Letters From Prison by Marquis de Sade
AMEN
Fructus belli
60. To Madame de Sade
[June 1782]
Now here is another new plan of punishment being devised against me. Last October they wanted to see what my reaction would be to concerns about your health, and when they saw that they had touched upon the most sensitive part of my soul, they doubtless decided that ‘twould be the same kind of torture they would apply the following summer, in order to correspond (as fate had willed the interval between visits) to everything that happened the summer before! I must warn you, however, that since I am completely incapable of suffering such scenes, I have firmly made up my mind to pay not the slightest attention to any kind of worry, no matter what it may be.
For the past three days they keep telling me over and over again— but their remarks are so forced and so disconnected that they thereby reveal their duplicity—about an illness that is making the rounds, from which no one is exempt. If they had not made such a point of it, and especially if they had not contradicted themselves so baldly, I might have believed it. But the person whose task it was to pass this information on is a man so utterly stupid and so utterly absurd that ’tis absolutely impossible to believe a word he says. But, one may well object at this juncture, the fact is you did believe him last year, since you paid him accordingly. That calculation is completely specious, and I maintain that not once did I take the man at his word. But I did let him run on and have his say, and I did recompense him, but only on the assumption that after so many lies a single truth might slip past his lips. But as for having believed him, I maintain and I shall prove that I did not believe him for one minute; and, verily, if you knew me, if you could fairly judge the extreme stupidity of that Judas, you would immediately recognize the utter impossibility of believing him.
Be that as it may, people have spoken to me about an illness that is both dangerous and widespread, and why, I ask, have they done so?1 Within these walls, ’tis absolutely against the rules to speak of such things. Is it then determined that Monsieur de Rougemont will break the rules of the house if only to drive me to despair? ’Tis forbidden to pass on hidden notes, and if any were brought to my attention, ‘twould be for the sole purpose of making me miserable. ’Tis against the rules to let the prisoners hear the latest news, and the only news they would let me hear would be those they knew would be like thrusting a knife into my breast. You can well imagine that after a time one is no longer taken in by such spiteful acts. I have just written to Monsieur de Rougemont to ask that he prevent these people from speaking to me any further, and I hereby renew my oath that I shall kill the first one who opens his mouth. ’Tis one of two things: either they want me to be aware of the existence of that illness and the potential effects it might have on you, or they prefer that I not know. There can be no other reason. If indeed they do want me to know, then you should write me so saying, giving me your word of honor that what you write is true, and signing your letter with the name of that mountain to which you know I must one day repair, the name of which no one else in the universe but you and I know; and then I shall believe it. And if they do not want me to know, what then is the point of letting drop little hints now and again or speaking in such an ambiguous manner? Anything gleaned in this way, given the utter abuse they make of this method of informing and the shameless deceit they mix into a language that should be held sacred, since ’tis the only one that can be used here, anything gleaned in this manner, I say, I take with less than a grain of salt.
If I had to sacrifice my life for you, if my blood were needed to save your life, I would believe anything and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to track down the truth. But given the situation in which I find myself, what can I offer you? My anxiety; it serves you not one whit; completely useless if ’tis true; totally ridiculous if the news is false. Thus it does me absolutely no good to try and figure out what’s what. All I can do is to beg you to let me know what is going on and to do all in your power to ease my mind when I hear it other than from your good self. There’s nothing untactful in what I am suggesting there. And most surely ‘twould be the person you yourself would advise me to listen to if only you could speak to me directly. So that is where I stand, quite certain in my mind that you can neither be annoyed with me about all this nor suspect that the very real and very tender feelings I have for you, and that you know I shall always have, are in any way diminished.
My motives for not being overly worried about this so-called illness:
’Tis the illness of this past winter that they are dragging out once again; but we know that illness is over. The surgeon himself told me so in April. More or less about the same time, the major told me it came from the north, and the people here assured me it came up from the south. Which ones to believe? They cannot agree; therefore they are lying. That illness carried over to the spring. Two people here, and the prisoner to whom I am closest and with whom I get along most excellently, were felled by it; I saw it and heard it. Therefore ‘twas a thing of the past, not the present. Those illnesses do not last very long.
During your April visit I asked if you had come down with a cold like everyone else. You told me you had. Thus if you have already had your illness, then you have paid your dues and I can cease worrying about it anymore.
One of their more ridiculous conceits was to say that this new illness had begun on June sixteenth, because the last time I saw you was the fifteenth. And that despite all the proofs I had that that illness had run its course prior to that. In April, the surgeon said, and I quote word for word: Now that I am finally over all those devilish colds and catarrhs, etc. Therefore, it was over and done with. And then they went on with their ridiculous contradictions. On the morning of the eighteenth I needed something from Monsieur de Rougemont’s. They said to me: It can’t be had today, he’s been in Paris since this morning. That evening he was in bed, sick as a dog; still in bed sick as a dog on the eighteenth and nineteenth, and on the twentieth the surgeon, the only person here who could take care of him, was spending the day in Paris. On the twenty-second, at five o’clock in the evening (this is even worse), the surgeon is sick in bed. At five fifteen they inform me in no uncertain terms that he is away on a visit a league from here. And so on and so forth. When I point out to the imbecile to what degree he is lying and completely contradicting himself, he flies into a terrible rage: further proof of his deceit.
No, I am being led down the garden path. Their whole point in prattling so is to make me worry. But my health no longer allows me to add any more worry to my already full plate. I tell you, I am in no state to endure any scenes, however minor. Therefore, kill me if you like, I have given you the secret of how to do it.
You have made it your business to go five months without seeing me, and since everything is comparative and because during your previous long absence, which was of four months’ duration, they did their best to make me worry my head about your behavior, now they want to upset me about your health.
You have made it your business during the five months’ absence, the term of which is this November, in order to come up with a neat 59 and a neat 57,2 to write me only once a fortnight. Well then, I’m aware of that, I’m not happy about it, but I’m not going to let it plunge me into deep despair. What need is there to justify all that; who is taking their cues from you to try to pretend you are unwell? You can well accomplish the same purpose without interlarding this illness into the tale. When in writing to you I concocted some similar story, I had a reason for doing so, thus there was no meanness on my part, and what is more, you were free and could always verify whether or not ‘twas true. But in your case if ‘twere really the case, I have no means of finding out for myself, and therefore you have no motive. The result: I refuse to believe a word about the so-called illness as long as I have not had proof from you and you alone, by the means I have just described. And you can neither be annoyed at me because of that stance nor doubt in the slightest my tender feelings toward you.
&
Concerns about your health: they will be false, see everything I have said above.
Concerns about your behavior: you are incapable of being unfaithful. Six visits have sufficed to destroy my wild imaginings and bring me back to reality. They are insulting to you, which is reason enough why I shall never let them ever take hold of me again. I know better how to value what I love.
My children and my friends ill or deceased: ’tis patently untrue. Such news is strictly forbidden here, for the very reason of preventing such rumors from making the rounds, and that in fact is one of the most praiseworthy rules of the establishment.
My castles burned to the ground and my goods and possessions sold off: so much the better, that much less to worry about. I shall hie myself to Prussia, there to stage plays, and you shall play the guitar.3 As for our fine family of five, we shall learn to earn our own living.
My furniture and possessions moved: fine with me, all I wanted was to have my goods and possessions closer to Paris. I no longer enjoy the notion of traveling, and Provence is very far away.
My books burned: fine and dandy, the only ones I shall miss are the leather-bound volumes. Most of them were printed in Holland, and are of very little value, and when I go see Villette,4 I shall buy them all back in Geneva and have a much finer library than before.
My papers seized and burned: eh! they were only first drafts anyway; the ideas have become crystal clear in my head. I shall start all over again; this time they will be better written and much more passionate, too, and to make sure the lady paper thief docs not steal them away, I shall bring them myself directly from my office to the printer.
They will take away your daily walks: all right, if they do I’ll use the time to write verses. Whatever excuse they use to suppress my walks, whether ’tis mending my fireplace or patching up a wall, a little play in verse will instantly flow therefrom. Which reminds me, there’s one already written, signed and sealed, as I previously mentioned to you; all that is holding up its departure is hearing the name Nicolas ring out (the name of the worker).
So then, bother me now to your heart’s content, worry me to death. Oh! that will happen as soon as your sentence is up!. . . Eh! go take a look and see if they’re coming, Jean, eh! go take a look and see if they’re there, etc. Nicolas.
No, my pet, no, no, heavenly madame présidente, no, no, divine sequel, no. All is said. All is surfeited! All is blunted. You see that I said the strongest, and if it does not come to pass the way I proved it would, then who do you want to be the weakest? The simplest thing would therefore be to leave me in peace, and upon my word I advise it most strongly. As a result of further vexations you are certain to inflict upon me between now and the time I am destined to see you, I shall have the opportunity to dwell further upon and remember this letter often, which I am neither tempted to rewrite nor to make any longer than it already is, I therefore date it and dub it my letter of the 23rd.
I begin my two hundred tenth week here.5
I return the fourth [volume] of Conjurations.
1. Among the methods of torturing their most infamous prisoner, the turnkeys reveled in passing on bad news to Sade, such as: “Have you heard of the terrible illness sweeping through Paris?”
2. More signals, whose meaning remained known only to Sade. After his release in 1790 he never mentioned them again.
3. Renée-Pélagie was taking guitar lessons; Sade learned this from Milli Rousset, which made him furious. First of all (needless to say) he was insanely jealous of the guitar teacher. To which Milli Rousset wrote to reassure him: “You have no reason to be jealous of the guitar teacher. He is a proper, pious man, full of virtue, more brilliant in heart than in mind, a good friend, and amusing to boot. . . I asked him to give a few lessons, to kill time. While busy writing or doing other things, I enjoy listening to Madame practicing her scales . . .”
4. Charles de Villette, Renée-Pélagie’s cousin, into whose home she had contemplated moving a year earlier till Sade’s jealousy made her change her mind.
5. It is difficult to tell what Sade is using as his starting date, and therefore difficult to discern the date of this letter. If he’s using as his starting date his rearrest at La Coste on August 26, 1778, then the letter would have to have been written in early September, 1782. The French edition indicates variously the months of June and July, 1782, as the date for this letter.
61. To Madame de Sade
[1782]
I don’t know what they plan for me when I leave here. I told you, and I persist in saying, that what I desire is to go home with you. Still, I am not loath to spending two or three days in Paris before that, wanting absolutely to see my daughter, on whom I’ve never laid eyes; and they would be hard-pressed to keep me from satisfying my o’erwhelming desire to see her. You ask what my plans are: I have made none, and I swear to you that I have refrained from building any castles in Spain; I’ve been misled far too often. I want to leave here an entirely free man, with no strings attached. The time of exile is far behind us. That would have been acceptable at the time my sentence was handed down; it would have been welcome; it would have been a punishment to fit the crime; it would have spared me the indignity of completely ruining my reputation in my native province, a shame that can only have been concocted by my cruelest enemies working in concert. Now I must leave here free. If that happens, my plan is to go spend a year on my estates in order to set things right there, and thence to take up my abode there, where I shall spend the remainder of my days. I shall have lived sufficiently for the piddling pleasures of others; ‘twill be time to live for myself. But where will that be? Ah! you should know it well, if you remember all our earlier conversations. If they set me free on the condition of exiling me, even were it to my own estates, then let them keep a close watch on me day and night, for I shall not remain there, I shall abscond to Florence or Naples. If ’tis exile, doubtless there will be a guard in attendance: in which case I state categorically that having had my fill of paying the police and their henchmen, I shall most assuredly not pay them any more than I paid the lackey in Aix-en-Provence, and I hereby give my word of honor that I shall not pay a penny to anyone. I have written it before, I have written it since, and I shall repeat it to my dying day. May I be looked upon as the lowest of men if ever I pay a penny for that purpose. Is it possible that these gentlemen do not have, in the entire length and breadth of Paris, other fools, other pigeons than me, that they have had me and only me for the past ten years to ante up and pay off their alguazils? You do not know who the triumvirate1 consists of—someone I know has been exceedingly remiss in that case: the triumvirate consists of three white-wigged gentlemen, one of whom is in fact quite handsome and in his day enjoyed a certain reputation in Paris. This past summer there was on this score a rather charming story upon the occasion of a certain powdering episode that took place during the month of July, at a slight remove from the earth. It was reported that this be-wigged one’s valet had tried to leave his master, because after the powdering exercise his master became so swelled up with pride that he had to add six extra plaits to his wig. His valet, having already fashioned no fewer than fourteen on each side, said to him: “Monseigneur, I fear I must leave your employ,” and without further ado he up and left. How stupid the people of Provence are, to tell stories that are as dull as they are blasphemous! In any event, to come back to