‘twas a major crime to loosen the floodgates to the right rather than to the left; and that the slightest overheating of the head in a moment such as this, when nature dictates that one lose it completely, but when the dismal man of whom I spoke would have us retain full control of one’s senses, such a person was sentenced to death or sent to prison for twelve to fifteen years; if, I say, if one were to go and report all this to the kings I have just named, you’d have to agree that ‘twould be only normal that they in turn lock up the man who bore such news . . . But that’s because these people are not civilized, they do not have the great good fortune of being enlightened by the flame of Christianity, they are but slaves whereas we, on the contrary, are
very Christian, extremely civilized, and most enlightened.

O maker of this benighted little round ball, you who with a single breath has perhaps brought into being ten billion other little worlds such as ours in the immensity of space, you for whom the loss of these ten billion worlds would cost you not even so much as a sigh of regret, how you must be amused by all these imbecilities on the part of the tiny ants wherewith it has pleased you to sprinkle your globes, how you must laugh at King Achem who whips seven hundred women, at the emperor of Golconda who turns them into post horses, as you must chuckle too at that dismal man who would have us keep our head about us when we are losing our c____! Farewell, my darling wife.

1
. Sade uses the term “accident,” but probably means “eye problems,” from which he has been suffering for some time, a condition known as keratitis.

2
. Then, as now, a habit of the guards was to try to entrap prisoners into saying or revealing something that could be held against them.

3
. Again, Sade is assuming that these baitings are the work of la président

4
. De Rougemont, of course.

54. To Abbé Amblet

[January, 1782]

I
am more or less in agreement with Monsieur de Buffon.
¹
What I like about love, and the only thing about it I deem worthy, is the climax thereof. Trying to apply metaphysics to love is, to my mind, not only extremely stupid but also monstrous, and the only exception I make to that is when I am forced to intersperse a bit of it in my works, in keeping with the demands of dramatic art.

Accordingly, I desire most urgently, as soon as I am free, that the slightly less restricted display of my talents in that undertaking will have no greater success than that it has just had on the part of those who have set Monsieur Amblet’s tongue a-wagging. And ‘twill be with the utmost delight that, once again giving free rein to my own true nature, I shall forsake the brushes of Molière for those of Aretino.
²

The former, as you can well see, earned me a bit of fame and notoriety in the capital of Guyana; the latter paid me six pleasant little months of minor indulgence in one of the first cities of the kingdom, and forced me to spend two months in Holland without spending a penny of my own money. What a difference!

1
. Count Georges Louis Leclerc (1707-1788), who wrote under the name Buffon, was a French naturalist and the author of
Natural History,
one of the many scientific works Sade read in Vincennes.

2
. Pietro Aretino (1492-1556), satirical licentious author whose daring clearly inspired Sade. In prison, Sade had devoted much of his overt writing up till now to drama. Here he gives his old tutor fair warning that, once free, he intends to bend his talents to more scurrilous forms.

55 To Abbé Amblet

[January, 1782]

T
he people of this world must be more than a little annoyed to see themselves depicted in such a light. ’Tis not, it seems to me, up to him who belies so forcefully the tableau to portray them in such odious features. The world has therefore changed greatly since I left it. As I remember, in former times solace and consolation were more or less reserved for those who suffered or were wanting, and going on that assumption I thought myself deserving of more than my fair share. Without questioning you on the matter, you nonetheless offer me one considerable consolation, for if people are indeed as you portray them, then one ought to have few regrets at having violated the laws of their society: thus my soul is at peace again, and for that I thank you, for I am indebted to you. With the exception that I have little doubt, if tomorrow I were to be sent to the gallows, you would write a different letter. I thought ‘twas uniquely reserved to those lacking a soul to lend their pen to the furies of revenge, but you convince me that there is a feeling in the heart of even the most decent of men who can at times cause him to turn his back on all the others. Even Madame la présidente de Montreuil, whose sole charm is to make sure I have a falling out with everyone, and who to that purpose—the way whores do to soldiers—bends her every talent and effort, often forgets that her family tree is far more beset with unfortunate slander than mine. Let her simply go back one or two generations, no more, on either her side of the family or her husband’s—I shall not elaborate further—and she will find a
poor miserable creature
who surely often cried from the depths of her heart:
“Be fair, even if you cannot bring yourself to be tolerant, and learn that one ought not to humiliate when one has reason to blush oneself; that fortune can give you the right to commiserate with misfortunes equal to your own but not the right to punish them.”

One of my major consolations, I confess, was to receive at least once a year some proof, however passing, of your friendship. I deployed all the craftiness at my command to that end, for when it came to reciprocating, you may be assured that whatever I said or did was merely a ruse to make certain I had a word from you at year’s end. I considered that my New Year’s gift to myself, and I regaled myself with it much as children do their toys. But this monster, this infernal creature that no expression can ever properly depict, like a viper that blights everything it touches, wants to spew her venom even upon our long-standing friendship; she is well on her way to succeeding, ‘twould seem, at least to all outward appearances, for nothing will ever erase from my heart my feelings for you. But I shall learn how to do without the pleasure of hearing from you, or of asking you for tangible proof of your feelings for me. You may inform her of her victory by showing her the most earnest request that I hereby make that you not write me further. I shall withdraw into myself, I shall dwell upon those happy days when innocence and peace formed, with flowers, the links of friendship that today they would have me break, and I shall write, with Dante:

Nussun maggior dolore

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella miseria.

—Dante,
Inferno,
canto 5

[There is no greater pain than to remember,

In our present grief, past happiness.]

56. To Mademoiselle de Rousset

From my country house, this April 17, 1782

T
he eagle, Mademoiselle, is sometimes obliged to leave the seventh region of the air to swoop down and light upon the summit of Mount Olympus, upon the ancient pines of the Caucasus, upon the cold larch trees of the Jura, upon the snow-bedecked brow of Taurus, and even, upon occasion, near the quarries of Montmartre.

We know from history (for history is a lovely thing) that Cato, the great Cato, cultivated his field with his own hands, that Cicero himself planted trees in even rows along the beautiful avenues of Formies (I don’t know whether or not they are still standing), that Diogenes was wont to sleep in a wine cask, that Abraham was known to craft statues out of clay, that the illustrious author of
Telemachus
composed some touching little verses for Madame Guyon, that Piron
¹
sometimes forsook his sublime brushes of
The Metromania
in order to drink some Champagne and compose the
Ode to Priapus
(do you by any chance know this poetic trifle, so popular with today’s young ladies and so truly appropriate to be integrated into any plan of education, the goal of which is to shape the mind and heart of those demoiselles destined for the fashionable world?). Haven’t we seen the great Voltaire build a church to Our Lord with the same hand with which he wrote, speaking of the Holy Birth of our Redeemer:

Joseph-the-panther and Mary-the-dark,

Unknowingly wrought their pious work.

PUCELLE

And in our own time, Mademoiselle, in our very own majestic days, have we not seen the renowned Madame de Montreuil set aside her Euclides and her Barrême
²
to come and discuss salad and olive oil with her cook?

All of which should go to prove beyond all shadow of doubt, Mademoiselle, that however hard man tries, however much he tries to raise himself to a special plane, there are two inevitable moments in the day that, despite all his efforts to the contrary, cannot fail but remind him of the unfortunate condition of all other animals save himself, which as you know, according to my way of thinking (perhaps to judge unfairly, in my opinion), according to my way of thinking, I say, bring him back closer to reality. And these two cruel moments are (excuse the expressions, Mademoiselle, they are not noble but they are nonetheless true), those two frightful moments, therefore, are: first when he
intakes
food and the second when he
expels
it. To those one could add the moment when a person learns that his inheritance is being eaten away, and again when one is told of the death of his faithful servants. Such is the situation in which I find myself, my saintly one, and that ‘twill therefore be the subject of this sad epistle.

I regret the passing of Gothon. She doubtless had her faults, but she more than made up for them by her virtues and qualities; and there are many people in this world about whom one cannot say as much. Gothon loved men. But, Mademoiselle, are men not made for women, and women for men? ’Tis that not the will of nature? Gothon, as Madame de Sade has been wont to say with a show of great humor,
married because she was with child.
Well, now, Mademoiselle, a bit of philosophy here! What is the great harm in that? As for myself, I see nothing therein but virtues. In so doing, she was desirous of giving her child a father; she wanted to make sure the babe would have its daily bread; by so doing she was making an effort to see that the child might have a chance to rise above that abject class that leaves it little recourse but to descend into poverty or into crime. But she was also, on several occasions, unfaithful to her husband . . . Ah! there is where I have to draw the line! Adultery on the part of women is a subject fraught with such dire harm, the consequences thereof are so catastrophic and so deadly that I have never been able to tolerate it. Look high and low at my principles, rummage as deeply as you like into the history of my licentious affairs and you will find that rarely did I become involved in such affairs, and for every dozen virgins, or so-called virgins, that I tried to seduce you will be hard-pressed to find as many as three married women. On this point, Gothon was therefore in her wrong. Gothon was responsible for my arrest,
³
I’m aware of that, but in my eyes death effaces all her offenses, and my unhappy heart is heavy with tears, even for my greatest enemies.