Letters From Prison (52 page)

Now then! what in the world can be the reasons behind such perfidy? Is it the destruction of my life? If so, there’s no need to let me linger all this long. No, I categorically reject that idea, and do not despise my wife’s parents sufficiently to suspect them of such behavior. But one idiotic and frightful notion does come to mind here.
His misdeeds
—for such is the way they will probably put it—
are the fruit of an overheated imagination; break down his constitution in order to annihilate his imagination.
What an absurd line of reasoning, Sir! ’Tis not from an overheated imagination that so-called misdeeds derive, ’tis from a constitution that has been too beaten and battered. To try to destroy it further would therefore only have the effect of nurturing the cause of the disorder, not curing it. A child of twelve could easily have fathomed that. But what about his rage and his thirst for revenge, they reason? In a word, are they reprisals? They are unjust, Monsieur. I have never even once in my life mixed any drugs into any matter whatsoever, certainly nothing that could have negatively affected the health of a human being, and certainly without that person’s knowing it, and if my Marseilles trial has not rendered that principal charge null and void to the extent I would have wished, ’tis the fault of those who manipulated the trial from start to finish, and I can now see the reason why I have been treated thus. Aside from that, I defy anyone on the face of the earth to prove to me, or be able to prove to himself, that I have ever done anything of the sort. Vouchsafe therefore to see that justice is rendered me, Monsieur, and since despite all the promises you have made to me and the flattering hopes you falsely raised in my heart when you came to see me, I am still reduced to vegetate here in this horrible hell, I beg of you at the very least not to keep me any longer in suspense, as they are doing day in and day out, between the few pleasures that one is able to procure and the most abominable humiliations one is made to endure, and vouchsafe to keep me out of harm’s way.

In the hope of the swiftest justice, I have the honor of being, Sir, your most humble and most obedient servant.

de Sade

64. To Madame de Sade

[1782]

Y
our
merits,
Madame Marquise, and your little persiflage, which to my thinking is lacking in wit, will have no effect whatsoever upon me: ’tis to that point I wish to address myself in this response. An idea cannot be compared to a work that springs from one’s mind. ’Tis easy enough to be mistaken when one is alone in judging a work of this sort; ’tis far more difficult when it comes to an idea, and, unless one hasn’t a brain in one’s head, ’tis impossible not to know whether an idea is excellent or whether it’s not. Now then, I assert and affirm that the idea of my project is excellent; never fear of ever hearing me say the same of any of my written works. I know enough about architecture, and I have sufficiently studied all the beautiful examples of that art in Italy, where I spent all my time with people involved in that profession, to know when an idea is good or bad, and I say to you again that my idea is superb, so sublime in fact that there is not the slightest chance it will ever be realized. There is no country in Europe, nor any sovereign rich enough, to bring it to fruition.
¹
Thus, either your designer never said what you told me he said or he is a dolt or total ass to request that he be hired to carry it out, knowing full well that ‘twas quite impossible. ’Tis therefore no more than a lovely pipe dream—but one I love and intend to have on display in my office one day. Here is a minor supplement that you should pass on to him, which is essential if the construction were to be done properly.
Baste!

I firmly refuse to respond to Milli Rousset’s tedious small talk. How is it possible that she can focus her mind on such claptrap? I can understand, and even find amusing, that one consciously wastes one’s mind on matters of some piquancy (’tis why
Le Portier des Chartreux
never astonished or surprised me), but I cannot conceive anyone spending one’s time discussing pots and pans or other kitchen utensils or the poor wretch who has syphilis or all the other stupidities contained in the plan it doubtless took Madame de Montreuil a good six weeks to concoct and fully as long for poor Rousset to transcribe, she whose talents lie a hundred leagues in the opposite direction. Thus her divine letter number 223 is going to fall into complete oblivion. I shall lower myself to deal with all these base details once I am on the premises: till then I don’t want to give them so much as a single thought. Please remember that I do not want a concierge in her employ: I fail to understand how she ever got that idea into her head in the first place and how you could for a moment have supported it. Please be kind enough to refute that as loudly and expeditiously as possible.

Of all the books you sent me, there are only two that bear a second reading, and ’tis books like those two that I need and want. Kindly fill out the enclosed catalogue; I repeat that I want it done most urgently. The
Iliad
bears but a single reading. The
Italian Anecdotes
do not even bear that; they are books that have a value for their chronology, works you keep on your table to refer to but would never read anymore than you would a dictionary. Therefore, fill out my list, I beg of you.
²

Enclosed please find a little note for Amblet, which I ask you to forward to him; and when the manuscript comes back to you, be so good as to incorporate the minor corrections contained in this note.

Since the story of the Medicis is not complete, make sure not to break off relations with the doctor but, on the contrary, humor him. —Eh! As a friend, wouldn’t it have been better to have me go away and spend my days locked up in the doctor’s office in Florence, where I could have worked on that story, which most assuredly would one day have enhanced my reputation, rather than having me sent here to try to make some sense out of the imbecilic regurgitations of Madame la présidente de Montreuil?. . . I shall make a very special bet with you and your whole crew: I’ll wager that keeping me here for a period of ten years will end up costing a good hundred thousand francs, all for the purpose of making me a hundred times worse than I ever was before and for harming not only my honor and reputation but those of my children by a solid hundred degrees. You will have to admit that ’tis paying a pretty penny indeed for the pleasure of such ridiculous spitefulness and insipid numbers.

In former times, the doctor took me on as a paying guest. A manservant and I under his roof, including room and board, cost 800 livres, and one was well lodged, you may be sure; add an additional 1,200 for living expenses, etc., and now calculate how far ahead we would have been at the end of ten years. I would have emerged from the doctor’s hospital with a hundred thousand francs more in my pocket, a fine work to offer to the public, and my head filled with good ideas and thoughts. Now look at the other side of the coin and see what will result from what you are doing. But what was called for was silence and closure? Ah, no sooner said than done. At Florence there was a French ambassador who was a trifle better than Monsieur de Rougemont in my view. I am the first to admit that he would certainly not have played exactly the same role (members of the military as vile as he do not grow on trees). But Barbantane, who is my cousin and has wit, would have vouchsafed for me, would have had in his pocket an appropriate order under the king’s private seal in case it might have occurred to me to leave the confines of Florence, in which wise I would have found myself back in Vincennes in a week’s time; he would have been entrusted with my correspondence back and forth, with managing my money, etc.; I would have taken an assumed name; and in the eyes of that entire troop of rogues and knaves whose sole desire in life is to see that I am kept under lock and key, they could have been informed that I was visiting the grand duke and they would have had no reason not to believe it, so long as I was out of sight and they no longer heard mention of me. These are the measures one takes when one has a spark of intelligence, as opposed to how you act when you are imbeciles pure and simple, and prefer being protected by subalterns and lowlife rather than being concerned about the well-being and happiness of your kith and kin.

You wanted a letter for my children? Here it is. With me, your wishes are my desires, and as you see I do your every bidding and do it without delay. ’Tis the goodness of my heart and my longing to please you that will it, and not, you may be sure, any self-interest, for I am not looking for any response to it. I prefer a hundred times over not to write letters than to be the recipient of heavy and incredibly stupid sentences o’erflowing with philosophical blather and reeking of the bilious black venom of my unworthy tormentor. Remember, I want no reply to that letter; let them write it if they are so moved, but if they do, refrain from sending it on to me.

This letter is the expression of my feelings about my children. They will have the letter, they will read it over and over, and they will remember what it says . . . Do you for a moment believe that I would be so hostile both to them and to myself, that I would ever oppose these principles? If ever I were, they would despise me, and they would be perfectly right to do so. Let this remind you of the little descriptive note I sent you this past winter, and may it persuade you how far removed I am from trying to instill in them any harmful principles. Oh, no! perish the thought: if I had to choose between having them put to death or corrupting their hearts I would not hesitate for a minute, and would even go so far as to say the former was by far the lesser evil. Nor should you think for a moment what I write in that letter to the children has been in any way influenced by my stay in prison; ‘twould be quite the contrary, in fact, for my time here has had only negative effects upon me. I have thought this way my entire life, and you know it as well as I do. To make my profession of faith to you here and now, all you need do is ponder how I have always striven to assure both
your own
well-being and that of
the children;
the happiness of all four of you is and will always be my constant and sole concern. As long as you have known me you have always heard me say the same thing. That is my plan of action when my misfortunes will have come to an end.

But as for me, for myself
personally,
I make you no promises. The beast is too old. Believe me, cease and desist from trying to educate him. Julie failed in her attempt to do the same with M. de Wolmar,
³
and yet Julie was much beloved by the man. There are certain systems that are so governed by one’s existence, especially when they go back to one’s weaning, that ’tis quite impossible to give them up. The same holds true for one’s habits: when they are so prodigiously linked to one’s physical being, ten thousand years of prison and five hundred pounds of chains will only serve to strengthen them further. It will doubtless come as a great surprise to you if I tell you that
all these things
and the memory thereof [are] always what I call to mind when I want to block from my mind my present situation. Morals are not dependent upon ourselves, they are part and parcel of our basic makeup. What does depend upon us is the choice not to spread our own personal poison abroad to others, and to make sure that those around us not only are protected from pain and suffering but, even more, that they are not even aware of its existence. Acting impeccably when it comes to one’s children, and doing the same with one’s wife, so much so that ’tis impossible for her, even when she compares her fate with that of other women, to have the slightest suspicion about her husband’s morals: these are the kinds of things we can control, the kind of things a good and decent man ought to do, for nothing says that, just because a man’s morals are a tad different from those of others, he is therefore a scoundrel. Keep such things private, especially keep them from your children, and make certain your wife is spared them as well; and may your duties toward her be faithfully carried out
in all areas.
There in a nutshell is what I believe and what I promise.

Virtues are not something you can simply don or shed,
and in such matters
one is not any longer free to adopt this or that taste of the time any more than one is free to stand straight when one is born a hunchback; nor is one capable of forcing one’s natural inclinations into this or that prevailing opinion any more than one is free to be a brunette when one is born a redhead. This is and always has been my philosophy, and never will I deviate from it. —Still in all, in 1777 I was still fairly young; my overwhelming misfortune could have laid the foundation; my soul had not yet become hardened, as you have since so assiduously made sure ‘twould be made invulnerable to any decent feelings. A completely different plan on your part could have wrought different results of a very major kind: you opted not to implement it. For that I am infinitely grateful to you; I greatly prefer clearing my mind of your figures
⁴
than to have to banish from it an infinite number of things and details, quite delightful in my view, that serve so well to ease my misfortunes when I let my imagination run wild.
⁵
You were ill advised, without question; but in all honesty I much prefer that things turned out as they did.

You will tell Gaufridy all manner of things, but I shall no longer write to him, any more than I shall write directly to the Saint—to whom, this autumn, in the course of the evenings I find so endless and so sad, I shall perhaps take it upon myself to pen a few wanton thoughts: except for that, nothing.