Letters From Prison (18 page)

Dearest and most amiable Saint, I shall not fill in your blank columns, and that for a very simple reason, which is that I would then have to send your letter back to you, and ’tis too pretty for that. You are like the man who wanted to make seaports of the whole of France, because seaports are profitable. Because I am fond of columns, you want to turn everything into columns! But don’t do it, or else I shall end up without a single one of your letters, and they give me too much pleasure for me to want to part with them. In your letters, a separate sheet divided into columns, fine, upon which you can jot down the buffooneries or items of business: which these days are synonymous for me, for as you well know when they come to me here with talk of business ’tis pure buffoonery, ’tis Sancho Panza on his island being told that everybody awaits his commands. ’Tis a little mockery in which, let it be said without the least ill will, you indulge as you do in everything else. You have discovered the tone it takes
to lie to me
as you have learned that to make fun of me is the established norm; they have persuaded you that ’tis the thing for you to do as well, that there’s nothing better, and especially nothing more apt to bring about a radical improvement in me than that. And so you do it, too . . . Yes, Saint Rousset, you have done it! and when we meet face to face, I shall make you admit that you have written to me
a number of most unwarranted things regarding my situation.
To which you will say, does that mean you want everything sugarcoated? Certainly not, Saint Rousset, that is not at all what I want. I want people to tell me the truth: that is the only favor I ask . . . But, you will say, people cannot. . . Very well then, if they cannot tell me the truth they must at least stop leading me down the garden path, making me believe I am in for a long stint, for to imply it without stating just how long, which would perhaps set my mind to imagining much more than it should, would plunge me into a state of utter despair. Thus, in such a case, ’tis better not to say anything, or else to talk straight, which is much simpler. In another letter, the one in columns to which I am replying today, you immediately switch to another tone and say:
Twelve jars of jam, that is a lot; in any case, no harm if there’s some left over.
There’s one of those contradictions that are unbearable, and I thought you were too close a friend to adopt such ridiculous language, about which you have heard me complain so bitterly. Tucked in amongst all that is another folly, one which Lady Sade, most sensibly, is beginning to forgo, but to which you still cling, and which I hope you too will soon abandon: ’tis to try and make me believe
that everybody’s hard at work, writing letters, soliciting, still awaiting replies, that uncles, aunts, the devil himself. . .
Oh no, saintly and most holy Rousset, not another word about that! Be so kind as to sing some other tune if you want me to listen to you. Such stuff is fine for ordinary prisoners; ’tis what they call
keeping them entertained.
But I am not someone to be entertained. My time has been fixed; the day, the hour, and the moment are irrevocably set, and no uncle, no aunt, no Saint Rousset herself is capable either of increasing it or diminishing it by one minute. I ask to know
what it is;
’tis my sole desire. They refuse to tell me, they keep me on tenterhooks. Bravo! But at least let them not believe they are
entertaining me,
nor that they are giving me food for thought, or by that tactic contributing to my welfare; because, on the contrary, all they are doing is irritating my mind, souring my character and unhinging my spirits, to the point where the unfortunate effects of all this will remain with me for the rest of my life. That is all they are doing, you may be sure of it. And, instead of that, had I known the length of my term I would have bent my efforts toward good things, because I would have had no need for vivid diversions; I would have had better and more solid reflections, and in the long run I would have been grateful to those who had given me the opportunity thus to focus my thinking. Instead, by completely disturbing it the way they are doing, by refusing to tell me the sole thing I want to know and the only one that can give me peace of mind, all I can do is curse and loathe them as long as I live, because I sense how much I am deteriorating and being undone here by frightful anxieties. Moreover, my dear Saint, if you only knew how your heart avenges me for the little wrongs your mind dreams up! how you, who write like an angel, become clumsy and stilted when your mind leads you to play
upon words, upon figures, upon signs
and all the other foolishness wherewith the Carmelites so liberally filled you! If, I say, you only knew how clumsy you were you would laugh at yourself and I would love you four times as much. Eh! Give it up! Go back to Voltaire’s maxim in
Zaire,
which he would have written expressly for you if only he had known you:

L’art le plus innocent tient de la perfidie:

Qu’il ne souille jamais le saint noeud qui nous lie;

Tu n ‘en as pas besoin.

[The most innocent art derives from perfidy:

May it never sully the sacred tie that binds us;

You have no need for such.]

There, I’ve unburdened my heart and I’ll change the subject. You urge me to be reasonable, Saint Rousset! But is that a language you understand? ’Tis not made for women. That charming sex, which sends reason packing, must know neither how to hear it nor speak it. And furthermore, how can you expect reason to prevail in someone who is treated as though he had none himself? Shall I mention that the sharp points of the candle-snuffers Lady Sade sent to me were very scrupulously filed off, for fear I would use them to kill myself? You can see that I am still a long way from the end of my misfortunes and that they foresee that I still have plenty of occasions for despair ahead of me, since they take such measures to withhold from me anything that might render its effects fatal! That’s not any way to treat a man for whom twelve jars of jam are too many; ’tis the method they used with Damiens
¹
and other famous scoundrels whom they prefer to keep alive, either to pry further information out of them or to keep them in a state of despair to which they are bound to succumb, thus not depriving the public of the example they want to give of their slow agony. And you want me to set my mind at ease! Have me ponder things, while they are resorting to such methods! Do you know my manner of thinking? ’Tis that the first man who ever took it into his head to dictate to his fellow human beings ought to have been broken alive. And when I see people just as narrow-minded as I take it upon themselves to steer me in the right direction, meddle with the matter of determining what ought to be good for me and what not, I have the feeling of being in the middle of the republic of asses, where each seeks to offer his advice and where all end up grazing in the same meadow! O man, how thou art tiny and vain! Scarcely have you had time to bask in the sun, scarcely have you touched upon the mysteries of the universe than you have nothing better to do than bend your cruel efforts in harrying your fellow man! And whence do you believe you have such a right? From your pride? But ’tis based on what, this pride? Have you any more eyes, any more hands, any more organs than I? Miserable earthworm, who has only a few hours to crawl, as do I, enjoy your lot and leave me alone. Humble your pride, born of naught but your foolishness; and if chance has placed you, really or
accidentally,
higher than me, in other words if you graze in a slightly better corner, profit therefrom to improve my lot. Saint Rousset, if amongst all the breeds of animals we know here on earth there were one that had built prisons for itself, and had then mutually condemned one another to this lovely little torture, would we not destroy it as a species too cruel to be allowed to subsist in this world?. . . I do not believe there has ever been any aberration like these prisons. First of all, it is an acknowledged abuse of both law and human nature that the
lettre de cachet
is in contradiction to the constitution of the State. Originally, prison was a place of safekeeping, where the criminal was held prior to his execution. Later on, by some tyrannical principle, someone dreamed up the horrible idea of making the poor wretch suffer even more by letting him rot in prison instead of putting him to death. One day the Emperor Tiberius was asked to bring to trial a poor soul who had been suffering in prison for a long time. “I
would greatly regret it,
” the tyrant replied.
“How so?” “Why, he would be condemned to death and I should no longer have the pleasure of knowing that he is suffering
” This Tiberius, as you know, was a monster. How is it then that we, who are
so gentle and meek, so civilized, so charming,
we who live in a
golden age,
are just as ferocious as that Tiberius? If I have deserved to die, then so be it, I am quite ready for it; if not, let them stop driving me mad here between four walls, and all that to no other purpose than to satisfy the vengeance of two or three ne’er-do-wells who would deserve a hundred strokes of the rod . . . and something else too I don’t dare mention, and something else too I don’t dare say plainly (isn’t that how your little song goes?).

Prison . . . prison . . . nothing but prison! . . . That’s all they know in France. You have a mild, a decent man; he made one unfortunate mistake, which his enemies have blown up all out of proportion in order to bring him down:
prison.
But, imbeciles that you are, when will you ever learn that there are as many differences in the characters of the human race as there are faces? that there are as many moral differences as there are physical? that what suits one person does not suit another? better still, that what may cure one may be the undoing of another, and that with your prison at every turn you resemble Crispin playing doctor, who prescribes the same pills for all illnesses? “But to do what you are saying,” you will object, “one would have to know something about human beings. Do you think that we are like the physicians and that we have nothing better to do than study your particular needs? Eh! verily, what do we care whether that suits you or not? That which is unsuitable for one is just fine for others. Have you ever thought how wretched maggots would be if there were no more corpses? Study you! . . . Good Lord, believe that and you’ll believe anything! And our pleasures? and our theaters, our shows? the young ladies we keep?
our wives
under lock and key? and, in our dealing with you, those little secrets we keep up our sleeves?. . . And what would become of all that if we had to go and focus on the study of man and rid ourselves of prisons? Come, come, dear sir, things are just fine as they are! And besides, the best reason of all for leaving them the way they are is that they have been that way for a very long time.” —Eh! you have said it, gentlemen! you have said it and here is the reason why; those who are bound by no other laws than the Justinian Code must still think like Tiberius!

Well now, Saint Rousset, you see what comes of making me resort to reason: it tastes a bit of verjuice, my reason, doesn’t it?. . . But what do you expect? ’Tis
fructus belli
²
. .
. But let us
have a brief look
at this letter with the columns, let me try to answer it if I can.

Tell me what this means:
“Your mind, let’s not talk about it, you don’t always put it to good use”?
I demand that you tell me what that means, otherwise I see trouble ahead.

You tell me that I listened to you for more than two whole hours when you talked reason to me. True, and ‘twas even with greatest pleasure I listened to you. But then I was free, I was a man, and at present I am
an animal in the Vincennes Zoo.
At this stage I am merely unable to talk reason; soon, I trust, I shall be at the point where I will have lost the faculty completely.

This cot where I sleep will have a good many things to tell me someday! I am not quite sure what it will have to say, but I do know that when next I lay myself down upon it, I shall most certainly be filled with very wicked thoughts. If one fine evening you were to go there and, tucking yourself in, you were to find me there—eh? what say you, Saint Rousset?. . . You’d be greatly surprised! . . . Would you take to your heels?. . . You would, wouldn’t you? Well, then, just see the difference between the two of us: I declare that if I were to come upon you in my bed, I’d slip myself into it as if it were perfectly normal. You women aren’t much as philosophers; you always are frightened
by nature.

You wish to become part of our
menagerie?
No, Saint Rousset, no, you are too old for that: to be in that group one must be between ten and fifteen. I, such as you see me, am only eleven; and so I feel quite at home. —By the way, tell me the honest truth now . . . you are as familiar with my room (for in referring to it as an “apartment” you do it too much justice) as if you had actually seen it: do you admit that you visit it daily and that ’tis you the magical mouse with whom I regularly do battle every night and who manages to elude my every snare?. . . ’Tis you, is it not? Tell me ’tis you, so that I cease trying so hard to get rid of you! and then ‘twill be my bed I open to you, instead of the mousetrap. . .

“A merchant’s shop
. . .” That’s just what it is! Yet, all told, I’ve only twenty-one crates or boxes, some big and some small; don’t begrudge me them. But also don’t send me any more, for I would not know where to store them . . .

You can picture me then, Saint Rousset, wearing my boots?
Oh!
I cut a fine figure in them! But I’m missing a sailor’s jacket, you know the kind, one of those peajackets Marseilles sailors wear. . . A pea-jacket! Ah, Saint Rousset, send me a little peajacket and I’ll have myself painted in it, since you want my portrait! Now, now, don’t be cross with me because I told my wife that if I gave you the La Coste portrait it was because it didn’t look like her. I say this in confidence to you: if I had a thousand paintings of her, I’d not give away a single one if they resembled her. So don’t be the least bit annoyed with me; I’d refuse them to my own father, if I were so fortunate as to still have him with me. As for my own, that’s different: I am as flattered by the request as I am anxious to procure you a good one. If you wish to make a copy of the large portrait in Paris, please do, or if you are willing to wait, then we’ll have it done from life. Madame de Sade promised me she would have her portrait done in Paris: pray urge her keep her word as soon as possible, make her promise to go to the artist’s, and you go there with her: ’tis the finest present she could ever give me. For God’s sake, convince her to have it done toward Lent, so that she doesn’t feel obliged to go outdoors until the weather is a bit warmer. You’ll hold yourself responsible for that too, as you will regarding her health?