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"When I was asked to select and translate work by the Marquis de Sade for publication in England I knew that there would be two major difficulties at the outset--the difficulty of obtaining authentic texts and the difficulty of publishing in English important sections of his work which public opinion and legal precedent hold to be obscene and blasphemous."--Selected Writings of De Sade (1953) by Margaret Crosland

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Selected Writings of De Sade (1953) is a selection of writings by Marquis de Sade, translated by Leonard de Saint-Yves and published by Peter Owen.

Contents 1 Full text[1] 2 Front matter 3 CONTENTS 4 PREFACE 5 DIALOGUE ENTRE UN PRETRE ET UN MORIBOND 6 LES 120 JOUfcNEES DE SODOME 7 JUSTINE 8 CONTES et FABLIAUX 8.1 LE PRESIDENT MYSTIFIE 8.2 MISS HENRIETTA STRALSON or THE EFFECTS OF DESPAIR An English istory 8.3 AUGUSTiNE DE VILLEBLANCHE OR LOVE'S STRATAGEM 8.4 RETALIATION 9 ALINE ET VALCOUR ou LE ROMAN PHILOSOPHIQUE 10 LE COMTE OXTIERN OU LES EFFETS DU LIBERTINAGE 11 DISCOURS PRONONCF. A LA FETE DECERNEE PAR LA SECTION DES PIQUES AUX MANES DE MARAT FT LE PELLETIER 12 IDEE SUR LES ROMANS 13 ZOLOE ET SES DEUX ACOLYTES OU QUELQUES DECADES DE LA VIE DE TROIS JOLIES FEMMES 14 TESTAMENT

Full text[1]

Front matter

Selected Writings of DE SADE

Selected and translated by Leonard de Saint- Yves

PETER OWEN LIMITED

London

50 Old Bromplon Road London SW7

This edition is limited to 1,000 copies

Made and prinnted in Great Britain bv Foisiei & Jagg, Cambridge

CONTENTS

Page

Preface 7

Dialogue entre un prêtre et un moribond 17

Les Cent Vingt Journées de Sodome 31

Justine 39

Contes et Fabliaux

1. The Mystified Magistrate 70

2. Miss Henrietta Stralson 111

3. Augustine de Villeblanche 151

4 Retaliation 165

Aline et Valcour 169

Le Comte Oxtiern 185

Discours 201

Juliette 209

La Philosophie Dans Le Boudoir 235

Idée sur les romans 273

Zoloe 297

Testament 303

PREFACE

PREFACE

When I was asked to select and translate work by the Marquis de Sade for publication in England I knew that there would be two major difficulties at the outset — the diffi- culty of obtaining authentic texts and the difficult) of publish- ing in English important sections of his work which public opinioif and legal precedent hold to be obscene and blas- phemous. The former difficulty was partly overcome with the help of tfee British MusAim staff. The second difficulty raised ^ problems which I 3s a translator had no power to solve; the result is that the pict&re of de Sade as a jvriter and thinker given here must necessarily be limited in scope.

The ejAracts which follow have been chosen in an attempt to *how something of his development during the twenty years or so when he wrote most, i.e. between 1782 and 1802. Much of this v*'>**k, notablv Les 120 Joum&es de Sodome, was not published until the twentieth century, but it has been arranged here as far as possible in chronological order. In 1942 a great deal of new material in manuscript form was discovered at the castle of Comte Xavier de Sade, the descendant of the Marquis, in Normandy, but so far only a small collec- tion of letters and some other fragments have beeq published. Until these discoveries were made it was not known that,- de Sade was writing as early as 1764 or as late as 1814, the year before his deatl^

The events of his life and all the ideas expressed in his books have been described and analysed at length, notablj by Guillaume Apollinaire, Maurice Heine, Gilbert L61y, Maurice Nadeau and Simone de Beauvoir in France and by C. R. Dawes and Geoffrey Gorer in England. However, when Maurice Heine referred to de Sade some time ago as the least read among the most talked of writers, he was not very far from the truth. The orthodox 19th century attitude to the work ol the Marquis was understandable, but the scientific approach of the twentieth century has not led to any spectacular change. The critics who have written about de Sade recently have at least read him, but they have decided after unbiassed reflection that he is morally indefensible, that he discovered nothing new and wrote rather badly about a great number of dis* gusting and uninteresting things. The normal judgment ol ioday on Les 120 JoumJes de Sodome, La Nouvelle Justine and La Philosophie dans le Boudoir is that they ^vere the obscene* productions of a diseased mind or that they were written as deliberate pornography t, and that in* any case it is not necessary to read them.

It appears therefore that sophisticated f>pinkm about these extraordinary works shows a surprising similarity to the traditional horror with which they have alwayg been viewed. And yet neither of the two judgments referred to above seem to be based on any very sound facts; there is very kittle likeli- hood that de Sade was mentally diseased or insane: Di Royer- Collard’s opinion in 1814, when de Sade was at Charenton-- ‘ce nest pas un ali6n£' — sounds much more convincing in its context than Anatole France's condescending remarks nearly seventy years later about ‘notre fou*. To assume that de Sade was not insane is to imply immediately that the whole problem of his personality is much more, not less complicated than it appeared originally, and the contrast between the obscene and the non-obscene work all the more striking and inexplic- able. There are few authors whose entire work needs to be considered at the saftie level of concentration — usually a cer- tain amount of it is only of academic interest. But with de Sade, if he is to be examined and understood in a level-headed way , the#* is very little that can be left out, because his range is so great and the extremes of his imagination so far-flung in un- known territory. During his lifetime he begged his detractors not to condemn him before reading to the end of whatevei they were about to attack. The same holds good today, and

Obscene* offensive to modesty or decency; expressing or suggesting lewd thoughts.

t Pornographic: dealing in the obscene.

Pornography: description of the life, manners, ete n of prostitutes and their patrons; hence, the expression or suggestion of obscene or unchaste subjects in literature or art.

10

Preface

for a real understanding of his personality and work it is also ftesessary to.* read his correspondence, which unfortunately cannot be presented here. Not that it provides any ready answer, since in the case of Justine, for example, de Sade alternately admitted and denied that hr wrote it. When he stated in* a letter to his lawyer that he wrote the 1797 version of the book — ha Nouvelle Justine — merely to please his printer he seems to have been suddenly frightened at the vividness of his own imagi^tion, winch had carried him further than he had ever intended te go. He denied the work in public, and no edition during; his lifetime carried his name.

This attempt by de Sade to suggest that he was trying to write deliberate pornography does not ring true. Pornography is such an artificial form of writing that it rapidly becomes boring, quite apart from whether it disgusts or not; many isolated passages from de Sade could be classed as pornography, but it is precisely when they are considered in their context and their relationship to the book that contains them examined that they are seen to transcend their immediate content and to be in many cases inseparably bound up with ethical and philosophical questions of the greatest seriousness. De Sade could probably have chosen other methods of prgsentaog his ideas, but for a variety of reasons he chose this one.

It might look therefore that the difficulty of presenting de Sade as a writer and thinker in any complete manner might be insurmountable. It would clearly be mis-stating the case also to suggest that the obscene and blasphemous side o^his work was in any sense counterbalanced by, say, Les Crimes de I'Amour, Alme et Valcour or the funeral oration for Marat and Le Pelletier. But all nhese are terms in the de Sade equation.

As a writer he clearly had a great number of faults, some of them the failings which occur in so many of his contempor- aries. He was prolix , a weakness which is accentuated not entirely because the twentieth century reader is impatient — and long novels are by no means unknown today — but because he repeats himself a ereat deal, sometimes within one book

11

De Sade Selections

and certainly throughout his work as a whole. The result oi this is that an unconventional argument may strike the reader the first time he comes across it but on the second at third occasion the force of the theory is blunted and it becomes merely a hobby-horse. 1 he repetition oi an inconocl&tic state- ment can only make it more palatable if the gap between the existing and the desirable state of affairs is somehow filled in; but it may well be that this gap frightened de Sade or, as the events of his life during and after tlie Revolution appear to prove, he was almost entirely unconcerned about the prac- tical application ofiiis theories; in any case he m^de no attempt to close the gap.

To continue the catalogue of his faults, neither* was he any better when it came to the construction of plot and charac- terisation in his novels. Justine is little more than a succession of incidents with very little connection between them; Juliette is more complex, still picaresque in outline and untidily con- structed. Aline et Valeo ur contains three separate stories in addition to its main plot, which add up to a top-heavy whole. This latter book, however, in spite of its coincidences and melodrama, is not entirely remote from real life all the time, while«&e qther two, in their combined edition as La Nouvelle Justine acquire a kind of descant which is pure fantasy. Every persoq and every event become so far-fetched that it might not be unreasonable to consider de Sade as insane.

The monsters he created prove him to be less of a poiyographer than a surrealist; their exploits, which no doubt have a* varied significance for the scientist, strike the oidinary reader as incredible or ridiculous. There are few of de Sade’s figures who bring him any credit«as a creator of character in fiction. He frequently gives vivid descriptions of someone’s appearance and ? brief analysis of his character, as for example the Bishop in Les 120 Journdes de Sodome. He can also pro- duce a strong sinister figure like Saint-Fond, although he is devoid of subtlety. In Aline et Valcour the cynical Portuguese, Sarmiento, who has gone native in Butua, comes to life more naturally than most of de Sade’s characters. On the other hand

Preface

dc Sade was never able to describe a woman except in the giost conventional terms, unless she happened to be old and ugly. Justine, of course, is just a beautiful pure girl and her falling in love with the homosexual Bressac is one of the few occasionsewhen she is something more tha \ a symbol. Juliette, although. she seems so much more compiex and vivid than Justine, is not^so much a fictional character as a nympho- maniac bluestocking, the embodiment of de Sade in his capacity o{ Sat&i. As a caricaturist de Sade had great power, t»nd President Fontajiis, the long-suffering heto of Le Pifsident Mystifie is one of his nfbst living creations, *1 product of close observation, irony and revenge.

Ever sirire he was young de Sade seems to have been fascinated by the stage, but this did not mean that he had any gift for bringing people to life as people apart from propagi.tidi>is. When his newly-discovered plays are published it will be interesting to see whether he was capable of writing drama as apart frtim melodrama. There is a theatrical atmo- sphere about much of his writing, and although only two of his works are entirely in dialogue form — Dialogue enlre un Pittre et un Moribond , and La Philosophic dans le Boudoii — he often likes to present his conversations in thij w r a^ # An obvious example is Juliette’s interrogation by the Societe des 4 tnts du Crime . But Oxtiern , the only published play to date is a melodrama in the jtyle of Les Climes de V Amour in which virtue and vice are crudely personified and virtue rewarded.

As far as the finer points of style are concerned de Sade loses heavily in am comparison with his predecessors ariCTfiis contemporaries in the 18th century, but .there are several reasons yshv this should be so* Although it is now known that he wrote journals and critical essavs as a young man he did not consciously piactue the uaft of a professional writer until he w’as forced to live by his pen, and he published nothing until he was 51. He wrote a great amount of his work in prison, usually in a hum, with nobody to advise or help him. Words w'ere only tools to express all the tumult of ideas in his mind, and ait foi art’s sake was unknown to him. In

De Sade Selections

spite of his apparent preoccupation with the universal prob- lems of the century he was more deeply concerned with others that none of his contemporaries had thought of, 'and in order to express them he was unconsciously searching for a means of expression that did not exist. If he had lived ii\ the nine- teenth or twentieth century it would have been easier for him, but living when he did it was inevitable that* his style should reflect something of the chaos of his mind.

Maurice Heine saw in de Sade otic of the finacknowledged precursors of romanticism and pointed out that The Castle of Otranto, which wjts translated in 1767, was probably known to him. De Sade admired Mrs Radcliffe and 'Monk’ Lewis immensely , although their work was not translaud until after his major writing was finished. It is not so much the actual style or even the spirit of his work which marks de Sade as a romantic, but the whole huge uncontrollable conception of Les i2o Journees and La Nouvelle Justine . There is every proof however that their writing was ncf*. the result of a suddenly-felt influence bui that it fitted ift with an uncon- sciously logical process of imagination that began when de Sade was still a relatively young man; his difficulty was that he cypld neither control nor express it adequately.

The mature de Sade of La Nouvelle Justine is fore- shadowed clearly in Le Dialogue entre Prttie et un Morihond, and although this work gives little ipdication of the blas- phemous outpourings that were to come its voice is authentic, for there are no degrees of blasphemy, and however close the tlioii|ht may come to contemporary anti-clericalism and scepticism, the intensity of its expiession, the emotional quality of its very rationalism marks it as different in quality from much other work produced at the same time. The same voice that is heard so loudly in Frangais , encore un effort, the supposed pamphlet included in La Philosophic dans le Boudoir,, is the tonic notfe in the harsh resonant chord of de Sade’s work. It embodies all his obsessive preoccupation with destructiveness.

Of the two other notes which modify this one and prove

14

Preface

de Sade to be so much more complex than might be realised, there is first that which has already been referred to as virtue triumphant, and is associated nearly always with crude melo- drama or unctuous, hypocritical smugness. It might be possible to attribitfe the writing in this vein to *a desire on de Sade*s part to 'prove that he could not possibly have written the obscene works of which he was suspected, especially as Les Crimes de VArnoui and Alirik el Valcour , the works mainly concerned, were^written as the same time as fusfine and pub- Jjshed about the same time on just afterwards. The extra- ordinary thing is that dt Sade wrote so much in this way, and that it should alt have been so unconvincing and often childish, as far as plot<and characterisation were concerned.

Lastly in the triad is the ironic humour which appears in the major works as devastating satire and in others as farce. One of the .uost amusing things de Sade wrote was Le President Mystifii, even though it embodies his fierce hatred of the Aix justices who had earned him so manv years in prison following the case of the poisoned sweets at Marseilles. This conte includes many of his characteristic attacks on authorit\ and even something of the ‘sadism* of the major works, although its expression is muted and oblique.

To return to the question as to whether de Sade’s contri- bution was original in anv precise way it cannot be argued that the philosophical % and political content of his ideas was particularly new, although their expression is often astonish- ingly vivid and modern in tone. Apart from his anticipation of the Revolution de Sade is one of the few’ writers who \f?ote during the hectic \cars that followed and remained part of them.

Analysis shows therefore that de Sade’s individuality is due more to a synthesis of qualities rather than to any par- ticular innovation. Th' 1 combination of qualities that merged in him is unexpected and the lesult unbalanced; when his deadly enemy, ftestif de la Bretonnc. called de Sade le monshe autem, he was perhaps partis right, for de Sade is an oddity, a ‘sport’ of literary biology', and that is why he cannot be neglected. •

De Sade Selections

Perhaps one of the most remarkable things about de Sade is not so much that he was a prophet and a precursor, for they are after all not so rare, but that he survived bs a whole personality. His books, his ideas, his life and the still unexplained key to his mind continue to preoccupy a great number of people and to give rise to passionate controversy. He is not so much an author who died a hundred and forty years ago but an author who is still alive, *and who, by a trick of fate, continues to publish iiew books but who cannot join in the controversy aboip them or writ? to ihe papers. Furthermore he is not an easy problem for an age like the present one, which is so preoccupied with specialisation; he is too typical in his infinite range of interests of the encyclo- paedic age which produced him, and yet untypical because he attempted to present scientific fact not only in literary terms but masked in a romanticism which was not to mature until after he died, and which in turn was itself subdued b> science. Simone de Beauvoir, in her study f ‘Must we Burn de Sade?' gives some indication of the degree to which he puzzles contemporary thinkers in so many fields; ‘the supreme value of his testimony is that it disturbs us'. It is possible that it will continue to disturb us for the entire time that mankind wilF^xist?. It is not easy to say whether the next generation will include him ip their histories of literature,* but he should at least be read before he is discarded.

A logical appreciation of de Sade? is closely linked with important changes in human behaviour, concerned not with Chb^nctioning of moral anarchy but with the end of hypocrisy. The behaviour of the characters in de Sade's novels is some- thing which for the time being is incomprehensible to us, but it is impossible to say yet whether de Sade wrote the science- fiction, V anticipation of anthropology.

L. de S.-Y.

• ‘11 nc nous appartient pas de citer ici ses ouvrages, d’une inspiration

monstrueuse, mais que d’incontestables quality cranalyse et de style rattachent neanmoins a la literature. Boivin et Cie. R. Jasinsky. Histoire de la Litteraturc Frangaise.’

16

DIALOGUE ENTRE UN PRETRE ET UN MORIBOND

I his Dialogue , wntten m 1782, is the earliest complete work of d« hade which has been published and is given here m its entirety Whin he wrote it K had been m Vincennes prison for three years Jt is less diffuse and superficially at least more 'logical’ 11# its reasoning than many passages which de Sade w*s to write later discussing ihl nature of the universe and the existence of God

The Dialogite was first published in iqafi by Stendhal Sc Cie , Pans, with ^foreword by Mauncc Heme

• * + * *

priest Now thai # \ou have reached the fatal moment when • *

the \cil ol illusion is only toin aside to enable the misguided man to see tiie cruel tableau of his vices and mistakes do \ou not repent, my son, of the manifold crrois to which weakness and human Frail t\ have led you^ dyim man Yes, my fnend, I repent

PRitsi Profit then from this blessed remoisc to obtain from Heaven in the short inters al which remains to vou, general absolution for youi sins, and consider that it is only by the mediation of the very holv sacrament ol penitence that yoy may ittcivc it from the eternal God d\ ing man 1 understand you no more than you understood me prilsi What >

mi\c man I told you that I had repented prii si I heard it

mi\c van Yes, but without understanding it priest What is youi interpretation >

dying man Here is ms meaning I was created by Nature with most active tastes, sent into the world solelv to surrender imscli to them, and to satisfy those desnes \s these effects of

• 9

De Sade Selections

my creation are only the necessities relative to the first designs of Nature, or, if you prefer it, the ..developments essential to her projects for me, due to her laws, I only repent that I did not recognise sufficiently all her power, and my sole remorse merely extends to the mediocre use I have made of those faculties (which you would call criminal, I natural) given me by Nature for her service. Sometimes 1 insisted her and that 1 repent. Blinded by the absurdity of your doctrines, through them I have fought all the violence of the desires communicated to me through a much more divine inspira- tion, and I repent gathering only flowers when I could have taken a generous harvest of fruit. These are the exact motives for my regrets. Esteem me highly enough not to attribute others to me.

priest: Where are your errors leading you, where arc vour sophistries taking you! You lend to the thing created all the power of its creator, and you do not sec that these unfor- tunate inclinations which have misguided you are only the effects of this corrupt nature to which you attribute all power.

dying man: It seems to me, friend, that your dialectic is as fa he a§ your thought. I wish sou would either reason more exactly or leave me to die in peace. What do vou mean by creator, and what'do you understand by corrupt nature?

priest: The creator is the master of the universe, he who has made all, created all, and w r ho conceives all by a simple effect

e of his entire power.

DYiNfc man: He is a great man, obviously. Now, tell me wdiv such a man who is so powerful has nevertheless made, accord- ing to you, a corrupt nature?.

priest: What merit would men possess, if God had not left them freedom of choice, and what merit would the\ enjoy if there were not on this earth the possibility of doing good, and that of avoiding evil?

dying man: And so your God has wished to make everything crooked soleh to tempt or to trv his creature. Does He not know that creature then, is He in any doubt of the result?

t «L

20

Dialogue

priest: He knows him, doubtless, but once again He wishes 9 to leave him the merit of choosing. dying man: To what good, once He knows the decision His creature will take, and only holds to it, since you call Him all poweriul, to make him choose the* good? pries 1 : 'Who can understand the immense infinite designs of God fofeman? Who can understand all that we see? dying man : He who simplifiesrthings, my friend. Above all, he who doej not+nultiply causes the better to confuse effects. What need is theie tor a second difficulty when you cannot explain the first? £inoe it is possible that nature alone has made all that you attribute to your God, why look for a master for tier? The cause of that which you cannot under- stand is perhaps the most simple thing in the w r orld. Improve your physics and you will understand nature better, purify your running, banish your prejudices, and you will no longer need your God.

priest: Unhappy xian, I thought you only a Socinian, and I had arms to combat you with, but I see indeed that you are an atheist. Since your heart is closed to the immensity of the authentic proofs that we receive every day of the existence of the Creator, I have no more to say to you You cannot give back the light to a blind man. dying man: My friend, agree with me on one point, that of two men, the one who is the more blind is he who puts a bandage on his eyes, rather than he who tears it off. You build up, invent and multiply causes. I destros, I simplify. You pile error upon error. I fight all of them. Which of »:s i? the blind one?

priest: You do not believe in^God?

dying man: No, and for a very simple reason. It is quite im- possible to believe what one does not understand. There must exist immediate connections between understanding and faith. Understanding is the first nourishment of faith. Where understanding does not have some influence, faith is dead, and in such a case those who claim to have it, deceive them- selves. I defy you yourself to believe in the God you preach'

De Sade Selections

to me — because you do not know how to prove His existence to me, because you are unable to define Him to me, aqd consequently you do not understand Him — since you do not understand Him, you can no longer give me a single reason- able proof of Him, and finally all that is beyond the limit of the human mind is either illusion or uselessness. 'As your God can only be one or the other ol these two. things, I would be a fool to believe in Him in the first case, and an imbecile in the second. My friend, prove t j me ( the inertia of matter, and then 1 will grant you your Creator, prove that nature is not self-sufficient, and 1 will allow you to sup- pose a master for her; until then, expect nothing from me. 1 give in only to evidence, which I receive onl/ through my senses; where they stop, my faith remains powerless. I believe in the sun because I see it, I conceive it as the centre of reunion of all the inflammable matter ot nature, its periodic march pleases me without astonishing me. It is an operation of physics, as simple perhaps as those of electricity, but which we are not permitted to understand. What need have I to go any further? Even when you will have built up your God above that, am I any more advanced, will I not need as much effort to understand the workman as to define his work? 'therefore you do me no service by the erection of your chimera, you have troubled my mind but you have not enlightened it, and I owe you only hate for it, not gratitude. Your God is a machine, made by you to serve your passions, and fashioned according to their whim, but as it restricts mine, except the fact that I have overthrown it and do not, at the very moment when my feeble soul has need of calm and philosophy, come frightening it with your sophistries, which would scare without convincing, and irritate without improving. This soul is my friend, what it has pleased nature it might be, the result, that is to say, of the organs she has been pleased to form in me by virtue of her designs and needs; since she has an equal need of vices and virtues, when it has pleased her to lead me to the former she has done so, when the latter, she has inspired me with desires for them.

Dialogue

and 1 have iollowed suit just the same. Look no further than her laws for the sole cause of human inconsequence, and do not seek for any other principles in her laws than her wishes and her needs.

pries i : iherefore ever) thing in the world is necessary.

dying man : Certainly.

priest: Hail if everything is uecessaiy, then everything is regulated.

dying man: # Wh# has said .he contrar)?

ngucsi : 1 hen who can regulate everything as it is, except an all-wise, all-powerful hand?

dying man : Is it not necessary for powder to flare up if you set a light to it?

priest: Yes

dying man: And what wisdom do you find in that?

priest: Noic.

dying man: It is possible then that things may be necessary without wisdom, «nd possible therefore that everything may stem from a first cause which has within it neither reason nor wisdom.

prifst: What are you trying to prove?

dying man: To prove to you that all can be as it is, and as you see it, without any wise or reasonable cause tef guide it; that natural effects must have natural causes without any need to imagine anti-natural ones for them, such as your God would be, who, as I have already told you, would Him- self need explanation without providing any. Since your God, therefore, is good for nothing, he is entirely useless; there* is a great likelihood that all which is useless is null, and all which is null is void. So to convince myself that your God is an illusion I need no other reasoning than that furnished by the certainty of uselessness.

priest: On that ground theie seems to me little necessity to speak to you of religion.

dying man: Why not? Nothing amuses me like proof of the excess to which men, on that point, hav e been able to carry fanaticism and imbecilitv. These kinds of terrors are so fan-

• 3

De Sade Selections

tastic that to me the picture, although horrible, is always interesting. Answer me [rankly, and above all banish egoispi. It I were weak enough to let myself be ensnared by your ridiculous arguments on the fabulous existence of the being who makes religion necessary, in what form would you advise ine to offer him my worship? Would you have me adopt the reveries of Confucius rather than the absurdities of Brama, should I venerate the great serpent of the negroes, the star of the Peruvians, or Moses’ God of Battle?' f To syhich of the sects of Mohammed would you have me turn, or what heresy of the Christians would, according to you, be preferable? Be careful how you reply. priest: Can there be an) doubt about it? dying man : It is therefore egotistical.

priest: No, to advise what I believe in is to love you as much as myself.

dying man : And it is loving both of ourselves too little to listen to such errors.

priest: Oh! Who can blind himself to the miracles of our divine Redemptor?

dying man : He who only sees in Him the most ordinary of all charlatans and the most unconvincing of all imposters. priest: t)h Gods, you hear him and you do not thunder* dying man: No, my friend, all is calm, because your God — whether it is from impotence or reason or whatever you will in a being whom I only admit for one moment out of con- descension to you, or, if you prefer it, in order to lend myself to your pettiness — because your God, I say, if He exists, as you in your foolishness believe, cannot in order to convince me use means as ridiculous a ( s those your Jesus imagines. priest: And what of the prophecies, miracles, martyrs — are they not all proofs?

dying man : How can you logically expect me to admit as proof all that which must be proved itself. Before a prophecy can be accepted as proof I must first have absolute assurance that it has been made. Being dependent on history for it, it can have no more force for me than all other historical facts, of

• 4

Dialogue

which three quarters are highly doubtful. If I add to that the more than probable supposition that they have been handed down to me only by prejudiced historians, I will, as you see, be more than right to doubt them. Who can assure me, furthermore, that this prophecy has not been made after the event, that it has not been the effect of the combination # of that very sample policy which sees a happy reign under a just king — or trost in wintertime. And if that is so, h%w caft you hope that prophecy, being in such need of proof, can itsejt become «; proof? As lor youi miracles, they impress me no more. All the tricksters have performed them, and all the blockheads have believed them. To per- suade me # of the truth of a miracle, I must be quite sure that the event which you so call a miracle was in fact abso- lutely contrary to the laws of nature, for only something outside them can pass foi a miracle; who knows enough ot nature to daie to say that at this point precisely she stops, and at this moment precisely she is transgressed? Only two things are needed to give colour to an alleged miracle, a clown and a few feeble men. Well, look no further lor the origin of yours, all the new sectarians have them, and, what is strangest, all have found halfwits to believe them. Your Jesus has done nothing more remarkable than ftpoflonius of Thiana, set no one pretends to take him foi a god. As for your martyrs, tjiey are undoubtedly the feeblest of all your arguments. It needs only fanaticism and resistance to to create them; let the other side offer me as much as yours I would never be sufficiently persuaded to believe one better than the other, but most inclined, on the other hand, to suppose them both pitiful^ Oh, m\ friend, if it were true that the God you preach existed, would he need miracles, martyrs, and prophecies to establish his dominion: If, as you say, the heart of man were his workmanship, would not that be the very sanctuary he would choose for his law? This equal law, since it originates from a just God, would find itself irresistibly engraved in everyone, and from one end of the universe to the other all men, alike in the possession

• 5

De Sade Selections

of this sensitive and delicate organ, would be equally alike in the homage they would render the God from whom the), hold it. All men would have only one way of loving Him, one way of worshipping or serving Him, and it would be as impossible for them to ignore this God as to resist the secret attraction of His worship. Bui what do I see instead in the world — as many gods as countries, as^ manjn varieties of service to them as there are diffetcnt heads or different types of imaginations. Yet, according lo you, this igultiplicil) of opinions amongst which k is physically impossible for me to choose is the work of a just God. Away, preacher, you despoil your God in presenting Him to me in that fashion. Leave me to deny Him utterly, for if He exists, i offend Him less by my disbelief than you by \our blasphemies. Come back to the path of reason, preacher, your Jesus is no more worthy than Mahommed, Mahommed no more than Moses, and all three no more than Confucius, who in fact pro- nounced some good principles while the mother three spoke nonsense. But generally, all these people are nothing but imposters, whom the philosopher mocks, the rabble believe, and justice should have caused to hang.

pRiEf'j : Alas, she did. only too well lor one of the four.

dying man: The moSt deserving of them all; he was seditious, turbulent, slanderous, deceptive, libertine, vulgar comedian and dangerous rogue; he possessed the c knack of imposing on the people, and therefore became fit for punishment in a kingdom of that State in which Jerusalem was then found. It was very wise to get rid of him, and this is perhaps the only case where my otherwise gentle and tolerant maxims can permit the severity of Thertiis; I pardon all errors except those which may become dangerous for the government under which we live. Kings and their majesties are the onl) things which impress me, which I respect — and he who does not love his king and country is not fit to live.

priest: But look, you admit the existence of something after this life; it is impQssible that in your mind you have not

• 6

Dialogue

frequently amused yourself by trying to pierce the thick shadows of the fate which awaits us. What system then can be more satisfactory than one that allots a multitude of punishments for the evildoer and an infinity of blessings for the righteous?

dying man : What, my friend ? 1 he idea of oblivion has never frighteMd mg, and it holds % only consolation and simplicity for me. All other systems are the product of pride, this alone of reason. Befides, oblivion is neither terrible nor absolute. Do I not see daily examples Y>f the everlasting generation and regeneration of Mature? Nothing perishes, my friend, nothing in this world is destroyed. A man today, worms tomorrow, # a fly the day after — is this not everlasting life? And why should 1 be rewarded lor virtues which I do not merit, or punished for crimes for which I was never responsi- ble? Can you reconcile the benevolence of your alleged God ivith such a system? Could He have wanted to create me just for the pleasure punishing me, and that only because of a choice of which He does not allow me to be master?

priest: But you are.

dv inc* man: Yes, according to your presumptions; but reason destroys them, and the theory of the freedom Man* was only ever invented in order to develop that ol grace which is so favourable to your dreams. Where in all the world is the man who seeing the scaffold beside the crime would still commit it if he were free not to? We are drawn along by an irresistible force, and not for one moment do the master of that pow T er choose any path for us but that towards which w'e are inclined. There is not a single virtue which is not necessary to nature, and coftversely not a single crime which is not necessary. It is in the perfect balance maintained be- tween one and the other that nature's whole knowledge resides. But can we be blamed for the side on which she casts us? No more than the wasp can be blamed who plunges his sting into your flesh.

• 7

De Sade Selrt lions

priest: And so the greatest of all crimes should inspire no fear in us.

dying man : I did not say so. It is enough for the law to con- demn it and the sword of justice punish it to fill us with fear or aversion, but as soon as it is unfortunately committed we must know how to make up our minds and not give way to barren remorse, the effect of which is in vain, fihce it has not deterred us from committing the crime, and empty since it does not make it good. It is therefore absurd id give way to it, and even more absurd to fear punishment in the other world if we have been lucky enoifgh to escape it in this. God forbid that I intend to encourage crime, it must be avoided wherever possible, but we must learn to abstain from it by reason and not by false fears which come to nothing, and the effects of which are so soon destroyed in any soul with but a little firmness. Reason, yes, my friend, reason alone should warn us that doing harm to our fellows can never make us happy, and our heart'should tell us that to contribute to their happiness is the greatest happiness for us that nature allows us on this earth/All human morality is enclosed in this one saying “Make others as happy as you u>isp to pe yourself’ and never do them more harm than you would be willing *to suffer yourself. There, my friend, those are the only principles we need to observe, and there is no call for religion or God to admit and appreciate them, a good heart is all that we need /

But I feel I am getting weaker, preacher. Leave your prejudices, be a man, be human, without fear and without hope. Leave your Gods and your religions. All that is of no use except to put weapons into men’s hands; the name alone of all those horrors has caused more blood to be shed in the world than all other wars and disasters put together. Re- nounce the idea of another world — there is none. Do not renounce the pleasure of enjoying and causing happiness in this world. That is the only chance that nature offers you of doubling or extending your existence.

Dialogue

My friend, sensual pleasure was always the dearest of my possessions. I have worshipped it all my life and I wish to embrace it in my end. That end is near. Six women, more lovely than the day, are waiting in this next room; I was reserving them for this moment. Take yo* r share, and try by my example to forget on their breasts all the vain sophistries or supcflt^jtiog, all the ridicv^tis crrois ol Inpocrisy.

SO bE

The dying Mian rang the bell, and the women entered: in their arms the pioachei became a man corrupted by nature because he had not known how to explain what corrupt nature was.

LES 120 JOUfcNEES DE SODOME

Les 120 JoumJes de Sodome ou VEcoit du Libertinage is practically a quarter of a million words in length, but even then only thirty of the 'days’ are described in detail. De Sadc wrote thi^^ork^ during two u mths in 1785 when he was imprisoned in the Bastille. He wrote each day from ten in the morning ugtil tin at night, covering the pages closely with irfinute handwriting. He then stuck the pages end to end, forming a long scroll. When he left the Bastille in 1789 the MS remained there zjdong wfth other of his MSS, but later came into the possession of a French family who kept it for several generations btforc it was first published by Dr. Iwan Bloch in 1904. It has been reprinted once since then. A German trans lation was published in 1909.

De g .*ihA original p'an was to describe every possible type of sexual perversion; four old courtesans were to describe five perversions every evening for four months, by relating incidents from their own past® The audience included the four profiteers described in the introduction, their wives, and twenty-eight men and women who served their pleasures.

Les 120 Journees represents the first attempt ever made to catalogue sexual perversions. As de Sade possessed none of the scientific vocabulary used today he was forced to employ tenns which are thought just as obscene now as they weref whefi he was alive.

• * * * *

The extensive w'ars which Louis XIV was forced to wage in the course of his reign, and wfoich exhausted the wealth of the state and the strength of the people, nevertheless possessed the secret of enriching an enormous quantity of those leeches always on the watch tor public calamities which they cause instead of stopping, and that only in order to be ready to profit from them to more advantage. The end of this reign so sublime in other respects, is perhaps one of the epochs of the French Empire when one saw most of these obscurely-made fortunes

c

33

De Sade Selections

which were evident in luxury and debauchery as underhand as they were themselves. It was towards the end of this reign and shortly before the Regent had attempted, by the famous tribunal known under the name of the Chamber of Justice to seize by the throat this multitude of merchants that foyr among them conceived the extraordinary feast of debauchery that we are about to relate. It would be wrong to srppo^* that only commoners concerned themselves with money extortions, for the leaders of this whole affair were men of great consequence. The Duke of Blangis and his brother, the Bishop of — , who had both acquired enormous fortunes by this means, are abso- lute proof that the nobility, just as little as other people, did not despise such methods in order to enrich themselves. Both these important personalities, who were closely allied, in their pleasures as well as in their business transactions, with the cele- brated Durcet and the President de Curval were the first who really conceived the debauchery, the history of which we are to relate. After they had communicated Lhis idea to their two friends, all four of them became the actors taking part in the famous orgies.

Some six years ago these four libertines who were linked ve^y; closely together because of the similarity of their material possessions, as well as in their tastes, had contrived, by means of certain ties, to draw the bonds that united them, in which licence was a consideration above all other motives, still closer together. The arrangements they made were as follows. The Duke of Blangis, three times a widower, one of whose wives had left him two daughters, had noticed that the President de Curval had shown some inclination to marry the elder daughter, in spite of the fact that he was* well aware of the familiarities which the father had permitted himself with his daughter. The Duke, as I say, conceived all at once this triple match: ‘You want to have Julie for your wife’, he said to Curval, ‘I give her to you without hesitation, and only make one condi- tion, that you will not grow jealous, if she, although your wife, will contrive to show the same favours to me which I have always received from her in the past. And, further, that you

34

Les 120 Joumees

agree that we should ask our mutual friend Durcet that he should give me his daughter Constance , for whom I must admit there have awakened in me the same feelings as yours for Julie 9 .

‘But’, Curval replied, ‘it is surely noi unknown to you that Durcet, a libertine similar to yourself. . .*

'I kfib\ everything that cl be known*, the Duke inter- rupted, ‘but surely in our age and to our way of thinking such trifles are fto objection? lio you think that I want a wife in order to make her my mistress? I want one so that she may serve my peculiarities aifd moods, and in order to cover up a multitude of ^excesses. The mantle of Hymen serves very well for such a purpose. In short I desire his daughter in the same way as you desire mine. Do you suppose that your desires and purpose*- a*e unknown to me? We libertines take women to be our slaves. Their role as wives makes them more submissive to us than if they were our mistresses; and you well know what importance despotism assumes among those pleasures that we prefer*.

During this conversation Durcet entered. The two friends informed him of the content of their talk, and Durcet , delighted with this beginning, which would permit him to indulge. the same feelings for Adelaide , the President's daughter, accepted the Duke as a son-in law on condition that he in turn would become the son-in-law trf Curval.

The three marriages were ver> soon solemnised, the dowries were enormous and the marriage contracts identical.

The President, who was as guilt} as his two friends,*had communicated to Durcet his secret relations with his own daughter, without thereby repelling the latter in the slightest.

In this manner the three fathers, each of whom determined to conserve his rights, agreed that these rights should be further expanded so that the three young women who were bound by

• iame and worldly goods and chattels to their respective hus-

bands only, would belong, as far as their bodies were concerned, no more to one of the three friends than to the two others, and would expose themselves to the mpst severe punishments

35

De Sade Selections

if they allowed themselves to transgress any of the rules to which they had been subjected.

Everything was thus happily arranged when the Bishop, who was already in alliance through pleasure with the two friends of his brother, proposed to add a fourth subject, if they would allow him to have his share of the three other women. This subject, the second daughter of the Duke, And/4h& Bishop's niece, had a much closer relationship with the latter than any- one suspected. The Bishop had had contacts with his sister- in-law, and both brothers knfew for certain that the existence of this young person, whose name wta s Aline; was due much more to the Bishop than to the Duke. The Bishop had been attracted to Aline when she was still in her cradle and had watched her grow up to the age of youthful loveliness. He was an equal of his friends, and his proposal sprang from a similar depth of depravity. Since however the beauty and sweet youth of Aline were even superior to those of her colleagues, they did not hesitate to enter into this transaction. The Bishop then gave her up so long as his own rights to the others were guaran- teed, and each one of our four chief characters became in this manner the husband of four beautiful women.

• ^This t general arrangement, then, which we recapitulate for

the benefit of our readers, was that the Duke became the father of Julie, the husband of Constance, Durcet’s daughter; that Durcet, Constance’s father, bedkme the husband of Adelaide, the President’s daughter; that the President, the father of Adelaide, became the husband of Julia, the Duke’s elder daughter; and finally that the Bishop, uncle and father of Aline, became the husband of the three other women while he abandoned Aline to his friends on condition that his own rights to her would be respected.

The gay weddings were celebrated on a splendid estate belonging to the Duke situated in the Bourbon district, and I leave it to the reader to imagine the orgies that were enacted, for the necessity to describe many others does not allow us the pleasure of describing these. After their return to the estate the association of our {our friends became closer still and as it 36

Les 120 foumccs

is important to understand this relationship fully, it is neces- sary to mention a detail which, it seems to me, throws some light on the character of these libertines, until we shall reach the point where we shall introduce each one separately in* order to inspect him more closely still.

The -group had created a communal fund which was administers by each one of tl*c.«i in turn for six months, but the sum of money in this fund, which was only to serve tor Measure, Was immense. Their excessive fortune allowed them very strange things in that respect and the reader should not be surprised when he leirns that there were two millions each year allocated solely for the pleasures of good food and sensuality.

Foui famous procuresses who had nothing else to do but comb P ’.is ~nd the provinces in order to produce women, of one kind and anothei, who might best contribute to the satis- faction of their hosts.

As a rule four Suppers were arranged in the course of the week, each on in a different country house situated in the most remote district from Paris. The hrst of these suppers was devoted exclusively to the devotees of sodomy and only men were introduced. These generally consisted of sixteen young men between the ages of twenty and thirty, whose exceptional abilities permitted^ our four gentlemen, assuming the role of women, to enjoy the ltiost extreme sensual pleasures

37

JUSTINE

JUSTINE

Of all de Sade’s work that which is most widely known, if only by hearsay, is Justine Even during the lifetime of de Sade this was the book which caused the most sensation among the pubUc ^nd the most troub^ to the author

There <t*e three different books telling the story of Justine In 1787 de Sadr wrote Les Infortunes de la Vertu , working fg>m June ^ 3rd to July 8th This was only a sketch lor a book, not a novel intended for publication, and (according to Maurice Heine) until Guillaume Apollinaire mentioned the Bibliothique NJtionale MS in 1909, it does not seem to have been known 4 o anyone Maurice Heine transcribed and pub lished it in 1930

The expanded version of this sketch, Justine ou les Malheurs dr la Vertu, appeared 111 1791 (a year after de Sade left Ghatenion), published b\ Girouard in the rue du Bout du-Mondc With some modifications the book went through six editions in ten ^ears In June, 1791, de Sade wrote to his lawyer Gaufndy, saying, ‘A novel of mine is being printed But it is too immoral to be sent to a man so well behaved, pious and decent as you I needed money, my printer asked me to make it very spicy and I've made it capable of coirupting the devil It is called Justine ou les Malheurs de la Vertu If by chance it falls into your hands burn it, do not ?eadv«? I renounce it*. A few years previously, in the Catalogue Raisonne des oeuvres de I’auteui a Vipoque du ler octobre 1788, de Sade had said of what was to be his first published novel, ‘There is no story or novel m all the literature of Europe where the genre sombre 1$ carried to a degree more frightening and more pathetic’

Finally, in 1797, came the last and longest version, Im N ouvelle Justine, which was linked with the story of Justine s sister, Juliette ou les Prospejitis du Vice The two books accounted for four and six volumes respectively and the com bmed edition included a hundred engravings

The heroine Justine is the embodiment of virtue and is doomed to suffer every possible form of torture, outrage and evil at the hands of a succession of monsters, perverts or criminals whom she meets in her wanderings Usually she suffers passively, sometimes, if she attempts a good deed, her own actions turn against her Between descriptions of orgies or

4 *

De Sade Selections

crimes in which sexual desire and destructiveness are often inseparable — for example the villainous surgeon Rodin trycs to make love to a girl while performing a lethal operation on her — there aie discussions or speeches in which the characters express the author's views on a multitude of ethical, moral, religious and political problems. These speeches, which invar iably attack all accepted standards oi thought and behaviour, show the extremes to which rationalism can be talten. At a first reading some of the speeches, morality apart, btve a certain incisiveness, even though they do not bear analysis; at their worst they are rambling, repetitive and derivative.

Having escaped from one jnisfortune, Justine is immediately involved in another. While hiding in a wood she sees a noble- man and his valet performing acts o? sodomy

Oh, how long this time seemed to Justine, and what a torture to virtue is the obligation to contemplate crime.

At last the scandalous actors of this scene, doubtless satis- fied, stood up to return to the road that would lead them

back home, when the master, approaching the bush

saw the tip of the kerchief swathing Justine’s head.

••Jasmin,' he said to his valet, ‘we are betrayed. . .we are discovered. . . A woman. . .an impure creature has observed our mysteries. . . Let us approach. . .let us get that whore out of there and learn the reason which* put her there’.

But the trembling Justine did not give them time to drag hereout of her hiding place; she broke out of it herself, immed- iately. And falling at the feet of her discoverers, she exclaimed, her arms stretched out towards them, ‘Oh sirs, condescend to have pity on an unfortunate whose fate is more grievous than you believe. There are very few misfortunes which can equal mine. Let not the situation in which you have found me engender aify suspicion about myself — it is the result of poverty rather than of my sins. Far from increasing the evils which overwhelm me, pray diminish them by making it easy for me to escape the torments which pursue me’.

4 *

Justine

M. de Bressac — such was the name of the young man into whose hands Justine had fallen — amply endowed with wicked- ness, was not supplied with a very abundant stock of commiser- ation. It is, unfortunately, only too common to see luxurious- ness extinguish pity in the hearts of merf. Its ordinary effect is to harden; whether because the great majority of man’s deceits necessitate apathy of the soul, or the violent shock this passion produces upon the maj&iity of nerves diminishes the strength of thei? action, i* is still a fact that the libertine is ragely a man of sensitivity.

But in Bressac, further to this hardness, natural to the type of persons We are speaking of, there was coupled a pro- found disgust 9 for women. . .such an inveterate hatred for all which is characteristic of the sex — which he called INFAMOUS — that Justine would have had great difficulty to succeed in evoking In lihn those sentiments which it was her concern to inspire.

‘Well, my little* dove,’ said Bressac to her, coldly, ‘if you are looking for dupes, try better company. Neither I nor my friend ever touch women. They arc horrible in our eyes and we carefully avoid them. If it is alms you are after, try' people who like good deeds — we only perform bad ones. But tell me, wretch, did you see what passed between this young # man*and myself?'

‘I saw you talking a on the grass,’ said the prudent Justine. ‘Nothing else, sirs, I swear.’

‘I would like to believe it,’ said Bressac, ‘and for your sake. If I thought you had seen anything else you would never leave that bush. . . Jasmin, it is early yet, we have time to hear this girl’s story. Let us listen, and afterwards we shall see what needs to be done’.

The young men sat down: Justine placed herself beside them, and related to them with her usual frankness all the misfortunes which had oppressed her since her arrival in this world.

And that for the sole reason that sensitivity proves weakness, and libertinage strength. (Author's note.)

43

De Sade Selections

‘Come Jasmin/ said Bressac, getting to his feet, ‘let us for once be just. Equitable Themis has condemned this creature. Do not let us allow the designs of this goddess 'to be so cruelly frustrated. Let us make the delinquent suffer the death sen- tence that she would have undergone. This petty murder, so far from being a crime, will only be a reparation in. the moral order. Since we sometimes have the misfortune tp disturb it, let us, when the opportunity arises, re-estabiisl/it bravely’.

And the cruel man lifted ther unfortunate girl from the ground and began to drag hf r towards the centre of the wood, laughing at her tears and cries.

‘First of all, let us undress her/ said Bre&ac, tearing away all the veils of decency and modesty, without the attractions that this operation revealed to him in any way softening a man hardened to all the wiles of a sex that he despised. ‘What a nasty creature is a woman/ he said, rolling her over and over

on the ground with his foot. ‘Oh, Jasmin' Come,

no pity/

And immediately the poor gijl was bound to a tree with a rope that her masters created out of their cravats and handkerchiefs.

'This time, her fear is punishment enough/ said Bressac. ‘Jiistine/* he continued, untying her bonds and ordering her to get dressed, ‘keep a discreet tongue, and follow us. If you attach yourself to me, you will have no cause to repent of it. My mother needs a second woman. I shall present you to her. and on the truth of your story, I will answer to her tor your conduct. But if you abuse my kindness, betray my confidence, or refuse to submit to my intentions, then, Justine, look at these trees. Examine the grounfi they overhang, which would become your burial place, and remember that this unhappy spot is but a league from the chiteau to which I am taking you, and that at the slightest fault on your part you will be brought back hete immediately’.

The flimsiest sign of happiness is to the unfortunate what the restorative dew of the morning is to the flower dried up the day before by the burning fires of the sun. In tears, Justine

44

Justine

cast herself at the feet of her seeming protector, swearing to bcf obedient and to conduct herself well. But the barbarous Bressac, as insensible to this dear child’s joy as to her grief, said to her coldly, ‘We shall see. . .’ and they set off.

Jasmin and his master spoke together in whispers. Justine followed Vhem humbly without saying a word. An hour and a quarter tfas»enoiigh to bring thesn to the chlteau of Madame de Bressac — tfie ^luxury and magnificence of which showed Justine that whatever post ’might be destined for her in this house, it could surely be only advantageous to her if the malevolent hand which iJhd never ceased to torment her did not reappear to trouble the flattering prospects which seemed to be opening up before her eyes.

Half an hour after his arrival the young man presented her to his mother.

Mme de Bressac was a woman of forty-five, still beautiful, respectable and sensitive, but astonishingly severe concerning morals. Vainglorious*of the fact that she had never made one false step all her life, she did not forgive any weakness in others, and by this extreme severity, far from earning the tenderness of her son, she had, so to speak, repelled him from her bosom. Bressac had many faults, it is agreed. Byt wl^eye should indulgence build her temple if not in a mother’s heart? A widow since the death of the young man’s father two years before, Mme de Bressat possessed an income of 100,000 £cus, which, joined with the provision more than twice as great from the fortune of his father, would one day assure our villain, as can be seen, an annual revenue of nearly a million. Despite such great expectations Mme de Bressac gave her son little; would an allowance of 25,000 «francs be sufficient to pay for his pleasures? There is nothing so expensive as this kind of pleasure

Nothing had been able to bring the }£ung Bressac to service. Everything which distracted him from his debauchery was so insupportable in his eyes that he could not suffer its bond.

For three months of the year Mme df Bressac lived on the

45

De Sade Selections

estate where Justine first met her; the remainder of the time she spent in Paris. During this three months of country ifte, however, she insisted that her son should nfever leave her. A cruel punishment for a young man who detested his mother, and regarded as lost every moment spent away from the city that Has for him the centre of pleasure!

Bressac ordered Justine to recount to his mother Yhe events that she had related to him. As soon as she # had finished, the worthy woman said to her, ‘Your f frankness and naivety con- vince me beyond any doubt 'that you are genuine. I shall make no other enquiries about you except to verify that you really are the daughter of the man you tell me you ar£. If so, I knew your father, and that will be one more reason for interesting myself in you. As for the Delmonse affair, I take it upon myself to settle that with a couple oi visits to the Chancellor, who has been my friend for ages. Besides, that creature is an aban- doned, debauched woman of no reputation whom I would have locked up if I wished. But take heed, Justine*, added Mme de Bressac, ‘that what I am now promising you is only at the price of irreproachable conduct. And so you see that the results of the gratitude that I demand will always turn to your profit*.

Jusjjine threw herself at her benefactress’ feet, assuring her that she would havfe every cause to be contented with her, and she was at once put in possession of her post.

Three days later, the information sought by Mme de Bressac arrived, and was most satisfactory. Justine was praised for her frankness, and all ideas of misfortune vanished from her mind, giving place to the most serene of hopes.

But Heaven had not decreed that this dear girl was ever to be happy, and if a few moments of tranquillity fortuitously came her way, it was only to make more bitter the horrors which were to succeed them.

They had hardly returned to Paris before Mme de Bressac hastened to work on her maid’s account. The calumnies of La Delmonse were exposed, but she herself was out of reach,

• The Comtesse Delmonse had taken Justine into service and later caused

her to bf sent to prison. (Trans.)

46

Justine

she having left some days earlier for America to take up a ri£h legacy that had become due to her, Heaven wished her to enjoy her crimes in peace. There are all too many occasions when the inconsistent equity of Heaven weighs hard only upon the virtuous. It must not be forgotten that wc are only publish- ing these facts in order to convince our readers of this truth. It is sad,^but it is no less essential that it be revealed so that all may regulate Jjheir conduct in the events of this life by it.

With regard to the btftrning of the Palace prisons it was accepted that even if Justine hacP profited by this incident at least she had had^no hanfi in it; and she was assured that the charges againsj her would be destroyed without anv need for the magistrates concerned to use further formalities. The poor girl heard no more of it.

If, up now, the reader has acquired a fairly extensive knowledge of our heroine’s soul, it is easv to picture how such actions bound her affectionately to Mine de Bressac. Justine, voung, weak, and sensitive, was delighted to open her heart to the emotions it gratitude. Foolishly persuaded that an act of benevolence should bind the receiver to the person from whom it emanates, the poor girl poured out at leisure all the energy of her ingenuous soul in the cult of this puerile sedi- ment. The intention, however, was far from the young man’s mind to enslave Justine so strongly to the interests of a mother he could not tolerate.

But we think that here is the oppoitunity to portray this new character.

To the charm of his youth, Bressac enjoined a most attractive appearance. If his fea tuies or his figure had any faults, it was because they came somewhat close to that non- chalance. . .that softness, which belongs only to women. It seemed as if Nature, in bestowing on him the attributes of that sex, had inspired him equally with its tastes. But what a soul was buried beneath these feminine attractions! It contained every vice that characterised those of the greatest criminals. Nowhere were there such extremes of malice, vengeance, cruelty, atheism, debauchery, utter negjfct of all duties and

47

De Sade Selections

principally of those which less powerfully constituted souls seemed to make their delights. This singular young mail’s prime mania was to detest royally his mother, and unfortun- ately this hatred, based on his principles, was nourished within him both on arguments that permitted no reply and also on the powerful interest that he must inevitably have had in getting rid of her as soon as possible. Mme dp Bress2c did her best to guide her son back to the path of vjjrtue; but in this she showed herself too strict. The result was that the young man, more excited by the effects of this truth only abandoned himself with greater recklessness to his tastes, and from her endeavours the poor woman only gathered a lisp-vest of hatred that was infinitely stronger.

‘Do not imagine,' said Bressac one day to Justine, ‘that it is of herself that my mother takes so active an interest in you. Understand that if I were not nagging her 'at every moment, she would scarcely remember the attentions she has promised you. She makes you appreciate* every step she takes, whereas they are nothing but my work. Yes, Justine, it is to me alone that you owe the gratitude you lavish upon my mother, and what I demand from you must seem all the more disinterested since you know well that, however young and pretty you may be, I make no claim to your favours. No, dear girl, no. Endowed with disdain for all that can be obtained from a woman. . .for her very person, the services that I expect from you are of a very different kind; and when you are fully convinced of what I have done for your peace of mind, I hope 1 shall find in vour heart all that I have a right to expect’.

Such speeches, frequently repeated, seemed so obscure to Justine that she did not know kow to reply to them. She did so, nevertheless, and perhaps rather too forcefully. Must it be confessed? Alas! yes. To disguise Justine’s faults would be to deceive the confidence of the reader, and to be ungrateful for the interest that her misfortunes have up till now evoked.

However unworthy Bressac’s actions with regard to her may have been, from the first day she had seen him, she had been unable to defqpd herself against a violent feeling of

48

Justine

affection for him. Gratitude increased in her heart this invol- untary desire to which every day new strength was lent by the perpetual encounters with the cherished object: Justine definitely adored this blackguard, despite herself, with the same ardour that she idolised her God, her religion. . virtue. A thousand times she had reflected to herseli upon the cruelty of this m&n, his qptipathy to women, the depravitv of his tastes, and the mora^^ulf that separated them; and nothing in the world could extinguish this budding passion. If Bressac had asked her for her life, had desired her to shed her blood, Justine would have givemit, lavished it, and been heartbroken that she could not yet of her own Iree will make greater sacri- fices to the sole object of her passion. Such is love, and that is why the Greeks portrajed him with his eyes bandaged. But Jusline sa» 1 not a word, and the ungrateful Bressac was far from discerning the cause of the tears that she shed daily on his behalf. It was very difficult however, while he was in no doubts about the desire she had to anticipate everything which could please hip n< t to lealise that her attentions were strong enough and blind enough to serve even his misdeeds as far as decency would permit, and the care she always took to disguise them from his mother. By this conduct, so natural in a heart stricken with love, Justine had deserved young Bressac’s eiftirc confidence, and everything coming from this cherished lover seemed of so great puce in Justine’s e>es that very often the poor girl imagined thaL she obtained from love what was, m fact, bestowed upon her from debauchery. . .wickedness, or perhaps more certain still, the need that he thought he hafl of her foi the dreadful projects in his heart.

Who would have belies ecuthat he dared to sav to her one day ‘Among the young people that I debauch, Justine, there are several who only surrender to me out of kindness Such vouths need to look upon the naked c harms of a voung girl This necessity offends my pride. I would prefer that the state in which I desire them were due to myself alone. But since it is indispensable to me, I would sooner owe it to you, my angel, than to any other. I would have no doubts about anything;

r>

49

De Sade Selections

you will stay in my dressing-room, and I will take them into my room only when they are in a fit state.’

‘Oh, sir,’ replied Justine, in tears, ‘how can you propose such things to me? And the horrors that you indulge in. . .’ ‘Ah, Justine,' interrupted Bressac, ‘can one ever correct

such inclinations! if you could understand what I

experience in the sweet illusion. . . . An incredible delusion of the mind — detesting the sex, and wishing ‘"to imitate it!

carrying to their uttermost extremes this delirium. . .

Ah! No, no, Justine, you do not understand what

a pleasure this is to a brain constituted like mine. Such com-

plete delirium you lose your mind and your sense of

reason There is not a single pleasure of yours which

is unknown to us, not one which we cannot enjoy ’

Thus did M. de Bressac express himself in setting out his desires. Justine tried to speak to him of the admirable lady to whom he owed his existence and the grief that such dis- orders must occasion her. She perceived' in this young man nothing but contempt, bad temper, and above all great impatience at seeing the riches, which acording to Bressac, ought already to belong to him, in such hands for so long. She saw in him nothing but the most inveterate hatred for thi£' woman, honest and virtuous as she was

It is true, therefore, that when one has succeeded in trans- gressing in one’s tastes the instinct of this. . . .law, the necessary consequence of this first deviation is a tendency of the most violent kind to precipitate oneself without delay into a thousand others.

Sometimes the ardent Justine employed pious means. Often achieving consolation from them herself, because it is a characteristic of weakness always to find comfort in chimeras, she attempted to communicate their illusions to this pervert’s soul. But Bressac, the declared enemv of the mysteries of reli- gion, a persistent castigator of its dogmas, and the extreme antagonist of its inceptor, instead of allowing himself to be convinced by Justine’s opinions, soon attempted to subjugate them by his own. He held the young person's mind in sufficient

5 « 

Justine

esteem to desire to cast the light of philosophy upon it; more- over, he had need to destroy all her prejudices. This is how he combatted those of her cult.

( There follows a very detailed attack upon the actions and attested atrocities of the Old Testament prophets , and upon Cnrist. Then one day, Bttssac, with the aid of Jasmin, Joseph J and ah* unwilling Justine, assaults and outrages his nyother.)

Justine had # been in the house for two years, always har- rowed by the^same sorrows and always consoled by the same hopes, when the infamous Bressac, at last believing himself certain of her, dared to unveil to her his perfidious designs.

The/ vcre then in the country, and Justine was alone at her mistress’ side, the first woman having obtained leave to spend the summer in Paris on business of her husband’s. One evening, shortly after this beautiful girl had retired, Bressac suddenly knocked upon her door, and begged her to let him speak with her for a moment. Alas! every favour that the cruel author of her wrongs accorded her seemed too precious for her to dare refuse. He entered, carefully closed the cjoor, j$d, throwing himself into a chair beside her, spoke with some embarrassment.

‘Listen, Justine, I Tiavc matters of the utmost importance to speak to you about : swear to me that you will never reveal any of them.’

'Oh sir, how could you believe me capable of abusing your confidence?’

‘You do not know what ydu would risk if you should ever prove to me that I have been deceived in giving you my trust. . .'

‘The most terrible of my sorrows would be to lose it, I have no need of greater threats.’

'My dear,’ continued Bressac, grasping Justine’s hands, 'this mother whom I detest. . .well, I have condemned her to death. . .and it is you who must aid i^e. .

De Sade Selections

‘1/ cried Justine, recoiling in horror. "Do not hope. . . Oh, sir, how could you conceive such a project* No, no. Dispose of my life if you must, but never imagine that you can obtain my complicity in this terrible crime that you have conceived.’

'Listen, Justine,' went on Bressac, drawing her gently back to him. ‘I am well aware of your repugnance, but since sou are intelligent I flattered myself I could conquer it, and prove to you that this crime which appears so encrAious to you is at bottom merely a very simple affair.

'Two crimes offer theiff selves here to your too-unphilo- sophical eyes, Justine: the destruction of a creature resembling oneself, and the evil with which, according to yo>\ this destruc- tion is increased when this creature belongs so closelv to one With regard to the crime of destroying a fellow man, be quite certain, dear girl, that it is purely illusory

(Heir Bressac outlines de Sade\ ideas about Xature and the act of murder , which are given at \ length in €t Francaw 9 encore un effort

But the creature that I shall destroy is m\ mother. It is in this reject tlyat we shall examine this murder.

'There can surely be no doubt that the pleasure expected bv the mother from the conjugal act is the sole motive which impels her to it. This fact being established, I ask you how gratitude can be born in the heart of the fruit of this selfish act. Did the mother, in abandoning herself to it, work for herself or for her child? I do not think that such a thing can be in any doubt. However, the child is born, the mother suckles it. Is it in this second operation that we are tb discover the motive we seek for the sentiment of gratitude? Certainly not. If the mother renders her child this service, do not doubt but that she is only activated by the natural sentiment which impels her to relieve herself of a secretion which otherwise could become dangerous to her. She is imitating the female animals that, like her, the milk would kill, if, like them, she were not immediately relieved of u bv this c process. Now, can either of them be

J*

Justine

relieved of it other than by letting it be sucked by the animal ihat desires it and that by another natural movement equally

reaches for the breast? Here then is the child, born and

nourished, without our having discovered in either of these two operations any reason for gratitude towards her who gave him life and maintains it in him. Would you speak to me of the cares that follow those of infav^y? Ah, see in them no other motives than^hose of the mother’s pride. In this case unspeak- ing nature no more demands them from her than she does from other lemale animals. Beyynd the attentions necessary to the child’s life and the jnother’s health, a mechanism no more extraordinary th&n that of the marriage of the vine to the elm, beyond these # attentions, I say, nature decrees nothing more.

It is from habit and vanity that women prolong maternal

cares; and far from being useful to the child, they weaken his instinct, degiade him, and cause him to lose his power; you would say that he always needs to be led. I ask you now if this child should consider himself bound b) gratitude because the mother con'inues to undertake attentions that he can do without and winch onl> benefit hci? What! Should I owe someone something because that peison has done for me what I could do excellently well without, and which only the other needs 5 You will agree that such a mode of thought vtould fclfe a ghastly extiavagance. And so the child has now reached the age oi puberty without our having found in him the slightest reason for gratitude towards his mother. What would be the result of his reflections if he then made any? Dare I say it. . .

. . . . To him she has transmitted her infirmities, thetbad qualities of her blood, her vices, <tnd finally an existence that he has received only in order to be unhappy. Are there any

very great motives for gratitude there, I ask you?

‘Compare all the other so-called duties of man towards his mother; measure them all by these reflections, and then give >our judgment upon your alleged duties towards your father, your wife, >oui husband, your children, etc. Once you are thoroughly imbued with this philosophy, you will see that you are alone in the universe, that all the chimerical links that

53

De Sade Selections

have been forged for you are the work of men, who, naturally barn weak, seek to stay themselves with these bonds. A son believes he has need of his father; the father, in his turn, imagines he has need of his son; that is the cement of these alleged ties, these sacred duties. But I defy any one to find them in nature. So leave your prejudices there, Justine, and serve me: your fortune is made.*

‘Oh sir,’ replied the poor girl, quite terrified- 'this indiffer- ence that you suppose exists in nature is still nothing but the result of your mind’s sophistries. Listen instead to your heart, and you will hear it condemn all these false arguments of vice and debauchery. This heart, to whose tribunal I ask you to refer, is it not in fact the sanctuary in which th'/s nature that you outrage wishes you to listen to and worship her? If she engraves in it the strongest horror for the crime that you meditate, will you grant me that it is to be condemned? I know that at the moment you are blinded by passions; but as soon as their voices are still, to what an extent remorse will make you unhappy; the more active your sensitivity, the more the needle of repentance will torment you. Oh sir, cherish and respect the remaining years of this tender and precious friend. Do not sacrifice her, you will perish of despair. Every day, at evfry mo&ient, you will see before your eyes this adored mother whom your blind fury has consigned to the tomb. You will hear her beseeching voice whisper again the soft words that were the joy of your childhood. She will appear to you at night, she will torment you in your dreams: with her bleeding hands she < vill open the wounds with which you have mutilated her. From then onwards not one happy moment will shine for you in this world; all your pleasures will be spoilt, all your thoughts troubled; a heavenly hand, whose power you misprize, will avenge the days you have destroyed by poisoning all your own. And without having enjoyed your hideous crimes you will perish of the mortal regret of daring to accomplish them’.

Justine wept as she spoke these last words; she was on her knees at the feet qf this ferocious man who listened to her with an air blended of rage and contempt. She begged him by

54

Justine

all tliai was most sacred to him to forget an infamous project ttat she swore to conceal all her life. But she did not know the monster with whom she was dealing. She did not know to what an extent the passions bolster and fortify crime in such a soul as Bressac's. She did not know t! at all the prompt- ings of virtue and sensibility in such circumstances were like so many .needles in the scoundrel's heart, whose sharp pricks invested the projected atrocity with even greater violence. The true libertine loVes even the dishonour, the scars, the censures that are the deserts of his execrable action. They are delights to his perverse soul. Have # we not seen the man who loves even the tortures that human vengeance prepares lor him, who undergoes thefh joyfully, who regards the scaffold as a throne of glory on which he would be most grieved not to perish with the same "wrage that had animated him in the loathsome exercise of his sins and outrages? There you see the man in the last degree of considered corruption : there you see Bressac. He stood up, coldly.*

‘I can see,’ \e said to Justine, *that I was deceived; I am more sorry for )ou than for myself; no matter, I will find other means, and you will have lost much, without your mistress gain- ing anything'.

Such a threat changed all Justine's ideas. By not accepting the crime proposed to her, she risked a lot on her own account, and her mistress would # still inevitably die. By agreeing to take part, she protected herself from Bressac’s wrath, and would certainly save the marquise. This reflection which was the work of an instant in her, determined her to accept everything,<but as so quick a change of front would inevitably have given rise to suspicion of deceit, she made the most of her pretexts for some time, and put Bressac in the position of frequently repeating his maxims to her. Gradually she gave the impression of not knowing any more what to reply. Bressac believed her converted and threw himself into her arms. What enjoyment for Justine if this movement had been motivated by wisdom!

. . . . But the time for that had passed; this man's horrible conduct, his parricidal designs, had extinguished every affection

55

De Sadr Selections

nourished in this poor girl’s weak heart. And now, calmly, she saw in the former idol of her heart only a criminal, unworthy of reigning there for even a single instant.

‘You are the first woman I have kissed,’ said Bressac, embracing her ardently. 'You are delicious, my child. Has a ray of philosophy penetrated your mind, then? Is it possible that so charming a head could have remained shrouded for so long in terrible prejudices! . . . Oh Justing the torch of reason is now dispersing the shadows into wnich superstition had plunged you; you see clearly, you can picture the nullity of crime, and at last the sacred dpties of personal interest prevail over the frivolous considerations of virtue: come, you are an angel, I do not know why it is you d& not instantly make me change my tastes.’

Bressac in fact, excited much more by the real certainty of his schemes than by Justine’s attractions, threw her face

down upon the bed despite her struggles, and said,

‘ My brave friend, so, you will poison my

mother, I can count upon that. Look, here is the subtle poison that you will slip into the infusion of lime blossom that she takes every morning for the sake of her health; it is infallible and has no taste. I have used it hundreds of times’.

'Hundreds of 'times, sir!’

'Oh yes, Justine. I often use such means, either to rid myself of those who bother me, or merely out of lubricity. I find it delicious in this treacherous way to be master of the lives of others, and I have very often made prescriptions with thotsole intent of amusing myself. So you will do it, Justine, yes, you will do it. I will guarantee you against all consequences, and in recompense will give ^ou the deeds of an income of two thousand £cus on the very day of the execution.’ These promises were signed without any expression of motive. Bressac rang the bell. A pretty catamite appeared.

‘What do you want, sir?’

Meanwhile spmething most remarkable occurred. . . capable of unveiling the atrocious soul of the monster with

• 6

Justine

whom we are entertaining our readers, for us not to interrupt for a minute the relation of the venture that they are waiting for, in which his rascality had just involved our heroine.

Two days after the criminal pact of which we have spoken, Bressac learned that an uncle from whose estate he had no expectations had just left him an income of fifty thousand £cus.

‘Oh Heaven T exclaimed Justine to herself when she turned the news. ‘Is this how the hand of the Supreme Being punishes the plotting of crime?' # . . And repenting presently of this blasphemy agains^ Providence, she cast herself onto her knees, imploring its pardon, and flattered herself that this unexpected efem would at least change Bressac's plans. How great was her error’

‘Oh .pv dear Justine,' he cried, tunning into her room that sune evening ‘how good fortune showers down upon me 1 I have often told you this. The idea or the execution of a crime are the surest *\ays of attaining happiness; there is none left except for liminals*

‘Now then, sir/ replied Justine ‘This fortune that you did not reckon on. . .the hand that gave it to you. . .yes, sir, madame has told me the whole story : without her your uncle would have disposed of his estate quite differently. \ou kfjbw that he did not love you. It is to vom mother alone that you owe this final disposition. She alone persuaded him to sign it . .and your ingratitude. . .'

‘You make me laugh/ interrupted Bressac. ‘What does this gratitude that you would impose upon me sigmiy? In tauth, there is nothing so amusing. Oh dear, you will never under- stand, Justine, that nothing is owed to the benefactor, since he has his satisfaction in obliging. So why then must I reward any individual whatsoever for the pleasure that he was pleased to incur for himself t And should I change my plans to give thanks to Mme de Bressac? And should I wait for the rest of my fortune to thank Mme de Bressac for the great s»ivice she has done me? Oh Justine, how badly you understand me! You must be told more: this new death is my work; I tried

57

De Sade Selections

out upon the brother the poison with which I wish to shorten the days of the sister. . . Dare you demand delays now. 4 . Oh no, Justine, no, far from making any change* we must make haste, tomorrow or the day after at the latest. I am already longing to pay you a quarter of your income, to put you in possession of the act which assures them to you.'

Justine trembled, but concealed her agitation, and saw that with such a man it was wise to resume Mr resolve of the previous evening. The way of denunciation sull remained to her, but nothing in the world would have shaped Justine to use means that prevent one horror only by committing a second. She decided therefore to warn her mistress. Of all the possible courses that appeared the best. She acted upon it!

'Madame,' she said, the day following her last interview with the young count, '1 have something of the utmost import- ance to reveal to you. But however much it may interest you, I shall remain silent unless you first give me your word to display no resentment to your son. Ycyi may take action, madame, take the best possible steps, but you may say nothing. Please promise me that, or I shall hold my peace’.

Mme de Bressac, who believed it was only a question of some ordinary extravagance in her son, consented to the oath thy Justine demanded, and the latter told her everything.

'The monster!' cried the unhappy mother. 'When have 1 ever done anything that was not for his benefit? Oh Justine, Justine, prove to me the truth of this plot, let me have 110 room to doubt it. 1 am in need of all that can succeed in extinguish- ing «tn me the sentiments that my blind heart still dares to cherish for this beast.'

And so Justine showed her the packet; it was difficult to establish a better proof. Mme cle Bressac who still wished to preserve her illusions, wanted to make tests. A minor dose was administered immediately to a dog which died after two hours of appalling convulsions. Mme de Bressac, no longer able to doubt came to a decision. Ordering Justine to give her the rest of the poison, she wrote at once to M. de Souzeval, her relation, to go secretly to the minister, and unravel to him the atrocity

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Justine

of a son who was about to make her his victim, to furnish him- self with a lettre de cachet and as soon as possible to come to the estate and deliver her from the monster who was so cruelly plotting against her life.

But the abominable crime had to be consummated. Yet once more was it necessary, by Heaven’s inconceivable per- mission, for virtue to yield to the* *forts of villain). The animal on whom they h^d experimented gave everything away. Bressac hegrd its howls, and demanded to be told what had been done to it. Those whom he questioned # knew nothing at all, and gave no positive answer.^ From that moment his suspicions increased. He &aic> nothing but was anxious. Justine informed the Marquise ftf his state. She was even more anxious, but nevertheless could only think of speeding up the courier, and concealing « more completely, ii it were possible, the object of his mission. She told her son that she w as sending to Paris by express coach to beg M. de Souzeval to lay claim to the inheritance of the untie from whom they had legacies, because there was a fea* of court action unless someone appeared at once. She added that she was entreating her relative to come and report to her upon these negotiations, so that she could decide to leave herself, with her son, ii the affair required it.

But Bressac, too good a physiognomist not to discern embarrassment that reigned over his mother's face, and not to observe a little confusiop in Justine’s, took count of everything and believed nothing. Using hunting as an excuse, he went away from the chateau and waited for the courier in a place where he must needs pass. This man, more his creature chan his mother's, made no difficulties about handing over his despatches; and Bressac, convinced of Justine’s treachery, gave the courier a hundred louis with oiders never to reappear before his mother. He returned with anger in his heart, and sent all the servants away to Paris, retaining only Jasmin, Joseph and Justine at the chateau. From the fury that was supreme in this blackguard’s eyes, our unfortunate orphan soon had an inkling of the disasters that were to overwhelm her and her mistress.

59

Dr Sadr Selections

Bressac however losi no time. The gates were closed, every- thing barred up, and the gamekeepers forbade entry to anyone.

'A terrible crime has just been committed,’ said Bressac.

• 1 must discover its perpetrators. . . You shall know all, my

friends, when I have found the guilty one. I am only keeping inside the witness and the person I suspect. .

Alas! the atrocious crime had not been committed but the villain was about to accomplish it, he'^s going to. . . We shiver at the necessity of transmitting these odious facts, but we have promised to be^exact, and we must be, even at the expense of our modesty.

'Loathsome creature,* said the young than when he met Justine. 'You have betrayed me; but you will ttimble into the very trap you were preparing for me. Why did you promise me the service that I asked from you when your only intention was to deceive me? And how did you imagine you were serving virtue by risking the liberty and perhaps the life of the one to whom you owe your happiness? Placed«by necessity between two crimes, why did you choose the more abominable? You should have refused, yes harlot, refused, and not accepted in order to betray me/

Then Bressac told Justine all that he had done to secure tQe Martjuise’s despatches, and how the suspicion had grown which had prompted him to intercept them.

'What have you achieved by your falseness, imbecile creature?’ continued Bressac. 'You have risked your own life without saving that of your mistress; for she will die just the saiCfe, and before your eyes, and you will follow her. I will con- vince you, Justine, that the path of virtue is not always the best, and that there are circuipstances in this world in which complicity in a crime is preferable to its denouncing.’

From her Bressac flew to his mother.

’Your sentence is decreed, madame/ the monster said to her, 'and you must suffer it. Perhaps you would have done better, knowing my designs and my hatred for you, quite simply to have swallowed thp poison. By evading a gentle death you

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Justmr

h^ve prepared for yourself a cruel one Come, madame, no more delay’.

’Barbarian f Of what do you accuse me v

’Read your own letter

’Since you were conspiring against m\ life, should I not defend myself against you?’

'No 1 You aie nothing but a useless thing on this earth, your life belong* to me, and mine is <»acied

’Oh villain, sou are blinded by passion ’

’Socrates swallowed the poisoif that was offered him, with out resistance Yqji were Offered some from my side, why did you not take 1

’Oh my dear son, how can you treat so harsh] v one who has borne you »n her bosom*’

’That service docs not exist for me follow me,

whoic, follow me, and no more of sour arguments’

With these words lie seized upon her and dragged her by the hail to a small garden, planted with cypresses and sur sounded by high walls, an impenetrable sanctuars in which in the obscurity of a graveyard, reigned the grim silence of death There Justine ssas led b\ Jasmin and Joseph to await tiemblinglv the fate which was reserved for her

The hist objects that presented themselves to Mme dc Biessac s eves, were on one side a large pit reads to receive her body, and on the other tour monstrous mastiffs, foaming with tage, who had been dehberatcls stirs ed since the discovers of the unhappy secret

‘lake her, Bressac said to one of the mastiffs The dog leaped forward and its teeth, buried m the delicate white flesh, at once caused the blood to spurt forth • • • • • • • •

He tied her himself to the trees by means of a rope which encircled her wuist leaving hei freedom to move her arms, and the possibility of moving backwards or forwards m an area of about six feet

‘An excellent luncheon tor my dog* Ah, harlou it was

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De Sade Selections

dogs that exposed everything to me, it shall be dogs that sjfill punish you/

And by the brutal manner in which he handled. . . .his mother, it seemed that his murderous hands would dispute in rage with the trenchant teeth of his hounds.

'Come, Jasmin, goad these animals; you, Joseph, b

Justine, we shall have her eaten afterwards. < This faithful ser- vant must perish from the same death as h£r dear mistress. They must be re-united in one and the same tomb. . . You see how deep it is, I had it hug so designedly/

And Justine, trembling, asking *for partjpn, obtained from her torturers nothing but contempt and outbuists of laughter. The dogs at last surrounded her unfortunate mistress. Goaded by Jasmin, they flung themselves all together upon the defence- less body of the hapless mother, and hungrily devoured her. In vain she repulsed them; in vain she redoubled her efforts to avoid their teeth; each of her movements succeeded only in further exciting them, and the lawn was flooded with streams of blood.

The cries of our poor orphan mingled

dolefully with those of her mistress; little intended for the treatment she was enduring, she needed all Joseph’s strength io hold her

'Come,' said Bressac, ‘take back these old hens. We must finish off one, and decide the fate of c the other*.

Madame de Brcssac was carried back to her room and th(?wn upon her bed. And her unworthy son, seeing that she was still living, placed a dagger in Justine's hand, seized the arm which held this weapon, and guided it, despite all the unfortunate girl's resistance, Into the heart of the unhappy lady, who died imploring God's pardon on her son.

‘Do you sec the murder you have just committed,' said the barbarous Bressac to the almost unconscious Justine w*ho was soaked in the blood of her mistress. 'Look, can there be, anywhere in the world a more shocking act? You shall be punished for it, you must be; you shall be broken alive on the wheel, you >hall4>e burnt.'

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Justine

Pushing her into the adjoining room, he locked her in, first placing beside her the bloody dagger. Then he opened up the ch&teau, mimicking grief and tears, saying that a fiend had just assassinated his mother, that he had mund the weapon in the criminal’s room, and held her prisoner, while he quickly demanded every assistance fromnyjstice. But this time a pro- tecting God savedi innocence. The measure had not been filled, and it was to be with other experiences that Justine must accom- pliSh her destiny. In his confusion, Bressac believed he had firmly locked the door. He had not, and Justine profited from the moment wheq everyoAe was centred in the courtyard of the chateau, top leave rapidly, escaping by the gardens to find the gate of the park half open, and thence into the foiest.

• * * * *

The following speech bs Rodin is part of one of the argu- ments he puts forward during his attempts to seduce Justine.

ON 1HE US1LESSNESS Ot VIRTUE

Before a week had gone by I again began iny efforts to com ert Rodin, but he was so hardened against it Lhat nothing I could do was of any avail.

‘Do not believe*, he replied to my wise words, ‘that the sort of homage I have paid to virtue in you proves either that I value virtue or that I intent? to prefer it to vice. Do not imagine this, Ttortse, you would be making a great mistake. Anybody who would believe this after what I have done to you and tried to uphold the importance or the necessity of virtue would be completely wrong, and I should be very angiy if you believed that I had any thoughts of this kind. The hut which serves to shelter me if the rays of the sun shine too strongly upon me when I am out hunting is certainty not a

63

De Sade Selections

useful building. Its necessity is only due to circumstances. I am exposed to a type of danger, 1 find something which protects me f I make use of it, but does that mean that this thing is any the less useless? Could it be any the less worthy of regard? In a completely vicious society virtue would be useless. Since our societies today arc not entirely vicious one must either simulate virtue or make use of it in order tQ have less to hear from those who observe it. If nobody was virtuous, virtue would have no use. I am not, therefore, wrong when I maintain that the necessity of virtue is only a matter of opinion or of circum- stances. Virtue is not a state of any high value, it is only a way of behaving, which varies according to e^ch climate and which consequently has nothing real about it, for this fact alone makes its futility evident. Only that which is constant can be really good. Anything which changes perpetually cannot aspire to any character of goodness, and that is why immutabil- ity has been valued as one of the perfections of God.

‘Virtue is entirely without character. There arc not two races of men on the surface of the earth who are virtuous in the same way. Therefore virtue is not real and has no intrinsic good. It does not deserve our respect. It must be used as a $upporti and one must adopt in a politic way the virtue of the Country where one lfvcs, so that those who practise virtue out of taste, or who are obliged to do so because of their social position, will leave you in peace. Also, the virtue which is respected where you live can protect you by the preponderance of # \ts convention from all attacks oi those who practise vice. But once again, all this is a matter of circumstance and nothing of this can endow virtue with any real merit. Also, some types of virtue are impossible for certain men. Therefore, how can you persuade me that virtue, which opposes or contradicts the passions, can be any part of nature? And if it is not a part of nature how can it be good? It can be certain that amongst the men in question the vices opposed to these virtues will become preferable because they are the only type of existence which best suit their physique and the organs of their bodies. According to this hypothesis, therefore, some vices are very

64

Justine

useful; therefore, if you prove to me that things contrary to virtue can be useful, how can virtue itself be useful? The answer to this usually is that virtue is useful to other people, and that in this sense it is good. For if it is agreed that one. should do only whatever benefits other people, I in my turn will only receive what is good. This reasoning is only a sophism; in return for the small amount* vf good which I receive from others because they practise virtue and thereby oblige me to poetise it in turn, I have Ao make a million sacrifices which do not compensate me in any way. Since I receive less than I give I therefore make a b}d deal. I undergo much more harm from the privatiofts that I endure in order to be virtuous than I receive of benefit from virtuous people. This arrangement is not fair and I should not therefore submit myself to it.

'If I virtuous F am sure of not doing as much good to others as I would receive of harm in forcing myself to be virtuous; would not it therefore be better if I renounced from giving them a pleasure which must cost me so much. There now remains the naiin that I, being vicious, could do to others, and the evil that I will receive in my turn, if everyone resembles me. If I allow everyone to be completely vicious I agree that there is a certain risk for me, but the unhappiness from what I risk is compensated by the pleasure from what I make others risk. Therefore equality is established, and from then onwards everyone is more or less equally happy. This does not and could not happen in a society where some people are good and others bad, because this mixture produces a perpetual series of snares which do not exist in the other case. In a nSked society all interests are diverse and are therefore the source of an infinite number of misfortunes. In the other type of society all interests are equal, each individual who makes up society has the same tastes, the same inclinations; they all have the same aim and they are all happy.

‘ "But*', foolish people will say, "evil cannot make anyone happy”. No, when it is agreed that good must be worshipped. But if you despise and degrade anything that you call good you will have only respect for what you had the foolishness

65

h

De Sade Selections

to call evil. In this way all men will take pleasure in perpe- trating it, not because it will be permitted (this would some- times be a means of reducing its attraction) but in fact because .the law will not punish it any longer, while now they inspire fear, reducing thereby the pleasure with which nature has endowed crime. I suppose that in a society where it is agreed that incest (let us admit this crime like any other), that incest, I say, should be a crime, those who practise it will be unhappy because the weight of opinion, larv and religion will combine to cool their pleasure. Those who would like to commit this crime and those who dare not because of these restrictions, will also be unhappy. Imagine that iii a neighbouring society incest is not a crime: those who do not want to practise it will not be unhappy and those who do warn to practise it will be happy. The same thing can be said of all the other acts which are wrongfully considered as crimes. If you look at them from this point of view you create a whole crowd of unfortunate people. If • you allow these crimes nobody complains. For those who like to behave in this normal way will do so in peace, and those who do not want to do it either remain indifferent about it and therefore do not suffer, or compensate themselves for the wrong which may have been ppne to ‘them by a number of other wrongs which they do in their turn to those about whom they may have had to complain.

'Therefore in a criminal society .everybody is either very happy or in a state of unconcern, which is not painful. In consequence there is nothing good, nothing respectable, and nothing which can make anyone happy in this state called virtue. Let those who practise it, therefore, be not proud. They need not be grateful for the s^rt of homage which our type of society forces us to pay to virtue. It is an affair entirely of circumstances and convention. But in fact the whole cult is imaginary and the virtue which is the object of it even for one moment is not any better off for that reason’.

Such was the diabolical logic of Rodin’s unfortunate passions.

66

CONTES et FABLIAUX

Historiettes, Contes et Fabliaux

LE PRESIDENT MYSTIFIE

Le Président mystifié

MISS HENRIETTA STRALSON

(ONI VS m VABLIAUX

From the Catalogue Raisonnc that de Sade prepared m 1788 it appears that the Contes el Fabliaux d'un Troubadour Provengal du XV III eme Sticle consisted of four volumes ol stories. He intended to alternate amusing # and tragic themes, but eleven ‘heroic and tragic stones were 'published in 1800 they were attacked in a pamphlet by one Villeterque who claimed that this ‘detestable’ work came from a man suspected of having written, things even nitre horrible

De Sade’s reply is typical of the wa) he usually dealt with his detractors — ‘From the silly description that Villeterque giv^s of Les Crimes de l’ Amour it is clear that he has not read them, li he knew them he would not make me say things which have never occurred to me, he would noi single out phrases which Jjiave no doubt been dictated to him, m ordei to give them, b\ cutting them shoit in his own wa\, a meaning which they have never had* He went on to explain his purpose in writing them he maintained that the triumph of crime showed the rse m a good light, and that was enough to

E rove then useiulness He wrote a set of notes explaining what appened m each storv

• * * * *

11 - PRFSIDVNT MXSTIFI*

The three following stones were published in 192^ edited b) Maurice Heme, as Histonettes, Contes et Fabliaux

In connection with Le President Mysttfie (The Mystified Magistrate), it is interesting to note that among the Aix justices who tried de Sade in 1772 after the affair of the poisoned sweets was a Monsieur de Fontiens, a name which is very close to that of the hero of the storj Monsieuf de frontams

• *

• 4s

4s

MISS HI NRIFTTA STRUSON

‘Virtue, as in Clarissa, succumbs, I agree in Miss Henrietta S tralson, but is not crime punished by the very hand of virtue?

This story is probably the best of Les Crimes de l’ Amour Its English setting is certainly a tubute by de Sade to the country whose writers he admired so muth

69

THE MYSTIFIED MAGISTRATE

It was with heartfelt regret that the Marquis d’Olincourt, colonel of dragoons, and a man full of wit, grace, and spirit, saw his sister-in-law. Mile de Tlroze, consigned to the nuptial embraces to one of the most appalling mortals that have yet trod the face of the earth. This charming girl, eighteen years of age, as fresh as Flora and fashioned like the Graces, had for four years been loved by the* young Coinpte d’Elb&ne, lieutenant colonel of d’Olincourt’s regiment, aiyi she too could not visualise without a shudder the arrival of the fatal moment that by uniting her to the ill-favoured husband appointed for her must separate her for ever from the only man that was worthy of her. But how could she escape? Mile de Tlroze’s father was an old man, obstinate, hypochondriac and gouty, who sadly imagined to himself that neither manners nor talents should decide a young girl’s affections for a husband, but onl) reason, maturity, and principally social standing; the position of a man of law was most esteemed, most majestic of all the ranks of monarchy, and moreover that which he loved best fiti all the world. Consequently it must only be with a man of law that his younger daughter should find happiness. Never- theless, the old Baron de T&oze had 'given his elder daughter to a soldier, and what is worse, to a colonel of dragoons. This daughter, extremely happy and born to be happy from every point of view, had no occasion to repent the choice of her father. But all that made no difference. If this first marriage was a success, it was by change. In actual fact only a man of law could make a girl completely happy. Having established that, it was therefore necessary to find a lawyer. Now, of all the possible lawyers, the most agreeable in the eyes of the old baron was a certain M. de Fontanis, president of the Parliament of Aix, whom he had known earlier in Provence; hence, without any more reflection, it was M. de Fontanis who was going to become /he husbandtof Mile de T6roze.

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rhe Mystified Magistrate

Very few people can imagine a president oi the Parliament of Aix; it is a species of beast that has often been mentioned without much knowledge, uncompromising by profession, pernickety, credulous, stubborn, vain, cowardly talkative and stupid by nature, with the thin face of a litiie bird, the thick harsh voice of a Punch, usually emaciated, tall, soaggy, and stinking like a corpse You «>ight say that all the spleen and severity of the kingdom's magistracy had taken refuge m the Provencal temple of Themis in ordei to issue forth from there every time a Trench court* had remonstrances to utter or citizens to hang But*M de Fontanis surpassed even this quick sketch qf tfis compatriots On top oi the gaunt and even somewhat bent figure that we have just pictuied, M de Fontanis displayed a narrow occiput, rather low, rising greatly on top, adorned wi*h i yellow forehead, which was covered magister lally with a multi purpose peruke of a type not yet known m Pans Two somewhat twisted legs supported with adequate ceremony this walking clock towei, from whose chest issued, not without a certain inconvenience to those nearby, a yelping voice, distributing with great emphasis long compliments, half French and half Provencal, at which he never failed to smile himself, with such opening oi the mouth that the observer saw therefoie right down to the uvula a blackish abyss, denuded ^>t teeth, excoriated in different places and noi at all unlike a ceitain seat that, having regard to the demands of our weak humanity becomes just as frequently the throne of kings as of peasants Independently of these physical atti actions, M*de Fontanis had pretentions to a fine mind After dreaming one night that he was raised with Saint Peter to the third heaven he fancied himself the greatest astronomer in France He argued over legislation like Fannacius and Cujas, and was often heard to say to great men, and to his colleagues who were by no means great men that a citizen s life, fortune, honour, family, everything in fact that society regards as sacred was nothing as soon as there «was any question of exposing a crime, and that it was a hundred times preferable to risk the life of fifteen innocents than to save by misfortune one guilty

De Sade Selections

person, because heaven is just if Parlements are not, and t Jie punishment of an innocent person entails only the incon- venience of dispatching a soul to Paradise, whereas the saving qf a guilty man risks the multiplication of crimes in this world. Only one class of individuals had any rights upon the armour- plated soul of M. de Fontanis — prostitutes. Not that he made a great use of them in general. Although jnost ardent, his ability was uncontrolled and moderate in execution, and his desires extended far beyond his powers. M. de Fontanis had in mind the glory of transmitting his \ilLustrious name to posterity, that is all, but what caused 9 this celebrated magistrate to show indulgence to the priestesses of Venus c was his claim that there were few citizens more useful to the State, that by means of their knavery, their deceit and their gossip a multitude of secret crimes managed to be uncovered, and M. de Fontanis had this to his credit that he was the sworn enemy of what philosophers call human weaknesses.

This somewhat grotesque combirfation of Ostrogoth physique and Justinian morality left the town of Aix for the first time in April 1779 at the request of M. le Baron de T£roze whom he had known for a long time for reasons of little importance to the reader, and came to stay at the Hotel de D^nemark, not far from the baron’s residence. As it was then the time of the Saint-Germaia fair, everyone in the hdtel thought that this extraordinary creature had come to go on show. One of those officious creatures who are always offering their services in such public establishments, even proposed to him fhat he would go and \garn Nicolet who would esteem it a veritable pleasure to prepare a place for him, unless however he would prefer to set himself up at Audinot’s. The president replied,* 4 My nurse certainly warned me when I was small that Parisians are a caustic, facetious people who would never do justice to my virtues, but my wig-maker nevertheless informed me that my head of hair would impress them. Good folk, you joke as you die of hunger, you sing while -you are being

• The reader is warned thaf he must provencalise and broaden the parr

of the president throughput, although the text does not indicate it.

7 *

1 hr Mystified Magistrate

crashed. . . Oh I I have always said so, these people need an inquisition as in Madrid, or an ever-ready scaffold as in Aix\ M. de Fontanis, however, after a little attention to his toilet which could only achieve some heightening of the brilliance of his sexagenarian charms, after several applications of rosewater and lavender, which were not, as Horace said, ambitious omampnts, after all tft&t, 1 say, and perhaps some other precautions which have not come to our knowledge, the pr^ident went to present himself to his old friend the baron. The double doors were opened, his name was announced and the president entered. Urrfortunately for him, the two sisters and the Coinptg d\)lincourt were amusing themselves like three little children in one corner of the salon, when this original figure made its appearance, and howevei hard they tried they could not pi'«'ibly restrain themselves from bursting into laughter which put ’he grave visage of the Provencal magistrate completely out of joint. He had studied his entrance bow for a long while before a tnirror, and was giving a passable render- ing of it when this damnable laughter escaped from our young friends and almost caused the president to retain his bow r much longer than he had intended. He straightened up how- ever, a stern glance from the baron brought his three children back within the margins of respect, and the conversation begai\ The baron who intended to go straight to the point and whose mind was already # made up did not allow this first inter- view to end without informing Mile de T£roze that this was the husband he had destined for her and that she had tojgive him her hand within eight days at the latest. Mile de T£roze said not a word, the president withdrew, and the baron repeated that he wished to be obeyed. It was a cruel situation for her to be in. Not only did this beautiful girl adore M. d'Elb&ne, not only was she idolised by him. but, as weak as she was sensitive, she had already allowed her delectable lover to pluck that flower which, so different from the rose to which it is nevertheless sometimes compared, has not the same faculty of being reborn each spring. Now, what would M. de Fontanis have thought. . .a president of the Parliament of ^ix. . .on

73

De Sade Selections

finding his duty already accomplished? A Provencal magistrate may very well be ridiculous — that is likely among this class of persons — but he is still able to judge of the first fruits, and would comfortably expect to find them at least once in his life in his own wile. It was this which halted Mile de ftroze, who, although full of life and gaiety, possessed nevertheless all the delicacy which befits a woman in such a case f| and fully realised that her husband would think very little of her if she ever proved that she could have been lacking in respect for him even before they met. Foi* there is nothing so just as our prejudices in these matters. Not only must an unfortunate girl sacrifice all her heart’s affections to the husband that her parents give her but she is even to be blamed if before know- ing the tyrant who will enslave her she has only listened to the voice of Nature and yielded for one moment to her promptings. Mile de Teroze confided her woes to her sister. The latter, whose sense of humour was greater than her prudishness, and who was much more likeable than she was religicfus, roared with laugh- ter like a madwoman at the confidence, and immediately shared it with hei serious husband who decided that matters being in such a shattered and ruined state, they must not on any account be offered to the priests of Themis, which gentle- jzien never joked about matters of such importance; his poor little sister would no sooner be in the town of the ever - prepared scaffold than she might find herself climbing it to provide a victim to chastity. The marquis quoted proofs — after his dinner especially he sometimes showed himself most erudite — that Provence was an Egyptian colony, that the Egyptians very frequently sacrificed young girls, and that a president of the Parlement of Aix, who fundamentally was nothing but an Egyptian colonist, could without achieving any miracle divorce his little sister from the prettiest neck in the world. . . Mere choppers-off of heads, these colonial presidents, continued d'Olincourt, they will chop through necks as crows will pick off walnuts, without looking closely enough to see whether justly or not. Like Themis, severity wears a bandage placed

74

The Mystified Magistiate

oler its eyes by stupidity, and in the town of Aix never raised by philosophy.

They agreed to have a meeting about it. The count, the marquis, Madame d’Olincourt and her chaining sister went to dinner at a little house owned by the marquis in the Bois de Bologne, where the stern areqpagus decided in an enigmatic style, similar to the answers of the Cumean Sybil, or the decrees of the Parliament of Aix, which by virtjie of its Egyptian nativity hat certain rights to the hieroglyph, that the president would wed and would not wed . The sentence pronounced and the actors well reheated, the Joung girl, on returning to her father, offered him n9 opposition. D'Olincourt and his wife declared that they would celebrate so well matched a union. They flat- tered the president remarkably, taking good care not to laugh again when he appeared, and so won the hearts of the son-in- law and the fathei, that they got them both to agree that the iites of h)inen should be perloimcd onl) at the Chateau d’Olincourt near Melun, a magnificent estate belonging to the marquis. Everyone approved, and the baron said that he alone was desolated at not being able to join in the pleasures of so agreeable a celebration, but that he would come if he could. At last the day arrived, the two principals were uqited wijh the sacraments at St-Sulpice, very early in the morning, and left the same day for d’Olincourt. The count d’Elb&ne, dis- guised in name and appearance as La Brie, personal footman to the marquise, received the company when they arrived, and after supper, led the couple to the nuptial chamber, the decora- tions and machinery of which had been managed by him, and their operation left to his responsibility.

‘In truth, my prett> one/'said the amorous Provencal, as soon as he found himself alone with his future wife, 'you have all the charms of Venus herself. Caspita ! * I don't know where you acquired them, but one could scour all Provence without finding their equal'.

Then, caressing the poor little Tlroze, through her clothes, who did not know whether she was amused or afraid.

• A Provencal oath.

75

De Sade Selections

he continued, 1 f out aque par ici et tout aque pai via, mly God damn me, and may I never judge another prostitute, if these aren’t the shapes of love beneath the glittering petticoats of her mother*.

However at this moment La Brie entered, bearing two golden cups, one of which he presented to the young bride, the other to the President.

‘Drink, virtuous couple/ he said, ‘and may you find, both of you, the gilts of love and the tewards of marriage in this drink. Sir President’, went 6n La Brie, seeing the magistrate question the reason for the drink, Khis is ^ Parisian custom dating back to the baptism of Clovis. It is arhabit of ours that before the celebration of the mysteries which will soon require both your attention you take from this potion, purihed by the bishop’s benediction, the powers necessary tor the enterprise’.

‘Of course, only too willingly,' said the man ot justice. ‘Give it to me, my friend, give it to me. . .but, cendix, if you intend to fan my passions, let your young mistress look out for herself. I’m only too eager already, and it you lorce me to the point where I no longer know myself, I don’t know what will happen.'

The president drank, his young bride followed suit, the servants Withdrew, and the couple went to bed. But they had hardly got between the sheets when the president was seized by such acute pains in his inside and so urgent a need to relieve his frjil nature in a fashion the reverse of what should be, that without respect for where he was and without regard for her who shared his couch, he flooded the bed and all around it with such a considerable deluge 1 * of bile that m her panic Mile de T£roze had only just time to thro* herself out and call for help. People hurried in, M. and Madame d’Olincourt, who had taken good care not to go to bed, arrived in a rush, the astonished president flung the clothes around him in order not to expose himself, without reflecting that the more he hid himself the more soiled he became. In the end he was such a horrible ^nd disgusting sight that his bride and everybody

7 6

The Mystified Magistrate

present left him with vigorous condolences upon his condition and with the assurance that the baron would be informed at once in order that he might immediately send one of the best doctors in the capital to the ch&teau.

'Merciful Heaven ! # exclaimed the poof* bewildered presi- dent as soon as he was alone, 'this is a fine adventure! I thought that it was only in our Palace and on the fleurs de lis that we could overflotv in this fashidh, but on the first night of marriage, in the wench's beg], truly I cannot understand that*.

lieutenant of d’Olincourt's Regiment called Delgatz, who had attended two or three^ courses at the veterinary school for the sake of the ftgiment’s horses, arrived the next morning without fail, heralded as one of the most famous sons of Aesculapius. M. de Fontanis had been advised to dress only very informally, and Madame la Prcsidente de Fontanis, on whom howcve. we ought not yet to bestow that title, did not conceal from her husband how' interesting she found him in such a costume. He wore a dressing-gown of yellow calamaneo with red stripes down to the w'aist, adorned with facings and lapels, and beneath that a little waistcoat of brown muslin, with sailor's breeches of the same colour, and on top a red woollen nightcap. The effect was heightened by an interesting pallor from the night before and inspired such an overwhelm- ing access of love in Mile de Teroze that she would not leave his side for a quarter of«an hour.

'Pe chair eV exclaimed the president. 'How* she loves me. She is indeed the very woman heaven has destined for my happiness. My behaviour last night was very bad, but we don’t have colic every' day.’

However, the doctor had , arrived. Taking his patient's pulse and showing surprise at his weakness, he proved by means of aphorisms from Hippocrates and the Commentaries of Galen that unless he restored himself that evening at supper with half a dozen bottles of Spanish and Madeira wine, it would be quite impossible for him to achieve success with the proposed defloration. Regarding yesterday's indigestion, that was nothing. 'The origin of that, sir,' he told him, Vas that the bile had

77

De Sade Selections

not been properly filtered in the liver ducts’.

’But,' said the marquis, ‘it was not a dangerous accident’.

‘I crave your pardon, sir,’ replied the disciple of the temple of Epidauris, ‘in medidne we do not find any little causes which cannot become important unless we immediately sus- pend their effects by the profundity of our science. From this minor upset a considerable alteration in monsieur’s organism could arise. This unfiltered bile, carried b| the stem of the aorta into the sub-clavicle artery, 'transported then from there into the delicate membranes of the brain by the carotids, by altering the circulation of animal spirits and suspending their natural activity could have produced madness’.

‘Heavens above,’ cried Mile de Tiroze in*‘tears, ‘my hus- band mad, oh sister! my husband mad!’

‘Calm yourself, madame, it is nothing, thanks to the promptness of my attentions, and now I make myself responsi- ble for the invalid.’

With these words joy was seen to spring again in the heart of everyone: the Marquis d’Olincourt embraced his brother- in-law tenderly and in a lively provincial manner demonstrated to him the extreme interest he took in him, and there was nothing but happiness everywhere. That day the marquis received* his vassals and his neighbours. The president wished to dress for the occasion but was prevented from doing so and everyone took pleasure in presenting him in his get-up to all the society of the neighbourhood.

‘But he is so charming like that,’ said the wicked marquise at 6very opportunity. ‘To tell the truth, M. d’Olincourt, if before I had met you I had known that the sovereign magistracy of Aix included such agreeably gentlemen as my dear brother- in-law, I must confess I would never have taken any husband who was not a member of this admirable assembly.’

The president thanked her, bowing low and grinning to himself, simpering before a mirror on several occasions and muttering to himself ‘ There’s no doubt about it , I’m not bad’. At last supper time arrived. The damnable doctor was in attend- ance, and as he himself was drinking like a lord he had little

7 »

The Mystified Magistrate

digiculty in persuading his patient to follow his example. Care had been taken to set some very intoxicating wines within their reach, which rapidly caused such confusion in their brain- cells that the president was soon in the state intended for him. On leaving the table, the lieutenant, who had played his part magnificently, gained his bed and disappeared the following day. As for our hero, his dear wife took charge of him, and led him to the nuptial bed. The whole company formed a triumphant escort for them*and the marquise, as charming as even but much more so since she # had indulged somewhat in champagne, assuted the president that he had had too much, and that she fjarM that stimulated by the fumes of Bacchus he would still not become love's prisoner that night.

'That’s no trouble, Madame la Marquise,’ replied the president, 'when these seductive gods combine they only become nu/ie irdoubtabk. As for reason, that can disappear in wine or the flames of love, and as soon as we can dispense with it, what does it matter to which of the tw T o divinities we have sacrificed it. As for us, magistrates of a different order, we know that the one thing in the w’orld we can best do without is reason. It is banned from our tribunals as it is from our brains, and we make a game of trampling it underfoot. That’s what makes our decrees such masterpieces, for although godH sense plays no pait in them, they are executed just as sternly as if anyone understood, what the) meant. As you see me now, Madame la Marquise’, continued the president, tottering slightly, and picking up his ted bonnet that in a momentary loss of equilibrium had parted company with his denuded skull, 'yes, truh, as you see me now, T'm one i/f the best heads in my troop. It was I, a year ago, who persuaded my spiritual colleagues to exile from the province for ten years, and thereby ruin for ever, a gentleman who had alw 7 ays served his king faithfully, and all over a gang of women. There was some opposition, but I gave my opinion, and the whole flock rallied to my voice. . . Heavens, I love morals, you see, I love temperance and sobriety, anything which offends against those two virtues disgusts me, and I come down hard upon it. You

79

De Sade Selections

must be severe, severity is the daughter of justice. . .and justice is the mother of. . .please forgive me, madame, there are moments when my memory leads me a little astray. . .’

'Yes, indeed, how right,’ replied the crazy marquise, as she was leaving, taking the whole party with her, 'only do watch that this evening everything does not go astray with you like your memory, for we must make an end of it at last, and my little sister who worships you cannot dispose herself to live in such abstinence for ever’.

'Have no fear, madame, have no fear,* went on the presi- dent, attempting to accompany the marquise out with rather unsteady steps, 'there’s nothing to be afraid of, I assure you. I’ll make her Madame de Fontanis for you i)y tomorrow as sure as I am a man of honour. Isn’t it true, my dear’, continued the lawyer as he returned to his companion, ‘don’t you agree with me that tonight will see our task accomplished. . .See how everyone desires it, there’s not one individual in your entire family who does not consider himself honoured by being allied to me. There’s nothing so flattering in a household as a magistrate’.

‘Who can doubt it, sir,’ replied the young woman. 'I assure )ou that on my side, I have never felt so proud as now, hearing myself called Madame la Presidente /

‘I have no difficulty in believing that. Now, get undressed, my treasure, I feel a little heavy, and I’d like, if possible, to achieve our operation before sleep carries me off completely.’

Mile de T£roze, however, as is the custom with young brides, was so incapable of finishing her preparations, never finding what she needed, scolding her women, and never get- ting to the end, that the president, who could no longer stand, decided to get into bed, where for a quarter of an hour he contented himself with calling out 'But come on, then, damn it, come on, I can’t imagine what you are doing, if you don’t come soon there won’t be time’. Nothing happened, however, and since in the state of drunkenness of our modern Lycurgus, it was difficult enough to find his head on a pillow without tailing asleep, he yielded to the most pressing of his needs,

80

The Mystified Magistrate

and was already snoring as if he had just sentenced some whore from Marseilles, before Mile de Tiroie had even changed her chemise.

‘That’s settled him,* said the Compte d'Elbfcne as soon as he tiptoed into the room. ‘Come, dear heart, and grant me those moments of happiness that this gross beast would like to steal from us.’

With these vfords he led awl) the subject of his adoration. The lights were extinguished in the bridal chamber, the floor w«* covered at once with mattresses, and at a given signal the part of the bed occupied by our # lawyer was separated from the rest and raised up by means of a few pulleys to a height of twenty feet alSove the ground, without our legislator, thanks to his soporific condition, noticing anything. At about three o’clock in the morning, however, he was woken by a certain fullness i.i h.* bladder, md remembering that he had seen a table near him that contained the vessel so essential to his comfort, he groped for it. Surprised at first to find nothing but empty space about him, he edged forward, but the bed, which was only held up b> ropes, conformed to the movement of its occupant who w^as leaning forward, and ended up by yielding so far to it that it turned completely over and vomitted its load into the middle of the room. The president fell onto t be mattresses prepared lor him, and his astonishment was so great that he began to bcllov^ like a calf being led to the slaughter.

‘What the devil’s this 1 ’ he cried. ‘Madame, madame, you must be there, well thtn, how do )ou explain this lall? I lie down )csterda\ four feet above the ground, and now w4ien I w*ant m) chamber pot I fall troin more than twenty feet up.’

But as nobod) replied tp these loving complaints, the president who in point of fact found himself not uncomfort- abl) bedded renounced his enquiries and finished the night there as if in his miserable pallet in Aix. After his descent, the bed had been carefully and gently lowered until it cor- responded with the part from which it had been separated, no longer appearing to be anything but one single, even, couch. At nine in the morning Mile de Tiroze quietly entered the

81

F

De Sade Selections

room again; she was hardly inside before she opened all the windows and rang for her women.

‘To be honest, sir/ she said to the president, 'your com- pany is not agreeable, you must admit, and I shall very cer- tainly complain to my family of your behaviour towards me’.

‘What’s all this/ said the now sober president, rubbing his eyes, and not at all understanding the accident which left him lying on the floor.

‘What indeed! This is what it % is/ said the bride, enjoying her husband’s mood, ‘last night when I, impelled by the affec- tions which should bind me to you, moved closer to you to receive assurance oi the same sentiments on your part, you furiously pushed me aw r ay and threw me onto Ac floor. . .’

‘Oh, merciful heavens!’ said the president, 'listen, my little one, I am beginning to understand something of the incident. . . I offer you my sincercst apologies. . .last night, suffering from a rather urgent need, 1 was trying even way of satisfying it, and in my necessary movements which threw me out of bed myself, I must obviously have knocked vou out also. I am even more to blame because I was undoubtedh dreaming, since I thought I had fallen more than twentv feet. But come, my angel, it is nothing, nothing at all, we must put oft the ftjjn until tonight, and I guarantee you I will look after myself. I shall drink nothing but water. But at least give me a kiss, little heart, let us make it up before we appear m public, or else I will believe you bear me resentment, and I wouldn’t have that for worlds’.

Vile de Ttuozc willinglv offered one of hei rosv cheeks, stdl glowing with the ardour of love, to the obscene kisses of this old satyr. People came in and the husband and wife care- fully concealed the unfortunate nocturnal catastrophe.

The whole day was spent pleasantly and chiefly in going for a walk, which, by taking M. de Fontanis away from the chateau gave La Brie time to prepare new settings. The presi- dent, firmly resolved to consummate his marriage, was so careful during meals that it was impossible to make use of those methods to derange his reason, but luckily there was more

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thgn one trap to operate, and there were too many enemies conspiring against the notable M. de Fontanis for him to escape fiom their snares. Everyone went to bed.

'Oh* tonight, my angel,’ said the president to his young spouse, 'I flatter myself you won’t be able to t scape’. Having no wish to appear in anything but good order the poor Provencal

was stretching himself, screwing up every single nerve,

which caused him to press upon his couch two or three times more energetically than if be were lying still, and finally snap- ping the already prepared beams ^n the floor below r and pre- cipitating the unfortunate magistiate into a pigsty situated immediately uydAr the room For a long time it was a subject for discussion with the company at the Chateau d’Olmcourt as to which must have been the more surprised, the president on thus finding himself in the midst of annuals so common in the plaie 01 hi^ birth, 1 the animals on seeing amongst them one of the most celebrated magistrates of the Parliament of Aix. Several people claimed that satisfaction must have been equal on both sid^ After all, the president should have been above himself to 1 nd himself so to speak, in society, and to breathe foi a moment air that smacked of the soil, and on their side the animals, impuie and forbidden by the good Moses as they were, ought to have offered thanks to Heaven whefti they discovered at last a legislator at their head, and a legis- latoi of the Parliament *>f Aix, who had been accustomed since childhood to judge causes relative to the favourite element of these woithv beasts and would be able m the future to arrange and anticipate all discussions bearing on this elemeflt so analogous to the organisers of both parties

However that mav be, as vecognition was not immediate, and civilisation, the mother of politeness, is hardly more advanced among the members of the Parliament of Aix than among the animals desj <sed by the Israelites, there was at first a sort of shock, dining which the president won no laurels. He was knocked about, bruised, and harassed by importunate snouts He uttered remonstrances and no one listened to him; he promised to register the deed, no Response; he spoke of

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decrees, and nobody was any more moved; he threatened exile, and was trampled under foot, and the unfortunate Fontanis, covered with blood, was already preparing a sentence involving nothing less than the stake, when help at last arrived.

It was La Brie and the colonel, armed with torches, who came to attempt the extrication of the magistrate from the slime which engulfed him. The question, however, arose of knowing how to get hold of him, and as he was well and truly covered from head to foot, it was neither easy nor very fragrant to lay hands upon him. L3 Brie went to find a pitchfork, a hastily summoned groom brought qlong another, and in this fashion our man was to the best of their ability prised out of the nauseous cesspit in which he had been buried by his fall. But where to take him now was the next difficulty, and one that it was not easy to resolve. There was talk of purging the decree, of the necessity for purifying the guilty, and the colonel proposed letters of abolition, but the groom who understood not one word of this fine talk said that r quite simply he must be deposited for a couple of hours in the water trough, and after that he would be sufficiently soaked for them to complete making him a pretty picture again with handfuls of straw. But the marquis asserted that the coldness of the water would affect his brother-in-law’s health and with that. La Brie learn- ing that the kitchcnboy’s scullery was still equipped with hot water, the president was transported there and confided to the care of this pupil of Comus who in no time at all rendered him as clean as a china bowl.

• 1 would not propose that you return to your wife.’ said

d’Olincourt when he saw the freshly scrubbed lawyer. ‘I know your scruples, and so La Brie will take you to a small dressing- room where you may spend the rest of the night in peace.'

‘Good, good, my dear marquis,’ said the president. ‘I approve of your idea. . .but you will agree, I must be bewitched for such adventures to befall me every night since I’ve been in this damned chfiteau.

‘There is some physical cause behind this,' replied the

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marquis. 'The doctor is coming back to see us tomorrow, I advise you to consult him/

'I want to/ answered the president, and when he reached his little room, he said to La Brie as he got into bed, "To tejl the truth, my friend. I’ve never been so clos>* to my goal'.

'Alas, sir/ the clever youth replied as he leit the room, 'there’s some act of God in all this and I assure you I pity you with all my heart’.

('I hr following day the president was treated by the bogus doctor and placed under on austere regime of abstinence, diet- ing and purgt%g.\)n the twelfth day of such treatment, he was restored to hts wife us being fit enough to resume his conjugal duties .)

Suppci was a aft air, the marquise showed hcrseli most agreeable and mischievous, wageung against her husband in favour of hei brother in law’s success, and ever)onc retired. Then toilets we*_ lustily accomplished and Mile de T6roze begged her husband from modesty not to allow any light in her room, loo chastened to refuse anything, he granted everything she requested and the) went to bed. There w T ere no obstacles any more, and the intrepid president finally plucked, or thought he plucked, the flower. He was crowned with love, and w'hen da) came tfte w r indow T s were opened and the rays of the sun that were able to penetrate the room revealed at last to the eyes of the conqueror she whom he had sacrifice^. • . Merciful heaven, what became of him when he saw an old negress in place of his wife, when he saw a face as black as it was hideous substituted lof the delicate charms that he believed were his! He flung himself back, crying out that he was bewitched, when his wife arrived in person, surprising him with this divinity from Tenara. and asked him bitterly what she could have done to him to be so cruelly deceived.

'But, madame, wasn’t I with you yesterday. . . ?’

'Shamed and humiliated though I am, sir, I have no reason at all to reproach myself for lacking in obedience to you. You

»5

De Sadie Selections

saw this woman beside me, and brutally you pushed me away in order to seize her. You made her occupy the place in the bed that was destined for me, and I left you in' confusion, with only my tears to comfort me.*

'And tell me, my angel, are you quite cetrain of all the facts that you are alleging?'

'Monster! You want to insult me further after such a violent outrage. Are sarcasms to be my reward when I expected consolation. . . Hasten, hasten, mfy sister, bring all my family here to see to what an unworthy object I have been sacrificed . . .there she is, there she is, this t loathsome rival of mine,' cried the young bride, frustrated of her right* and shedding a cascade of tears, 'he even dares to hold her in his arms before my very eyes. Oh friends', continued Mile de T6ro7e in despaii, gathering everyone around her, 'help me, lend me some weapons against this perjurer. Was this what I have waited for, adoring him as I did. . .’

Nothing could have been moie a?n using than the face of de Fontanis when he heard these surpiising words. At times he cast bewildered glances at his negress, then turning next to his young wife, he consideied her with a kind of imbecilic concentration, which might really have become most disturb- ing to the disposition, of his mind. By a most singular chance, ever since the president had been at d’Olincourt's, La Brie, his disguised rival whom he should * most have feared, had become the one person among everybody present in whom he had jnost confidence. He called him.

'My friend,' he said to him, 'you have always seemed to be a very reasonable lad, will you be kind enough to tell me if you have really noticed any* change in my brain?’

'My word, monsieur le president,' replied La Brie, sadly and with some confusion, 'I would never have dared to tell you, but since you do me the honour of asking my opinion I cannot hide from you the fact that since your fall into the pigsty the ideas that have come from your cerebral membranes have never been quite normal. But don’t worry about it, sir, the doctor who has aifeady treated you is one of the greatest

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men ne have ever had m this region Listen, \\c had here the judge for M le marquis’ district, and he became so mad, that there was not a single young libertine m the distuct who could have some fun with a girl without this idiot charging him with a criminal action, and a decree, and a sentence, and exile, and all the platitudes that are always on the lips of these good tor nothings W$ll, sn, our ddbtor, this world famous tellow who has already had tue honour of treating you with eighteen blood lettings and thirty two medi^ifies, made him as sane in the head as it he had never judged anybody m all his life But look , continued La Brie.#turmng in the direction nl the noise he had heatdt'its a tiue saying that vou speak ol the Devil and he comes -it this isii t the ven man himsell coming here 1 ’

‘Ah, good morning, dear doctor, said the marquise seeing Delgatz arm#- ‘I truly believe that we have nevei needed your ministrations so much Our dear friend the president suffered a slight mental disturbance yesterday evening which made him, despite even body, sleep with this negress heie instead of his wife*

‘Despite everybody, said the president, ‘was theie leally some opposition 3

‘I opposed it first with all my might/ leplied La Brie, ‘but vou were going at it so vigorously, sir, that I preferred to let it be, rathei than chance being maltieated bv you'

At this the president scratched his head and was beginning to have no idea of what to believe when the doctoi approached and took his pulse

'This is more senotis than the last accident, said Delgatz lowering his eyes. . .

(The consultation continues and drvelops into a discussion between the president and the marquis on the injustice and uselessness of capital punishment , using similar arguments to those m 'Francais, encore un effort ’ from *La Philosophic dans le Boudoir The president s madness is treated with ice cold baths , and he is afterwards taken with the rest of the company on a visit to a friend of the marquis Etonng the crossing of a

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river by ferry the poor president is tricked into doing acrobatics to demonstrate his youthful agility and is made to fall into the water. When they arrive at last at the friend's house an enorm- ous feast awaits them.)

. . . .care was taken to make the president swallow a crime aux pistaches. He had no sooner got this in Jiis entrails when he was obliged to ask immediately for the privy. He was shown into one that was very dark. Horribly pressed, he sat down, and relieved himself eagetly, but when the operation was finished the president was unable tet stand up.

'Now what’s all this/ he cried, fumbling behind him. But it was no use; except by leaving his back behind, it was impossi- ble to escape. His absence, however, caused a certain sensation, enquiries were made as to where he could be, and at last, led on by the cries they heard, the whole company assembled before the fatal privy.

'What the devil are you doing in thflre so long, my friend/ said d’Olincourt, ‘are you afflicted with the colic, then?’

'Death and damnation ! ’ said the poor devil, redoubling his efforts to get up, 'can’t you see that I’m trapped. . /

But to make a more pleasing spectacle for the party, and tb increase the president’s efforts to rise from his accursed seat, a small spirit lamp was passed underneath him onto his but- tocks, which by sizzling the hair and Sometimes pricking him quite considerably caused him to make the most extraordinary leap^and pull the most horrible faces. The louder the laughter around him, the angrier the president became. He cursed the women and threatened the men, and the more he thundered the more comic was the sight <# his heated face. In the course of his shakes, his perruque became detached from his skull and his uncovered cranium conformed more amusingly still to the contortions of his facial muscles. At last the host arrived, full of apologies to the president because he had not been warned that the privy was in no state to receive him. He and his servants unstuck their unfortunate patient to the best of their ability but not without causing him to lose a circular

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strip of skin which despite everything remained attached to the ring of the seat that the painters had dipped in strong glue m order to make it take next the colouring with which it was planned to decorate it

‘Really/ said Fontanis f reappearing unabashed, ‘you are very lucky to have me, and I am a good foil for your amuse- ment'

‘That is unjust, m) triend, replied d’Olincourt ‘Why must you always attribute tc us the disasters that fortune sends you I thought it was enough tO|bave the halter of Themis lor equit) to become a natural virtue, but I can see that I am mistaken ’

‘Because your ideas on what we call equity are not clear/ said the piesident ‘At the bar we acknowledge several kinds of equity, f or instance, what is called relative equity, and personal equity

‘Gently now/ said the marquis, ‘I have never noticed that the viitue which is analysed so much is ever practised to any extent What 1 iii)stlf call equity, my friend, is quite simply the law of nature Integrity always follows its observance, and injustice only appears when you depart from it Tell me, presi- dent, if you had indulged in some fanciful caprice inside your own home, would you consider it very equitable if a band of numbskulls, carrying their flaming torches into the very bosom of your family, ferreting out by means of deceitful enquiries, treacheries, and hired denunciations some irregularities par donable at thirty years of age, profited from these atrocities to ruin you, banish you, slain your honour, dishonour your chil dren, and ravage >oui possessions? Tell me, my friend, what do you think, do you consider these scoundiels very equitable ? If it is true that )ou admit a Supreme Being, would you worship this model of justice if he employed it against men m this w f ay, and would )ou not be terrified of being subject to him?*

‘What do you mean by this, please? What* Are you blaming us for seeking out crime it is our duty ’

'That is false, your dut\ only consists in punishing it when it reveals itself Leave the insipid, barbarous task of

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seeking it out like vile spies and intamous informers to the stupid and violent maxims of the inquisition. What citizen will feel safe surrounded by servants paid by yonr attentions, his honour and his life resting at every minute in the hands oi gentry who, only embittered by the chain they wear, believe they can escape from it or lighten it b) selling to you the man who imposes it on them? You wilj have multiplied the number of rascals in the State, made women traitors, ser- vants slanderers and children ingrates. You will have doubled the total of vices, and not (given birth to a single virtue.*

'There is no question of giviqg birth to virtues, only ot destroying crime.*

'But your methods increase it.'

'Very well, then, but that’s the law r , w r e must obe\ it. We are not legislators, my dear marquis, my colleagues and I, we are executives.*

'Say rather, president, say rather,* said d’Olincourt, who was beginning to get excited, ‘that you zfre exec u lots , unwot thy executions s J who, being naturally enemies of the State, only delight in opposing yourself to its prosperity, in placing obstacles in the way of its happiness, in tarnishing its glory and in shedding without reason the precious blood of its Subjects’.

Despite the two cold baths Fontanis had taken during the day, bile is a substance so difficult to* destroy in a man oi law that the poor president was quivering w'ith rage to hear such disparagement of a profession he considered so worthy oi respect. He could not imagine that what is called the magis- tracy could be in the position to be chastised in this fashion, and was perhaps on the poinf of replying in the language of a sailor from Marseilles when the ladies approached and sug- gested they went back. The marquise asked the president whether any new necessity did not call him to the privy.

'No, no, madame.* said the marquis, 'this worthy magis- trate does not always have colic, you must excuse him if he regarded the attack somewhat seriously. It is an illness ot some importance in Marseilles or Aix, this little motion ot tjye

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bowels. Having already seen a gang of wretches, colleagues ol our brave friend here, decree that some whores who had colic were poisoned , you must not be surprised if colic is a serious matter to a magistrate of Provence’.

Fontanis, one of the most severe of the judges in this affair which has coveied the Provencal magistiacy with shame for ever, was in state which i£»>«« difficult to describe, stam- mering and stuttering, stamping his feet, frothing at the mouth, resgmbling the mastiffs in x bull^ght when they are unable to succeed in biting theii adversary, and d’Olincourt grasped his opportunity.

'Look at hsnOadies, look, and tell me, please, if you would consider the fate oi an unfortunate gentleman verv pleasant who, confident in his innocence and good faith, saw fifteen hounds lik** this one heie yapping at the seat of his trousers.’

The president was about to lose his temper completely, but the marquis, who did not want a scandal vet, veiv prudently made foi his coach, afid left Mile de T£roze to apply balm to the wounds that he had opened.

{The cold baths and the doctor’s tegime of abstinence went on for a fortnight, by which time the president was again in a fit state to lay claim to his wife. The next plan was to sentl him off to deal with malicious ghosts that were terrifying the chateau de T&roze, his \vife's dowiy. Despite all his protesta- tions and fears, he departs , an incongruous figure in an old suit of armour, together ivith d’Olincourt. On arrival at the chateau, they learn that it is haunted by a man who was unjustly executed and has sworn to revenge himself by wringing the neck of a magistrate — but onfy a dishonest magistrate. The president tries to leave but is prevented, and after supper begins his vigil m the room where the ghosts are said to appear first. While he waits he justifies both his own actions and the legal system to himself.)

The president was reasoning in this manner when a terrible noise w r as heard in all the rooms and in all the corridors of the

De Sadr Selections

chateau at the same time. His whole body was seized with shudders, he clung tightly onto his chair and hardly dared look up.

Tool that I am/ he cried, ‘is it for me, for a member of the Parliament of Aix, to fight against spirits? Oh spirits' What has there ever been in common between the Parliament of Aix and you?'

The noise, however, redoubled, the doors of the two towers were forced, and terrifying creatures came into the room. . . Fontanis threw himself onto his knees, implored forgiveness, and begged for his life.

‘Villain,’ said one of the phantoms to liii\j in a terrifying voice. ‘Did your heart know any pit) when you unjustly con- demned so many unfortunates, were you ever moved by their dreadful fate, were you any less vain, arrogant, greedy, licen- tious, on the day when your unjust decrees plunged into misfor- tune 01 the tomb the victims of your imbecile severity? What in you gave birth to that dangerous impurity of your momentary power that public opinion secures for one instant, and philosophy immediately destroys? Suffer us to act on the same principles, and since you are the weaker, submit.*

At these words four of these physical spirits forcibly seized hold of Fontanis, and in no time stripped him clean as a whistle, without drawing anything from him but tears, cries, and a fetid perspiration which covered him from head to foot.

‘What do we do with him now?* said one of them.

‘Wait,’ replied the one who appeared to be their leader. 'I hive here the list of the four principle murders that he has committed judicially. Let us read it to him.

In 1750 he condemned toihe wheel an unfortunate whose only wrong was to have refused him his daughter whom he wished to abuse.

In ’54 he offered to save a man’s life for two thousand crowns. The man not being able to provide them, he had him hanged.

In ’60 knowing that a man in his town had made some remarks about him, he condemned him to the stake the follow-

9 *

1 he Mystified Magistrate

mg year as a sodomite, although the unfortunate had a wife and a troop of children, and all the facts gave the lie to his crime

In *7* a young man of distinction in the province wished to avenge himself light heaitedly upon a courtesan who had made him an unwelcome present by spanking her This unworth) clodhopper turned thtf^ame into a criminal affair, treated the thing as murder, as poisoning, and dragging all his Parliamentary colleagues aftc^ him in this ridiculous judgment, disgraced the young man, ruined hijn and had him condemned to death in contempt, not being able to succeed m laying hands upon his persoi*.

I hose aic his punciple crimes, my fi lends, make sour decision

ImmediUcly one voice was heard saying An eye for an eye, friends, a tooth foi a tooth He has unjustly condemned a man to the wheel, 1 will have him bioken on the wheel’

‘I lean towards hJhging said another, 'and for the same motives as my colic-ague

‘He shall be burnt, said the thud, ‘both for having dared to use this torture unjustlv, and also for having often deserved it himself

‘Let us show him an example of clemency and moderation, comrades, said the leader and let us take our text onlv from his fourth episode \ whipped whore is a crime worths of death in the eves of this imbccilic ignoramus, then let him be flogged himself

I hey seized hold of the unfortunate president at once, laid him face down on a narrow bench, and bound him tightly to it from head to foot T he toifl de\ dish spirits each took up a leather strap five feet long, and belaboured rhythmically with all the strength in their arms the exposed portions of the unlucky Fontanis who was laceiated foi three quarters of an hour in succession by the vigorous hands responsible for his education, and soon displayed one single wound from which the blood was spurting everywhere

'That s enough, said the chief, 'as It>aid, let us give him

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Dr Sadr Selrrtions

an example of pity and benevolence. If the blackguard had us in his hands, he would have us quartered. We are masters over him, and we give him quittance with this brotherly cor- rection. Let him learn from our lesson that it is not always by assassinating men that you succeed in improving them. He has only had live hundred strokes, and I bet against all takers that he has been reformed of his injustices, and in the future will make one of the most honest magistrates of his compan). Untie him, and let us continue wyth our operations’.

‘Ugh!’ exclaimed thq president when he saw that his tormentors had departed. 'I see plainly that if we hold a torch to the actions of others, if we seek to expofc tjiem in order to have the delight of punishing them, I see plainly that it recoils at once upon our own heads. And who then was able to tell these people all my deeds, how is it that they are so well informed about my behaviour?’

However it may have been, Fontanis put himself to rights as best he could, but he had hardly pift on his clothes before he heard the most frightful screams from the direction in which the ghosts had left the room. He listened carefully and recog- nised the voice of the marquis calling for help with all his might.

‘The devil take me it I budge an inch,’ said the exhausted president. ‘Let those rogues beat him if they want to, as they did me. I’ll have nothing to do with-it. Everyone has enough with his ow f n tioubles without interfering in those of others.’

The noise increased, however, and in the end d’Olincourt entered Fontanis* room, followed by two servants, all three of them shouting wildly as if they had had their throats slit. All three seemed covered in blood, one had his arm in a sling, another a bandage on his forehead, and seeing them pale, dishevelled and bloody as they were, you would have sworn they had just fought a legion of devils escaped from Hell.

‘Oh, my friend, what an onslaught,’ cried d'Olincourt. ‘I thought all three of us would have been strangled.*

‘I defy vou to have been more ill-treated than I,’ said the

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president showing them his completely devastated back. ‘Sec what the) did to me.'

‘Oh, by my faith, m\ friend/ said the colonel, ‘you certainly are in a position to make a glorious complaint, you cannot be ignorant of the powerful interest your collea/ues have taken m every age in physical punishment. Call all the Chambers together my friend, and find sasr** celebrated advocate who would like to practise his eloquence in fa\our of your bruises. Make use of the ingenious arjificc bs which an ancient orator swaged the aieopagus b\ uncos ciing before the e\es ot the court the superb bosom of the beauts foi whom he was pleading, and let vour Dejiotthencs, at the most pitiful moment of his plea, expose this fascinating body that it may move the audience to pits. Above all remind the judges of Paris before whom you will be obliged to appear of that famous incident of 1769 when their heirts w'ere moved lar more b\ compassion for the beaten harps than for the people s\hosc fathers they claimed to be and yet allowed to di® of hunger: they decided to bring a criminal action against a \oung soldier who found on his return from sacrificing the best scars of his life to the service of his prince no laurels but onls the humiliation prepared for him bs the hand of the greatest enemies of this land that he had been defending. . .

‘Come, ms comrade in misiortunc. let us hum, let us leave, there is no safets tut us in this damned chateau Let us seek vengeance, fls to implore the equity of the protectors of public safety, the defenders of the oppicsscd, the pillars of the State*.

‘I can stand up no longer/ said the president, ‘and even if those damned swine are to pcctanc like an apple once again, I beg you to provide me with a bed, and leasee me there in peace for at least twcnty-foui hours’.

‘You must not think of it, my Iriend, you s\ill be strangled/

‘So be it, it will onls be tit for tat, and remorse is so flooding ms heart now, that I shall regard as a command from Heaven all the misfortunes it may be pleased to inflict on me.’

Since the commotion had cntirels ceayd, and d'Olincourt

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De Sade Selections

perceived that the poor Provencal really needed a little rest, he summoned Master Pierre and asked him if there was any reason to fear the return of the mischief-makers that night.

'No, sir/ answered the farmer, ‘you see, they'll be quiet now for eight or ten days, and you can get some rest in com- plete safety*.

The battered president was led to a room where he went to bed and rested as well as possible for a good twelve hours. He was still there when he sudc^enly felt himself drenched in the bed. He looked up and saw that the ceiling was pierced with hundreds of holes, each spurting water like a fountain, and that he risked being flooded unless he^stijnck camp at full speed. Completely naked, he hurtled downstairs where he found the colonel and Master Pierre forgetting their troubles over a pat£ and a barricade of Burgundy bottles. Their first reaction was to burst out laughing at the sight of Fontanis hurrying towards them in such an indecent costume. He recounted his new afflictions, and th®y forced him to sit up at the table without giving him time to put on his breeches which he still carried under his arm in the manner of the people of Pegu. The president began to drink and found con- solation for his woes at the end of his third bottle of wine. As they still had two hours more than was needed for the return to d'Olincourt, the horses were prepared and they set off.

'That was a hard lesson, marquis, that you made me learn there,' said the Provencal when he found himself in the saddle.

‘It won’t be the last, my friend,' replied d'Olincourt. 'Men are born to learn lessons, and paiticularly men of law. It is under cover of the ermine that stupidity erects its temple, and it only breathes in peace in your tribunals. Whatever you may have to say about it, however, ought we to have left this chateau without discovering what was going on there?’

'Are we any further forward for having discovered it?'

'Certainly, we can now deliver our complaints with greater right.*

‘Complaints! TJhe devil take me if I make an). I will keep

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what I have for myself, and I will be infinitely obliged to you if you speak of it to no one.’

• My friend, you are not consistent; if it is ridiculous to

make complaints when you have been mgltreated, why do you unceasingly solicit and excite them? How now! Do you, one of the greatest enemies of crime, wish to let it go unpunished, when you have such proof o£»jt? Is it not one of the most sublime axioms 0 of jurisprudence that even supposing the injured party abandons his claim, justice still demands satis- faction? Is it not therefore plainly violated in what has just happened to you, and ou^ht you to iefuse it the just homage which it dem^pdf?’

‘As much as you please, but I shall not say a word.’

‘And your wife’s dowry?*

‘I will leave everything to the baron’s sense of fairness, and I will make him alone responsible for clearing up the affair.’

‘He will take no»part in it.*

‘Very well then, wc shall live on crusts.’

‘Brave fellow ! You will be the cause of youi wife cursing vou and repenting all her life of having linked her late with a coward of vour kind.’

‘Oh, as far as remorse goes, wc shall each of us have our share, I think, but why do you now want me to lay complaints when earlier on you ware far from wanting that?’

‘I did not know r what was concerned. As long as 1 thought it possible to win without outside help, I chose that course as the most honest, and now that I find it essential for us fb call upon the assistance of the law% I suggest it to you. How then is my conduct inconsistent?’

‘Excellent, excellent,’ said Fontanis, dismounting, since I hey had arrived at d’Olincourt. ‘But don’t say a word. I beg you. That is the only favour I ask of you.*

(In their absence Mile de Tiroie has taken to her bed with an alleged illness which effectively keeps the piesident from making any conjugal claims on hei, qnd the chdteau patty

G

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has been joined by three newcomers, M. and Madame de Totte- ville and their attractive eighteen-year-old daughter Lucile . In fact the new guests are charlatans, hired as pail of the plot against de Fontanis . Deprived of his wife, the president , aided by La Brie*s encouragements, endehvours to seduce Lucile.)

This little arrangement had been going on (or about four days without am one appearing to temark it, when notices from gazettes and news-sheets were received at the Castle inviting all astronomers to observe <jn the following night ‘the passage of Venus through the sign of Caprjcorn*.

‘Goodness me/ said the president like # a connoisseur, as soon as he had read this news, ‘this event is remarkable I would never have expected such a phenomenon. \s \ou know, ladies, I have dabbled in this science and I have even written a book in six volumes on the satellites of Mars’

‘On the satellites of Mars r said the marquise smiling 'They are all the same not very propiticflis in vour case, presi- dent. I am surprised that you have chosen this subjest’.

'Always playful, delightful marquise. I can see dcaih that my secret has not been kept, but all the same I am \er\ curious about the event which is being announced. Have you place here, marquis, whcic we can go to obscivc the passage of this planet?’

‘Certainh/ replied the marquis. *‘1 have, over m\ dove- cote, a most suitable observatory. You will find there excellent telescopes, quadrants, compasses, in fact even thing necessary for an astronomer’s observation room/

‘So you have had some experience ot astronomy then*’

‘Not at all. But we all have'eyes, we find people who under- stand these things and we arc glad to learn from them.*

‘Oh, very well. It will be a pleasure for me to give vou some lessons, and in six weeks I will teach >ou how to know the earth better than Descartes or Copernicus/

However, the time came to go to the observatory. The president was heartbroken that his wife’s indisposition deprived him of the pleasure of playing the professor in iront of her; 98

The Mystified Magistrate

he did not realise, poor devil, that it was she who was to play the leading role m this extraordinary performance.

Although balloons had not yet become usual they were already known in 1779, and the clever physicist who was to carry out the one of which we shall speak nbw was more learned than any other who folowed him and had the good sense to show his admirayon like the others, and not to say a word when intruders arrived to deprivk hnn of his discovery In the middle of a perfectly const 'ucted aerostat, at tne prescribed hoyr. Mile de Ieroze was to mak# the ascent m the arms of the Comte d’Llb&ne, and*this scene viewed from far off and lit only by an artificial faint light was cleverly enough devised to take in a stupid man like the president, who had never m the whole of his life read one work concerning the science on which he prided himself

The 'an i (ompanv «.ame to the top of the tower, armed themselves with teltsiopes, and the balloon ascended ‘Can sou see 5 said ever) bod) all at once ‘Not yet ’

‘Oh yes, I can ’

‘That s not it

‘No, you’re wrong

‘On (he left, on the left ’

‘Look towards the East '

‘Oh, Ive got it, cried the piesident full of enthusiasm ‘Ise got it, friends I ook ms was, a little neater Mercurs, not so far away as Mars, a good was below the orbit of Saturn There Oh gracious heavens, how fine it is 1 ’

‘I can see like the president’ said the maiquis ‘It really is wonderful Can sou see the conjunction 5 ’

'I’ve got it at the end of ni) telescope ’

And as the balloon passed at that moment over the tower, the marquis said, ‘Well, were the notices we received mislead ing, and was not that Venus over Capricorn 5 ’

‘Nothing more certain’ replied the president ‘It is the finest sight I’ve seen in all my life ’

‘Who knows’ said the marquis, ‘if yo« will always be forced

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to go so high in order to see it at your ease?*

‘Ah, marquis, how your jokes are out oi place at such a fine moment! . .

And as the balloon lost itself in the darkness, everyone came out mightily pleased with the allegorical phenomenon which art had just lent to nature. . .

Mile de T6roze was improving. Although she still looked a little tired, she came down for meals, however, and was already even taking little strolls with the company The president, less attentive because LucVe alone occupied his thoughts, saw nevertheless that he would soon have to devote himself entirely to his wife. Consequently he determined *tor press hard the other affair which had reached a critical point. Mile de Totte- ville no longer put up any difficulty, and the onl) question was to find a safe location. The president suggested his dressing- room. Lucile who was not sleeping in her parents’ room, willingly accepted this rendezvous for the same night, and immediately informed the marquis. Hfer role was outlined to her, and the remainder of the day passed oft peacefully. At eleven o’clock, Lucilc, who was to go first to the president’s bed, with the aid of a key which he had entrusted to her, pretended a headache and departed. A quarter of an hour later, the eager Fontanis withdrew, but the marquise claimed that this evening in order to do him honour she wished to accompany him to his room. The whole company played up to the joke, and Mile de Teroze was the first to be amused. Disregarding the presi- dent, who ivas on tenterhooks and would well have wished with- c

in to escape from this ridiculous courtesy or at least to warn the girl whom he imagined they would discover, every one took up a candle, and, the men in front, the women clustering around Fontanis, offering him their arms, the jovial procession repaired to the door of his room. Our unfortunate gallant was scarcely able to breathe.

‘It*s no responsibility of mine,* he stuttered. ‘Think how imprudently you are acting. Who knows but what the object of my loves is not perhaps at this very moment waiting in my bed for me, and if tkat.is so, consider seriously all that might

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lesult from your indiscreet behaviour ’

'At all events/ said the marquise, flinging open the door, "on we go Show yourself, you beauty, waiting, so we are told, in the president's bed for him, and do not be afraid’.

But what was the surprise of every ode, when the lights opposite the bed illuminated a monstrous ass, comfortably embedded beneath the covers and doubtless highly satisfied with the part it was being made^o play, and by an amusing trick of fate, sleeping peacefully upon the magisterial couch and, snoring voluptuously

'Upon my word/ cried d’Olincourt, holding his sides with laughter, ‘considei*tor a moment, president, the happy indiffei ence of this animal Wouldn t you say that it is exactly one of \our colleagues at a hearing? 1

The president, however, highly pleased to be quit of the aflair at th** piue of a witticism, imagining that it would throw a veil o\er the rest, and that Lucile, having learnt of it first would have had the ptudence to let no one suspect anything of their intrigue, the president, I say, began to laugh with the others The ass, greatly disturbed at having his sleep inter lupted, was extricated as best they could, new sheets were put on the bed, and Fontanis worthily replaced the most superb ass that could be found in the district

'To be honest, it’s all the same, said the marquise when she had seen him to bed *1 would never have thought that there (ould be such complete resemblance between an ass and a president of the Parliament of Aix *

That was your mistake then/ countered the marquis 'Did you not know, then, that it is from these doctors that that court has always chosen its meiflbers? I would wager that the one you saw leaving the room has been its first president The next morning Fontanis’ first thought was to ask Lucile how she had wrggled out of the affair She, well rehearsed, said that having learnt of the joke she had with drawn ven promptly but in some anxiety that she had been betrayed, which had caused her to pass a dreadful night and to wait most ardently for the moment when she could receive

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an explanation. The president reassured her and secured his revenge from her for the next day. Lucile prudishly offered a little resistance, and when Fontanis only became more ardent, everything was arranged in accordance with his desires. But if the first rendezvous had been troubled by a scene of comedy, what fatal occurrence was to prevent the second ! Arrangements were made as on the previous evening, Lucilf retiring first, the president following shortly after without anyone whatever hindering him. He found her afc. the agreed rendezvous, and flung his arms around her* He was already preparing to give her unequivocal proofs of his passion when suddenly. . .the doors opened, there was M. and Madame de Totteville, there was the marquise, there was Mile de T£roze herself.

‘Monster!’ she cried, throwing herself in her fury upon her husband. ‘So this is how you mock my trust and my tenderness ! ’

‘Abominable girl!’ said M. de Totteville to Lucile, who had flung herself at her fathet’s feet. ‘This then is how you abuse the generous liberty we granted you! ’

The marquise and Mme de Totteville for their part cast looks of rage upon the two sinners, and Mme d’Olincourt was only distracted from this immediate reaction by receiving in her arms her sister who had fainted. It would be difficult to depict Fontanis' face in the midst of this scene. Surprise, shame, terror, anxiety, all these different eihotions troubled him at the same time and paralysed him like a statue. But then the marquis arrived, asking questions and learning with indigna- tion all that had happened.

‘Sir,’ said Lucile’s father to him with emphasis, 'I would never have expected that in ‘your house an honourable girl would have to fear insults of this kind. You will understand that I do not tolerate it, and my wife, my daughter and I shall leave at once, to demand justice from those from whom we can expect it*.

‘Truly, sir,’ said the marquis drily to the president, ‘you will agree that such scenes as this are hardly what I have a right to expect. Was it thett pnly in order to dishonour my sister-in-

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law and my house, that you were pleased to all) yourself with us?' Then turning to Totteville, 'Nothing could be more just than the reparation that you are demanding, but I dare to beg you urgentl) not to precipitate a scandal. It is not for that scoundrel there that I ask it, he deserves onl) contempt and punishment It is for me, sir, for my family, for m) unhapp) father in law, who has placed all his confidence m this scall) wag, and will die of grief at sucn deception'

‘I would like to oblige )ou, sir said M de Totteville papudly, as he led his wife and c^iughter awav, ‘but you will permit me to place my # honour above such considerations \ou will be in«no*way compromised, sir, in the charges I shall make, this indecent wretch alone will be Please understand that I will hear no more, and that I am going minted latelv to answer the call of vengeance*

With tin v words, the three of them withdrew No human eflort could have stopped them and thev hastened to Pans, they said, to make ii plei to the Pailiamcnt against the indignities which President de Fontanis had wished to heap upon them

But in the unhappv chateau trouble and despair reigned supreme Mile de Tero/e, barel) recovered, took to her bed again with a fever that was carefull) declared to be dangerous M and Mine d’Olincouri fulminated against the president, who, having no othei saifctuary than this house m the extremit) that threatened hnn, did not dare to revolt against the repn mands that were so justly addressed to hnn Matters remained in this stale for three days, when finally the marquis fearnt from secret information that the iflair w*s of the utmost gravity and was being treated \s a criminal matter and that Fontanis was about to be pioscribed

‘What 1 Without hearing my side,* said the terrified president

‘Is that the rule*' answered d Olincouit ‘Aie those whom the law proscribes allowed any means of defence* Is it not one of youi most admirable customs to condemn without a hearing? They are only using against ^ou the weapons you

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have employed against others. Is it not reasonable that you, after having exercised injustice for thirty years, should at least once in your life become its victim?'

‘But just over a few women?'

‘How do you mean, a few women? Don’t you know that those are the most dangerous? What else was that unfortunate affair, the memories of which were worth fiv$ hundred strokes of the whip to you in the haunted ch&teau, but a question of women? And did you not believe that over a question of women you could allow yourself t<* ruin a nobleman? An eye for an eye, president, that is your yardstick«then submit to it yourself courageously.’

‘Merciful Heaven/ said Fonlanis. ‘In God’s name, brother, don't desert me.’

‘Be sure that we shall rescue you, whatever dishonour you have brought upon us, and whatever grievances we may have against you, but the means are hard. . .you know what they are.'

‘What are they then?’

‘The King’s favour, a letter de cachet , that is all 1 can

see.*

‘What terrible extremes! ’

‘I agree, but what others are there? Would you leave France and ruin yourself for ever, when a few years in prison will perhaps arrange everything? Besides, have you not at times used yourself this means which appals you so much, you and your^like? Was it not by your barbarous advice that it was employed to crush the gentleman that the spirits avenged so well? Did you not dare by means of a prevarication as danger- ous as it was punishable to f&rce this unfortunate soldier to choose between prison or disgrace and only suspend your con- temptible onslaughts on condition that he was crushed by those of his King? As a result, my dear man, nothing in what I am suggesting to you should astonish you, for not only is this method known to you, but it should now be welcomed.'

‘Unhappy memories/ cried the president, tears coursing down his face. ‘Who %owld have told me that the vengeance

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of Heaven would break over my head almost at the same moment as my crimes are consummated! What I have done comes back upon me. Let us suffer, suffer and hold our peace.’

As assistance was urgent, however, the marquise pressed her husband to set off for Fontainebleau, where the court was then in residence. Mile de T£roze took no pan in this council; shame and grief on the surface, and the Comte d'Elb&ne inside, kept her still to her room, with the door firmly closed against the president. He had presented himself several times, and tried to persuade her with his tears and remorse to open it, but always in vain.

And so the*m&rquis departed. His journey was short, and he returned two days later, escorted by two policemen, and furnished with an alleged order, the mere sight of which caused the president to tremble in every limb.

’You could not have arrived more opportunely!’ said the marquise, who pretended to have received news from Paris while her husband wafc at court. ‘The case is moving with an incredible speed, and my friends write to me to get the president away as soon as possible. My father has been informed and is in despair. He recommends us to serve his friend well and to portray to him the grief in which all this plunges him. . .his health will only allow him to offer prayers for his friend\ safety, they would have been more sincere if he had been wiser . . .here is the letter.’

The marquis read it hastily, and after haranguing Fontanis who was having difficulty in steeling himself to go to prison, handed him over to the two guards, in reality two qii&rter- masters from his own regiment, and exhorted him to console himself all the more because he* would not lose sight of him.

'With great difficulty,* he told him, 'I have obtained a fortified chateau situated five or six leagues from here. There you will be under the orders of one of my old friends who will treat you as if you were myself. I am writing to him through your guards, recommending you to him even more strongly, so you may set your mind at rest’.

The president wept like a child. Nothing is so bitter as

• °5

De Sade Selections

the remorse of a criminal who sees all the horrors which he has used himself descending upon his own head. . .but never- theless there was no escape. He asked at once for permission to embrace his wife.

Tour wife/ said the marquise abruptly, ‘she is not that yet, luckily, and in all the disasters that beset us that is the only relief we can find’.

‘So be it/ said the president, ‘I shall bear even that wound with courage', and he climbed i \p into the carriage with his guards.

The chateau to which the unfortunate man was being taken was part of an estate belonging to Mrye d’Olincourt’s dowry and everything was prepared for his reception. A captain of d’Olincourt's regiment, a dour and forbidding man, was to play the part of the governor. He received Fontanis, dismissed the guards, and, leading his prisoner away to a very mean room, told him harshly that he had had subsequent orders for him, of a severity which it was impossible fo< nim to set aside. The president was left in this cruel situation for nearly a month. Nobody came to see him, he was led entirely upon soup, bread and water, he slept upon straw T in a shockingly damp room, and his gaolers only visited him as in the Bastille, that is to

ay, as with beasts in a menagerie, solely to bring his food.

The wretched lawyer during this fatal period suffered bitter thoughts, with no one to disturb them. -At last the false governor appeared, and having offered him some crumbs of consolation spoke to him as follows:

Tou should be in no doubt, sir, that your first wrong was in wishing to ally yourself to a family so superior to you in every respect. The Baron de T6roze and the Marquis d’Olin- court are gentlemen of the oldest nobility in all France, and you are only a miserable Provencal lawyer, without name or influence, without rank or consequence. Some self-reflection on your part should have caused you to confess to the Baron de T£roze, who was blind where you were concerned, that you were no match for his daughter. Besides, how could you think for one moment that <£iip girl, as beautiful as love itself, could

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ever become the wife of a villainous old ape like you? Some self-deception is permissible, but not to that degree. The reflec- tions that you must have made during your stay here, sir, must have convinced you that for the four months you stayed with the marquis d'Olincourt you were no me re than a buffoon and a laughing-stock. People of your degree and address, your profession and your ignorance, jour wickedness and treachery should expect nothing but this kind of treatment, By a thousand tricks, each one more laughable than the last, you were pre- vented from enjoying the girl to whom you laid claim. You were given five hundred lashes in a haunted chateau, you were shown your wijje ih the arms of the man she adores, which you stupidly took to be a phenomenon, you were embroiled with a hired whore who made a tool of you, and, to be brief, you were shut up in this chateau where it rests only with my colonel, the Vfarquis d’Olincourt to keep you to the end of your lite, which will certainly happen il you refuse to sign this statement here. Before you read it, sir, remember that in public you are accounted only as a man who was to marry Mile de Teroze, m no way as her husband. Your marriage was kept as secret as possible, the tew witnesses have agreed to renounce their presence, the priest has returned the record, which I have here, and the lawyer has sent back the contract* as you can see with your own eyes. Furthermore, you have never slept with your wife, and your marriage is therefore void, and tacitly annulled with the full consent of all parties, which gives the breaking of it as much force as if it were the work of the civil and religious laws. Similarly here ai% the renunciations of the Baron de Teroze and his daughter. All that is lacking is your own, thi» one here. Choose, sir, between signing this paper in all good will, and ending your days with- out any doubt here. . . Answer, I have no more to say.'

After a little reflection the president took the document and read these words:

‘I declare to all who may read this that 1 have never been the husband ol Mile de T£roze. By this document I return to her all the rights that were sometime ^believed to have been

De Sade Selections

given to me upon her, and I promise never in my life to reclaim them. Furthermore I have only praise for the treatment I have received from her and her family during the summer that I spent in their house. It is with common accord and all goodwill towards each other that we renounce mutually the plans for union that were conceived for us and give each other reciprocally the freedom to dispose of our persons as if there had never been any intention of joining us together. And it is in complete freedom of both bocfy and mind that I sign this in the Chateau de Valnord,_ belonging to madame la marquise d’Olincourt.’

‘You have told me, sir,’ continued the president alter reading these words, 'what 1 may expect if I do not sign, but you have said nothing of what will happen ii 1 agree to everything’.

‘Your reward will be your immediate release, sir,’ replied the false governor, ‘a request that you will accept this jewel worth two hundred louis from the Marquise d’Olincourt, and the certainty of finding your servant and two excellent horses waiting at the door of the chateau to take you back to Aix’.

‘I sign, and depart, sir, my delivery from everyone here is jpo close to my heart for me to hesitate one minute.’

‘Splendid, president,* said the captain taking the signed statement and handing over the jewel, ‘but be careful how you behave. Once outside, if any mad desire for revenge should seize you at any time, consider before yielding to it that you are dealing with a strong adversary, and that this powerful family whom you would offend completely by your actions would immediately have you \aken for a madman, and the hospital for such unfortunates would become your final residence’.

‘Have no fear, sir,’ said the president. ‘I am the first person to desire no more truck with such people, and I assure you I will know how to avoid them.’

‘That is my advice, president,’ said the captain, opening at

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last his prison for him. 'Go in peace, and never let this part of the country see you again.'

'You may count upon my word,' said the lawyer, as he mounted his horse, 'this little incident hjis corrected all my vices, and I would live another thousand years before I would come to Paris again to choose a wife. Sometimes I have imagined the gri$f of being m^e a cuckold after marriage, but I had never heard that it was possible to be made one before. . . The same wisdom and discretion in my decrees, I wift no more set myself up as mediator between whores and men who arc w T orth more tjian I, it costs too much to side with that sort of lady, *and I no longer wish to have an} dealings with folk whose minds are all prepared to avenge themselves'.

The president disappeared and learnt wisdom at his own expense; no one was heard to speak of him any more. The whores complained that thev were no longer looked after in Provence, and morality gained ground there, because the young women, seeing themsdlves deprived of this indecent support, preferred the path or virtue to the dangers w T hich they could expect on the road to vice when magistrates w’ere wise enough to realise the dreadful unsuitability of supporting them with their protection.

You may well imagine that during the president’s arrest' the Marquis d’OIincourt, having weaned the Baron de Teroze from his too favourable*p r qudice f or Fontanis, had arranged that all the dispositions that you have just seen were safely athieved. His skill and his influence were so successful in this that three months later Mile de T6roze w r as publicly married to the Comptc d’Elbene, with whom she lived in perfect happiness.

‘I sometimes feel a little sorrv for treating that villainous creature so badly,* said the marquis one day to his lovable sister-in-law, 'but when on one side I see the happiness that has resulted from my actions, and on the other I am convinced that I only harried a fool, useless to society, essentially an enemy of the Stale, a disrupter of public peace, the torturer of an honest, respectable family, and the infamous slanderer

De Sade Selections

of a gentleman whom I esteem, and to whom I have the honour to be connected, I comfort myself, and echo the philosopher — Oh sovereign Providence, why is it that the ways of men are so limited that they only ever succeed in doing good by means of a little evil !

• This stor\ was finished on the 16 Jul\, 17B7, at ten o'clock in the

c\cnmg.

no

MISS HENRIETTA STRALSON or THE EFFECTS OF DESPAIR An English istory

The_Crimes_of_Love#Miss_Henriette_Stralson.2C_ou_les_Effets_du_d.C3.A9sespoir.2C_nouvelle_anglaise

♦One evening when London’s Ranelagh was arrayed in all its beau(v, Lord Grams ell, who at tHe age of thirty-six or there- abouts was the giost debauched, wicked and cruel man in all England, and unfortunately one of the richest, sat appeasing his conscience with t lie help of punch and champagne, and three of his friends. An attractive young woman whom he had never seen Lefui** passed mar his table.

‘Who is that girl/’ Granwoll asked his companions eagerlv, ‘and how can a face fine as that have existed in London, and escaped im notice? I bet she’s not sixteen. What do you sav, James?*

sir jamfs: ‘A figure fit for one of the Graces! Don’t you know her? Wilson?’

w 1 1 .son : ‘This is the second time that I have seen hci. She is the daughter of some Herefordshire baronet.* c.rvnweli : ‘Were she the daughter of the devil I must have her or be struck dead. I charge you to hnd her for me.’ gave: 'What is her name. Wilson? Miss Henrietta Stralson. That tall woman whom you see with her is her mother. Her father is dead. For some time now* she has been in love with a gentleman of Hereford called Williams. They arc to be married. Williams has come here to collect the inheritance of an old aunt, which constitutes his entire fortune. Mean- while Lady Stralson wished to show her daughter London, and when Williams’ affairs are settled, they will all return together to Hereford, where the marriage will take place.' granwem : ‘May all the furies of Hell have my soul, if Williams touches her before I do! Never have J seen such a pretty

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thing. Is Williams there too? I don't know this bumpkin, let me see him.'

wilson: ‘He is just behind them there. He probably stopped to chat with some of his acquaintances. He is rejoining them now. Do you see him? that one over there.’ granwell: ‘That tall, good-looking young man?’ wilson: ‘Precisely.’

granwell: ‘Damnation, he’s hardly twenty.* gave: ‘He is a fine man, indeejl, milord. There’s a rival for you.’

granweu.: ‘Whom I shafl dispose of, like many others before him. Gave, get up and follow that angelj-she has indeed made an impression on me — follow her, Gave, and try to learn all you can about her. Put spies on her tracks. Have you money. Gave, money? Here’s a hundred guineas. By tomorrow morning there should be none left, and I should

know everything Am I in love? Wilson, what do you

say about it? All the same, the momclit I saw her, I certainly had an intuition. . . .Sir James, this heavenly creature shall either have my fortune or my life.’ sir james : ‘Fortune perhaps, but as for jour life, I hardly think it in your nature to die for a woman ! ’ granwell: ‘No. . .’ (and milord, as he spoke that word, shivered involuntarily, then went on) ‘all that is a figure of speech, my friend, we don’t die la: such creatures, but there are some in truth who can arouse men’s souls in a most extraordinary way! Here, waiters, bring us some Burgundy. My head is on fire, and I can only cool it down with such a wine.’

wilson: ‘Is it true, milord, 'that you can feel foolish enough to upset the loves of this poor man Williams?’ granwei.i : ‘What does Williams matter to me? What docs the whole world matter? Listen, my friend, when this fiery heart of mine burns with a new passion, no obstacle shall stand in the way of its satisfaction. The greater the hindrance, the more annoyed I become. There is nothing more trifling in this world, my frie.rd, than the possession of a woman. When

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Miss Hennetta Stralson or The Effects of Despair

you have had one, you have had a hundred. The only way to rid these insipid triumphs of their monotony is to win them by trickery alone, and it is on the ruins of a multitude of conquered prejudices that you can find some attraction in it.’

wn son: ‘Would it not be better to try to please a woman. . . to attempt to take her favoursjTom a hand stretched out in love, than to obtain hei by violence?’

(.ramwfii : ‘What you say would be true if women were more sincere But as then is not one jn the whole world who is not false and treacherous^ the) must be treated like the vipers which we use#n tnedicine — cut off the head in order to have the body — take at whales cr cost what little good then bodies offer, and so subdue the nioial faculties that )ou never feel then cffe< is ’

sir jamfs ‘ 1 har *s the oil of maxim I like.* c.RVSwn i ‘Sir James is nn pupil, and some day I shall make use of hitn . . But ncie is Gave back again, let us hear his news ’

After Gave In l sat clow n, and drunk a glass of wine, he said to Gianwell. ‘Youi goddess has gone, together with Williams and Ladv Stialson I hcv lined a coach, and they said to the coachman -Cecil Street*

granwiii: ‘What— so close to me f Did )ou have them followed*

c» vvf ‘I put three men on them, three of the cleverest rogues that cvci escaped from Newgate ’ c.RANwin ‘Well, Ga\c, is she prett)?’

r.wr ‘The most beautiful person m all London. Stanley, Staf- ford, I llnei, Burclev, they InVe all followed her, all danced aiound hei, all agreed that in the three kingdoms there is not a gill to touch her ’

granwei i , eagcrlv ‘H \e you heard her say anything? Did she speak? Have the flattering tones of her voice fallen upon your cars, have you breathed the air she has just purified? Well, speak, my friend, speak, don’t you see my head is

H

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turned by her? Either I have her, or I leave England for ever.’

gave: ‘I heard her, milord. She did speak. She told Williams that it was very hot at Ranelagh, and she preferred to go home than to continue walking any longer.’ granweli. : ‘And this Williams?’

gave : 'He seems very strongly attached to her, his eyes devoured her. You might say that love has chained him to her side.’ GRANWEi.t. : ‘I detest the rascal, and I rather fear circumstances will force me to get rid of the fellow. Let us leave, friends. Thank you, Wilson, for your information. Keep my secret, or I shall tell all London of your iiTtripue with Lady Montmart. And Sir James, meet me tomorrow in the park, and we shall go together to see the little dancer from the Opera. What am I saying? No, I shall not go. I have but one idea in my head now. In all the world there is only Miss Stralson who can interest me. I have eyes onl) for her, my soul exists only to adore her. . . TYou. Gave, will come and dine with me tomorrow, bringing all the information you can gather about this heavenly creature, the sole arbiter of my future destiny. Goodbye, my friends.’

His lordship sprang into his carriage, and sped away to fulfil the duties of his. post in the Royal Bedchamber.

The few details that Wilson had given about the young beauty who had turned Granweli ’s head could not have been more correct.

Miss Henrietta Stralson, born in Hereford, had in fact come to see London, a city unknown to her, while Williams completed his business, and they would all return afterwards to their home county to cdhsummate their betrothal in marriage.

Nor was it at all surprising that Miss Stralson had aroused such unanimous appreciation at Ranelagh. A bewitching figure, the gentlest, most seductive eyes, the loveliest hair in the world, features unequalled for their fineness, delicacy and ethereal quality — add to that a most delicious voice, an abund- ance of gentleness, viAcity, and wit, tempered by an air of

114

Miss Henrietta Stralson or The Effects of Despair

virtue and modesty which lent even further piquancy to her charms, and all this at seventeen; she could not fail to please, and Henrietta had indeed made an overwhelming sensation. She was the talk of London.

Of Williams it can be said that he waf what is called an honest fellow, good and loyal, without art or deception. He had worshipped # Henrietta siqre childhood, staking all his happiness upon winning her one day, and offering in return sincere devotion, a sizeable* fortune if his lawsuit succeeded, a ^parentage that, if a little inferior to his lady's, was still respectable, and finally, ^pleasant face.

Lady Strafcoif was also an excellent person who prized her daughter as her most valuable possession in the world and loved her as only a true provincial mother can, for all sentiments are debased in capital cities — with every breath of the infested air virtue deteriorates, and in such general depravity the only alternative to complete conuption is escape.

Granwell, flusheu with love and wine, was no sooner in the royal antechamber than he realised that he was in no state to present himself. Returning home, instead of sleeping, he abandoned himself to the wildest and most extravagant schemes for possessing the object of his raptures. After examining and rejecting, one by one, at least a hundred, each more frightful than the last, he decided finally to make Henrietta and Wil- liams quarrel, to try if possible to embroil Williams in affairs from which it would take him a long time to escape: in the interval he would seize every opportunity of encounters with his beloved to compromise her in London itself, or to kidnap her and take her to one of his estates on the Scottish border where in complete mastery of lier nothing could prevent him from the fulfilment of his desires. This plan, suitably embel- lished with atrocities, became, for that reason, the most con- genial to the treacheiuus Granwell, and the following day, therefore, all steps were taken to make it a success.

Gave was Gianwell's intimate friend. Blessed with an even baser conscience, he fulfilled for his lordship the function, so common in these days, of administering to the passions of

ll 5

De Sade Selections

others, aggravating their debaucheries, and profiting by their follies at the cost of personal honour. He did not fail to keep his appointment next day, but the only information he could give then was that Lady Stralson and her daughter were stay- ing, as already known, in Cecil Street with one of their relatives, and that Williams was at the Hotel Poland in Covent Garden.

'Gave,' said his lordship, ‘you must answer for this Wil- liams. Adopt the name and guise of a Scotsman, and arrive tomorrow, in full splendour, at th$ same hotel as this peasant. Strike up an acquaintance with him, rob him and ruin him. Meanwhile, I shall attend to the wopien, and you will see. my friend, that in less than a month we shall 1 ' upset the honest little applecart of these respectable provincials’.

Gave was careful to find no inconvenience in the designs of his patron; the adventure would be costly, and it was obvious that the more milord spent, the more lucrative for the ignoble minister would be the execution of his criminal whims. He therefore began his preparations, while*tnilord, on his side, carefully surrounded Henrietta with a host of minor agents to give him an exact account of even the most unimportant movements of this charming girl.

Miss Henrietta was staying with a relative of her mother’s, 3 Lady Wately, who hacj been a widow for the last ten years.

Captivated by Henrietta, whom she had never known before the girl’s visit to the capital. Lady Wately neglected nothing which would show off in all her brilliance the object of her pride and affection, but this devoted cousin had kept to her room for a fortnight with an inflammation, and had not only missed the last excursion to Ranelagh but had also to forgo the pleasure of accompanying her cousin to the Opera, which would take place the next day.

Immediately Granwell learnt of this projected visit from the spies placed about his mistress he determined to profit by it. Learning from more detailed information that the ladies would hire a coach, as Lady Wately needed her own horses for the use of her doctor, he hastened at once to the owner of the coach that had be&r ordered, and without any difficulty

116

Miss Hcnnetta S hahon 01 I he Effects of Despaii

arranged for a wheel to break, three or four streets away from where the ladies would set out So completely engrossed in his stratagem that he never considered the danger of such an accident to the life of his loved one, he^paid up handsomely and returned home full of joy He left again at the same time as he knew Henrietta would be leaving, instructing the coach men who took him to await 4} the neighbourhood of Cecil Street the departure of such and such a coach from Lad) Wately s, to follow on as soon as he saw it, and not to allow dh) other coach to come between them

Granwell felt suie tf^it on leawng Lady Watel) the ladies would go to c^llcfct Williams at the Hotel Poland He was not mistaken Before long, however, the journey became an adven ture The wheel broke the women screamed a servant broke a limb Granwell, indifferent to everything but his own success, dre%\ up beside the wrecked coach, and leaping out offered his hand and the assistance ol his carriage to Lady Stralson

‘You are tpj kind, m\ loid she icplied ‘These hired coaches arc really shocking *11 London \ou can go nowhere without risking your life Steps should be taken to remedy such inconveniences ’

grvmweu ‘Do not take it muss, madam, if I do not complain snue it appears that no harm has come to you or \our young companion, and it gives me the \ery precious opportunity to be of some service to you *

1 ad\ strai son ‘You are most obliging, my lord But my loot man seems hurt, this incident has upset me

And his lordship, calling at once tor some chairmen, ordered them to pick up the injured servant The ladies, having disposed ol the footman, climbed into GranwelTs carriage, which set off tor the Hotel Poland

It is hard to imagine the state of his lordship when he found himself next to the girl he loved m circumstances which gave their meeting the appearance of services rendered

‘1 he young lady is doubtless visiting some acquaintances at the Hotel Poland/ he said to Henrietta as the carriage moved off.

“7

De Sade Selections

'It is more than just a visit to an acquaintance, my lord,’ said Lady Stralson with frankness. 'It is a lover, a husband, we are calling upon.’

granwell: 'How upset the young lady would have been if this accident had delayed so promising a pleasure. I con- gratulate myself still more on my good fortune in being able to do you this service.’

miss stralson: 'Your lordship is too kind to worry about us, we are most grieved to be sucty a trouble, and my mother will permit me to tell her that I am afraid we have com- mitted an indiscretion.’

granwell: ‘You are unjust, miss, to regard vh^greatest happi- ness of my life in such a way. But if I dare commit an indis- cretion myself — will you not need my carriage to continue your afternoon’s arrangements? II so, I should be most happy if you would accept it.’

miss stralson : ‘It would be too great an imposition, my lord. We were going on to the Opera, bu. we will be spending the evening with the friend we are now going to see.’ granwell: ‘You repay me badly for the service which you yourselves admit in refusing me permission to continue it. I beg you not to deprive yourself of the pleasures you had anticipated. Melico sings this evening for the last time, it would' be dreadful to miss such an opportunity. In any case, by accepting my offer you will cause me no inconvenience at all, because I am going to the opera myself. It is merely a question of allowing me to accompany you.’

It would have been ungracious of Lady Stralson to refuse Granwell, nor did she. On arrival at the Hotel Poland, Williams was awaiting the ladies. Gave* was not due to begin his role until the next day, although he had arrived that same day at the hotel. He was therefore not yet with Williams, and our young man was alone when his friends arrived. He received them as well as he could and overwhelmed Granwell with courtesies and gratitude, but as time was short they hastened to the Opera. Williams gave Lady Stralson his arm, an arrange- ment Granwell anticipated and which gave him the chance to

118

Miss Henrietta St raison or The Effects of Despair

entertain the younger woman, in whom he discovered an infinite wit, a fastidious taste, and a most extensive knowledge, everything in fact that he might have had some difficulty in finding in a young girl of the highest rank who had never left the capital.

After the performance, Granwell took the two ladies back to Cecil Street, and Lady St^lson having no occasion for anything but praise where he was concerned invited him to meet her cousin. Lady Wately knew Qranwell only slightly and rdfceived him with extreme hospitality, nevertheless. She invited him to supper with them but tfle nobleman, too skilful to throw himself yrocoon at fheir heads, invented some important business, and withdrew, more infatuated than ever before.

A character like Granwell's lacks normal patience and becomes angered at difficulties. But those which cannot be over- come extinguish the passions of such a soul instead of inflaming them. Since such types of individuals must be perpetually fed with distractions, the*object would undoubtedly change if the idea ol triumph nrumbled hopelessly.

Granwell saw clearly that while striving to separate Wil- liams from his beloved, it might be a long process; he must in addition therefore endeavour to set Henrietta at variance with her mother, in the certain knowledge that he would never achieve his plans while the two were together. Once he was introduced into Lady Wately’s house it seemed to him impossi- ble that with the additional aid of his agents Henrietta could take any step that w r ould enable her to escape him. And so he devoted all his time to this new project of disunion.

Three days after the adventuie of the Opera, Granwell ivent to inquire after the health«of the ladies, but was astonished when he saw Lady Stralson come alone to the parlour to explain on behalf of her cousin that it was not possible to invite him up; she made the excuse of her kinswoman’s health. Granwell, although irritated by this, did not allow himself to show any less interest in the welfare of the lady of the house, but could not restrain himself from asking news of Henrietta. Lady Stralson replied that she had been somewhat shaken by the

ll 9

De Sade Selections

accident and had kept to her room since the other day. After a few minutes his lordship asked permission to come again, and departed, highly discontented with his day.

Gave, however, had already made Williams' acquaintance, and on the day following Granwell's unsuccessful visit to Lady Wately’s came to give an account of his activities.

‘I have made more progress than you would believe, my lord,’ he said to Granwell. 'I have seen both 1 Williams and the very men responsible for his affairs. There is every possibility of upsetting this inheritance he is expecting, which is the entire fortune he can offer Henrietta. There is another, much closer relative living in Hereford, who is # unaware o| his rights. We must write to this man inviting him to come at once, take charge of him when he arrives, and secure the inheritance for him. Meanwhile I shall drain dry the purse of this insolent puppy who dares to set himself up as your rival. He has attached himself to me with frankness entirely in keeping with his age, already confided the story of his love, and even spoken of you and your good graces towards his mistress the other day. He is ours, I assure you. Make me alone responsible tor the task and I will promise that we have him in our hands.’

‘This news is some consolation for yesterday’s rebuff,’ said his lordship, and he told his friend of his reception at Lady Wately’s. ‘Gave,’ he continued, ‘my love overwhelms me. All this will take so long, I cannot possibly restrain much longer my violent desires to have this girl. . . . Listen, my friend, I have a new plan. Listen, and do it straight away. Let Williams see how great is your interest in meeting the girl he worships, and since it is impossible for you to call upon a woman that you do not know, get him to invent an illness. He must then urgently beg her to hire a chair and come at once to him. Work, on that. Gave, work on it, without neglecting everything else, and leave me to follow up your activities’.

Gave was the cleverest scoundrel in England, and his enterprise was successful. Without losing sight of the larger project, in fact while writing to Squire Clark, the second heir of Williams’ aunt, inviting him at once to London, he obtained

i«o

Miss Hemietia St raison or The Effects of Despair

permission from his friend to see Henrietta; in the exact manner proposed by Granwell, Miss Stralson was informed of her lover’s indisposition. She replied that she would use the excuse of making several purchases to find a chance to visit him. Almost at the same moment, his lordship heard from two sources that the following Tuesday, at four in the afternoon. Miss Henrietta would travel al<M^ by chaise to Covent Garden.

’Oh idol of my life,’ cried Granwell, entranced by joy, 'you shall not escape me tins time. However violent must be tflfe means by which I get you, the consolation of possessing you will prevent remorse jon my part. Remorse! Can a heart like mine knov^thfc meaning of such emotion? It has long been eradicated from my hardened soul by the practice of evil. You host of other beauties, seduced like Henrietta. . deceived like her, abandoned like her. . . Tell her whether I was moved by your tears, intimidated by your struggles, melted by your shame. . .and how long could your attractions hold me! Ah well! It is just one iiJbre name to add to the list of illustrious victims of my dfbauchery. What use is there for women. . . Oh Henrietta! What am 1 saving? A single glance from your eyes of fire would destroy my whole philosophy, and I would fall at your feet, perhaps, even while I swear to outrage you. . . Who? I! Should I know love! . . . Hence, vulgar sentiment,, away. . . If there were a woman in this world who could make me feel love, I would ratfier, 1 think, blow out her brains, than submit to her infernal arLifice. No. no, weak deceitful sex, no hope of ever capturing me. I have enjoyed )our pleasures too often to be still impressed b\ them. It is by angering the god that w r e learn how to break open the temple, and if we wish to destroy the cult we cannot diflict too many indignities*.

After these reflections well worthy of such a blackguard as himself, Granwell sent men at once to hire every chaise in the vicinity of Cecil Street. His servants were posted at ever) crossroads to prevent any chaise in search of a master from approaching Lady Wately’s residence. One of his own chairs, managed by two porters he could trust, w r as sent with orders to conduct Henrietta, once they had hereto the home, near St.

141

De Sade Selections

James’s Park, of a certain Madame Schmit, who for the last twenty years had been devoted to the secret adventures of Granwell, and whom he had been careful to warn. Henrietta, wrapped in a cloak, without any worries or doubts of the loyal- ties of the public servants she imagined she was using, got into the chaise that presented itself. She gave orders to be taken to the Hotel Poland, and not knowing any of the streets, was completely without suspicion during any moment of the jour- ney. She arrived where Granwell was waiting for her. The porters, well instructed, went right into the alley belonging to the Schmit house, straight tip to the door of a low room. 1 he door was opened. . .and how surprised was Henrietta to hnd herself in a strange house! With a little scream she threw herself back, saying to the chairmen that they had not brought her where she ordered. . . .

'Miss Stralson,’ said Granwell, coming forward at once, ‘I am deeply indebted to Heaven that I am allowed a second chance to be of service to you. I understand from what you say and what I can see of your chairmen that they are drunk and also that they have made a mistake. Isn’t it fortunate, in the circumstances, that this slight accident should happen to you at the house of a relative of mine. Lady Edward? If you will take the trouble t 9 come in. Miss Stralson, you can dismiss these ruffians with whom your life is insecure, and my cousin's servants shall find some safer peoplo for you!’

It was difficult to refuse such a proposition. Henrietta had only seen his lordship once before, and had no cause to com- plain of him; she met him at the entrance to a house the apartments of which suggested nothing but respectability. Sup- posing there were any danger *in accepting the proposal, there was surely more in remaining in the hands of these drunken fellows who, angered by Henrietta’s reproaches, proposed to leave her there! She entered therefore with profuse apologies to Granwell. His lordship himself dismissed the chairmen, and appeared to give orders to some servants to call new ones. Miss Stralson was led on into the apartments by the mistress of the house, and when she* had arrived the so-called lady bowed.

its

Miss Henrietta Stralson or The Effects of Despair

and said to Granwell in an insolent manner, ‘I wish you much pleasure, milord. I couldn't have found you a prettier one’. At this Henrietta shuddered, it seemed as if all her strength would leave her. She understood the full .horror of her posi- tion, but had strength enough to hold onto 1 erself — her safety- depended upon it. She summoned all her courage.

'What do you mean by that, madam?' she said, seizing Schmit by the arm* ‘and for whom do you take me?’

'For a charming girl, miss,’ answered Granwell, 'for an angelic creature, who, in a moment, I hope, will make me the most fortunate of men, the most sftnorous of lovers’.

'My lord,’ ^id*Henrietta, without releasing Schmit, 'I can see that my imprudence has placed me at your mercy, but I call upon your sense of justice. If you abuse my position, if you force me to hate you, you will surely not gain as much as you would by the feelings you had already aroused in me’.

‘You are a dever woman, but neither your bewitching face nor the incomparable*art which inspires you at this moment can seduce me. Yru do not love me, nor will you know how to love me. I lay no daim to your love, I know who it is who sets your heart on lire, and I ebunt myself more fortunate than him: he has only a frivolous sentiment, that I shall never have from you. But I have your exquisite person which shall soon drown my senses in ecstasy.'

‘Stop, my lord, you are deceived. I am not Williams’ mis- tress ! I was promised to him without the consent of my heart. My heart is free, and could love you as well as any other; it will certainly hate you if you seek to gain by force what it only depends on you to gain by merit.’

‘You do not love William#? Why then are you visiting him, if you love him not? Do you think I do not know that you were only going to him because you believe him to be ill?’

‘That may be, but I would not have been it my mother had not wished it. Understand that I have done no more than obey. . .’

‘Artful creature! ’

i*3

De Sade Selections

‘Oh my lord, give in to that feeling which I believe I read at this moment in your eyes, fie generous, Granwell, do not force me to hate you, when you can, if you wish, have my esteem.’

‘Your esteem?'

‘Merciful heavens, would you prefer hate?’

‘Only a more ardent emotion could make me have pity on you ! ’

‘Are you so ignorant of a wpman’s heart that you do not know what can grow from gratitude? Release me, my lord, and one day you will see whether Henrietta is ungrateful, whethet or not she deserved your pity.’

‘Who? I! I have pity, pity for a woman?’ said Granwell, separating her from Schmit. ‘Should I lose the most beautiful opportunity of my life, deprive myself of the greatest of pleasures, to spare you a moment of pain! And why should I do it? Come closer, siren, closer. I will not listen to you any more.’ As he spoke he snatched away tRe kerchief that covered Henrietta's lovely breast, and flung it to the end of the room.

‘Heaven have pity' cried the girl, throwing herself at his feet, ‘let me not become the victim of a man who would force me to detest him. . . Have pity on me, my lord, have pity, I pray you. Let my tears soften you, let the voice of virtue be heard kgain in your heart. Do not destroy an unfortunate woman who has done you no harm, hi whom you have already inspired gratitude, and whose feelings may not remain at that’.

With these words she knelt at his feet, her arms upraised to heaven. Tears flowed down her cheeks, flushed with fear and despair, and fell onto her bared bosom, a thousand times whitei than alabaster.

‘Where am I?' cried Granwell, agitated. ‘What inexpressi- ble emotion is troubling every faculty of my being? Where have you acquired those eyes that so disarm me? Who has endowed you with that seductive voice, each note of which softens my heart? Are you an angel from heaven or merely a human creature? Tell me, who are you! I do not know myself, any more. I know neither what I want nor what I ath doing.

Miss Henrietta Stralson or The Effects of Despair

All my faculties arc annihilated in your being, they can express no more than your prayers. Stand up. Stand up. Miss Stralson, it is 1 who should bow at the feet of the god that has enchained rne. Stand up, your dominion is too wclf established. It is impossible, absolutely impossible, for any impure desire to overthrow its empire in my heart.' And, returning to her her kerchief, ‘Here, hic(p from me thdlfe charms that impassion me. I need nothing to increase the delirium in which so much attraction has plunged me'.

'Oh, sublime man!' cried Henrietta, clasping his hand. ‘What do you not deserve f 9 r so generous an action?’

‘I wish to defcire your heart madam, that is the only prize I aim at, the only triumph worthy of me. Remember eternalh that I was master of your person, and did not abuse it, and if this does not w»n for me those affections I demand of it, remem- ber I shall have the right to avenge myself, and in a soul like mine vengeance is a terrible emotion. Sit down, madam, and listen. . . You have given me hope, Henrietta, you have said \ou do not love Williams, you have lei me think you might be able to love me. . . Those are the motives which stopped me, those to which you owe your victors. I prefer to dcscr\e of you what I need only have seized. Do not make me repent this virtue; do not force me to say that the perfidy of men is due only to the fickleness of women, and that if they deserve it, we, in our turn, shall be unceasingly what they desire.’

‘My lord, you cannot possiblv blind yourself to the fact that in this unfortunate incident the first wrong is on your side. By what right have you sought to disturb my peace? Why did you have me brought into a strange house, when I had entrusted myself to public servants, in the belief that they would take me where I ordered? In the light of this knowledge, is it for you to make laws for me? Do you not owe me apologies, instead of imposing conditions?’ (and then, seeing Granwell express dissatisfaction, she continued with spirit) 'Nevertheless, let me explain myself, my lord. You have made good this first wrong, which, if you wish, the love you claim to feel excuses, by the noblest, most generous of sacrifices' Certainly I owe you

• • 5

De Sade Selections

gratitude; that I have promised, I shall not break my word. Visit my parents’ house, my lord, I will enduce them to treat you as you deserve. The habit of seeing you will strengthen every day those feelings of gratitude you have sown in my heart. Take hope from that, you would misjudge me if I promised more.’

’But how shall you explain this incident to your friends?’

‘As it should be, as a porters’ blunder which by a singular stroke of fortune put me a second time into the hands of one who has already been of service to me and who benefitted from that chance to serve me again.’

'And do you assure me that you do not lbve Williams?’

’It is impossible for me to hate a man who has never meant me anything but good. I do not doubt he loves me, but the choice was my mother’s, and nothing hinders me from revoking it.’ She rose, and continued, ‘May I entreat you to call some porters for me. A longer interview ma> arouse suspicion and perhaps affect what I have to say. Dismiss me now and do not delay in visiting her whom your kindness fills with gratitude, and who forgives your barbarous design by reason of the wise and virtuous manner in which you wish to make her forget it’.

‘Cruel girl,’ said Granwell, also rising, ‘yes, I shall obey you. . .but I rely upon your heart, Henrietta, I count on it. . . Remember that passions which arc deceived will prompt me to despair. I wil luse your own words. Do not force me to detest you. There would have been little danger in the hate you would have felt on my account — there will be enormous peril in the hate you may reduce me to on your account’.

‘No, my lord, no, never will I make you hate me. I have more pride than you imagine, and I shall always know how to preserve my right to your esteem.’

At this Granwell called for porters — there were many close by — and when they were announced, he took Henrietta’s hand.

‘Angelic girl, do not forget you have achieved a victory to which no other woman but yourself would have dared aspire, a triumph that you owe only to the emotions you inspire in me; if ever you deceive those sentiments, they will be replaced

1*6

Miss Henrietta Stralson or The Effects of Despair

by all the crimes that vengeance can evoke.’

'Goodbye, my lord.’ said Henrietta as she entered the chaise, ‘never repent of a good action. Always believe that heaven and all just souls will reward you for it’.

Granwell returned home in an indescribable agitation, and Henrietta to her mother in such a condition that everyone thought she was al)out to faint.

Reflection upon Miss Stralson’s behaviour would discern without doubt or difficulty that every word she had spoken to Granwell was prompted only by ingenuity and policy. She believed such ruses, so foreign to her naive soul, to be justified in order that site might escape the dangers threatening her. We do not believe that in acting thus this interesting creature is likely to be blamed by anyone; the most refined virtue is sometimes furstrained to some lapses. Once home, with no further cause for deception, she gave a full account of what had happened, disguising neither what she had said in order to escape, nor the promises she had been forced to make to the same end. Except lor ihe indiscretion of venturing out alone, there was no disapproval of anything she had done, but her friends were opposed to honouring the promises she had given. It was decided that Miss Stralson w r ould avoid Lord Granwell on every occasion with the greatest care, and that Lady Wately’s door w’ould be most firmly shut to his insolent advances. Henrietta thought she must maintain that such a mode of action would vastly infuriate a man whose desperation could be most fatal, and that, if he had committed a fault, he had redeemed it like a gentleman, and that it would be better there- fore to receive him than to annoy hint. She thought she could answer also for Williams* opinion on this, but her two relatives would not be moved from theirs, and orders w f ere given accordingly

Meanwhile Williams, who had waited for his mistress all the evening, was impatient when she did not come. Leaving Squire O'Donel, the name given by Gave on arrival at the Hotel Poland, he reached Lady Wately’s an hour after Henri- etta’s return. She sobbed when she saw him, took his hand and

De Sade Selections

said with tenderness, ‘How little was needed to make me no longer worthy of you ! * and as she was free to speak, as much as she wished, alone with a man whom her mother already regarded as a son-in-law, they were left to discuss together all that had just happened.

'Oh! ’ cried Williams, when he had learnt the whole story, 'it was on my account you were about to be dishonoured, to give me a moment's satisfaction you almost became the unhappiest of creatures. Yes, foi^a caprice; I must confess, I was not ill. A friend wished to meet you, and I wished to enjoy before his eyes the blessedness of possessing the affection of so beautiful a woman. That is the whole mystferyt. Henrietta. You see that I am doubly to blame'.

‘Let us go no further, my friend,’ replied Miss Stralson, ‘I have found you again, all is forgotten. But you must agree Williams’, she continued, while her eyes conveyed to the heart of her adored the gentle flame of love, ‘that I should never have seen you again, if this disaster had befallen me. You would not have wanted the victim of such a man, and I would have had, in addition to my own sorrow, the despair of losing all’.

‘Do not think that, Henrietta,’ answered Williams, ‘there is nothing that is dearest to me in this world which can pre- vent you being precious to him who would stake all his honout to possess you. You, whom I will adore until my dying breath, be assured that the sentiments )ou 'inspire are far above all mortal happenings, and it is as impossible for me not to cherish them, as it is for you ever to be unworthy oi them*.

After this the two lovers discussed the catastrophe in a more cool-headed fashion. They knew Lord Granwell for a most dangerous enemy who would only be embittered by the strategy proposed. But there was no way to change it the women would not hear of it. Williams spoke about his new friend, and the frankness and security of these creatures were such that it never occurred to them to suspect that the false Scot was only one of milord's agents; far from that, indeed, Williams’ praises inspired Henrietta with the desire to know him, and

128

Miss Henrietta Stralson or The Effects of Despair

the satisfaction that he was a good acquaintance. . .

‘By hell and all its furies!' said his lordship to Gave the next da), ‘I am unfit to breathe, my friend, I am a mere school- boy, a mere dunderhead, I tell you. I had her in my arms. . . saw her at my feet, and had not the cowftge to submit her to my desires. . .1 dared not humiliate her, my friend, she is not a woman, but part of the divinity itself, come to earth to waken iti my ^uil virtuous ^tttiments that I have never imagined in alnl) life. She let me think she might perhaps ot&e da) love mcfmd I, I who have only believed the love of a woman to be a trifle in the enjoyment of her, renounced this certain enjoyment for an imaginary sentiment that harrows me and (roubles me that I ina) not experience it again*.

Gave reproached milord soundly, awakening his fear of being the plaything of a )oung girl, and assured him that such an oppc'i 1 11 .ity might not occur again for a long time, now that they were on their guard.

‘Yes, remember. *milord,* he added, ‘you will ha\e cause to regret this mistake you have made, and your indulgence will cost you dear. Should a man like you let himself become tender- hearted over a few tears and two beautiful e)cs? Will this confused situation in w'hich your heart has become entangled give you the same amount of voluptuousness as the stoic indif- ference you swore never to depart from? You will be sorry for your pity, milord, I telj you, )ou will be sorry*.

‘We shall soon know,* said milord. ‘I shall call upon Lady Wately tomorrow without fail. I shall study this wil\ miss, Gave, examine her, and read her feelings in her eyes. If she is deceiving me, I shan't lack stratagems to snare her with again, and she won’t always have the.magic art of escaping me as she has already done. As for you, Gave, continue with the ruin of this blockhead Williams. When Clark appear* send him to Sir James, I will forewarn him to advise Clark to pursue this inheritance w r hich is being snatched from him. We will look after him wit hthe judges. We can break off all arrangements if we are certain that my angel loves me, and press them hard if the infernal creature has cheated me. . But, I must say it

J t*9

De Sade Selections

again. I’m an absolute baby, I shall never forgive myself for this last stupidity. Keep my failure from my friends. Gave, cover it up carefully, or they will overwhelm me with reproaches which I thoroughly deserve.’

They parted, and the next day, that is, the third day after the Schmit adventure, Granwell presented himself at Lady Wately’s in all his opulence and magnificence.

The women had not changed their resolution in anything. He was cruelly refused. To his insistence that he must see Lady Stralson and her daughter on affairS of the greatest importance the answer was that the ladies he was seeking were no longer at the house. He came away furious. His first instinct was to seek out Williams, impress him with the service he had rendered to his mistress, telling him the story agreed upon with Henrietta at Schmit's, and insist that he accompany him to Lady Stralson, or to cut both their throats if his rival did not fall in with his plans. But this project did not seem wicked enough to Granwell. His grievance was on!y with Miss Stralson; probably she had not told her family the story as promised. It was to her alone he owed the snubs he had received; her alone he would track down and punish, and to that purpose alone he would apply himself.

(The Stralsons * precautions did not include restricting either their business or pleasure trips around London . They went about as much as before, accompanied by Lady Wately , now recovered . Granwell kept track of them through his spies, but a month passed before an opportunity occurred for vengeance. A visit by the Stralsons to see Garrick’s last appearance in Hamlet at Drury Lane gave Granwell his chance. He schemed to have Henrietta arrested at the play and imprisoned in the Bridewell, the prostitutes’ jail . He gave information to the magistrates than a notorious Irish courtesan named Nancy who was wanted for theft and other misdemeanours had imposed herself upon Lady Wately as a lady of quality and would be at Drury lane with her that night . The plan misfired at the theatre because the women were accompanied by an eminent member of Parliament, Lord Barwill, who sent the constables away and himself took She Stralsons to Judge Fielding, where

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the innocence of Henrietta was soon revealed. Granwell man- aged to convince Judge Fielding the next day that he had made a mistake in good faith, and went back to plot new villainies. Meanwhile Gave had almost reduced Williams to poverty, and the claim of Clark in the lawsuit was being most vigorously and skilfully advanced by Sir James with Granwell well in trie background. The two women suspected Granwell* s influence and foresaw Clark’s triumph, but were both deter- mined that Henrietta should fft&rry Williams, whatever hap- pened. Granwell’s next move was prompted by Lady Wately’s decision to take her cousin f to her country estate near New - nfhrket for a rest from the trials of London. He kidnapped Henrietta just outside Newmarket^in a forest notorious for its murders, and broi^ght hef back to his London house.)

he dismissed his men and unmasked himself.

‘Now, traitress/ he said with fury, 'do you recognise the man you hive dared with impunity to betray?’

‘Yes, my lord/ answered Henrietta bravely, ‘whenever any misfortune occurs, can I not name you on the spot? You are the sole cause of all Iny sufferings, your only enjoyment is to harry me. Were T jour deadliest enem\, you could not treat me differently’.

‘Cruel woman, is it not you then who make me the most wTCtched of men, abusing my good faith, and by your infamous duplicity making me the dupe of those feelings I cherished for you?’

‘I thought you werC more just, my lord, I imagined that before condemning people you would condescend at least to hear them.’

‘I let myself be caught a second time by your damnable tricks?'

‘dnhappy Henrietta, you \vill be punished then for too much frankness and credulity, and the one man in all the world you have singled out will be the cause of all the disasters in your life.’

‘What do you mean, miss? Explain yourself. I will willingly hear youi defence again, but do not flatter yourself you will deceive me. Don’t imagine you can abuse this fatal love of mine that I ought to blush for. No, nuts, I shall not be duped

Dr S ade Selections

again you interest me no more, Henrietta I can see you dispassionately now, and the only longings that you stir m me are for crime and vengeance ’

‘Gently, my lord, you accuse me all too lightly A woman wishing to deceive you, would have welcomed \ou, encouraged your hopes, sought to disarm you, and with the subtlety vou credit me with, would have succeeded See how different was my behaviour, and when you find in it my* motive condemn me if you dare *

‘What* At our last meeting* you let me think you were not indifferent to me You* invited me yourself to call upon you That was the reward for my mercy the condition under which I let my heart be ruled b\ restraint rather than those emotions which I see vou hold against me And when I had done everything to please you, sacrificed all to win a heart that would have meant nothing to me had I listened only to m\ desires, then I am rewarded by seeing your door shut in m\ face No, no, faithless one do noi hope to escape me again, do not expect that Your efforts will be in vain

‘Do with me what you will, my loid I am in vour hands ’ (shedding a few involuntaiv teais) ‘\ou have bought me at the cost of mv mothers life without a doubt But what does that matter, do with me what you will, I sav I will not defend myself against vou but if it weie possible for you to listen to the truth without accusations oi deceit, my lord, I would ask you if the rebuffs you have suffered are not sure proof oi my admission of the feelings you have inspired m me, and the fear in which their power over me is held* Would there have been any need to deny you, it they were not afraid of you, and would they have feared you unless I had openly avowed my feelings for you* Have your revenge mv lord, take it, punish me for abandoning myself to so bewitching an error I deserve all vour anger vou cannot make it heavy enough or inflict it too violently '

'So*' said Granwell, unbelievably agitated, ‘did I not fore see that this deceitful creature would try to capture me again Oh* No* no* you are* not to blame, miss, the faults are all

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mine I am the only guilty one, I who should be punished I must surely be a monsier to conspire against her who adores me from the depths ol her soul I did not see it, 1 did not know that Forgive me tor the extreme humility of my character How could I have nourished the conceit o( ever being loved by such a girl as you?'

'Allow me, yny lord, to that this is not time for saicasm or jokes, neither from you or from me You arc making nje the most miserable of w men, and I was far from desiring you to ht the most unfortunate o£ men That is all I have to tell sou, my lord It is phm you uo not believe it Allow me in my turn to4iave sufficient pride, humiliated though I am, not to seek to conwnce you It is cruel enough for me to ha\e to blush beiore my family and li lends for the mistake I have made, wnhi *t having to weep foi it again with him who made me make it Do not believe a word 1 say, my lord, it is all deeeit I am the most false of all women You must not think of me m an\ othei way Do not believe me, please

‘But it it v rc tiue that your leelings lot me were such as you would make them out, what prevented sou, when you could not sec me, from writing to me Oughtn t you to have lmtgined how upset I was bv the snub I had received*’

4 1 am not my own miatiess, my lord, never forget that, and you will agree that a girl of my age, whose feelings must depend upon her upbringing, must always stuve to suppress within her heart anything her family disapproves of*

‘And now that you no longer depend upon this barbarous family, which opposes your own wishes as well as mine, do vou consent to give me youi fund immediatelv *’

‘Who* I* When ray mother is perhaps dying, and it was youi hands which snatched me from hei* Allow me to consider her, to whom I owe mv life, before my own happiness ’

‘Be reassured, miss, vour mother is quite safe She is with 1 adv Wately, and they are both as well as you I gave orders for their safety as soon as you were carried oft and they have been obeved with even more intelligence than those which put you in my power Have no anxiety at all on that score, and

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do not let such worries affect the decision that I am asking you to give me. Will you accept my hand or not?'

'Do you imagine I can answer such a question without my mother’s consent? It is not your mistress that I want to be, my lord, but your wife. Could I be that legally if 1, dependent on my family, married you without their approval?

‘Remember that I am the master of your person, miss, and that the slave has not the right to make conditions.'

‘Then I shall not marry you, # *ny lord. I do not wish to be the slave of him who has my heart.’

‘Proud creature, shall I never succeed in humiliating you?’

‘And what pleasure will you enjoy from 5 triumph achieved over a slave? Can anything due to violence alone effect your self-esteem?’

‘It is not always certain that this much-vaunted virtue is quite as precious as women would believe!’

‘Leave such stony principles, my lord, to those unfit to deserve the hearts they try to conquer; such abominable maxims are not meant for you.’

‘But this Williams — I wish that every disaster Nature can inflict on man were heaped upon his villainous head.’

‘Do not talk like that of the most honest of all men.’

‘H$ has stolen your heart from me, he is the cause of it all. I know you love him.’

‘I have already answered you on that count, and I will say it again. Williams is in love with me, that is all. Oh, my lord, if you never have any more dangerous obstacle to your ambitions, you will not be so unlucky as you imagine.’

‘No, siren, no! I do not believe you.' He went on, with emotion, ‘Come, prepare yourself. I have given you time enough for reflection. You may well suppose that it was not to become your dupe again that I brought you here. From tonight you shall be either my wife or my mistress. . . .’ With these words the barbarian seized her roughly by the arms, and dragged her towards the impious altar on which he meant to sacrifice her.

‘One word, my lord,’ said Henrietta, fighting back her tears, and resisting Granwell^s endeavours with all her strength, ‘one

Miss Henrietta Shalson ot 7 he Effects of Despait

word I beg of you. What do you hope from this crime you are about to commit?*

'All the pleasures it can give me.*

'You will only enjoy them for one dafy, my lord: tomorrow I shall no longer be either your slave or your mistress: all that your eyes will see tomorrow will be the corpse ol the girl you have dishonoured. Oh Granw&J you do not understand my character, you do not know the lengths to which I can go. ]| you then have m truth rfec slightest feeling for me, will you purchase (at the price of my destruction) a few minutes* miser- able enjoyment? The very, pleasures that you wish to steal I offer you. Why not tcc£pt them from my heart? You are a just and sensitive man,’ she continued, almost on her knees, and stretch- ing out her clasped hands towards her tyrant, 'let yourself be moved b* nn tears, let my cries of despair once again enter your heart, you vill not repent hearing them. Oh! My lord! you see before you as suppliant hei whose whole glory was to see you one day kneeling at her feet. You want me for \oui wife. Then look on r.e already as that, and do not, on that account, dishonour her whose destiny is linked so intimately with yours. Let Henrietta return to her mother, that is her prayer, and she will repay your kindnesses with the warmest liveliest affections’.

But Granwell was no longer looking at her. He strode up and down the room, burning with love. . .tormented by lascivious thirst. . .gnawed by desire for revenge. . .and harassed by the pity born of love that this gentle voice, this interesting pose, these floods of tears, excited in his heart, despite himself. Ready at times to seize her, at others to for- give her, it was impossible to say to which of these two moods he would surrender, when Henrietta, seizing upon his inde cision, said, 'Come, my lord, see if I intend to deceive you. Take me yourself to my mother, ask her for my hand, and see if I will submit to your desires*.

'Incomprehensible girl,* said the lord. 'Very well then, for the second time I yield to you. But if, unfortunately , you should abuse my faith again, there is no human force that can shield you from the effects of my vengeance* . . It will be terrible,

• 35

De Sade Selections

remember this, it will be paid for with the blood of those most dear to you. There will not be a single one of those around you will not lie at your feet, crushed by my hand.’

• 1 will submit to everything, my Lord. Let us go. Leave me

no longer in my anxiety about my mother. My happiness lacks only her consent, and the knowledge of her safety, and then your longings shall be satisfied immediately..

Milord called for his horses. 4 I shall not come with you,’ he said to Henrietta. ‘1 would not ohoose this moment to appear among your friends. See wh^t confidence I have in you. Tomor- row, on the stroke of noon, I shall s?nd a carriage to meet you and your mother; you will come to my house, fee welcomed by my family, meet my lawyers, and I shall become your husband that same day. But do not forget, miss, if I suspect even the slightest show of refusal on your part, you will have no deadlier enemy in London than I. Go, the carriage is waiting, I shall not even see you to the door. I cannot be rid too soon of those looks which have so strong an effect upon my heart, in the same instant impelling me to crime and inspiring me with virtue.’

(At home again , Henrietta found that when the caniage was attacked two servants had been almost killed, and both the ladies An jured. Granwell however had done as he said , and the moment Henrietta had been captured the bandits had assisted the remainder back to London . Lady Stralson, more concerned for Henrietta than her own sufferings, had been about to take desperate measures when her daughter returned . Discussing GranwelVs ultimatum. Lady Stralson’s first instinct was to flee at once to Hereford . She was afraid however that her daughter would not be safe even theri , and finally plumped for the marriage, which would be a very good one, after all . But Hen- rietta would rather die than marry so odious a man. At last they agreed to play for time, until she could wed Williams secretly and escape to Hereford, where her status as a married woman would entitle her to the full protection of the law, should Granwell pursue her there . Next day she wrote to Gran- well that her mother's illness made marriage impossible for the moment . He should nqt despair, however, but visit them and console her for the delay. Granwell went, full of anger and

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Miss Henrietta St raison or The Effects of Despair

suspecting treachery; the visit passed off politely and he reluctantly gave Henrietta another day in wnich to keep her promise . He decided meanwhile to intensify the campaign against Williams. This was completely successful . Gave had reduced Williams to his last four guineas , and the wretched man was about to confess his faults to Hen ietta when his case, thanks to GranwelVs activities, was suddenly decided in favour of Clark. Determined to kill himself, Williams had to see Henrietta for the % last time. V^t'ting her secretly by night, to avoid being seen by GranwelVs spies, he told her of the verdict and also of his gambling lojses.)

‘Oh! my dear Henrietta! ' he (fried, throwing himself at the feet oi his beloycd) ‘I am making you my last farewells. 1 have come to release you from your ties, and to break those that hold me to this life. Take care of my rival, and do not refuse him your hand. He alone can make you happy now; my errors and my :ui 'fortunes do not permit me to be yours; become my rival's wife, it t; your best friend who urges you. Forget for ever a wretch who i^no longer worLhy of your pity’.

‘Williams/ said Henrietta, assisting hei lover to his feet, and holding him to her side, ‘you whom I will never for one moment cease to adore, how can you believe that my affections are dependent on the vagaries of fortune? How unjust a creature I would be to stop loving you because of your mistakes or misfortunes? Believe also, Williams, that my mother would no more desert you than I. I will undertake the task of telling her the news; I want to spare you that sorry confession. But assure me of your life, swear to me, Williams, that so long as you are sure of Henrietta's love, no disaster can impel you to cut the thead of your existence'.

‘Oh my beloved mistress, dn m\ knees I swear it; what is more sacred to me than your love, what misfortune can I fear while my Henrietta still cherishes me? Yes, I wdll live, because you love me, but do not ask me to marry you, do not seek to link your destiny with that of a miserable wretch no longer worthy of you. Marry his lordship. If I cannot contemplate it without sorrow, I can at least bear it without jealousy, and the splendour with which this powerful man can endow you

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De Sade Selection a

will console me, if it is possible, for not being able to aspire to the same happiness.’

It was not without tears that the gentle Henrietta heard these words, so distasteful to her that she could not let him finish. 'Unjust man/ she cried, clutching his hand, ‘could I be happy knowing you were not, and could you be happy knowing I was in another’s arms? No, my friend, no, I will never leave you. I have a further debt to discharge now, the debt imposed by your misfortune. Until now love alore bound me to you, today I am tied by duty. It is my duty to comfort you, Williams. From whom else would y<Ju value^it, if not your Henrietta. Mine is the hand to wipe away your tear$— why seek to rob me of this pleasure? If you had wed me with the fortune that you should have owned, you would have owed me nothing, my friend: now I hold you to me with the ties of love and with the tender bonds of gratitude*.

With his tears Williams bathed his lover's hands, and overcome with loo great emotion could* not find words with which to voice his feelings. Lady Stralson arrived as our two lovers, lost in each others arms, exchanged between their souls the divine fire that consumed them; her daughter told her then what Williams dared not say himself, and ended her account by begging her mother as a favour not to change in any way the affection she had always shown.

‘Come, dear man,' said the good lady, placing her arms round Williams’ neck, ‘we loved you rich, we shall love you even better poor. Never forget your two good friends, and let them take on themselves the burden of consoling you. You have made mistakes, my friend, but you are young and inde- pendent, you will not make tAem any longer, when you are the husband of the girl you love’.

We will pass in silence over Williams’ words of tender- ness. He who has a heart will hear them without the need to speak them, and nothing can describe them to hearts which are cold.

‘Oh, my dear daughter,’ continued Lady Stralson, ‘I am so afraid all this is some rib v villainy of that dreadful man who

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Miss Henrietta Stialson 01 The Effects of Despair

plagues us. This Scottish captain who brings our good Williams to ruin in so short a time, this Squire Clark whom we never knew as a relation of our good friend's aunt, they are all the evil doings of this wicked man. Oh ! if only we had never come to London. We must leave this dangerous town, my daughter, we must keep away from it ior ever’.

It is not hard to believe that Henrietta and Williams adopted this idea "joyfully. A day was fixed; it was decided to leave the following day, but in such secrecy that even Lady Wately's servants would know nothing about it.

The next day Lord Granwell^visited his love; in spite of all the efforts ob Henrietta and her moihei to behave naturally, he was too clever not to distinguish certain variations in their conduct, and too sharp not to attribute them to the revolution in Williams’ prospects. He made enquiries, and although secrecy Iiaci oeen mair dined around both the plan to leave and Williams’ last visits it was impossible for nothing to have leaked out. With the* aid of his wonderful spy service, it was not long before he knew all.

’Well,’ he said to Ga\e, when he received the latest report, ‘once again I am the dupe of this company of traitors. This faithless Henrietta plays with me but dreams only of enthron- ing my rival. False, deceiving sex, do not your sins daily justify the reproaches hurled against you? Oh, Gave, my friend, the ungrateful female does “not know whom she is abusing. On her head alone I will avenge my whole sex. I will make her weep tears of blood, for her own sins, and for those of all like her. In your business with this knavish Williams, Gave, did you obtain any of his handwriting?’

‘I have some here.'

'Good, give it to me. Take this letter at once to Johnson, the clever rogue can forge any w 7 riting. Tell him to copy this at once, to transcrib * in Williams’ hand the lines I shall dictate to you.’

Gave took them down and went to Johnson who copied them. At seven o’clock on the eve of her departure, Henrietta received, from the hand of a man wh<9 assured her that it was

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De Sade Selections

from Williams, and that her unhappy lover was waiting most impatiently for her reply, the following letter:

'I am on the point of arrest for a debt much greatei than I have money to pay. Without any doubt powerful enemies aie involved m this. 1 ma) not even have time to give you a Iasi embrace. I am waiting for this pleasure and tor your advice. Come along to the corner of Kensington Gardens to comfort for a moment your luckless Williams, ready to die oi griei it you refuse this favour.’

When she had read this note, Henrietta was in despair Fearing that this further ftidiscretion might at last wear out her mother's kindness, she resolved to hide this«iew catastrophe from her, and with as much money as she could obtain to fl\ to Williams* aid. For a moment she considered the danger oi going out at such an hour but what had she to fear irom his lordship? She believed him to be completely humbugged by the deceptions of her mother and her triend Lady Watels She and the two women had never stepped receiving him Granwell himself had never appeared calmer What was there to be afraid of, then? Perhaps he w r ould take action against Williams, perhaps he was once again the cause of this new set-back; but the desire to harm a rival you still iear is no reason to threaten the liberty oi her you can be suie oi.

Weak, unhappy Henrietta, such were your foolish ealeu lationsl The love which prompted thdm justified them all; you did not consider that the veil before the eyes of lovers is never thicker than when the chasm is about to open at their feet. . . Miss Stralson sent for porters, and set off for the appointed place. The chaise drew up. the door opened. . . .

’Miss,’ said Granwell, offering his hand to help her out, 'you weren't expecting me, I’m sure. I wages you’re about to say that the scourge of your life is always appearing before your eyes — * Henrietta cried out, and tried to break away and run. ‘Gently, my pretty angel, gently,’ said Granwell, holding his pistol to her breast, and showing her she was surrounded. 'Do not hope to get away, no, not this time. I am tired oi

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Miss Henrietta Stralson or The Effects of Despair

being your dupe, I intend to be revenged. Keep silent or I cannot answer for your life.’

Senseless, Henrietta was carried to a post-chaise. His lord- ship drove away with her, and raced non-stop to the north of England where he owned a vast isolated cartle on the Scottish border.

Gave remained at his lordship’s London house, instructed to watch, and repdrt by express couriers the latest news from London.

Two hours after her daughter’s departure, Lady Stralson noticed her abscuce. Trusting in Hbnrietta’s conduct, she was not worried at fijst, but wh&i she heard ten strike, she shivered, suspecting some fresh trap. She flew to Williams and asked him tremblingly if he had not seen Henrietta. The unhappy lover’s answer increased her fear. Telling Williams to wait she went to Lord Gr uw .11, to be told that he was ill; she announced herself, certain that her name would admit her to his lordship. The answer was the same* She returned to Williams, doubly sus- picious, and both of them, fearfully alarmed, went immediately to the Prime Minister, whom they knew to be related to Granwell. They recounted their misfortunes, attesting that the cruel tormentor of their lives, the sole cause ol all their woes, in short, the ravisher ol the one s daughter and the other's lover, was none other than Lord Granwell.

‘Granwell!’ The minister was shocked. 'But do you know’ that he is my friend, one of my relations, and whatever way- wardness I might suspect him of, I still can’t believe him capable of such horrors?’

‘But he is, he is, ms lord.’ lcplicd the grW-stricken mother. ‘Investigate it, and you will se^ if we are deceiving you.’

A messenger was sent at once to his lordship’s house, and Gave, not daring to deceive the agents of the Prime Minister, announced that Granwell had left to make a tour of his estates. This report, together with the suspicions and accusations of Henrietta’s mother, opened the minister’s eyes at last.

‘Madam,’ he said to Lady Stralson, ‘go home with your friend, and calm yourself. I shall take Ation. You may be sure

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I shall neglect no opportunity to get back what you have lost and retrieve your family honour’.

But all these steps had taken time. The minister had not wished to undertake judicial action without first consulting the king, to whom Granwell was attached by his office, and these facts made it possible for Gave to send a messenger to his friend’s castle, with the result that the events which remain to be told were able to take place without hindrance.

Granwell, on reaching his estate, in order to calm Miss Henrietta, made her agree to take a little rest, but was careful to put her in a room fronf which it was impossible to escape. Miss Stralson felt little desire to sleep in hfr cruel circum- stances, but glad of the chance of several hours in peace, she had made no sort of sound which could create suspicion that she was awake, when Gave’s courier arrived. From then on Granwell knew that if he wanted to succeed he must act quickly. He would flinch at nothing that could assure victory; however criminal it might be, he was revived on anything that brought revenge and the enjoyment of his victim.

At worst, he told himself, he would marry her, and not appear in London again except as her husband, but in the present situation, according to the news from Gave, he saw there would be time for nothing unless he quelled the storm that was about to Break over his head, and to do that, he swiftly realised, two steps were necessary, to calm down Lady Stralson ,and to make certain of Williams. An abominable ruse, and an even more loathsome crime suggested themselves in turn, and Granwell, who counted no cost when it con- cerned the realisation of his desires, had no sooner formed these horrible projects than their execution became his only care. Ordering the courier to wait, he went to Henrietta. He began with the most insulting proposition, which Henrietta, as usual, skilfully evaded. This was what he wanted, to make her use all her guile, so that he might seem taken in again, and then to catch her in the same traps that she employed on him. Miss Stralson used every weapon to confute the schemes his lordship proposed! tears, prayers, love, all were opposed

14a

Miss Henrietta Stralson 01 The Effects of Despair

without distinction, and Granwell, after many struggles, with the air at last of giving in, fell treacherously to his knees before her.

‘Cruel girl,’ he said, shedding counterfeit tears of repent- ance onto her hands, ‘your ascendancy is all too clear, you triumph every time, and at last I must surrender, finally. It is finished now, miss. No longer will you see in me your perse- cutor, but your frieftid; more ge&trous than you imagine, with you I shall attempt the utmost trials of courage and virtue. Yqp know all that I would h’ave the right to claim, to exact in the name of lose, to gain by valence. Well, Henrietta, I renounce them ay. Yes, 1 htipe to make you value me, perhaps one day regret me. Knowing now that I have never been your dupe, your pretence was wasted, you love Williams. . .then miss, you shall receive him from my hand. At this price may I buy forgiveness for all # hc evils I have done? By giving you Williams, by making good the losses that his fortune has just suffered from my own •can I acquire some right to my dear Henrietta’s heart? Will she still name me her most cruel enemy?’

‘Oh generous benefactor 1 1 cried the young woman, too ready to accept the chimerical comfort of that moment, ‘what god has inspired these designs in you, and how do you deign to change so rapidly poor Henrietta's destiny ? You ask what rights you will acquire to m\ heart? All the feeling of this that does not belong to the unfortunate Williams will be for ever yours. I shall be your fiiend, Gianwell, your sister, your confidante. My onlv dut\ will be to please you, and as a unique favour I dare to ask if I may spend my life rear to you, using each moment of it to convince you of my gratitude. . . . Ah! consider well, mv lord. Is not the affection of a free heart preferable to that which \ou would have stolen? You would have only made a slave of her who will now become your dearest friend’.

• Oh miss, you shall be that sincere friend,’ stammered

Granwell. *1 have so much to make good on your account that even at the cost of the sacrifice I am irAtking you I dare not

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consider m\self free of debt yet. I will expect everything from time and from my deeds.*

4 What are you saying, my lord? How little do you know my soul! If insults anger it, repentance softens it accordingly, and I no longer remember the injuries caused by him who takes one single step to seek forgiveness for them/

'Then let all be forgotten on both sides, and let me have the satisfaction myself of forging the ties* that you desire so much.’

'Here!* replied Henrietta f%'ith a gesture of anxiety she was unable to control. 'Ifthought, m> lord, we would return to London.'

'No, my dear lady, no. By my honour, I shall not take you back except as the bride of my rival to whom I relinquish you. In showing you I wish to teach all England how great a cost has been your victory to me. Do not oppose this plan, for it is at once my triumph and my tranquillity. Write to your mother not to worry, and tell Williams to covie here. We shall cele- brate the wedding at once, and return the following day.'

‘What of my mother, my lord?’

‘We will ask her consent. She is not likely to refuse it, and it shall be Lady Williams \\ho will repay her favours.*

‘I am yours to command, my lord. Is it for me, so full of gratitude and tenderness, to choose the ways in which you condescend to work for my happiness? As you will, my lord, I agree to everything. So sincere in the affection that I owe sou, so taken up with feeling and describing it, I forget every- thing that can distract me from that pleasure/

‘But you must write to Williams, miss.’

‘To Williams?’

‘And your mother. Could any words of mine persuade her as yours uill?’

A servant brought all she required and Miss Henrietta wrote the two following letters :

Miss Henrietta to Williams

‘Let us both fall at the feet of the most generous of men. Come, help me provs the gratitude that we two owe him. No

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Miss Henrietta Stralson or The Effects of Despair

sacrifice was ever nobler, ever made so gracefully or so com- pletely. Lord Granwell wishes to upite us himself, Williams, his hand will bind our hearts — Hurry — Embrace my mother, obtain her consent, and tell her that her daughter will soon have the pleasure of holding her in her arms/

The same to her mother

‘The moment of most awful anxiety is followed by the gentlest calm: Williams will ,how you my letter. Oh most adored of mothers, I beg you not to oppose either your daugh- ter’s happiness, or Lord Oranwefl’s intentions, they are as pure as his heart. Farewell, and forgive your daughter if, over- come with gratitude, she cfbi hardly express to you her burning affection for the best of mothers/

To these letters Granwell added two assuring Williams and Ladv Stralson of his happiness in reuniting two people whose tender friend he would become, and telling

Williams to rec< ive from his lawyer in London ten thousand guineas that he beggei him accept as a wedding present. These letters were full of kindness, so stamped with frankness and ingenuity the* lould not fail to be believed. At the same time he wrote to Gave and his friends to allay all rumours, pacify the minister and announce that London would soon see how he made good his faults. The courier departed with his despatches. Granwell gave all his time to overwhelming Miss Stralson with his good attentions, in order, as he said, to do his best to make her forget the crimes towards her with which he had to reproach himself. . . and in the depths of his soul the monster exulted that at last his tricks had triumphed over her who for so long had enchained him with her ow r n.

The messenger from Heitrietta’s kidnapper arrived in London just as the King was advising the Prime Minister to use all judicial means against Granwell. But Lady Stralson, completely deceised b\ the letters she rccencd, believing m their contents all the more because she was so accustomed to Henrietta’s victories over Granwell, flew at once to the minister, recounted what had passed, and begged him not to pursue his lordship. Everyone was pacified a#d Williams prepared to leave.

De Sade Selections

‘Master this powerful and dangerous man/ said Lady Stralson, as she embraced him, ‘enjoy the triumphs that my daughter has won over him, and come back promptly both of you to comfort your adoring mother*.

Williams left, but without taking the superb present Granwell offered him; he did not even condescend to find out if it awaited him or not. Such an action would have had the appearance of doubt, and these brave and honest folk were far from feeling any. Williams arrived — Almighty God! — he arrived. . .and my pen is silent, Refusing to relate the horrors that awaited this unhappy *o\er. Oh tunes ol hell, come, lend me your serpents! It must be with their glittering tangs that my hand inscribes the hoirors which remain for me to tell.

‘My dear Henrietta,* said Granwell in the morning, enter- ing his captive's room with an air of happiness and joy, ‘come and enjoy the surprise that I have carefully picpared for you. Hurry, dear miss, I want vou to meet Williams at the foot of that same altar where he shall receive your hand. Follow me, miss, he aw r aits you.*

‘He, my lord — he — Almighty God* — Williams — at the altar — and it is to you I owe Lhis — Oh, my lord, let me fall at your feet — the feelings you inspire in me have overcome all others today.’ (Granwell was disturbed.)

‘No, no, miss, I cannot yet enjoy this gratitude, this is the last moment when I must shed my heart’s blood for it; do not offer it yet, miss, it will only torture me for one day longer. Tomorrow I can sip it at my ease. Let’s hurry, Henrietta. Don't let us keep the man who adores you, and burns to be united with you waiting any longer.’

Henrietta went forward, gteatly troubled, greatlv agitated, hardly able to breathe, the roses ol hci cheeks never more vivid. . . Inspired by love and hope, the dear girl thought that happiness was in her grasp. They reached the end of a vast gallery that joined the castle chapel. . . Oh merciful heaven ! what sight is this. The sacred spot was hung with black, and upon a sort of bier, surrounded with burning candles lay Williams’ body, picrcecKby thirteen daggers, the blood still

146

Miss Henrietta S tralson or 7 he Effects of Despair

flowing from the wounds that they had opened.

‘There is your lover, perfidious woman 1 See how my ven geance offers him to your unworthy vows/

‘Traitor f ’ screamed Henrietta, summoning all her strength not to succumb at this moment so terrible for her *Ah f you have not deceived me. All the extremes of crime must make part of your ferocious soul, owlv virtue m it could surprise me Let me die here, monster, it is the last favour that I ask of you/

‘I shall not grant that favour yet/ said Granwell, with that icy firmness which is the umqu£ quality common to great villains, ‘my vengeance is but half appeased, the rest must still be satisfied At that altar you shall make your vows, there I shall hear you sweai that you belong to me for ever*.

Granwell meant to be obeyed Henrietta, brave enough to endure this appalling msis, her energy rekindled by the desire for revenge, held back her tears, and promised everything

‘Miss/ said Granwell, when he was satisfied, ‘believe now what I am abo i t to s ay All my longings for revenge are dead, my only thought is to make good my crimes Follow me, miss, let’s leave this mournful show Everything is ready for us at the temple, the ministers of Heaven and the people have long anticipated our arnval Come and accept my hand there. You will allot this night to the first duties of a wife Tomorrow I shall take you publicly back to London, and present you to your mother as m\ wife*.

Casting wild glances at Granwell, Henrietta felt certain that she was not being deceived this time, but her stricken heart could no longer be consoled, hai rowed by despair, devoured by the desire for revenge, she was incapable of other feelings.

‘My lord/ she said, with the most courageous calm, ‘I have so great a confidence m this unexpected return, that I am willing to accord you with good grace what you could take by force Although our union has not been legalised by Ht wen, none the less, tonight I will fulfil the duties you demand. Therefore T beg you to put off the ceremony until we are in

• 47

De Sade Selections

London. I am loath to have it anywhere without my mother's presence. What does it matter. Gran well, since of my free will I submit myself to all your passions'.

Although Granwell really had desired to wed this girl, nevertheless it was with a sort of malicious joy he received her willingness to risk being deceived again. Foreseeing that her scruples would not be so great after a night’s enjoyment, he readily agreed to all she asked. The remainder of the day passed calmly; even the sinister decorations were untouched, it being necessary that the darkest of night’s shadows should preside over the burial of tflfe hapless Williams.

‘Granwell,’ said Miss Stralson, when the time came to retire, ‘I crave a new favour. After all that has passed this morning, shall I be able to control my shudders, seeing myself in the arms ol my lovei's murderer? Let no light illuminate the bed in which I offer you my troth. Do you not owe this deference to m\ chastitv? Have 1 not acquired b> wiongs enough the right to have what I request?*

‘Order what you will, miss. I would have to be most unjust to refuse you such a thing. Too easily I understand the violence that you must do yourselt, and with all my heart I permit whatever can diminish it.'

Henrietta bowed, and went to her room, while Granwell, enraptured by his infamous successes, silenth congratulated himself on at last triumphing over his rival. He got into bed; the torches were removed. Henrietta was informed that she had been obeyed, and that she might, when it pleased her, enter the nuptial chamber. She did so, armed with a dagger

that she had herself plucked from her lover’s heart She

approached. . . . With the excuse of feeling her wav. she made certain with one hand of Granw'eU’s body; with the other she rammed home the weapon that she carried, and the villain crumpled to the ground, blaspheming against Heaven and the hand that struck him down.

Henrietta hastened from the room. Trembling, she reached the mournful resting-place of Williams, a lamp in one hand.

148

Mis \ Hernietta St raison on The Effects of Despair

in the other the blood-smeared dagger that had served lor her revenge.

'Williams/ she cried, 'crime separated us; the hand of God unites us once again. Receive my soul, tbou whom I worshipped all my life, it shall be fused with thir.?, never to be put apart. .

With these words she stabbed herself, and fell quivering on the cold body on which her lips involuntarily pressed their final kisses.

These lugubrious tidings soon reached London. Granwell was little missed; his sins had lor2g made him odious. Gave, fearing to be iiwolved in this terrible occurrence, fled at once to Italy. Lady Slralson returned alone to Hereford. She never ceased to weep for the double loss she had just suffered, until the moment when the Everlasting, moved by her tears, bent down to lake her again into His bosom, and reunite her, in a better world, with the peisons, so loved and so worthy of that love, that had been wrenched from her by debauchery, revenge and cruelty, all -rimes in the end that sprang from the abuse of wealth, trust and above all fioin forgetting the principles of honest men, without which neither we, nor all around us, can be happy on this earth.

149

AUGUSTiNE DE VILLEBLANCHE OR LOVE'S STRATAGEM

Augustine de Villeblanche

'Of all ihe quirks of nature, that which has caused the most discussion, which has seemed the most strange to those demi- philosophcrs who widi to analyse everything without ever understanding anything, said Mademoiselle de Villeblanche, with whom w* shall have occasion to entertain ourselves presentlv, to one of her best women friends one da) , ‘it is that bizarre taste that women of a certain physique or of a certain temperament have conceived for persons ol their own sex Although long befoie the immortal Sappho and ever since, there has not been a single country in the world not one solitary town which has not offered us women of this caprice, and although r re* proofs of such strength it would seem more reasonable to accuse nature of a vagarv than such women of a crime against nature, nevertheless we have never ceased to blame them But for that imperious ascendancy that our sex has always had, who knows if some Gujas, Bartole, or I ouis IX, might not have dieamed of punishing these unfortunate sensi- tive creatures with the stake as they thought to legislate against men with the same kind of abnormal physique, who have, doubtless for very good reasons, believed it possible to find satisfaction with each other, and who have believed that the mingling of the sexes, very useful for the purposes of propaga- tion might very well not be of the same importance for the purposes of pleasure God forbid that we should take sides m this matter Wouldn't you agree, my dear girP went on the beautiful Augusune de Villeblanche, throwing kisses to her that nevertheless appeared more or less suspect, 'but instead of the stake, instead of contempt, instead of sarcasms, weapons that are all completely blunted in these days of ours, would it not be infinitely simpler m a matter so totally mdiffer-

151

De Sade Selections

ent to society, so equal to God, and perhaps more useful than we think to nature, to let everyone act after his own fashion. . . What is there to fear from such depravity? ... In the eyes of every truly wise being, it would appear that it might prevent greater ones, but no one will ever prove to me that it might give rise to dangerous ones. . . Ah, merciful heaven, are they afraid that the whims of these individuals, of whatever sex will bring the world to an end, that they will make a bid for our precious human species, and that their alleged crime will destroy it for failing to attend to its multiplication? Let any- one consider this carefullf and he will see that all these imaginary losses are utterly without consequents to nature, and that not only does she not condemn them but she proves to us by innumerable examples that she wants and desires them. Why, if these losses disturbed her and if progeniture was so essential to her, would a woman be able to spend only one third of her life in its service, and would half the beings that she produces leave her hands with a distaste for this progeniture that is nevertheless demanded by her? It would be better to say that she permits the species to multiply, but she does not demand it, and in the* certain knowledge that there will always be more individuals than she has a need for, she is far from thwarting the partialities of those who are not in the habit of procreating, and find conformity with such a custom repugnant to them. Oh! leave the good mother to work her own way, and let us assure ourselves that her resources are immense, that nothing that we do outrages her, and that we shall never have the power to commit the crime that will subvert her laws’.

Mademoiselle Augustine ^de Villeblanthe, a sample oi whose logic we have just seen, had remained at the age of twenty mistress of her own actions, and having at her disposal an income of thirty thousand francs she had decided from inclination never to marry. Her family was good, without being illustrious; she was the daughter of a man who had made a fortune in India, had no other child and had died without ever succeeding in getting her to marry. The fact must not be con- cealed, (hat the kind ‘off caprice for which Augustine had just

15*

Augustine de I'llleblanche or Love s Sliatagem

made an apology played an infinite part in the repugnance that she evidenced for matrimony. Whether it was due to advice, or education, or organic disposition, or the hotness of her blood (she was born in Madras),* or the inspiration of nature, or whatever you like, in fact, Mademoiselle de Ville- blanche detested men. Completely given over to what chaste

will understand by the wtfcd sapphism, she found pleasure only with her owd sex, and only compensated herself with the Graces for the contempt she had tor Love.

Augustine was a real loss to men: tall, an artists dream, the loveliest brown hair, her nose somewhat Roman, superb teeth, and eyes«that were expressive, vivacious. . .skin of such delicacy, such pallor, in fact the general effect a sort oi voluptuousness so stimulating. . that it is quite certain that seeing her so perfectly made to express love, and so determined never to accept it, a good many men should let slip an infinite number of sarcasms against a taste that was moreover very simple, but which nevertheless by depriving the altars oi Paphos ot one of the creatures in the whole universe best made to serve them must inevitably arouse petulance in the disciples of the temples ot Venus. Mile de Villeblanche laughed good- natuiedly at all these reproaches and all this unkind gossip and indulged her fancies none the less.

‘The greatest folly of all/ she said, ‘is to blush for the tendencies that we have* received from nature. And to scorn any individual whatsoever because he has unusual tastes is as absolutely barbarous as it would be to make fun of a man or a woman who had emerged from his mother’s womb lame, or with onlv one eye. But to convince tools with such xeasonable principles is an undertaking comparable to halting the stars in their courses. Pude finds a sort of pleasure m mocking faults that it does not possess itself, and such delights are so sweet to men, and particularly to halfwits that it is very rare to see them renounce them. Moreover it gives scope for maliciousness, chilly witticisms and paltry puns, and society, that is to say, a collection of creatures brought together by boredom and qualified by stupidity, finds it so pleasant to talk tor two or

15S

De Sade Selections

three hours without ever saying anything, so delicious to shine at the expense of others, and when censuring a vice to announce that you are a very long way from having it yourself. . .it is a sort of eulogy tacitly uttered upon yourself; for this reward you even consent to make one with the others, to form a clique to crush any individual whose great sin is not to think the same as the common herd, and you return home quite puffed up with your wit, when fundamentally you # have onl) proved by such behaviour your pedantry and stupidity*.

Such were the thoughts of N^lle de Villeblanche. Having decided most positively never to restrain herself, scornful of tittle-tattle, rich enough to be self-sufiicient, unconcerned about her reputation, aiming sybaritically at a life of voluptuous delight, with absolutely no ambitions for the blessings of a Heaven in which she had little belief, still less for an immor- tality that was too chimerical for her senses, and surrounded by a little circle of women who thought as she did, the charming Augustine abandoned herself innocently 'to all the pleasures that enchanted her. She had had many suitors, but they had all been so maltreated that all hope of her conquest had almost been renounced when' a young man named Franville, of a similar standing to her and at least as rich, fell madly in love with her: not only was he not discouraged by her harshness, but he even determined most emphatically not to leave the field until she had been vanquished, hie confided his intention to his friends; they laughed at him. He insisted that he would be successful; they defied him to prove it, and he took up the challenge. Franville was two years younger than Mile de Ville- blanche, and as yet had almost, no beard, a very pretty figure, the most delicate features, and the loveliest hair in the world. When dressed as a girl, he so became the costume, that he was always deceiving both sexes, and had often received, both from those who were misled and from those who were quite sure of their facts, a host of declarations so unambiguous that in the same day he could have become the Antinous of some Adrian, or the Adonis of some Psyche. It was in this dress that Franville

• 54

Augustine de Villeblanche or Loves Stratagem

fancied he could seduce Mile de Villeblanche; we shall see how he set about it.

One of Augustine's greatest pleasures at carnival time was to dress as a man, and to haunt all the*assemblies in this dis- guise so analogous to her tastes. Franville, who had her move- ments watched and had until then taken the precaution of seldom showing himself to Brr, learned one da) that the woman he loved so dearly was to appear that same evening at a ball given by the subscribers to the Opera, to which all masks were to be admitted, f and that in accordance with her custom this charming girl would be there as a captain ol dragoons. He disguised fiimself as a woman, had himself adorned and fitted out in the utmost elegance and with every possible care, applied plenty ol rouge, took no mask, and accompanied by one ol his much less attractive sisters, pre- sented himself ihus at the assembly, where our adorable Augustine was only going in order to try her luck.

Before Franville flad made three turns ol the room he had been singled om at once by the knowing eyes of Augustine.

‘Who is that lovely gill?’ said Mile de Villeblanche, to the friend who was with her. . .‘I feel sure that I have not seen her anywhere here before. But how T could so delicious a creature have escaped our notice?'

And Augustine had no sooner said these words before she did all that she could tofcnter into conversation with the false Mile de Franville who at first retreated, turned away, fought shy, and eluded her, all in order to make herself more ardently desired. At last Augustine accosted her, and the conversation beginning at first with the normal type of remark gradually became more interesting.

‘The heat in this ballroom is frightful,’ said Mile de Villeblanche. ‘Let us leave our companions together and get a little air in those side-rooms w r herc people gamble and take refreshments ’

‘Oh, sir!’ said Franville to Mile de Villeblanche, whom he still pretended to take for a man. . . ‘Truly, I dare not. I am only with my sister but I know that my mother w’ill be

155

Dt Snde Medians

coming with the husband that is destined for me, and if either of them were to sec me with you, there would be trouble. . .'

'Well, well, you ought to be able to rise a little above all these childish fears. . . How old are you, angelic child?'

‘Eighteen, sir.’

‘Ah! I assure you that by the age of eighteen you should have won the right to do whatever you wish. . . Come, come, follow me, and have no fears. . .’ and Fraifville allowed him- self to be led away.

‘So, you charming creature,' continued Augustine, leading the person that she still believed to be a girl towards the small rooms adjoining the ball-room, ‘so, you are really going to be married. . .how I pity you. . .and what is he like, this indi- vidual who is destined for you, a tedious fellow. I’ll wager. . . Oh! How lucky he is, and how I wish I were in his place! Take me now, would you be willing to marry me? Be quite frank about it, heavenly girl’.

‘Alas, as you know, sir, you cannot tollow the promptings of your heart when you are young.*

‘Perhaps not, but refuse him, this odious creature, we can come to a more ultimate acquaintance with each other, and if we suit one another. . .why should we not arrange something? I have, thank God. no need to ask leave myself. . . Although I am only twenty, I am the master of my own fortune, and if you can dispose your parents* in my favour, within a week you and I could perhaps be united in eternal bondage.’

During this conversation they had left the ball, and the clever Augustine who was not leading her prey there in order to begin a lifetime of sentimental devotion, had taken care to conduct her to a very isolated room which thanks to the arrangements she had made with the organisers of the ball had with her usual care been placed solely at her disposal.

• Oh God!’ cried Franville, when he saw Augustine close

the door of the room and take him in her arms. ‘Oh merciful heavens, what are you going to do. . . What, completely alone with you, sir, in such an out of the way place. . . Leave me.

Augustine de Villeblanche or Love* s Stiatagem

"I shall deprive you of the power to do that, my divine angel/ said Augustine, pressing her beautiful mouth onto Franville’s lips. ‘Call now, if you can, and the pure fragrance of your rose-sweet breath will only caress my heart all the sooner/

Franville defended himself feebly enough: it is difficult to be very angry when you rfctdve with such tenderness the hrst kiss from her whom you adore. Augustine, encouraged by this, pressed home the attack more strongly with all the vehemence that only the delightful women who are carried away by this desire rcall\ Jknow. Hands soon began to stray, and Franville, playing the yielding woman, allowed his own lingers equally to wander. Clothes were pushed aside, and almost at the same instant their fingers attained the spot where each on** hoped to fin'* what was fitting.

then Franville immediateh changed his part and ex- claimed ‘God in llea\eu, what, you are only a woman. . /

‘Horrible creature/ said Augustine, placing her hand upon objects which ^ould not permit any illusions. ‘What, have I given myself all this troi>ble only to find a horrible male. . . I must be a most unlucks woman.’

‘Truly, no more so than 1/ said Franville, readjusting him- self, and exhibiting the utmost contempt. ‘I adopt a disguise which may seduce men, men whom 1 love and search for, and all I find is a whore.’

‘No, not a whore.’ said Augustine bitterly. . .‘I have never been that all my life. It is not right that someone who abhors men should be treated in this fashion. . .’

‘What ! You arc a woman ^nd you detest men?'

‘Yes, and for the same reason that \ou are a man and abhor w’omen. Our meeting is unique, that is all that can be said.’

‘It is extremely sad for me/ said Augustine, showing symptoms of the most marked ill humour.

‘In truth, mademoiselle, it is even more irksome for me/ said Franville sourly. ‘I am now defi)ed for the next three weeks. Do y*m not know that in our order w T e have vowed never to touch a w r oman?'

De Sade Selections

• 1 should think that you could touch one such as myself

without dishonour.’

‘Upon my soul, my lovely,’ continued Franville, ‘I see no very great reason for the exception, and I cannot understand that a vice should grant you extra merit’.

‘A vice. . .but is it for you to reproach me for mine, when that which you indulge is equally infamous?’

‘Come,’ said Franville, ‘let us not quarrel, we are both in the same boat. The easiest thing would be for us to part and never see one another again'. And with these w r ords Fran- ville prepared to open the doors.

‘Just a moment, just a moment,’ said AiSgustine, barring him from opening. . . ‘You wdll broadcast our adventure to the whole world, I w r ager.’

‘Perhaps I shall amuse myself with it.'

‘After all, what does it matter to me. Thank God I am above tittle tattle. Go, sii, go, and tell as much as you like. . •and then stopping him once again, she 'said wdth a smile, ‘you know, this is a very extradordinary story. . .making fools of ourselves, both of us*.

‘Ah! The deception is much more cruel for persons of my taste than for persons of yours. . .’ said Franville, ‘and this vice gives us certain aversions. . .’

‘Upon my word, dear man, please believe that what you offer us is to us at least as unpleasant. Come, our disgust is equal, but the adventure is most amusing, you cannot fail to agree about that. . . Will you be returning to the ball?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Speaking for myself, I # shall not go back again,’ said Augustine. . . ‘You have caused nie to experience some. . . some annoyance. . .1 shall go to bed.’

‘As you will.’

‘But perhaps the gentleman will have just sufficient respect to give me his arm as far as my house. I live but a few steps away, and I have not my coach, he may leave me there.’

‘No, I will accompany you willingly,’ said Franville. ‘Our

158

Augustine de l illeblanche or Love's Stratagem

tastes do not prevent us from being polite will you accept my arm So ’

‘I only take advantage of it because I can find no better, at all events *

‘You mav be quite certain that on my part, I only offer it you out of politeness ’

On arrival at the door &t Augustine s house, Franville prepaied to take his leave

‘Truly, you are delightful, said Mile de Villeblanche ^hat, would you leave me in the street’ *

‘My humblest apologies/ said Franville ‘I did not

dare

'Oh, what boors these men aie who do not like women’ ’ ‘Well, you see, said Franville, offering Mile de Ville blanche, however his arm as far as her room, ‘the reason is, mademoiselle, that I would like to return to the ball at once, and lr> to make up for my stupidity

‘Your stupidity Afc you \crv innosed then at hasing met

me*

‘I do not say that but is it not true, that we could, both of us, have done infinitely better*’

‘Yes, you are right, said Augustine entering her room at last ‘You are right, sir, I especially for I am afraid that this fateful encounter may cost me m\ life s happiness ’

‘How so, are you ’not then quite certain of your sentiments*

‘I was yesterday

‘Ah, you are not keeping to sour principles’

'I am keeping to nothing You make me impatient ’

‘Well then, I am going, mademoiselle, I am going God forbid that I should trouble you any further *

‘No, stay I command you Can you for once in your life take it upon yourself to obey a woman*

‘If/ said Franville, sitting down out of kindness ‘There is nothing that I cannot do As I have told vou, I am polite ’

‘Do you not realise that at \our age it is frightful to have such perverse tastes?’

159

De Sade Selections

‘Do you believe that at your age it is very decent to have such singular tastes?'

‘Oh, that is very different. With us it is prudence, modesty . . .even pride, if you like, it is the fear of abandoning ourselves to a sex that only ever flatter us in order to master us. . . Nevertheless, we are not deaf to the call of our senses, and we find compensation amongst ourselves. If we are successful in concealing this properly the result is a venefcr of wisdom, which often inspires respect, and thus nature is content, decency is maintained, and morality is in no way outraged.’

‘That is what one might call first class sophistries. By applying them one could justify anything. And what have you said with it, that we cannot in the same way put forward in our own favour?’

‘Nothing at all. With very different presumptions you should not have the same fears. Your triumph is in our defeat . . . The more you multiply the number of your conquests, the more you increase your glory, and*you can onh deny the feelings that we inspire in you from vice or depravity.’

‘Truly I believe that you are converting me.’

‘I would it were so.'

‘What would it profu you, being yourself so deep in error?’

‘It is an obligation that my sex imposes on me, and since I like women, I am very content to work on their behalf.’

‘If the miracle were effected, its results would not be so general as you appear to believe. I would only be willing to be converted for one particular woman at the very most. . .in order to try.’

‘The principle is honourable.'

‘It is because quite certainly there is something of preju- dice, it seems to me, in taking sides without having tasted everything.’

‘What, have you never known a woman?’

‘Never, and you. . .would you by any chance possess such virgin blossoms?’

‘Oh, virgin blossoms, no. . . The women that we see are so skilful and so jeafous that they leave us nothing of that. . .

160

Augustine de Villeblanche or Love's Stratagem

but I have never known a man in all my life.’

‘And do you swear that?’

‘Yes, I never wish to see or to know one unless he is as singular as myself.*

‘I regret infinitely that I have never made the same vow.’

'I did not believe that it was possible for anyone to be more impertinent. . .* and iquth these words Mile de Ville- blanche rose and nold Franville that he was free to retire. Our young lover, maintaining hi$ cold manner, bowed very How and prepared to leave.

‘Are you icturning to the ball?’ said Mile de Villeblanche diyly, regarding him with* contempt mingled with the most aident love.

‘But of course, 1 told you so, I believe.’

‘So vou are not capable of the sacrifice that I made for

sou *

‘What, have you made some sacrifice for me?*

‘I only came bacU here in order to see nothing more after having had the mistoriunc of knowing you.’

‘T he misloitune?’

‘Jt is you vi ho force me to use that expression, and it is only up to you whether or not I use a very different one.* ‘And how would you square that with your tastes?* ‘Wliat does one not abandon when one is in love!’

‘Yes, of course, but it would be impossible for you to love

me.’

‘1 agree, if you must maintain such frightful habits as those I have discovered in you.’

‘And if I renounced them?’

'I would sacrifice mine instantly upon the altars of love. . . Oh, treacherous creature, what has this confession cost to my honour, and what have you just wrung from me,’ said Augustine, weeping, .nd letting herself fall back into her chair.

‘I have obtained from the most lovely mouth in all the world the most flattering confession that it was possille for me to hear,' said Franville, throwing himself at Augustine’s feet. . . ‘Ah ! Dear idol of my most tedder love, see how I have

l 161

De Sade Selections

tricked you, and I pray you not to punish me for it. On my knees before you I implore your mercy, and there I shall stay until I receive my pardon. You see beside you, mademoiselle, your most constant and most impassioned lover. I believed that this ruse was necessary to conquer a heart whose resistance I knew all too well. Have I succeeded, my lovely Augustine, will you refuse to give to a love without vice what you have con- descended to express to a guilty lover? . . . i, guilty. . . .guilty of what you believed. . .oh! could )ou imagine that an impure passion could exist in the soul of one who has never burnt w r ith love for anyone but you/

‘Traitor, you have deceived nfe. . .but I«pardon you. . . Nevertheless you will have nothing to sacrifice for me, deceiver, and my pride will be the less flattered. Ah well, no matter, for myself I sacrifice everything for you. . . Yes, I renounce gladly, to please you, all the errors into which we are led by vanity as often as by our tastes. I realise now that nature has won. I was stifling her by perversions that I *ow abhor with all my soul. We must not resist her mastery, she has only created us for you, she has only formed you for us. Let us follow her laws, it is by the organ of love itself that today she inspires me with them, and they will become my most sacred laws. Here is my hand, sir, I believe you to be a man of honour, and worthy to lay claim to me. If I have ever deserved for one moment to lose your esteem, perhaps by means of my attentions and tenderness I may redress my sins, and compel you to admit that those of the imagination do not always degrade a well- born soul.’

Franville, overwhelmed by her avowals, and bathing with tears of joy the lovely hands that he held and embraced, rose to his feet, and flung himself into the arms that opened to receive him.

‘Oh happiest day of all my life/ he exclaimed, ‘is there anything to compare with my triumph. I have brought back to the bosom of virtue the heart over w r hich I shall reign for ever'.

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Augustine de Villeblanche or Love’s Stratagem

Franville embraced the divine object of his love a thousand times over, and then released her. The next day he communi- cated his happiness to all his friends. Mile de Villeblanche was too good a prize for his parents' to refuse him to her, and he wedded her the same week. Tenderness, trust, the nicest restraint and the most severe modesty crowned his marriage, and in making himself the'*happicst of men he was clever enough to make the most libertine of girls the most wise and virtuous of women.

RETALIATION

Historiettes,_Contes_et_Fabliaux#LE_TALION

A worthy citizen of Picardy, the descendant perhaps of one of those illustrious troubadours of the banks ot the Oise or the Somme whose sluggish ^existence has only been rescued from the shadows some ten ur twelve years ago by a great writer of our time, a brave and honest citizen, £ repeat, lived in the town of Saint-Quentin so famous lor the great men it has given to literature. He lived there in honourable estate, himself, his wife and a cousin tlirice removed, a nun of a con- vent in the tdlvn. The cousin thrice removed was a little brunette, bright-eyed, a mischievous little face, with a turned- up nose and a slender figure; she suffered under the weight of twenty years, and had been a nun for lour ot them. Sister Petronilla, for *uch was her name, had in addition a pretty voice and a much greater disposition for love than for religion. As for M. d’Esclaponville, as our citizen was called, he was a fine jovial fellow of about twenty-eight, who loved his cousin supremely and Mme d'Esclaponville not at all as much, since he had been sleeping with her for ten years already, and a habit of ten years is quite fatal to the fires of hymen. Mme d'Esclaponville — for it is necessary to depict hei, what would one be taken for if one did not portray people in an age where only pictures are required, and where even a tragedy would not be received unless the canvas-mongers found at least half a dozen subjects in it — Mme d'Esclaponville, I was saying w T as a somewhat insipid blonde, slightly washed out, but very white-skinned, with prettv eyes* well fleshed, and with those great chubby cheeks that are commonly described by the world as 'a good squeeze’.

Until now Mme d'Esclaponville had not known that th tyt was any way of revenging heiself upon an unfaithful husband. Wise like her mother who had lived tor eighty-three year* with the same man without once being unfaithful to him, she was still naive enough and straightforward enough not even to suspect this frightful crime that the casuists have named

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adultery, and the pleasant folk who tone down everything have called quite simply gallantry. But a deceived wife soon acquires designs of revenge from her resentment, and as no one likes to be left behind, there is nothing that she will not do when- ever possible so that no one will have anything with which to reproach her. Mme d’Esclaponville perceived at last that her dear lord and master visited the cousin thrice removed a little too often. The demon of jealousy fastened 'upon her soul, she lay in wait, she had enquiries made, and she finished up by discovering that there was very little that was so certain in Saint-Quentin as the intrigue of her husband and Sister Petronilla. Certain of her facts, Mme d’Esclaponville finally declared to her husband that the conduct he was observing pierced her very soul, that a person like herself did not merit such treatment, and that she prayed him abandon such irregularities.

‘Irregularities?’ replied the husband, phlegmatically. ‘Do you not know then, my dear friend, thsfc. by sleeping with my cousin the nun, I am saving myself? The soul is cleansed in so holy an intrigue, it is self-identification with the Supreme Being, it is the incorporation of the Holy Spirit in oneself: it’s no sin at all, my dear, with persons consecrated to God, they purify all that touches them, and to frequent them is, in fact, to open up the gate that leads to celestial beatitude.’

Mme d’Esclaponville, by no means contented with the success of her reproaches, said nothing, but swore deep inside herself that she would find a means more eloquent, more per- suasive. . . The devil with that is that women always have one right to hand : however pjain they may be, they have only to say the word, and revengers rain down from every side.

There was in the town a certain parish priest known as M. 1’AbW du Bosquet, a fine lusty fellow in his thirties, who ran after all the women and made a forest of all the foreheads of the Saint-Quentin husbands. Mme d’Esclaponville made acquaintance with the priest; imperceptibly the priest also made acquaintance with. Mme d’Esclaponville, and finally their mutual acquaintance was so perfect that they could have

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painted one another from top to bottom without any possibility of a mistake. At the end of a month, everyone came to con- gratulate the unlucky d’Esclaponville who used to boast that he alone had escaped the redoubtable 'gallantries of the abb£, and that in all Saint-Quentin his was the only head that this gallows-bird had not yet despoiled.

'That cannot be/ said d'£*rlaponvillc to those who brought him the news. 'My^wifc is as wise as a Lucrece. You can tell me a hundred times over, and I won't believe it. 1

'Come with me, then/ Said one of his friends, 'come and let me convince you with your own eyes, and we will see after- wards if you have any doubts’.

D’Esclaponville let himself be led away, and his friend took him half a league out of the town to a solitary place where the Somme, enclosed between two fresh, flower-decked hedges, formed a delightful bathing place for the inhabitants of the town. But as the rendezvous was given for an hour when normally no one was yet bathing, our poor husband was chagrined to ee arrive, one after the other, his worthy spouse and his rival, without the possibility of interruption from anyone.

‘Well, now/ said the friend to d’Esclaponville, 'hasn’t your forehead begun to itch?’

'Not yet/ said the citizen, nevertheless rubbing it involun- tarily. 'Perhaps she's coifte here for confession.'

'Let us stay then until the climax/ said the friend. It was not long. Hardly had M. 1’AbM du Bosquet arrived in the delicious shade of the fragrant hedge before he removed from his person anything which might harm the voluptuous contacts that he was meditating, and set himself dutifully to his devout labours of placing, perhaps for the thirtieth time, honest, worthy d’Esclaponvillc in the same class as the other husbands in the town.

‘Well, now do you believe me?’ said the friend.

'Let us return/ said d’Esclaponville sourly. 'For b\ dint of believing I could well kill this damned priest, and that would cost me more than he is worth, l^et’s go back, my friend,

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and keep my secret, I beg you.’

D’Esdaponville returned home quite confused, and shortly afterwards his gentle spouse arrived and presented herself for supper by his chaste flanks.

'Just a moment, my sweetheart,’ said the furious gentle- man. 'When I was a child I swore to my father never to sup with harlots.’

‘With harlots?’ replied Mme d’Esclaponville, benignly. 'Such a suggestion shocks me, my friend, what have you got to reproach me with, then?’

‘What ! you mass of corruption, what I’ve got to reproach you with, is what you have been doing this afternoon at the baths with our priest.’

‘Oh good heavens,’ replied the wife, softly, 'if it’s only that, if that’s all you have to tell me’.

'Goodness I what do you mean, il it’s only that. . .’

‘But my friend, I’ve followed your advice. Didn’t you tell me that you risked nothing b) sleeping* with members of the church, that the soul is cleansed in so holy an intrigue, that it was a self-identification with the Supreme Being, that it made the sacred Spirit enter into you, and in fact it opened up for you the gate that leads to celestial beatitude. . . Well then, my dear, I have only done what you have told me, and there- fore I am a saint and not a harlot ! Ah ! I can assure you, that if any of these blessed souls of God hive the means of opening the gate that leads to celestial beatitude, it is certainly M. l’Abbi, for I have never seen such an enormous key.’

168

ALINE ET VALCOUR ou LE ROMAN PHILOSOPHIQUE

Aline et Valcour

Aline et Valcour ou le Roman Philosophique was pub- lished in 1792, a few years after it was written. It is told in letter form and is at the saiqe time a roman & tiroirs, since it contains three subsidiary stones, dealing with journeys to two countries, one depraved and unhappy, one righteous and paradisical, are infinitely more inteiesting than the main story.

TThe narrator of these journeys, Sainville, seems to be making amends for the rest ol de Sade’s work and all the ideas he expressed.

• * * * *

IN B U T U A

The prince asked whol was, and when he was told, he pointed out to me a tall white man, dried up and with a sallow skin, of about 66, who, at the command of the monarch came up to me and immediately spoke to 111c in a European tongue. I told this interpreter, in Italian, that 1 did not understand the language he was using at all; he immediately replied in good Tuscan, and we made contact with each other. This man was a Portuguese; he was called Sarmiento, captured, as I had been, about twenty years ago. He had become attached to the court and since this time had thought no more of Europe. Through him I told my story to Ben Maacoro — this was the prince’s name. He had apparently wanted to know all the circumstances; I kept none from him. He laughed loudly when he was told that I braved so many perils for a woman.

‘There are soon of them in this palace’, he said, 'who wouldn’t make me budge one inch. \ ou Europeans are mad’, he went on, ‘to worship this sex: a woman is there to be enjoyed, and not to be adored; it is an offense against the gods of your country to give to these simple creatures the worship that is meant for them. It is absuicf to grant authority to

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women, very dangerous to submit oneself to them; it lowers your sex, and degrades nature, when you become slaves to beings who were created to bow to our superiority*.

Without concerning myself with refuting this argument, I asked the Portuguese where the Prince had acquired this knowledge about our countries.

‘He judges them from what I have told him*, replied Sar- in iento, ‘he has never seen any Europeans except you and me’.

I asked for my liberty. The prince made me come close to him. 1 was naked. He examined A) body. He touched it every- where, rather in the same way as a butcher examines a cow, and said to Sarmiento that he foufid me too thin to be eaten and too old for his pleasures.

‘For his pleasures ! * I cried. . . ‘Good heavens, are there not enough women?’. . .

‘It's precisely because there are loo many that he is satiated uith them’, the interpreter replied. . .

‘O Frenchman, do you not kno* then the effects of satiety? it depraves and corrupts tastes, bringing them closer to nature, while appearing to separate them. When the seed grows in the earth, when it becomes fertile and reproduces, is it by any other means than corruption, and is not corruption the first of the generating laws? When you will have spent some time here, when you will have known the customs of this nation, perhaps you will become mote philosophical’.

‘Friend’, I said to the Portuguese, ‘everything that I see, and everything that you tell me, does not give me a great desire to live here. I prefer to return to Europe where the) do not eat men, sacrifice girls or use boys’.

‘I will request it for you*, replied the Portuguese, ‘but I doubt very much whether you will obtain it’.

‘But at least’, I said to the Portuguese, ‘I flatter myself that these toothsome morsels which apparently give so much pleasure to the king will not be submitted to my inspection. I renounce the work if I have to deal with boys’.

‘Have no fear’, said Sarmiento, ‘he trusts only his eyes for the choice of such gafne. Tributes less numerous only arrive

17*

Aline el Valcour

in his palace and the choice is never made by anyone except himself’.

As we talked, Sarmienio led me from room to room, and in this way I saw the whole of the palace, except the secret harems, composed of all that was most beautiful of both sexes, but where no mortal ever penetrated.

‘All the prince’s wives’, \ient on Sarmiento, ‘12,000 in number, are divided into four classes. He forms these classes fumself as he receives ihe women from the hands of the man who chooses them for him. The tallest, plumpest and best constituted are placed in the detachment which guards the palace. The claas known as 4 the 500 slaves is formed of the inferior species of which I have just spoken. These women are normally from 20-30 )cars old. To them belongs the care of the interim* of the palace, the w'ork of the gardens, and gener- ally speaking all the menial tasks. The third class he forms are from 16 to 20 years old. They assist at the sacrifices. It is among them that the \tctims sacrificed to the god are chosen. The fourth class, finally, includes all that is most delicate and charming from childhood to 16. It is this class which serves principally his pleasures. It is here that the w r hite women would be, if there were any. . .’

‘Have there been am?* I interrupted hastily.

‘Not yet’, replied the Portuguese. ‘But he ardenth desires some and he neglects no rileans which could procure some for him*. . .

And at these words hope seemed to be reborn in im heart.

‘In spite of these classifications’, went on the Portuguese, ‘all these women, whatever class the\ belong to, do not satisfy none the less the brutality of this despot. When he wants one of them he sends one of his officers to administer a hundred strokes to the desired woman. This fa\om corresponds to the handkerchief of the sultan of Byzantium, and informs the favourite of the honour which is reserved for her. She then goes where the prince awaits her, and as he often uses a great number in one da\, a great number receive each morning the admonition that I have just told \ou afiout*.

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'Friend', I replied at once, filled with the terrible idea that the Portuguese had just put into my head, ‘the execution of this refinement of horror which you have just described will not, I hope, concern me’. . .

‘No, no*, said Sarmiento, bursting into laughter, ‘all that concerns the head of the seraglio. Your functions have nothing in common with his. You find him by your choice out of the 5000 women who arrive every year the 2A00 out of which he chooses. When that is done you have nothing more to do with each other’.

‘Good’, I replied, ‘for if I had to make any one of these unfortunate women shed a single bear. . .k warn you. . .1 would desert the same day. I will do my duty with care’, I went on. ‘But, entirely occupied with the woman whom I adore, these creatures will receive from me neither punishment nor favours. Thus, the privations that his jealousy imposes on me touch me very little, as you can see’.

‘Friend’, the Portuguese replied, ‘you seem to me to be a gallant man, you still love in the style of the tenth century. I think that I see in you one of these knights of ancient chivalry, and this virtue delights me. although I am far from adopting it. . . We shall not see this prince again today. It is late. You must be hungry. Come and take refreshment with me. I shall finish your instruction tomorrow’.

I followed my guide. He brought me into a cottage built more or less in the taste of the prince, but infinitely less spacious. Two young negroes served supper on reed mats, and we sat in the African style. For our Portuguese, entirely, denaturalised, had adopted the customs and all the ways of life in the country where he was.

Thev brought in a piece of roast meat, and my holy man having said his ‘Benedicitc’ (for superstition never abandons a Portuguese), he offered me a slice from the joint which had just been placed on the table.

An involuntary movement seized me in spite of myself.

‘Brother’, I said, with a distress that I could not hide, ‘on the word of a Europeati, could the dish that you serve me here

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Aline et Valcour

not be by any chance a portion of the hips or buttocks of one of those maidens whose blood streamed earlier over the altars of your god?'

'What!' the Portuguese replied phlegmatically, 'would such details hold you back? Do you imagine you can live here without submitting to this regime?’

'Wretched man!’ I cried, getting up from the table, my gorge rising, 'your rfcast makes ine shudder. . .1 would die rather than touch it. . .Is it then 6ver this horrible dish that you dared to demand the biasing of heaven? Terrible man! with this mixture of superstition and crime, you did not even try to conceal y#ur own country. . .Go, I would have recog- nised you even if you had not named yourself.

And I was about to leave his house in terror. . .But Sarmiento held me back.

'Stop', he said, ‘I forgive this shock to \our habits and sour national prejudices. But you abandon \ourself to them too far. Stop being difficult as fai as this country is concerned, and learn how to aJapt yourself to situations; repugnances are only weaknesses, my friend, the\ are minor illnesses of organ- isation, whose cure sou did not study when \ou were young, and which take possession of us when w t c have given in to them, ft is exactly the same in this as it is in many other things: the imagination, led astra\ b\ prejudices, suggests to us first of all that we should refiAc. . .sou make the experiment. . . sou find all is well and taste is sometimes adopted with just as much violence as distaste hid been strong in us. I arris ed here like sou, full of stupid national prejudices; I found fault with evers thing. . I found everything absurd; the piactices of these people frightened me as much as their morals, and now I do eveisthing like them. We still belong more to habit than to nature, ms friend; the latter did no more than create us, the former shapes us. It is madness to think that a moral goodness exists: even type of behaviour, absolutely different in itself, becomes good or bad depending on the country that judges it; but if he wants to live happily, the wise man should adopt that of the fegion where fate casts

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him. . .In Lisbon I would probably have done like you. . . In Butua I do as the negroes do. . .Well, what on earth do you want me to give you for supper if you don’t want to eat what everybody eats? . . .I’ve got an old monkey there* but he’ll be tough; I'll order him to be grilled for you’.

‘Very well, I will certainly eat the hind quarters ol your monkey with less disgust than the fleshy bits of your king’s sultanas’.

‘It isn’t that, good heavens! We don't eat the flesh of women; it is stringv and tasteless, and you will never find it served anywhere’.*

‘This succulent dish which you despise is the leg of a Jagas killed in battle yesterday, voung, fresh and whose marrow should be delicious. I had it cooked in the oven, in its own juice, look. . .But nevertheless, allow me only, while you eat my monkey, to swallow some morsels like this*.

‘Leave your monkey alone’, I said to my host as I noticed a dish of cakes and fruit which was n«* doubt being prepared for our dessert. ‘Take your revolting supper on your own, and in a corner on the other side, as far away from you as possible, let me eat this, and I shall have much more than enough*.

‘My dear compatriot’, s«iid the cannibalised European to me, as he devoured his Jagas, ‘you will recover from these fancies. I have already seen vou Criticise mam things here which you will finish by enjoying immensely. There is nothing to which custom cannot adapt us There is no taste which cannot come to us through habit’.

‘To judge from what you sav, brother, the depraved pleasures of your master have already become yours?’

• The most delicate, they sav , is that of voung bovs a German shcphcid

having been forced by need to cat this horrible food, continued through taste, and certified that small boy meat was better. An old woman in Brazil declared to Pinto, the Portuguese governor, exactly the same thing. Saint Jerome says the same thing and says that in his journev to Ireland he tound this habit of eating male children established among the shepherds; they chose, he said, the fleshy parts. For these two facts stated above sec the Second Vovagc of Cook, vol. II, page 221 and following.

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'In many things, my friend; cast your eyes on these young negroes; there are those who, as at home, teach me to do with- out women, and I assure you that with them 1 shall not be afraid of losing my pleasure. . .If )ou w *re not so scrupulous, I would offer you some. . .Like this*, he said, pointing to the disgusting flesh which he was eating. . .'But you would refuse all the same*.

'You may be Siirc of it, old sinner, convince yourself that I would rather desert your infamous country, at the risk of being eaten by those who inhabit it, rather than remain theie one moment at the cost of corrupting my morals*.

'Do not include in moral corruption the habit of eating human flesh It is just as simple to eat a man as a cow. Say ii you wish that war, the cause of the destruction of the species, is a senary, but when this destruction is achieved, it is abso- lutely the same whether it is the entrails of the earth or of man which serve as a sepulchre for these disorganised elements*.

{Next day SaimiAito explains the position of women in Biitua)

‘It is impossible to depict to you, mv friend’, the Portu- guese went on, ‘in what a vile state are the women in this country. It is a luxun to have a great number of them — and the custom to make verv little use of them. Both poor and lich think the same wa\ about this question. Thus this sex fulfils in this country the f same duties as our beasts of burden in Europe. It is the women who sow, plough and reap When they come back home it is they who dean and serve, and to complete their sufferings it is always they who are sacrificed to the gods. Perpetually liable to the ferocity of this barbarous race, they are in turn victims of their bad temper, their intemperance and their tsranrn. Cast sour escs over that field of maze, see these wTetched naked women bent over the furrow which they are ploughing, and trembling under the whip of their husbands w r ho lead them there. Back at the house of this cruel husband thev prepare the dinner for him, serve it to him and receive without mercy a hundred strokes of the whip for the slighted negligence*.

M

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'The population must suffer cruelly from these hateful practices?'

Tor that reason it has been practically extinguished; two strange practices add to it more than anything else. The first is the opinion of these people that a woman is impure one week before and one week after the time of the month when nature purges her. Which only leaves one week in the month when he believes her fit to serve him. The second custom, equally destructive of the population, is the rigorous abstinence to which a woman is condemned after she has had a child. Her husband sees her no more for three years. One can add to these motives for depopulation the ignominy that these people cast on the same woman once she is pregnant. From that moment she no more dares to appear, people laugh at her, they point at her and even the churches are closed to her*.

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IN TAMOE

'Let us have dinner’, said Zame, ‘I will make you enjoy this evening one of their talents which you still do not know*.

When this moment arrived Zam£ led me to the public square and I admired its proportions.

4 You do not ptaise its greatest merit’, he said to me. 'It ♦Jias never seen bloodshed, and it will never be sullied by it’.

We went on. I did not # yet know the regular building, parallel to Zam£’s house, both of which adorned the square.

'The two uf>per stories’, said the philosopher, ‘are public granaries. It is the only tribute I impose on them and I con- tribute to it in the same way as they do. Each one is obliged to brirg a.niually to this store a small portion of the products of his land, from amongst those w’hich can be preserved. The people can have it again at times of scarcity. I always have enough there to teed the capital for two years. The other towns do the ^amc thing. By this means we never fear bad sears, and as we have no monopolists it is possible that w T e shall never die of hunger. The low r er part of the building is a theatre.

‘I have regarded this amusement, when w r ell conducted, as necessary to a country. The wise Chinese thought the same; the> have cultivated it for 11101c than three thousand vears. The Greeks only knew if after them. What surprises me is that Rome only allowed it after four centuries, and that the Persians and Indians never knew it at all.

'The play is given this evening in order to celebrate \our presence. Let us go in, you will see the fruit I gain from this honest and instructive relaxation’.

The place was vast, artisticalh arranged, and it could be seen that Zame, who had constructed it, had brought the customs of these people into touch with ours. For he had found a taste for theatrical displavs in this nation, although it was still in a state of barbarism. All he had done was to improve this taste and give to it, as far as he was able, the type of use- fulness of which he thought it capable. In this building every-

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thing was simple; one saw only elegance without luxury, cleanliness without splendour. The theatre contained almost two thousand people. It was completely full. The stage, which was not very high, was occupied only by the actors. The beauti- ful Zilia, her husband, Zam£'s daughters and some young people from the town represented the different personages whom we were to see in action.

The play was in the language of the /latives, and written by Zam£ himself, who was good enough to explain the scenes to me as they were played. It concerned a young wife guilty of infidelity towards her husband, and punished for this mis conduct by all the misfortunes which could» overwhelm an adulteress.

Near to us was a pretty woman whose features I observed to change as the intrigue developed. She turned alternately red and pale, her bosom heaved. . .her breathing became rapid. In the end her tears began to flow and gradually her sorrow increased to such a degree, tb? efforts she made to contain herself affected her so strong^ that, unable to resist any longer. . .she got up, displayed obvious signs of despair, tore her hair and disappeared.

4 Well’, said Zame, who had missed nothing of this scene, ‘well, do you believe, that the lesson works? These are the only punishments necessary to a sensitive race. In France a woman equally guilty w’ould have faced the 1 public; she would hardly have suspected what was being addressed to hei. In Siam she w r ould have been delivered over to an elephant. Is not the tolerance of one of these nations, concerning a crime of this nature, equally dangerous as the barhaious severity of the other, and do you not find my lesson better?’

4 Oh, sublime man*, I cried, 4 what blessed use you make both of your power and of your mind*.

We learnt afterwards that the result of this touching inci dent was a sinceic reconciliation between this woman and her husband, the admissiou and paidon of her misconduct and the voluntar\ exile of her lover.

‘Let the moralists ^attempt to inveigh against theatrical 180

Aline el Valcoui

spectacles, when such results can be obtained The moral aim is the same amongst you said Zame, 'but since yout minds are blunted by continued repetitions ©l the same lessons, they cannot be moved any more You laugh a». them as if the) were foreign to )ou Your impudence absorbs them, )our vanity is opposed to the fact that )C«| could even imagine that they are addressed to )ou and in this wj) you repulse, through pride, the darts b) 'which the ingenious censor attempted to conect )our morals’

The next da) /amt conducted me to the educational establishments, the two buildings that composed them were immense, highei than the others and divided into a great number ol rooms We began by the mtn s pavilion There were more than 2000 pupils there They came when the) were two )ears o*d and left at LUeen in ordei to gel married

These biilliant )oung people were divided into three classes until the\ weie six they continued to receive the eaie that this fust dwbratc stage ol mankind requires 1 10m six to twelve their oppositions were examined Ihen occupations were regulated following then tastes, precedence being given ilwavs to the study of agriculture, the most essential of the type of life to which they were destined

The third class was formed of childien from 12 to 15 seats of age, only they wgre then taught the duties of man in society and his relationships with the beings to whom he owes Ins life, the teachers spoke to them of God and inspired them with love and recognition for this Being who had created them, warned them when they appioached the age when thev wot Id be enti listed with the fattf of a woman, and made them ltd what they owed to this precious half of their existence, it was proved to them that they could not hope loi happiness in this sweet and chamnng society except in so fai as thev tried to shed the same qualities on those who composed it, that in the whole world there was no friend more sinceie, no com panion more tender no being in fact more closely linked to us than a wife, that there was none* therefore who deserved to be treated with more understanding and more kindness,

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that this sex, timid and fearful by nature, attaches itself to the husband who loves and protects each of them, as much as they hate invincibly him who abuses his authority because it is the stronger. We have this authority that captivates, they have the grace and the charms that please.

• Ah, what would you hope for’, they are told, from a heart

ulcerated by scorn? . . .What hands would diy your tears when sorrow weighs you down? From whom wtfuld you receive help when nature makes you suffer all her evils? Deprived oi the sweet consolation that men could have on earth, you would only have in your house a slave terrified by your words, intimi- dated by your desires, who would perhaps bow to the yoke for a brief moment and who, coming into youi arms thiougli constraint, would leave them with hate for you’.

The young men are then made to exercise, on the ground itself, their knowledge of agriculture; that is found besides to be indispensable, since the grounds of this large house are only cultivated and only kept up by fheir youthlul hands.

Afterwards they were occupied by military evolutions, and they were permitted as recreation dancing, wrestling and gener- ally all the games which fortify youth and give grace, preserving both its growth and its health.

When they reach marriageable age the ceremony was as simple as it was natural : the fathef and mother ol the young man conducted him to the educational building for girls and allowed him to make, in front of everyone, the choice he pre- ferred; once this choice was formed, if it pleased the girl, he had permission for a week to talk to his fiancee before the teachers of the girls’ school; here they could complete their knowledge of each other and see if they were suited to each other.

If it should happen that one of the two wished to break, the other was obliged to agree to it, because there is no perfect happiness of this kind if it it not natural. Then the choice began again. If the agreement was unanimous, the two young people asked the ju^g:s of the nation to unite them; when agreement was given they raised their hands to the sky and

18*

Aline el Valcour

swore before God lo be faithful to each other, to help each other mutually in their work and in their illnesses, and never to use the tolerance of divorce unless one or the other were forced to it through indispensable circumstances.

When these formalities were complied with, the young people were placed in possession of a house, as I said before, under the supervision, for t&? years, either of their parents or of their neighbours; and they are happy.

The directors of the men’s college are selected from the number ol the unmarried njen who, dedicating and attaching themselves to this house, as others among them are attached to that of th^ legislator, find there in the same way their nourishment and their lodging. Out of this class are chosen those most capable of this august function, bearing in mind that thw »'ost extreme regularity of morals must be the first of i heir qualities.

The women who direct the house of the young girls, where we went shortly afterwards, are chosen from among the wives rejected for # ue solitary causes of old age or infirmity; these two reasons cannot harm the virtues necessary to the employ- ment to which they are destined.

There were nearly 3000 girls in the house which we \isited. They were also divided into three classes by age, in a similar way to the boys. Moral education is the same; the only thing withdrawn is the physical education of the men, which would not suit the delicate sex brought up there; for it is substituted needlework, the preparation of the food they are accustomed to eat and clothing. In Tamo£ only women look after this; they make their own clothes and those of their husbands; the clothes for the men’s house of education are made in that of the women: the widows or rejected wives make the clothes for the bachelors.

4 It is madness to imagine that the bringing up of children needs more than you have seen’, Zam6 said to me. ‘Cultivate their tastes and inclinations, above all teach them only what is necessary, exert over them no other restriction except honour, no other incentive except faine, no other punishment

De Sade Selections

except a few privations; through these wise methods', he went on, ‘you care for these delicate and precious plants while culti- vating them. You do not exhaust them, you do not accustom them to be blast about punishment and you do not extinguish their sensibility. 'The most difficult and fiery colts,’ said Themistocles, 'become the best horses when a good riding- master trains them. These young seedlings arc the hope and pillar of the state. Judge for yourself whether our care is directed towards them’.

184

LE COMTE OXTIERN OU LES EFFETS DU LIBERTINAGE

Le Comte Oxtiern

On the **nd October, 1791, ‘Le Comte Oxtiern ov Les Effets du Libertmage / a play in tljree acts and in prose was success fully performed at the Th£ 4 u v Moliere m Paris At the second performance, on the 4th November there was some trouble 4 An incident almost upset the second performance of this play At the beginning of the second act a discontented or hostile but certainly an ladiscreet spectator shouted out “Lower the curtain 1 * This was a mistake on his part because he was not allowed to demand that the play should be stopped 1 he stagehand made a mistake by obeying this isolated ordei and lowering the curtain more than half way down In the end many spectators, having had the curtain raised again, shouted Out with h ltT to the ringleader who had caused the disturbance, and they were mistaken m their turn, for they had not the right to expel a man from a play merely tor having said what he felt The result of this was a sort of split in the audience A \^iy smalt minority whistled feebly but the authoi was well coii'pensited by the loud applause of the majority They asked for the authoi at the end of the play it was Monsieur de bade *

This note appeared 111 Le Monitem , which, after summar ising the plot, remarked that ‘there is interest and energy in this play, but the part of Oxtiern is revolting m its atrocious ness*

Eight years later, with a new title, Oxtiern ou Les Malheu > s du Libertmage , the play was acted at the theatie in Versailles, and de Sade played the part of Fabrice for forty sols a da\ Oxtiern is the only play by de 'sade which has been pub lished The names of twenty or so others «*re known, but mam more were probably destroved or lost

187

De Sade Selection s

ACT ONE

For the first two acts, the scene represents the room of an inn, which opens onto several olhei rooms. On one side is a writing table, with an armchair beside it.

Scene I.

FABRICE, CASIMIR.

fabrice: Monsieur Casimir, do you think this room will suit the young lady whom your master is bunging here today? casimir: I think so. Monsieur Fabrice. Is there'a room at hand for Amalie, her maid, and another where Mademoiselle Ernestine can sleep?

fab: Yes, here are two apartments opening off this one. One key locks all of them. They’ll be all right heie, I assuic you It’s a quiet spot, looking ovei the garden, with not the slightest sound from the travellers. cas: Wonderful, (taking Fabrice to one side, mysteriously ) Mon- sieur Fabrice 1 kab: Well?

cas: He’s a very extraordinary man, my master, don’t you agree? You who have known him since his youth. . . fab: I’ve known Count Oxtiern for a long time, and that's why I’m willing to bet that you cannot find a more dangerous creature in any province of Sweden. cas: Yes, but he pays well.

fab: And that’s what makes him all the more to be feared. There’s nothing so pernicious as gold in the hands of the wicked. Who can resist the man who owns the surest way to all corruption? I wish there were no rich people, my friend, except honest folk. But tell me, please, what is this new adventure?

cas: A charming girl. . . Oh Monsieur Fabrice! What a pity! Good God I you have allowed it ! Why should such a creature become the victim of freachery and debauchery? fab: (much surprised) What, has the crime been committed?

188

Le Comte Oxticin on les Effets du Libertmage

cas: It has, Monsieur Fabrice, it has. But the girl he has abducted — ravished — is the daughter of Colonel Falken- heim, the great nephew of Charles XJU’s favourite. I tell you. Monsieur Fabrice, she is ruined. tab: (as before) He has not married her! A virtuous gill, deceived, seduced, dishonoured, and he’s bringing her here. . . Casimir, urn to your master, tell him my house is full, say I cannot receive {11m I have onl) too much cause to com- „ plain of the liberties he thinks he has the right to allow himself in my house, just tbecause he does me the honour of regarding me as his protege. I don't want the protection of a great nohJeman when the only result, as alwavs happens, is that I am the accomplice of his misdeeds. (He goes out) cas: (running to stop him) Just a moment, |ust a moment. You'll I >*e evcrythi’ig and pul nothing right Carry on serv- ing him instead, and if sou get a chance, tr\ to do something secretlv foi this voting woman (emphasising what follows) From heic to Stockholm is onlv a league — it’s not too late — thev will be resting vou have fucnds in the capital— you understand me. Monsieur habrict i ab (after a little thought) Friends. . \es. T have. But there are other ways, more certain, which I hope will succeed. Now, explain. . . (The Count's carriage is heaid) c as: Wc must be silent, a cariiagc is coming. We'll go to vour room shortlv, and thci?* I will instruct vou more fully. . . What a noise ' There’s no doubt about it, it’s the Count. Whv should vice travel in such splendour 1 tvb: I wish your Count were lodging in HeU ! It’s a terrible job to be the landlord of an inn, having to keep open house for am and every bods That will alwavs be the one thing that makes me disgusted with tm profession

(Ernestine and het maid imehe mine alone , for Count G\tiein and Ins fnrnd and accomplice , Derbac , have st< Oped on the way foi some une\platned business . When the serxmnts have left the two comen alone , Ftnesfme enlatges on hei nuel tieutment at the hands of the Count)

De Sade Selections

Scene V.

ERNESTINE, AMELIE.

Ernestine; . . . with what infamous deceit this man snatched me from my family, from my lover, from all that is dearest to me in the world. And the worthy Herman whom I adore with all my heart, do you know that he has left him languish- ing in chains? With baseless accusations, lies, informers, traitors, he has ruined this unfortunate young man. The gold and the crimes of Oxtiern have Achieved everything. Herman is a prisoner. . . perhaps he is condemned and it was over the chains that bind the idol of my heart tWat the cowardly Oxtiern made me his unhappy victim.

amfiie: Oh! vou make me shudder!

ern : (in despair) What can I hope for, what can I look for! God above, what succour is left to me now?

\m£: But your father. . . ?

ern: You know that he had been absAit for some time from Stockholm when Oxtiern cruelh and deceitfully lured me to his house, persuading me that by this means I could gain my lover's freedom and perhaps his hand, through the influ- ence of his brother the Senator, who would be there, he said. This step was doubtless as guilty as it was courageous. How could I have thought of an engagement without my father's consent? Heaven has punished me well for it. Do you know whom I saw in place of the protector I looked for? Oxtiern, the brutal Oxtiern. a dagger in his hand, demanding either my dishonour or mv death, and not even allowing me to be mistress of the choice. Hadp I been so, Amalie, I would not have hesitated, the most terrible tortures svould have been more bearable than the degradations that this perverted man prepared for me. Horrible bonds prevented me from defend- ing myself. . . the blackguard. . . and as a final misery, God lets me live, the heavens still shine upon me, and I, I am ruined! (she falls onto the chair near the table)

AMt: (in tears , taking per mistress's hands) Oh! most unfor- tunate of women, do not despair, I beg you. Your father has

190

Le Comte Oxtiern ou les Effets du Libertinage

been informed of your departure. You must believe that he will not lose a moment in flying to your defence. ern: It is not from him that I expert punishment for my torturer.

am t: Suppose the Count keeps his promise. He Mas speaking, I thought, of cherished ties^fternal bonds. . . ern: Even if Oxtiern desired them, could I consent to pass my life in the arms of # man I loathe, a man who has done me ^ the most painful of injuries? Can you make a husband of the man that degrades you* can you ever love what sou despise? Oh Amelie’ I am lost, ruined. Sorrow and tears are all that remain to me, death is my only hope. When honour has been lost, life is impossible. 1 here is consolation for everything else, but never for this f vw£: {l yoking round er>erywhere) We are alone, madam, what is there to prcunt us from escaping, going to the Court, and begging for the protection \ou so well desene, and to which sou have so much right 5

frn • (proudly) If Oxtiern were a thousand leagues awav I would go to him. rathei than escape The traitor has dis honoured me, I must have ms revenge. T will not seek from a corrupt court protection which would be refused to me. You do not know the extent to which influence and wealth degraded the souls of the men that li\e in that haunt of horror Monsters 1 I would perhaps become another morsel for their vile desires’

(Ernestine and 4mJlte \rtire to their rooms to plan revenge Oxtiern arrwes with Fabnre , who asks him what he means to do with the young girl)

Scene VIII .

FABRICF, COUNT OXTIERN.

oxtiern: My intentions arc legitimate, Fabrice Ernestine is honest, and I am not forcing her at all. An excess of lose has perhaps hastened lathci loo much those steps which will unite her to me lor esei, but she must be my wife, she shall

De Sade Selections

be, my friend. Would I dare to regard her as anything else, and would I bring her here otherwise?

• ab: That is not what I have heard, sir, but I must believe you

all the same. It you were deceiving me I could not have you here.

oxt: I forgive jour suspicions, Fabric e, for the virtuous motive which fathers them. But calm yourself, my inend, I repeat, my plans are as pure as she who is their inspiration.

fab: Count Oxticrn, you are a great lord, I know, but be very sure of this, I beg you, that tho moment when your behaviour disgraces you in my eyes, I would regard you only as all the more despicable because you were born to be honest. Having more claims than anyone else to esteem and general consid- eration you would be all the more guilty for not profiting by them.

oxt: But why all this anxietv, Fabricc; what have I done to warrant these suspicions?

fab: Nothing yet, I would like to bolievc. . . But where arc you taking this girl?

oxt: To my estate near Nordkoping, and I shall marry her as soon as she is there.

fab: Why is her father not with her?

oxt: He was not at.Stockholm when she left, and the intensity of tm love did not permit formalities I considered myself able to do without; vou are vcf\ strict, my friend. Never before have I seen vou so severe.

fab: It’s not a question of severity, but of justice, sir. If you were a father would vou like vour daughter taken from vou?

oxi: I would not like her te be dishonoured. Is Ernestine so, since I am maming her?

( Amelie enteis and Oxtiern asks hei to let him hwu' when Ernestine would like to see him. He exits , and Fabrice de- cides to huny at once to Stockholm to see what can be done foi Ernestine)

Le Comte Oxtiern ou les Effets du Libertinage

ACT TWO Scene /.

OXTILRW, DERBAG.

oxt: She is such a sensitive creatuie. . .

^)erbac: Very stimulating, isn't it? Women are really delicious when their tears heighten tfieii charms with all the disorder of grief. You arc, my poor Count, what might be called a very corrupt person.

oxi : What do you expccl, my friend? It was from the teachings of women that I learnt all the vices I now afflict on them. dlr* \ou ll marry hot, at least?

oxt: Can you ioi one moment imagine me capable ol such stupidity?

i>*r: But once >o 1 have her in your castle, what excuse will you give her to justify your conduct? She will never let you live with her like a lover with his mistress. o\i : Oh! Her intentions, her desires, her wishes are the last things m the world that worry me. My happiness, my satis- faction, these arc my aims, Deibac, and I have achieved them. And in am adventure of this sort, once I am content, everyone else should be.

Dta: Ah! my friend — dear Count! Please allow r me to oppose such dangerous principles for one moment. oxt: No, you will only displease me without convincing me. Never forget that your fortune depends on mine. What I look for in vou, is not a censor, but an agent for my plans. di?r: 1 flattered myself you only saw me as a friend, and would be grateful for my a h ice. . . This present plot is horrible. oxt: I can well imagine that in your eves it is, because you are a subordinate creature, full of gothic prejudice, which the torch of philosophy has not vet been able to illuminate. A few years at my school, Derbat , aqd you’ll no longer pity a woman for so small a misfortune.

N

193

De bade Selections

der : This delicate and gentle person, even more for our good than for her own, had tenderly pinned all her happiness and fortune on her virtue. When she is outraged by scoundrels, she has very definite rights to our love and protection. oxt: Ah f Derbac, you're moralising.

der: As you will. Well then, let us consider onl\ the dangers to you. Do you see none for you in all this? The colonel, his son, young Herman, whom this charming girl loves so dearly — are you afraid of none of them? oxt: The colonel is an old maM, he will fight badh. . he won’t fight at all. His son will never reach me, I have set traps for him. (softly) He is a dead man, 1m friend, if he once sets foot on my land, (loudly) As for Herman, the chains in which I make him languish are of a kind which cannot break. I managed to involve him in a mones matter from which he cannot disentangle himself without funds, and he is far from being able to find them. He’s costing me a lot — false witnesses, judges to be bought. 'I dcf\ hint to extricate himself.

der: And the law, my friend, what of that* oxt: I have never known it proof against the power of gold. der: And what of that innermost part of )our being wherebs virtue can alwavs -claim its right*? I mean vour conscience? oxt: tJnriiffied, completelv calm.

dfr: But the Court, my dear Count? You are both its ornament and its delight. Suppose the Court learns of your irregular behaviour?

oxt: It is the only thing I have to fear from this female furv She has threatened me, aijd therefore I must make quite certain of her. Remember to give orders for evervthing to be ready bv dawn tomorrow. I must get well away from Stockholm as soon as possible. Fabrice has turned righteous, and we are still too near the capital for me not to fear the remorse of such a knave. I know nothing more terrible, more humiliating, than the necessity to manage these rascals when one needs then^ It is the duty of crime, but by God, my friend, it is the torment of pride. To win Fabrice, I have

194

Le Comte Oxtiern ou les Effets du Libertinage

set my servant on him. Who would credit it? Casimir is not so firm as I would have thought. You have no idea, my friend, of the effect a girl’s tears can have upon these feeble cowardly souls.

der: It is fortunate for humanity there are few as perverted as your own !

oxt: Only because I have worked on mine, my friend. I have seen and experienced much. If you only knew where a surfeit of experience can lead you !

der: I hear someone in Ernestine’s room — it is Amalie. You are wanted. I’ll wager. . . Lucky fellow!

oxt: I have told yotj, the only way to make women love you is to torment them; I know of no surer method.

( At'ieh e informs C mnt Oxtiern that Ernestine would like to speak to him . He sends Derbac away. The scene between Ernestine and Oxtiern is very similar to the dialogues be - tween Gram » ell ana Henriette in 4 Miss Hennette Stralson’ ; dignity , vh've, despair and desire for revenge on one side , deception , guile, threats and brutal moments of frankness on the other, ft is interrupted by the news that Ernestine's father , Colonel Falkenheim , has arrived at the inn. Ernestine sees her father who promises not to abandon her and to avenge her, but afterwards she decides to kill Oxtiern her- self or die in the attempt. She sends a note to him saying that she has a defender who will challenge him that night in the garden, and who will be dressed in white. Falkenheim , believing that his daughter has prompted her brother to attack Oxtiern, decides that only his own victory over Oxtiern can restore the family honour, and sends another challenge to the Count.)

195

De Sade Selections

ACT THREE

The scene represents the garden of the inn. Throughout the scene the light slowly fades , so that by the end the stage is in complete darkness .

( Derhac hands Oxtiern Ernestine's challenge , guessing that the opponent in white will be the gill hriself . Oxtiern doubts this but is furious with her for daring to plot against his life , and swears revenge Cast mu ai rives with the Colonel's challenge , and reveals that one of the servants of the inn has bought Ernestine some white clothing. Hg is certain that her brother could not possibly have arrived at the inn.)

Scene 11.

DERBAC, OX 1IERN, LASIM1R.

der: (with emphasis) All is quite clear, Oxlicrn, this is how it is. In order to disguise her plan from the Colonel, Ernestine has told him she will be using her brother to revenge her; the Colonel believes it; he does not want his son to fight, and will appear himself at the rendezvous. o\i: (with great interest) And Ernestine will also come? der : Undoubtedly. oxt: She will come dressed in white? cas: That is certain, sir.

oxt: (with the wildest, most vehement passion) Congratulate me, friends, we were looking for ways to rid us of this girl, and fate offers one, unparalleled before, (more coldly) Go, Casimir, tell the Colonel I await him. It will be dark, sa} I will be dressed in white, and without hesitation he should attack anyone he sees wandering in the dark dressed this way.

der: (with a cry of horror) Oh* You will have the girl slain by her father’s hand 1

oxt: Silence. Can’t you^see, friends, fate has offered me this means of punishing her. Would you have me not profit by it?

196

Le Comte Oxt inn ou les Effets du Libeitinage

der: This is an abominable crime, it levolts met oxr: It will help to restore my calm, c as: ( trying to calm his master) Sir, $ir. oxt: Quiet, you rogue. If you are afraid, be off with you. cas : I obey. The Colonel shall know that his enemy will appear at the rendezvous dressed jn white, (aside, as he leaves) Ah’ I hope Fabrice will have returned before this horror is com- mitted. (exit)

Scene HI.

OXTIERN, DERBAC.

oxr: Thai valet makes me impatient, he is afraid. Such idiots have no principles; anything outside the normal run of vice and villainy shocks them; they arc terrified of remorse. der: Bad luck to th'* scoundrels that it does not stop; misfor- tune on you if you continue. A blacker crime was never con- ceived, not even in Hell.

oxt: I agree, but it is useful. . . Did not this arrogant creature plot my dt a ruction ^

i)i? r: She set herself against vou, risking her own life, oxi : Plaving the heioinc . I do not like such outbursts of vamtv in a woman.

dir: Oh f (with the deepest feeling) Has she no light to pride, she who in all the world most deserves our respect? oxr: Good, there vou arfi back again at your moralising. For howevei short a time I leave you, I have the utmost trouble pulling you together again. . . Now then, Derbac, courage. In case Casimir does not fulfil my commission properly, see to it yourself. The Colonel will come. Tell him to attack his enemy who will come towards him dressed in white. It will be his daughter. . . Understand, Derbac, and I shall be revenged (he goes out)

Scene IV.

DERBAC.

dfr: (alone) No, I cannot harden myself to have a hand in such devilry. Let Casimir handle it, Ve must not be involved

• 97

De Sade Selections

in this horror. I shall leave this man's society, and return to the poverty from which his influence rescued me. It is a pity, undoubtedly, but less of one than being further cor* rupted by his unworthy teaching. I am less afraid of mis- fortune than crime. However much an honest man may suffer, he has his heart as consolation, (he goes out, seeing someone approach )

Scene V.

THE COLONEL, groping in the darkness.

colonel: This is the place for the duel. . . I thought he would be here first; he won’t be long, without dpubt. Unhappy man, what are you about to do? How cruel and unjust are the laws of honour! Why must the injured party risk his life, when the aggressor is so guilty! Oh! let him kill me, cut me to pieces, I cannot go on living after I have lost my honour, (he shivers) I think I hear him. .. Why is it that my enemy’s approach fills me with emotions that I cannot master I But I have known fear before. I am upset by the desire for revenge which prevents me from distinguishing the true cause of the impressions which trouble me. This night has become so black I shall hardly be able to make out the colour he is supposed to be wearing, (the rest is said very softly, so that Ernestine cannot hear it) Here he is, attack him silently, and no noise during the fight, (he draws his sword and falls on Ernestine, dressed as a man in the appro- priate colours. The fight has hardly begun when two shots are heard in the wings, fired by the Count and Herman. Herman, having killed the Count, rushes in, followed a moment later by Fabrice.

Scene VI.

THE COLONEL, ERNESTINE, HERMAN,

Eater FABRICE.

This scene must move with the greatest speed.

Herman: (still in the wipgs) Die, traitor. Ernestine is avenged. (flying to separate the duellers) Stop, merciful Heavens, whose

198

I.r Comte Oxtiern on les Effets du Liber linage

blood are you about to shed! Unhappy father, recognise your daughter!

ern : (flinging away her sword) Oh God ! (she throws herself into her father's arms) col: Dear, unhappy child!

tab: (energetically, and only appearing at this point) Your troubles are over. Colonel, ns soon as I heard of the Count's villainies, I flew to Stockholm, and extricated your young friend from the fetters in which Oxtiern held him captive. You can see the first use that he makes of his freedom. her: That coward, his defeat has cost me little; it is not diffi- cult to triumph over traitors. I conquered him, and ran to you, sir, to tell you of the ghastly crime of which he was making vou the instrument, despite yourself. I come to ask you f ‘ jL 'he hand of 'his beloved girl, whom I have saved for you. I flatter myself that now I am worthy of her. (the Colonel makes a gesture of approval , and of grief) ern: (to Herman) Can I still claim such happiness? iirR: (tender 1 to Ernestine) Could ihe crimes of a blackguard such as Oxtiern despoil Nature’s loveliest masterpiece? coi : Ah! Fabrice, what gratitude we owe you. How can we repay it?

fab: With your friendship, my friends, I merit it. I have made the best use of my money — the punishment of crime and the reward of virtue. Can anybody tell me where else I could have got a higher rate of interest I . . .

THE END OF THE THIRD AND LAST ACT.

»99

DISCOURS PRONONCF. A LA FETE DECERNEE PAR LA SECTION DES PIQUES AUX MANES DE MARAT FT LE PELLETIER

This funeral oration for the two regicides is interesting as a document of the Revolution^articularly as it had great success and was given a wide distribution immediately after it was delivered.

♦ * * * *

SPEECH DELI\ LRFD AT T1IE CEREMONY DEDI- CATED BY THE SECTION DES PIQUES TO THE MEMGRk OF MARAT ANI) LE PELLETIER, B\ SADE, CITIZEN OF THIS SIC! ION, AND MEMBER Oh THE SOCIETE POPULAIRE.

Citizens,

The duty dealest to heaits which aie tiuly republican is the lccognition due to great men; irom the performance of this sacred act are born all the virtues necessaiy to the main- tenance and glory of the state. Men love praise, and every nation that does not refuse to praise merit will always find in its bosom men who are anxious to make themselves worthy of it; too greedy for these noble tributes, the Romans, through a harsh law, demanded that a long interval should pass between the death of a famous man and his panegyric: by no means let us imitate this severity, it would cool our ardour; let us never stifle an enthusiasm of which the inconveniences are mediocre, and of which the fruits are so necessary : Frenchmen, honour and admire always your great men. This valuable upsurge of praise will increase them among you, and if ever posterity should accuse you of some error, would your sensi- bility not serve as an excuse?

Marat! Le Pelletier 1 The\ who celebrate you at this moment are safe from such fears, and the \oice of the centuries

De Sarle Selections

to come will only add to the homage paid to you today by the living generation.

Sublime martyrs oi liberty, already placed in the temple of memory it is irom there that, always revered by mortals, you will hover over them, like benevolent stars which light them, and that, equall) useful to mankind, if they find in some of them the source of all the treasures of life, they will find in the others the fortunate model of all the virtues.

Astonishing freak ol fate, Marat, it 'was from the depths of this obscure cavern where your ardent patriotism was oppos- ing the tyrants with such great vigour that the spirit of France indicated the place in this temple where we revere you today.

Egoism, they say, is the prime mover of all human actions, and there is none amongst them, we are assured, which does not include personal profit as its basic motive; i dying on this harsh belief, these terrible detractors of all fine things reduce merit to nothing. O Marat 1 How far youi sublime deeds except you from this general law 1 What motive if personal interest was it that took )ou away from the commerce of men, deprived you of all the comforts of life, and left you to go on living in a kind of tomb? What other motive beyond that of enlightening your fellow-men, and ensuring the happiness of jour brotheis? What gave you the courage to brave everything. . .down to weapons directed against you, if it was not the most complete disinter- estedness, the purest love of the people, the most ardent example of civic virtue that we have ever seen?

Scaevola, Brutus, your only merit was to arm yourselves for a moment in order to cut short the days of two despots, for an hour or more your patriotism shone; but you, Marat, through what more difficult path you followed the career of a free man, how many thorns impeded your road before its end could be reached; it was in the midst of tyrants that you spoke to us of liberty; but, little accustomed as we were still to the sacred name of this Goddess, you adored her before we knew her; the daggers of Machiavelli trembled in every direction over your head without your qohle brow appearing to be affected by them; Scaevola and Brutus each threatened their tyrants

• 04

D\ scours

Your so much greater soul wished to immolate at one and the same time all those who oppressed the earth, and yet slaves accuse you of favouring bloodshed. Great man, it was their blood that you wished to shed; you only revealed yourself as prodigal with theirs in order to spare the blood of the people; with so many enemies how ftpuld sou (ail to succumb; you showed w'here the traitors w r cre, treason was bound to strike you.

• Timid and tender sex, how could it be that vour delicate

hands seized the dagger that sedition had sharpened? . . . Ah, sour haste in coming to scatter flowers on the tomb of this it ue friend ot tHfc people makes us lorget that crime could find an arm among you. The barbarous assassin of Marat, resem- bling those beings to whom no sex can be assigned, vomited up bv h^ll tor the despair ol both of them, does not belong directlv to either of them A funeral veil must envelop her memorv for ever; may men cease to present her to us, as they arc venturing to dr under the enchanting s\mbol of beauty. Too credulous artists, break up, cast down and disfigure the features of this monster, or offer it to our indignant eyes only in the midst of the furies of Tartar \.

Gentle and sensitive souls’ kc Pelletier, mas \our virtues come for a moment to sweeten the ideas which these pictures have soured; if your timely principles on national education are adopted one day the crimes of which we complain will no longer be the scourge of our histon; friend of children and of men, how T I love to follow you in the moments where youi political life is entirely consecrated to the sublime personage of people’s representative; your curly opinions aimed at assur ing us of this valuable liberty of the press without which there is no moie liberty on earth; scorning the false glorv of rank where absurd and chimerical prejudices placed vou at that time, you believed, and you made your belief public, that it differences could exist between men, it was only for virtues and talents to establish them.

Severe enemy of tyrants, vou courageously voted tor the death of him who had dared to plot that of a whole nation; a

De Sade Selections

fanatic struck you, and his homicidal sword broke all our hearts; his remorse avenged us, he became his own executioner; it was not enough. . .villain! why cannot we destroy your memory? Ah! Your end is in the heart of every Frenchman. Citizens, if there were men among you who were not yet sufficiently imbued with the feelings due from patriotic hearts to such friends of liberty, let them turn their gaze for one moment to the last words of Le Pelletier, and, filled at the same time with love and veneration the/ will experience more than ever the hate due to the memory of the parricide who was capable of cutting short so fine a life.

Holy and divine Liberty, the only goddess* of France, allow us to shed at the foot of your altars still more tears over the loss of your two most faithful friends, let us weave cypresses into the garlands of oak with which we surround you. These bitter tears purify your incense and do not extinguish it; they add one more piece of homage to all those that our hearts

present to you Ah, let us ccasfc to shed them, citizens,

they breathe, these famous men for whom we weep, our

patriotism revives them, I see them in our midst I see

them smile upon the worship our civic pride pays them. I hear them announce to us the dawn of those serene and tranquil days when Paris, prouder than was ever ancient Rome, will become the centre of talent, the terror of despots, the temple of the arts, the homeland of all free men; from one end of the earth to the other all nations will covet the honour of being allied to the French nation; replacing the frivolous merit of offering to foreigners only our costumes and our fashions, it will be laws, examples, virtues and men wdrich wc shall give to the astonished earth, and if ever worlds should overturn, yielding to the imperial laws which move them, and then collapse, mingling together, the immortal Goddess whom we honour, eager to show to future races the globe inhabited by the nation which served it best, would indicate only France to the new men that nature would have created again.

Sade, Editor

Discours

The Assemble G£n6rale de la Section des Piques, applauding the principles and the vigour of this speech, ordered it to be printed and sent to the National Convention, to all the D6partements, to the Armies, the constituted authorities of Paris, the 47 other Sections and to the peoples’ Societies. Decreed in the Assemble* G£n£rale, this sgth September, 1793, >ear II of the French Republic, one and indivisible.

Vincent, Piendent Girard \

Mangin, J Sea e tunes Paris I

• 07

JULIETTE, OU LES PROSPERITES DU VICE

JULIETTE

It was in the convent of Panthemi nt that Justine and I were educated. You know the fame of this abbey and you know that it was from its bosoift there came for many years the prettiest and the most libertine women in Paris. Euphrosine, the young person whose steps I wished to follow, who, living near my parents, hall escaped from her paternal home to fling herself into a life of debauchery; Euphrosine had been my companion in this convent, and as it was from her and from a nun, one of hefr friends, that I received the first principles of that morality which people were surprised to see in me at so young an age in the stories which my sister has just told )ou, I ougnt, it deems to me, before all else, to describe to you some- thing of both of them. . . .to give you an exact account of those first moments of my life when, seduced and corrupted by these two sirens the ‘iced of all vice was sown in the very depths of my heart.

The nun in question was called Madame Delb£ne; she had been abbess of the house for five years, and had attained the age of thirty when I became acquainted with her. It was impossible for anyone to be prcttiei . an artist’s ideal, her face sweet and heavenly, fair, with large blue eyes full of the most tender sympathy, and a figure worthy of the Graces; a victim of ambition, the young Delbene had been sent as a young girl of twelve into a cloister in order that an elder brother whom she detested could become richer. Locked up at an age when the passions were beginning to* express themselves, although Delb&ne had not yet made any choice, and loving the world and men in general, it had not been without sacrificing herself, without triumphing over the severest of struggles that she had at last resolved to obey. Very advanced for her age, having read all the philosophers, having meditated prodigiously, Dalb&ne, when she condemned herself to this retreat, had retained two or three of her friends. They came to«see her, they comforted her; and since she was extremely rich, they continued to supply

an

De Sade Selections

her with all the books and all the delicacies that she could desire, even those which must further enflame an imagina- tion. . .already most lively, and which her retreat was in no way cooling.

As for Euphrosine, she was fifteen when I linked myself to her, and she had been Mme Delbene’s pupil for eighteen months when they both proposed that I should join their com- pany, on the day on which I had just attained my thirteenth year. Euphrosine had brown hair, was Call for her age, very slender, with most pretty eyes, plenty oi wit and vivacity, but less pretty, and much less interesting than our Superior.

• * * * *

This passage is typical of the education given to Juliette by Madame Delbcne.

‘We call conscience, my dear Juliette, that sort oi inner voice which is heard in us when we transgress some forbidden thing, whatever its nature might be: a very simple definition which reveals at the first glance that this conscience is the product only of the prejudice acquired h\ education, so that all which we forbid a child to do causes him remorse when he infringes it, a remorse which he nourishes until the prejudice is overthrown and he sees that there had been no real wrong in the forbidden thing.

‘Thus conscience is purely and simply the work either of the prejudices instilled in us or of the principles that we form for ourselves. That is so true that it is more than possible to form for ourselves based on mental impulses a conscience wdiich will torment and harass us every time we do not fulfil, in their entirety, the plans oi amusements, even vicious. . . even criminal ones that we had promised ourselves to perform for our satisfaction. Frqjn this is born that other sort of con- science which in a man above all prejudices speaks up against

• 12

Juliette

him when through taking false steps, in order to attain happi- ness, he has iollowed a path contrary to that which should naturally have led him to it. Thus according to the principles which we have formed for ourselves We - an equally repent of having done too much wrong or of not having done enough. But let us take the word in n most simple and most common meaning; then remorse, that is to say the organ of this internal voice which we have just called conscience, is a perfectly use- less weakness whose tyranny we should vanquish with all the vigour with which we are capable; for remorse, once again, is only the work of the prejudice produced by fear of what may happen to us alter doing something forbidden, ol whatever kind it may be, without enquiring whether it is good or bad. Take away the punishment, change public opinion, destroy the law, declimatize the subject, the crime will still remain and yet the individual will have no more remorse. Remorse is therefore no more than a wearisome reminiscence, the result of laws and ? Copied h&bits, but in no way dependent upon the type of tiuiisgression. Oh! If that were not so, would you ever be able to suppress it? Nevertheless, is it not quite cer- tain that you can succeed in this, even in matters of the greatest consequence, by reason of the advancement of your mind and the way in which you labour to extinguish your prejudices? In such a way that, as these prejudices are gradu- ally effaced by age or as the habit of actions which terrified us succeeds in hardening the conscience, remorse, which was only the effee t of this conscience's weakness is soon completely destroyed, and thus we achieve as far as we like, the most terrifying excesses. But it may perhaps be objected that the type oi sin may do more or less violence to remorse. No doubt, because the prejudice against a major crime is stronger than that against a minor one. . .the punishment of the law more severe; but learn to destroy all prejudices equally, learn to put all crimes in the same rank, and as you quickly become con- vinced of their equalitv, you can model your remorse according to them, and as you will have learnt tj brave the remorse of the weakest you will soon learn to overcome the repentance

De Sade Selections

of the strongest, and to commit them all with an equal imper- turbability. . .with a similar indifference. Which means, my dear Juliette, causes you to experience remorse after a bad deed, because you believe with conviction in the system of free will, and say to yourself: “How unfortunate of me not to have acted differently ! ” But if you would really persuade your- self that the system of free will is an illusion and that we are impelled to perform all our deeds by a force more powerful than ourselves, if you would be convinced that everything is useful in this world, and that the crime of which you repent is as necessary to nature as the war, pestilence and famine with which she periodically distresses empires, feeling infinitely more tranquil before all the actions of our life, we would not even conceive remorse and my dear Juliette would not tell me that I am wrong to lay tc nature’s account what should only be laid to that of my depravity.

'All moral effects/ went on Mme Delbine, ‘derive from physical causes to which they are irresistibly bound, like the sound which results from the shock of the drumstick upon the skin of the drum: no physical cause, that is to say no shock, and there is necessarily no moral effect, that is no sound. Certain dispositions of our organs, the nervous fluid which is irritated either more or less by the nature of the atoms that we breathe. . . , by the type or quantity of the nitrous particles contained in the foods we eat, by the circulations of the humours and by a thousand other external causes, determine a man towards crime or towards virtue, and often in the same day towards first one then the other: that is the shock of the drumstick, the result of vice or virtue; a hundred louis stolen from my neighbour’s pocket or given from mine to an unfor- tunate, that is the effect of the shock, or the sound. Are we masters of these second effects when the first causes necessitate them? Can the drum be beaten without giving out a sound? And can we oppose this shock when it is itself the result of things so foreign to us, and so dependent on our organic struc- ture? It is therefore nftdness and extravagance not to do all that seems good to us and to repent of what we have done.

• 14

Juliette

Remorse, then, is, according to that, only a pusillanimous weakness which we must conquer, as much as it can depend on us, by reflection, reasoning and habit. Besides, what change can remorse bring to what has been done? It cannot lessen the wrong since it only ever comes after the action has been com mittcd, it very rarely prevents it being committed again, and is consequently good for nothing After the wrong has been committed, two things necessarily happen either you are punished, or you are* not In the second hypothesis remorse would undoubtedly be a dreadful stupidity for what use would it serve to repent of an action ol whatever kind it may be which afforded you a ‘very complete satisfaction, and which did not hast any troublesome consequences > To lepent in such a case ol the wroue this action could have done your neighboui would be to love him better than yourself Consequently, in

this case, there would be no room for remorse If the action is discovered and is to be punished, then, if vou examine it deeply, you will discover that ft is not the wrong occasioned to your neighbour by your action that is lepented, but sour own clumsiness in committing it in such a way that it could be discovered, it is then undoubtedly necessary to give careful thought to the considerations produced by your regrets at this clumsiness , but only to extract greater piudence fiom them, if the punishment allows you to live But these reflec tions are not remorse, for real remorse is the sorrow produced by what you have done to others, and the reflections of which we are speaking are the effects of the sorrow produced by the wrong that you have done yourself, which reveals the vast difference that exists between these two emotions, and shows at the same time the usefulness of one and the ridiculousness of the other

‘True wisdom, my dear Juliette, does not consist in repressing our vices, because since these vices constitute almost the onlv happiness in our life to wish to repress them would be to become our own executioners Bift it consists in abandon- ing ourselves to them with such secrecy, and such extensive

De Sade Selections

precautions that we may never be caught out. Do not be afraid that this may diminish their delight: mystery adds to the pleasure. Moreover, such behaviour ensures impunity, and is not impunity the most delicious nourishment of debauchery?

'Having taught you to master remorse born of the sorrow of doing wrong too openly, it is essential, my dear triend, for me to show you now the way to extinguish completely this con- fused inner voice which sometimes returns in passion’s calm to protest against the irregularities into*which we were led by that passion. Now Lhis way is as certain as it is pleasant, since it consists only in repeating what caused us remorse so often that the habit either of committing the action or ot anticipating it entirely saps every possibility of evoking regrets for it. r I his habit, by destroying prejudice and forcing our soul to be fre- quently stirred by the means, and in the circumstances, which originally disturbed it, ends by rendering the newly adopted conditions easy and even delightful. Pride adds its support. Not only have we done something that no dhe would dare to do, but we have become so accustomed to it that we can no longer exist without it. That is one pleasure first of all. The action com- mitted produces another. Who can doubt that this multiplica- tion of pleasures yi\l very rapidly accustom a soul to yield to the way of life that it must acquire, however painful it may have found at the beginning the forced situation to which this action compelled it?

'Do we not experience what I am saying in all the so-called crimes governed by voluptuous appetite? Why does one never repent of a crime of debauchery? Because debauchery promptly becomes a habit. It could be the same with all licence. Like lasciviousness, they can all easily turn into a habit, and like lust, they can all arouse in the nerval fluid an excitement which greatly resembles that passion, can become as delicious, and consequently can be transformed, like it, into a necessity’.

• 16

JULIFTTF, OU LES PROSPERITES DU

VICE

When la houvelle Justine was published in 1796 Justine had acquired a sister, Julietl*. who during the last six of the ten volumes tells the story ol her life to Justine, since the two sisters had been separated since children In direct con trast to Justine, Jul^tte is entirely wicked and her whole delight is m crime She travels through most European coun tries and Russia, meeting most of the reigning sovereigns and Pope Pius VI

The book begins as lollows

After Juliette lias stolen monc) lor Dorval, hunseli a famous thid, he lttempts to justil) theft as a natural institu tion I he two footnotes added to this passage indicate that Juliette was written beloic the Retolution and had to be brought up to date

‘When laws wtic fust promulg ited, and the weak consented to the loss ol a poition of their freedom in order to presene the lemainder, the maintenincc of their possessions wa* undoubtedly the first thing that the) desired to enjoy in peace, and the prime object of the restraints that they demanded 1 he stronger gate their consent to laws *hich they were sure they could escape the lat s wgre made It was decreed that every man would possess his inheritance m peace and that anyone who interfered in his possession of that inheritance would suffer punishment But there was nothing of nature m this, nothing that she ordained, nothing that she inspired It was all the work of men, who henceforth were divided into two classes the first class gave up a quarter m order to obtain the tranquil enjoyment of the rest, jhe second, profiting b> this quarter, and realising that it could have the othei three

• 17

De Sade Selections

quarters whenever it liked, agreed to prevent, not the weak being ravaged by the strong, but the weak from ravaging one another, in order that it alone could strip them at its own convenience. Thus theft, nature’s sole institution, was in no way banished from the face of the earth, but it existed in other forms: it became judicial theft. The magistrates stole b> taking payment for justice that they should have given freely. The priest stole by taking payment for serving as a mediator between man and his God. The merchant stole by monopolising, by charging one third more for his merchandise than its real intrinsic value. Monarchs stole by imposing upon their sub- jects the arbitrary rights of taxes, tolls, etc. All these thefts were permitted, all were authorised in the specious name of rights; no one thought of taking action any longer except against the most natural thefts, that is to say, against the per- fectly simple conduct of a man who, pistol in hand, demanded money which he needed from those whom he believed to be richer than himself. All this, moreover., without realising that the first thieves, to w r hom nothing was ever said, were the sole cause of the crimes of the second, the only one which forced him, weapon in hand, to go back to the properties which the first usurper had so cruelly ravished from him. For, if all these thefts were only usurpations which brought about the poverty of the subordinate persons, the subsequent thefts of these inferior beings, made necessary by those of the others, were no more crimes, they were secondary effects necessitated by major causes; and as soon as you authorise this major cause, it be- comes legally impossible for you to punish its effects; you can no longer do it without injustice. If you push a servant against a precious vase, and in his fall he breaks it, you no longer have the right to punish him for his clumsiness; you should only deal with the cause which brought about your punishing him. When some unfortunate peasant, reduced to beggary by the immensity of the taxes you impose upon him # , deserts his

• It is evident that Juliette’s speaker is only referring here to the peasants of the ancien regime: tbeyyvere sometimes pressed by poverty, but the peasants of today, inflated by luxury and indolence, can no longer serve as examples. (Node by the publisher of the First Edition.)

Juliette

plough, seizes a weapon, and goes to waylay you upon the high road, you most certainly commit a gross injustice if you punish him. For it is not he who is at fault, he is the servant pushed against the vase : do not push h. m, and he will break nothing. If you do push him, do not be surprised if he does break something.

Thus this unfortunate man, in going to rob you, is in no way committing a crime; he is attempting to get back the goods that you have previously usurped from him, you or yours: he is only doing what is natural; he is seeking to re-establish the equilibrium which in morals as well as physics is the first of the laws of nature; he is only doing what is just.

But that is not what I meant to demonstrate: it does not require any proofs or need any argument to show that the weak man is only doing what he must in trying to get back his alienated possessions. Of what I wish to convince you is that the strong man himself is committing no crime or injustice in attempting to despril the weak, because that is the very situation in which I am placed, the ver) behaviour that I permit myself every day. Now this proof is not difficult, and the act of theft, in this instance, is certainly much more a thing of nature than the other case. For the reprisals of the weak against the strong do not really come within nature. They do from the moral point of view but not from the physical, since to take these reprisals the weak man must employ forces that he has not received from nature, he must adopt a character that he has not been given, he must in a way constrain nature. But what does really come within the laws of this wise Mother is the harm done to the weak b^the strong, since to bring this process to pass, the strong man makes use only of gifts which he has received from nature; he does not, like the weak, take on a character different from his own; he merely utilises the sole effects of that with which nature has endowed him. There- fore everything resulting from that is natural. His actp of oppression, violence, cruelty, tyranny, injustice, all these diverse expressions of the character engrave^ in him by the hand of the power which placed him in this world are therefore quite

• • 9

De Sade Selection &

as simple and as pure as the hand which drew them; and when he uses all his rights to oppress the weak, to plunder the weak, he is therefore only doing the most natural thing in the world. If our common mother had desired this equality that the weak strive so hard to establish, if she had really wanted the equit- able division of property, why should she have created two classes, one weak, the other strong? Has she not, but this dis- tinction, given sufficient proof that her intention was that it should apply to possessions as well as t<0 bodily faculties? Does she not prove that her plan is for everything to be on one side, and nothing on the other; and that precisely in order to arri\c at that equilibrium which is the sole basis ol all her laws? For, in older that this equilibrium may exist in nature, it is not necessary that it be men who establish it; their equilibrium upsets that of nature. What, in our eyes, seems to us to go against it, is exactly that which, in hers, establishes it, and for this reason; it is from this lack oi balance, as we call it, that are produced those crimes by which she establishes her order. The strong seize everything; that is the lack of balance, from man’s point of view. The weak defend themselves and rob the strong; there you have the crimes which establish the equil- ibrium necessary to nature. Let us therefore not have any scruples about what we can filch from the weak, for it is not we who are committing a crime, it is the act of defence or ven- geance performed by the weak which has that character. By robbing the poor, dispossessing the orphan, usurping the widow’s inheritance, man is only making use of the rights he has received from nature. The crime would consist in not profiting from them: the penniless wretch that nature offers up to our blows is the prey that she offers the vulture. If the strong appear to disturb her order by robbing those beneath them, the weak re-establish it by robbing their superiors, and both are serving nature.

Going back to the origin of the right of property you inevitably arrive at usurpation. Theft however is only punished because it attacks the right of property, but this right is itself originally only a theft. Therefore the law punishes theft for

Juliette

attacking theft, the weak for trying to get back their rights, and the strong for wanting to establish or augment theirs by profiting from what they have received from nature Can a more terrible result exist anywhere m the world* As long as there is no legitimately established property (and there cannot be any) it will be very difficut* to prove that theft is a crime, for what it upsets un the one hand, it immediately re establishes on the other, and since nature is not any more interested m the first than in the r econd, it is absolutelv impossible for anyone to prove that favouring one rather than the other constitutes anv offence against hei laws

Therefore the weak man is right when in the attempt to get back his plundered possessions he purposelv attacks the strong and enforces restitution The onlv wrong that ne mav be doing is in desciting the character of weakness that nature has engraved in him she created him to be poor and a slave, he does not wish to submit to this, and there is his wrong The strong man, being mistaken to a correspondinglv less extent, since he is abiding by his chaiactcr and onlv acting in accord ance with it, is equally right therefore in seeking to plunder the weak and to enjoy himself at his expense Now let each of them look for a moment into the vet\ depths of their hearts the weaker, on deciding to attack the stronger whatever his rights mas be will experience a slight struggle and this resist ance to his getting his satisfaction comes from the fact that he is trying to go bevond the laws of nature b\ adopting a character which is not his own the stronger, on the other hand, by despoiling the weaker, that is to say by enjoying all the rights which he has received from nature, by giving himself every possible licence, enjoys himself more or less in proportion to that licence The more atrocious the harm he does the weaker, the moic voluptuous the thrill he gives himself He delights in injustice, he revels in the tears that his oppiession wrings from the unfortunate, the more he tsrannises, the moie he oppresses, the happier he is, because then he is making a fuller use of the gifts that he has teceived frum nature, because the employment of these gifts becomes a necessity, and as a result

221

De Sade Selections

of its voluptuousness. Furthermore, this necessary enjoyment which derives from the comparison that the fortunate man makes between himself and the unfortunate, this truly delect- able enjoyment is never better established as far as the fortunate man is concerned than when the disaster that he produces is complete. The more he crushes the unfortunate, the more he heightens the value of the comparison, and consequently the more he nourishes his voluptuous delight. He has therefore two very real pleasures in his extortions from the weak : both the increase in his material funds, and the moral enjoyment of the comparisons he can make which become all the moic voluptuous the more the wounds he inflicts weaken his victim. So let him pillage, burn, ravage, let him leave the poor wretch nothing but the breath to prolong a life whose existence is necessary to the oppressor in order to establish his laws of com- parison. Everything that he does will be within the bounds of nature, everything he invents will be merely the use of the active forces that he has received freftn her, and the more he exercises these forces, the more he will fashion his pleasure, the better he will be employing his faculties, and consequently the greater service he will render nature.

‘Allow me, dear young ladies,* went on Dorval, ‘to support

my arguments with a few examples;

Trance was nothing but a vast thieves’ kitchen under the feudal regime; onh the form has changed, the effects are the same. No longer is it the great vassals who rob, it is they who are plundered, and the nobilits, in losing their rights, have become the slave of the kings who conquered them.**

• The equality prescribed b> the Revolution is only the revenge of the

weak upon the strong, that which formerly was the other wav round, but this reaction is just, it is necessary that c\ ery one has his turn Every- thing will still var\ , because nothing is stable in nature, and because the governments directed by men must, like them, be flexible (Note added

later)

222

Juliette

The following passage indicates how Juliette, a typical de Sade character, derives extreme pleasure from destruction and pain which she has caused.

It is time, my friends, to speak to you a little about myself and above all to depict to you my luxury, the result of the most terrible orgies, so that )ou can compare it with the unfortunate state in which sister found herself through having taken the trouble to behave well. You will draw from these comparisons whatever conclusions your philosophy will ^suggest to you.

The scale on which my house was run was enormous; )ou must have suspected it, in view of all the expense I was obliged to make for my lover: but leaving on one side the host of things demanded for his pleasures. I still had a magnificent house in Paris, a charming property beyond Sceaux. one of the most delightful little houses at Barriere Blanche, twelve tribads, four women of the bedchamber, a woman who lead to me, two watch-women, three carriages, ten horses, lour valets chosen for the superiority of thcii members, ail the remaining attributes of a ver) large house, and lor myself alone, more than two millions to spend e\cry )eai aftci ni) house was paid for. Would you like the details of my life now?

I got up every da\ al 10 o’clock: until eleven I saw only my intimate friends, horn then until one o’clock I carried out my full toilet, at whicli all m) suitois were present; at one o'clock precisel) I received pm ate audiences concerning favours that people asked me for, 01 I received the Minister w'hen he was in Palis. At two o’clock 1 flev\ to my little house, where excellent procuresses allowed me *to find regularly every da) four men and four women with whom I let all ni) caprices have the fullest rein.

In order to give )ou an idea of the type of people I received there, it should be enough for you to know that not a single individual entered the house who did not cost me at least *5 louis, and often twice as much; therefore )ou cannot imagine what delectable and rare creatures, of both sexes, I

De Sade Selections

possessed. More than once I saw women and girls of the highest birth; and I can say that in this house I tasted pleasures that were most sweet and delights of a most refined nature. I returned home at four o'clock and always dined with a feu friends. I will not speak to you about my table: no house in Paris knew meals served with such splendour, delicacy and profusion. Nothing was ever fine enough or rare enough: the extreme lack of moderation that you see in me should, 1 think, enable you to judge this. One of my greatest pleasures resides in this minor vice; and 1 imagine that without excess in this respect, you never enjoy others ver\ much. After that I went to the theatre; or I received the Ministci, if it was one of his days.

Concerning my wardrobe, iny jewels, my savings and my furniture, although I had been with M. de Saint-Fond barely two years, I am not going too far in valuing these objects at more than four millions, two millions of which arc m gold

in my casket I love crime, and see all the means

of crime at my disposition. Ah, my friends, how sweet is the thought If I needed a new jewel, a new dress, my

lover, who never wanted to see me more than three times in the same clothes, satisfied my wish immediately. . .and he did all that without demanding more from me than disorder, freivy, libertinage,' and the most excessive care in the arrange- ments for his daily orgies. It was therefore by appeasing my tastes that all my tastes were m fact served; it was in giving myself over to every irregularitv of my senses that my senses were intoxicated. But in what moral situation had so much ease placed me? That is what I dare not say, my friends, but I must all the same come to an agreement with you about it. The extreme debauchery in which I plunged myself every das had deadened the reactions of the soul, to such an extent that, assisted by the pernicious advice that I received from all sides, I would not have deflected one ha’penny of my riches in order to restore life to an unfortunate woman. About this time a terrible famine made* itself felt in the neighbourhood of my property; all the inhabitants were reduced to the greatest dis-

2*4

Juliette

tress : there were some terrible scenes : young girls enticed into a life of debauchery, children abandoned and several suicides; people came to implore my help; I remained firm, and very impertinently lent colour to my refusals by referring to the enormous expense that my gardens had demanded of me. Can one give money to charity, I asked with insolence, when one causes boudoirs made of minors to be built in the depths of one’s arbours, and when one*s walks are embellished with statues of Venus, Cupid and Sappho? In vain was everything most likely to touch me shown to my unmoved countenance. . . Weeping mothers, naked children, spectres devoured by hunger; nothing disturbed me, nothing jolted my soul out of its normal state, and the) obtained nothing from me but telusals. The result was that in taking stock of my sensations, I experienced, just as my teachers had instructed me, instead of the paumil lecling ol pity, a certain excitement, produced by the evil which I believed I was doing in rejecting these unfortunates, which set roursing through my nerves a flame almost similar to that which burns in us every time we shatter same restraint or subjugate some prejudice. From that moment I icaliscd how much pleasure could be gained from putting these principles into effect; and it was then that I perceived that just as the spectacle of misfortune, caused by fate, could provide a sensual pleasure for souls disposed or prepared by principles such as those which had been instilled in me, so the spectacle of misfortune, caused by oneself, must heighten this enjoyment. As you know, my intelligence always penetrates deeply into things, and you cannot imagine what possibilities and delights this aroused in me..The reasoning was simple:

I experienced pleasure merely by refusing to put the unfor- tunate into a happy situation; w ? hat therefore would I not experience if I were myself the prime cause of this misfortune. If it is sweet to oppose good, I said to myself, it must be delicious to commit evil. I recalled and cherished this idea in those dangerous moments in which the body takes fire from the pleasures of the spirit. . . Instantt in which one denies oneself all the less because then nothing opposes the irregularity

v

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De Sade Selections

of one’s wishes or the impetuosity of one's desires, and the resultant sensation is only violent in proportion to the multi- tude of restraints that have to be broken, or to their sacredness. Once the illusion has vanished, if one became moderate again, the inconvenience would be mediocre: it is the story of the sins of the mind. It is obvious that they offend nobody, but unfortunately one goes further. What would the realisation of this idea be like, you venture to ask yourself, since its mere contact with my mind has moved me «o deeply? You give life to the cursed illusion, and its existence is a crime.

A quarter of a league from m) chateau there was a wretched cottage belonging to a very poor peasant named Martin-des- Granges, the father of eight children and the possessor of a wife w r ho could be called a treasure for her wisdom and household management; would you believe that this sanctuary ol misfor- tune and virtue excited my rage and mj depravit\ ?

Elvire and I had brought some Bologna phosphorus, and I had instructed this lively wdtty gi»i to entertain the whole family while 1 placed it skilfully among the straw' in an attic situated above the bedroom of these unfortunates. I returned and the children caressed me, while the mother told me with great good nature all the little details about her home. The father wished me to take some refreshment; /ealoush he offered me all the hospitality at his disposal. . . None ol that disarmed me, nothing softened me. ... I redoubled the caresses I was bestowing on each member of this interesting family, into whose bosom I came bringing murder; my treachery was at its peak; the more I betrayed, the greater my ecstasy. I gave ribbons to the mother, sweets to the children. We went back, but my delirium was such that I could not go home without begging Elvire to relieve the terrible state in wdiich I was. We hid

ourselves in a thicket

We returned home, I was in a state that cannot be described, it seem to me that all disorders. . .all vices had simultaneously conspired together to debauch my heart; I experienced a sort

of drunkenness. . .a sort of rage I was heartbroken

at having touched only so small a portion of humanity.

2*6

Juliette

Returning to my boudoir we noticed the sky lit up.

‘Oh! madame,’ cried Elvire, opening a window. ‘Look there. . .fire. . .a fire where we wer$ this morning. . .'

And I fell almost senseless. . . Left alone with this beauti- ful girl

‘Let us go. . .' I told hfr, ‘I think I hear cries; let us go and savour this spectacle. . . Elvire, it is my work. . . I must see everything, I must hear everything, I do not want anything to escape me’.

We departed. . .both of us with our hair loose, our dresses crumpled, both inebriated: we resembled bacchantes. Twenty yards from this scene of horror, behind a little mound that concealed us from the eyes of others without preventing us from seeing everything, I fell once again into the arms of Elvir, luiself almo«* as agitated as I was: in the glow of the homicidal flames that my ferocity had lit. . .to the shrill cries of suffering and despair that my lust had occasioned. . . .and I uas the happiest of women.

At last w e got to our feet in order to investigate my crime. I saw with sorrow that two of the victims had escaped me; the other corpses I recognised, and I turned them over with iti\ feet. ‘These people were living this morning.' I told myself. . . In a few hours I had destroyed everything. . .all that to satisfy m)self. . .so that then is what murder is! . . . a little disorganised matter. . .a few changes in combinations, a few molecules shattered, and flung back into the crucible of nature who will within a few days return them to earth in a new form. If I take life away from one, I give it to the other.

If I had been all alone, upon my

honour I do not know to what extremes I would have taken the effects of my disorder. The father and one of the children alone had escaped; the mother and the other seven were before my eyes. And I said to m)self, as I looked on them. . .as I touched them even:

‘I am the one who has just peroetrated these murders; they are the work of myself alone! . . .’

• • 7

De Sade Selections

... As for the house, there were the merest traces of it; one could hardly tell the place it had occupied.

Well now! Would you believe, my friends, that when I related this story ot Clairwil, she assured me that I had but trifled with crime, and behaved like a coward.

‘There are three or four serious faults in the execution of this adventure,’ she told me. 'Firstly/ (and I am repeating all this to you so that you may better judge the character of this astonishing woman) 'Firstly/ she said, 'you were at fault in your behaviour, and if unfortunately anyone had come. . . from your disorder. . .from your gestures. . .you would have been judged guilty. Beware of this fault; as much ardour as you like inside, but on the surface, the utmost phlegm. When you can in this way restrain the effects of your lust, they will have more force.

'Secondly, your mind failed to see the thing on a large scale; for you will agree that when you have under your win- dows an immense citv and seven or eight huge villages round about, there is a certain moderation . .a certain modestv, in confining your fren/ies to a single house, and that in a verv isolated place. . .from fear that the flames, b\ spreading, might increase the extent of vour little atrocit\ * I can sec that you trembled when you committed it. And that therefore is an enjoyment spoilt, for those of crime will not permit restric- tion. I know them; if the imagination has not foreseen every- thing; if the hand has not accomplished everything, it is impossible for the delirium to be complete, because there will always remain a certain remorse. . .7 could have done more , and / did not . And virtue’s^ remorse is worse than that of crime: when you are accustomed to virtue and commit a bad deed, you always imagine that the host of good works will efface this stain, and since you can convince yourself easily of what you desire, you end up by calming yourself; but he who, like us, vigorously proceeds in the career of vice, never forgives himself a missed opportunity, because there is nothing to compensate him. Virtue does not come to his assistance; and the resolution tjiat he makes to do something worse, by

228

Juliette

further exciting his mind with evil will surely not console him for the chance to sin that he missed.

‘Moreover, considering your plan only in outline,’ con- tinued Clairwil, ‘there is still another great fault, for I would have followed up des Granges, myself. In his position he could have been burnt as an incendiarist, and you will realise that if I had been in your place 1 vould certainly not have missed that. When the house of an underling, as he was, on your estate, catches fire, are you not aware that >ou have the right to make enquiries through your justices whether or not he was guilty? How do you know that this man did not want to get rid of his wife and children in order to go and chase after women outside the district? As soon as he’d shown you his back you should have had him arrested as a fugitive, and handed him ovu f o vour justice as an incendiarist. With a few louis 'you’d have found witnesses, Klvire herself would have done. She’d have testified that in the morning she saw this man roaming about in his attic, like a madman, that she questioned him and he r »ulJn’t answer her questions. And within a week they would have come and given you the voluptuous spectacle of seeing your man burnt at your own gate. May you profit from this lesson, Juliette, and never think of a crime without enlarging it; and while )ou are committing it, elaborate your ideas even more.'

Such, my friends, were the cruel additions that Clairwil would have wished to sec me make to the crime that I con- fessed to her, and I will not conceal from you the fact that I was deeply affected by her reasoning, and promised myself faith- fully never to fall into such grave errors again. The peasant's escape particularly grieved me, and I do not know what I would not have given to have seen him roasted at my gate. I have never consoled myself for this escape.

De Sade Selections

From Juliette

When de Sade visited Italy in 1775-6 he wrote many notes which are among the new manuscript discoveries and as yet unpublished. They were called Descriptions critiques et philo - sophiques de Naples, Florence et leurs environs. The following description of Florence, which occurs about half way through Juliette may perhaps have been based on these notes.

Permit me at this juncture, my friends, to speak to you for a moment about the superb city wnere we arrived shortly afterwards. These details will afford some respite to your imagination which has been sullied too long by my obscene stories: a diversion of this kind, it seems to me, can only make more piquant still that which truth, which you have demanded from me, will perhaps soon necessitate.

Florence, built by the soldiers of Sulla, embellished b) the triumvirs, destroyed by Totila, rebuilt by Charlemagne, enlarged at the expense of the ancient town of Fiesole, of which only the ruins can be seen today, the prey for a long time of internal revolution, subjugated by the Medici, who, after ruling for two hundred years, allowed it to pass in the end to the house of Lorraine, is now ruled, along with Tuscany, of which it is the capital, by the Archduke Leopold, brother of tjhe Queen of France,* a despotic prince, proud and un- gracious, vile and libertine like all his family, as my accounts will soon inform you.

The first political observation that I made on arriving at this capital was to feel convinced that the Florentines still regretted their native princes, and that it was not without suffering that they had submitted to foreigners. The simple exterior of Leopold does not inconvenience anyone; all the superiority of Germany can be seen, in spite of his popular dress, and those who know the spirit of the house of Austria know very well that it will always be much easier to simulate virtues than to acquire them.

• It should be noted that these details were correct when Madame de

Lorsange (Juliette) travelled through Italy. We are aware of the changes which nave occurred since in this town as well as in other parts of this beautiful country. (Note added later.)

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Juliette

Florence, situated at the foot of the Appenines, is divided m two by the Arno, this central part of the capital of Tuscany resembles somewhat the part of Pans which is traversed by the Seine, but it would need much for the town to be as popu lated and as big as the one to which we compare it for a moment The brown colour of the stones which serve for the construction of its palaces gave it a mournful look which is displeasing to the eye If I had liked churches I would no doubt have had some fine descriptions to give you, but the horror I have lor everything connected with religion is so strong that I do not allow myself to go into any ol these temples It was not the same story as far as the superb gallery of the Grand Duke was concerned, I went to see it the das after I airived I will never be able to communicate to you the enthusiasm that I felt in the midst ol these works of art I love the aits, thev bring warmth to m> mind, nature is so beautiful that one should cherish all that imitates her Ah* can we encourage too much those who love and copy her* I he only wa* to snatch Iroin nature some of her secrets is to study hci unceasingly it is only b\ examining her in her most secret corners that you can reach the annihilation ol prejudice I adore a woman with talent, her appearance can seduce but hci talents attach, and I think that foi one s amour - pjopie the lattei are more important than the former

My guide, as you can easily imagine, did not fail to stop me at the room which is part of this celebrated gallery, where Cosuno I of the Medici was surprised in a somewhat singular deed The famous Vasari was painting the ceiling of this apartment when Cosimo came u^with his daughtei, with whom he was very much in love not suspecting that the artist was working high up in the rafters this incestuous prince caressed the object of his love m a fashion which left no room for doubt A couch pusented itself Sosimo took advantage of it, and the act was consummated before the eyes of the painter who from that very moment fled from Florence, ceitain that violent means would be used to stifle such a secret, and that anyone who knew it would soon be placed m a position where

• 31

De Sade Selections

he could not speak. Vasari was right, he lived in a century when Machiavellianism was making progress; he was wise in not exposing himself to the cruel results of this doctrine.

Not far from there I was shown an altar in solid gold, adorned with fine precious stones which I could not see with- out coveting. These immense riches, it was explained to me, were an ex-veto offering that the Grand Duke Ferdinand II, who died in 1630, offered to Saint Charles-Borromi in order to regain his health. The gift was in course of construction when the prince died; the descendants decided somewhat philo- sophically that, since the saint had not granted the wish, they were under no obligation to recompense him, and they caused the treasure to be brought back. How exaggerated do the fruits of superstition become, and how could one ascertain with truth that among all human follies this one is without doubt that which degrades most our mind and our reason?

I went from there to the famous Venus by Titian, and 1 confess that my senses were more moved by the contempla- tion of this sublime picture than they were by Ferdinand's ex-voto offering: the beauties of nature interest the soul, religious extravagances make it tremble.

Titian's Venus is a beautiful blonde woman, with the finest eyes one could possibly see, features somewhat clear-cut for a.blondc, whose ’charms seem to need softening by the hand of nature as well as her character. You see her on a white couch, scattering flowers with one hand, hiding her charming little sex with the other. Her pose is voluptuous, and you do not weary of examining the details of this sublime picture. Sbrigani found that this Venijs had a prodigious resemblance to Raimonde, one of my new friends; he was right. That beauti- ful creature blushed innocently when we told her, and a fiery kiss that I bestowed on her rosy mouth convinced her to what point I approved my husband’s comparison.

In the following room, called the Chamber of the Idols, we saw an infinite number of masterpieces by Titian, Veronese and Guido . \ strange idea is carried out this room.

You can see a tomb full of corpses, in which you can observe

Juliette

all the different degrees of decomposition from the moment of death to the total destruction of the individual. This sombre work is executed in wax which is coloured so naturally that nature could not be more expressive nor more exact. The im- pression is so strong that as you look at this masterpiece the senses appear to respond simultaneously: unconsciously you put your hand over your C^se. My cruel imagination was diverted by this spectacle. How many people had my wicked- ness made to suffer th^se terrible transformations? . . . Let

• us go on: nature no doubt inclined me to these crimes, since

she delights me still simply through the recollection of them.

Not far from there is another sepulchre of plague victims, where the same degrees of change can be seen; you notice there especially one wretched man, entirely naked, carrying a dead body that he is throwing down with the others and who, suffocated by the stench and the sight he sees, falls over back- wards and dies; this group expresses a terrifying truth.

Next we passed on to things more gay. The room, known as the tribune, offered us the famous Medici Venus, which was placed at the back. It is impossible, on seeing this superb piece of work, not to succumb to the most pleasant emotion. A Greek, they say, fell in love with a statue. . .1 confess, that being near this one I could have imitated him; as you examine the beauty of the details in this celebrated work you can easily believe that, as tradition states, the sculptor must have needed five hundred models in order to finish it; the proportions of this sublime statue, the charms of the face, the divine con- tours of each limb, the graceful curves of the bosom and the hips, are the strokes of genius which could rival nature, and I doubt whether three times as many models, chosen among all the beauties of the earth, could today supply a creature who would not lose by the comparison. The general opinion is that this statue shows us the maritime Venus of the Greeks. I shall not dwell longer on a piece of which there have been so many copies. . .Religious superstition in the past caused this fine work to be broken. . .The idiots! they worshipped the creator of nature and thought they were serving him in

• 33

De Sade Selections

destroying his finest work. People are by no means agreed on the name of the sculptor; general opinion attributes this masterpiece to Praxiteles, others believe it made by Cleomenes: no matter, it is beautiful, people admire it, it is everything necessary to the imagination and whoever may be its creator, the pleasure you take in admiring the work is none the less on eof the most pleasant you can experience.

My eyes alighted from there on the Hermaphrodite . You know that the Romans, who were all passionately interested in this type of monster, admitted them by preference in their licentious orgies; this one, no doubt, was one of those whose reputation for lubricity was the best established; it is unfor- tunate that the artist, in representing the legs as crossed, did not want to show what characterises the double sex

Close by is a group consisting of Caligula embracing his sister; these proud masters of the universe, far from concealing their vices, caused them to be immortalised by the arts

We were shown some chastity belts. And at the menace that I made to my two friends that I would clothe them in similar garments in order to be sure of them the tender Elise assured me delicately that she only needed the love that I inspired her to be kept within the limits of the most precise type of temperanqp.

Next we saw the finest and most strange collection of daggers; some of them were poisoned; no race has brought so much refinement to murder as the Italians; it is therefore very easy to see among them everything that can serve this deed, in the most cruel and treacherous manner.

• 34

LA PHILOSOPHIE DANS LE BOUDOIR

LA PHILO SOPHIF DANS LE BOUDOIR

Published in 1795 as a 'posthumous work by the author oi Justine', La Philosophic dans le Bo doir, which consists of seven dialogues, describes the initiation of a \oung girl into the art of love making v Towards the end de Sade con trived to introduce the fame s Fran^ais, enrol e un effort , a 22,000 word pamphlet which it had been hoped to reproduce here in its entirety, but this was lound to be not possible •^During the 1848 Revolution in France the pamphlet was reprinted and circulated as propaganda material.

• * * * *

/ truckmen , yt / one mote effort, if you wish to be republicans

RELIGION

I come to offer you some great ideas, you will listen to them and reflect upon them. If all do not lind favour, some at least will prevail. I will have made some contribution to the progress of enlightenment, and 1 will be satisfied I do not hide the fact, in any way, I am grieved to see the slowness with which we strive to reach our goal. With anxiety I sense that once again we arc on the point of missing it. Is it conceivable that wc shall have reached this goal, when we have been given laws? Let no one think so What shall we do with laws without religion? We need a faith, a faith suited to the republican character and far removed from evei possibly resuming that of Rome In an age w'hen we arc so convinced that religion must rest upon moraiits, and not morality upon religion, we need a religion in tune with our way of life, as it were the development, the inevitable extension of it, a religion which can elevate the soul and keep it perpetuity at the level of that precious liberty which it venerates today as its only idol.

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De Sade Selections

Oh, you who hold the sickle in your hands, deal the last blow against the tree of superstition I Do not be content with pruning the branches, tear out completely a growth which has such contagious effects. Convince yourselves entirely that your code of liberty and equality is too openly opposed to the ministers of Christ’s altars for a single one of them ever to adopt it in good faith, or not to seek to dislodge it if it should gain som ehold upon men’s consciences. Where is the priest, who, comparing the state to which we have just reduced him with that which he enjoyed before, would not try everything within his power to regain both the confidence and the author- ity which have been taken away from him? And what weak cowardly creatures would soon become again the slaves of our ambitious cleric? Why do people not realise that the discom- forts of the past can still be born anew? When the Christian church was in its infancy, were priests not what thev are today? You see to what they had attained' But what had brought them so far? Was it not the means that their religion furnished? If now you do not prohibit this religion absolutely, its preach- ers, possessing still the same means, will soon reach the same goal. Therefore wipe out for ever what can one dav destroy your work. Remember that the fruits of vour labours will only b<f husbanded by your descendants, and it is sour dutv not to bequeath them one of these dangerous seeds which could hurl them back into the chaos from which we escaped with

so much difficulty Frenchmen, do not stop here,

all Europe wails, with one hand nlreads on the bandage which hypnotises her eyes, for the effort you must make to tear it from her forehead Hasten, do not grant to Holy Rome, who is agitating on all sides to quell your power, the time in which perhaps still to preserve some proselytes. Strike without cir- cumspection her haughts quivering head and within two months the .tree of liberty can overshadow the ruins of St. Peter’s pulpit, overlay with the weight of its victorious branches the .... idols of Christianity, so impudently raised upon the ashes of Cato, Bnitus, and their kin.

La Philosophic dans 1e Boudoir

Frenchmen, I repeat, Europe is waiting for you to free her from both the sceptre and the censer. Remember you can- not possibly deliver her from royal tyranny without breaking at the same time her fetters of religious superstition. The bonds of one are too intimately linked v.ith the other for you to let one of the two survive, and not fall back quickly beneath the domination of the one* v ou have neglected to dissolve. No longer should a republican bow down at the feet of either an imaginary being or gi vile imposter. His only gods should be courage and libnty. Rome disappeared as soon as Christian- ity was preached there, and France will be lost if she believes in it again.

Look closely at the absurd dogmas, the frightening ms stories, monstrous ceremonials and impossible ethics of this . . . faith, and you will see if it can suit a republican.

To convince oursehes of this truth, let us look at the lew individuals who remain attached to the . . . cult of our fathers. We sKdl sec if they ate not all the irreconcilable enemies of tl»t present system, we shall see if their numbers do not entireh compose that so justly despised caste of royalist s and anstocrats The slave of a crowned brigand mas, if he likes, bow down before a plaster idol; such a thing is made for his muddy soul; w*ho serves kings must adore gods* But for us Frenchmen, for us, my countrymen, to cringe beneath such contemptible restraints’ Rather die a thousand times than submit to them again’ Since w r e believe a cult to be necessary, let us imitate that of the Romans. Exploits, passions, heioes — these were the object of their veneration. Such idols elevated and electrified the soul. Thev did more, thev communicated the virtues of the worshipped being The devotee of Minerva wished to become wise; courage was in the heart of the man who was seen at th feet of Mars. Not a single god of these great men lacked power. All passed on the fire that raged within them to the soul of their worshipper. And as had the hope of being himself adored onejlav, he aspired to be- come at least as great as the one he took for a model. . . . But

• 39

De Sade Selections

what, on the other hand, do we find in the .... Gods of Christianity?

Is it in pure theism that we shall find more motive for greatness and ambition? Will the adoption of a chimera give our soul that degree of strength essential to the republican virtues and lead man on to fostci or to practice them? Do not believe it. We have turned awa) from this ghost. Atheism is now the only s)stem for all men capable of reasoning. The greater our enlightenment the more our realisation that as motion is inherent in matter the agency needed to induce that motion had become an illusory being; since everything that existed had to be in motion from its verj essence, a prime mover was unnecessary. . •

Let the total extermination of all cults therefore he added to the principles that we are propagating for all Europe. Do not be content with breaking sceptres, pulverise the idols lor ever. It has always been but one step from superstition to royalism. It must undoubtedly be so indeed since one of the first articles of the consecration of kings was ihe maintenance of the dominant religion as one of the political bases which would best support their thrones. But now that the throne has toppled down happily for ever, do not be afraid to eradicate in the same way the foundation upon which it rested.

Yes, citizens, religion is inconsistent with the code of free- dom. This you have felt. Never will the free man bow to the gods of Christianity; never will its dogmas, rites, masteries and ethics suit republicans. \et one more effort. You are work- ing 40 destroy all prejudices, so do not leave one of them untouched. How r much more certain must we be of their return if the one you allow to exist is the ver) cradle of all the others.

Let us stop thinking that religion can be useful to man. Once we have good laws we can do without religion. But, we are assured, the people need it, it diverts them, and restrains them. Excellent 1 Then in that case give us a religion suitable

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for free men Bring us back the pagan gods. Willingly will we adore Jupiter, Hercules or Pallas — but no more of this fabulous author of a universe which sets itself m motion, no more of this infinite god who nevertheless fills everything with his immensity, a god all powerful who never achieves what he desires, a being supremely good who creates only malcontents, the friend of order whose government is all m chaos No, we want no more of a God who upsets Nature, who is the father of confusion, and who moves mankind at the moment when man abandons himself to horrible deeds Such a God makes us shudder with indignation, and wc consign him once and lor all to that oblivion from which the infamous Robespierre wished to recall him

I rcnchmcn, substitute in place of this phantom

those imposing images which made Rome the mistress of the univt.ae Le* us treat all these Christian idols as we treated those of oui kings We have replaced the emblems of libeity on the foundations which formed) supported tyrants Let us similarly erect again the effigies of great men on the pedestals of those rascals loved by Christianity I et us cease to fear the c fleet of atheism upon our \illages Ha\e not the peasants realised the need for annihilating the catholic cult, which is so contradictory to the true principles ol liberty Have they not seen without either fcai or sorrow then altars and their presby tenes ovcrtlnown* Statues of Mars, Minerva and

I ibcrt> will be installed in the most lnipoitant places in their homes an mnual fete will be celebrated there every year, the laui els will be awarded tq the citizen who has deserved the best from his fatherland At the entrance to a lonely wood Venus, Hymen and Love will *bc erected beneath a rustic temple, (here to receive the homage of lovers, and there beauty will crown constancy with the hand of the graces

The fact of loving will not alone be enough to be worthy of this crown, it will still be necessary to have deserved it, heroism, talents, humanity, greatness of soul, proof of patriot- ism — those are the titles that the lover at the feet of his beloved will be made to establish, and they w id be equally as valuable

De Sade Selections

as those of birth and wealth which a foolish pride demanded formerly. At least some virtues will blossom from this cult, whereas only crimes spring from that which we had the weak- ness to profess. This cult will march hand in hand with the liberty we serve; it will inspire it, fortify and cherish it f where theism, by its nature and its essence, is the most deadly enemy of the liberLy we serve.

Was one drop of blood spilt when the pagan idols were destroyed under the Eastern Empire? The revolution was pre- pared by the stupidity of a race that had again been enslaved, and was effected without the least hindrance. How can we fear that the process of philosophy will be more painful than that of despotism ! It is only the priests who keep this people whom you fear so much to enlighten still kneeling in sub- mission to their chimerical God. Remove them from the people and the veil will fall of its own accord. Have faith that this people, who are so much wiser than you imagine, released now from the shackles of the tyrants, will soon be freed from super- stition. You are afraid of them if the) lack this restraint! What! Oh’ believe this, citizens, that the man who is not deterred by the physical sword of the law, will be no more held back by the moral fear of the tortures of Hell, which he has braved alone since his childhood. In one word, )our theism has caused many atrocities to be committed but never pre- vented a single one.

If it is true that we are blinded b\ passions, that their effect raises a cloud before our eyes, disguising from us the dangers which surround them, how can we suppose that any- thing which is remote from us, such as the punishments decreed by your God, can succeed in 'dispersing this cloud which the very sword of the law, always suspended above the head of passion, cannot remove? If it is proved then that this supple- ment of constraints imposed by the idea of a god becomes useless, and its other effects are proved to be dangerous, I ask what purpose it can serve, and for what motives we can support the continuation of its existence.

Will it be said that c we are not yet mature enough to con-

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solidate our revolution in a way so striking? Fellow citizens, the road we have trod since 1789 was difficult in another way from that which lies ahead of us. Public opinion will need much less stirring for what I now propose to you than it has done since the time of the storming of the Bastille when we have had to whip it up on every hand. Let us believe that a nation wise enough and bp»ve enough to drag an impudent monarch from the peak of grandeur to the foot of the scaffold, a nation which in these few years could conquer so many pre- judices and break loose from so many ridiculous restraints, will be wise enough and brave enough to sacrifice a phantom even more illusory than the shadow of a king to a real good, to the prosperity of the republic.

Frenchmen, you will strike the first blows. Your national education will do the rest. But hasten with this task, make it one of your most impor* .tnt aims, and above all base it upon that essential morality which is so neglected in religious education

Instruct your children to cherish those virtues

which were hardly mentioned formerly and which, without your religious faoles are sufficient for their individual happiness. Make them realise that this happiness consists in making others

as happy as we would like to be ourselves by making

them feel that virtue is only necessary because their personal happiness depends on it, they will become honest folk through selfishness, and this law which governs all men will always be the surest of all. Avoid therefore, with the utmost care, includ- ing any religious fables in this national education. Never lose sight of the fact that it is free men we wish to mould, and not base worshippers of a god. Let a simple philosopher tutor these new pupils in the incomprehensible sublimities of Nature, let him prove to them that the knowledge of a god, often dangerous to men, never furthers their happiness, and that they will not be any happier by accepting as the cause of something they do not understand something they understand still less. It is far less essential to understand nature than to enjoy her and respect her laws. These laws are as wise as they are simple, they are written in the heart of every man, and he need only

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ask his heart the question to discover their motive. If men insist on hearing about a creator, tell them that things have always been as they are, have never had a beginning, and since they never need to have an end it is therefore as useless as it is impossible for a man to go back to an imaginary origin which explains nothing and profits him nothing. Tell them that it is impossible to have a true idea of a being who makes no impression on any of our senses. All our ideas are repre- sentations of objects which we find striking; what can represent to us the idea of a god which is evidently an idea without an object? Is not such an idea, you add y as impossible as an effect without a cause? What can an idea without a prototype be, except an illusion? Some doctors, you will continue, assert that the idea of a god is innate, and men possess it from their mother s womb. But that is false, you will add. Ever) principle is a judgment, every judgment is the consequence of exper- ience, and experience is acquired only by the exercise of the senses. It follows from this, obviously that religious principles are related to nothing and are not in an\ was inborn. How could reasonable beings, you will continue, ever have been per- suaded that the most difficult thing for them to comprehend was the most essential to them? Because they have been greatls frightened, and when man is afraid, he ceases to reason Above all, because the\ have been advised to suspect their reason, and conflict in the mind gives rise to faith in an\ thing and analysis of nothing. Tell them again that ignorance and fear are the twin foundation of all religions.

The uncertainty in which man finds himself over his rela- tionship with his God is precisely the motive which attaches him to his religion. Man is afraid in the darkness, physically as much as morally; fear becomes habitual in him, and develops into need. If he had nothing more to hope for or to fear, he would believe that something was lacking. Finallv vou must return to the usefulness of morality. On this great subject give them many more examples than lessons, many more proofs than books, and you will make good citizens of them, good soldiers, good fathers and good husbands. You will make them

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men all the more attached to their country’s freedom, because their minds will never again be confronted with the idea of slavery, their spirit never troubled with religious terror. Then real patriotism will break out in every heart, reigning in all its might and purity because it will become the only dominating sentiment there, its force unsapped by any foreign principle. Then, you can be certain of jour second generation, and your work, consolidated by it, will become the law of the universe. But if through fear or cowardice these counsels are not fol- lowed, if you leave standing the foundations of an edifice you thought had been destroyed, what is going to happen? The building will rise again upon the same foundations, the same colossal figures will be erected there, with the cruel difference that this time they will be cemented with such strength that neither your generation nor those to come will succeed in over- throwing them Let no one doubt that teligions are the cradle of despotism. The first of all the tyrants w r as a priest. Numa and Augustus, the first king and the first emperor of Rome, were themsel' .*s issue iaied with the priesthood; Constantine and Clovis were abbots rather than sovereigns; Heliogabalus was the priest of the Sun. In every age there was such a close link between despotism and religion that it is all too obvious that by destroying one you must undermine the other, for the very' important reason that the first will always serve as law to the second. But I do not propose, all the same, massacres or deportations — all such horrors are too foreign to my heart for me to dare imagine them even for a moment. No, no assassin- ation, no deportation; these atrocities arc proper to kings or the criminals who imitate them t By copying them you will not impress with horror those who carried them out before. Use force only for the idols — those who serve them need onlv ridicule. The sarcasms of Ju'ian harmed the Christian religion

more than all the tortures of Nero. Yes, let us

make the priests into soldiers. Some are soldiers alreadv. Let them stick to a profession that is so noble for a republican, but do not let them talk to us again about their chimerical being, or his fabulous religion. . .

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MORALS

Having proved that theism is in no way suitable for a repub- lican government, it seems to be necessary to show that French morals are no more suitable either. This question is all the more important since it is morals which will provide the motives for the laws that are in the making.

Frenchmen, you are too enlightened not to realise that a new government is going to need new morals. No citizen of a free State can possibly behave like the slave of a despotic king; the difference between their interests, their duties and the relationships among themselves essentially prescribe an entirely different mode of conduct in society. A host of petty errors and small social offences, which were considered very essential under the government of kings, whose demands were greater as their need to impose restraints was greater in order to make themselves inaccessible and worthy of their subjects’ admiration, will become meaningless now. Other crimes, known by the names of regicide and sacrilege, must vanish under a government which no longer knows either kings or religion in the same way in a republican state. Reflect, citizens, that by granting liberty of conscience and of the press, you come very close to granting freedom of action; except for anything which has a direct effect upon the foundations of the constitution there are innumerably less crimes for you to punish, because in fact there are very few criminal actions in a society founded upon liberty and equality. If you consider and examine matters closely, the only truly criminal act is what is punished by the law, because nature’s promptings, which impel us equally to- wards vice and virtue by reason of the way we are made, or, more philosophically still, by reason of her need for either one or the other, would be a very certain yardstick for the precise measurement of what is evil. But, for the better development of my ideas on so essential a theme, we shall classify the differ- ent actions in the life of man that have up to the present been regarded as criminal, and then we shall measure them up together against the tqie duties of a republican.

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At all times a man’s duties have been considered in three different groups as follows:

1. Those dictated by his conscience and credulity in relation to the Supreme Being.

a. Those that he is obliged to fulfil in relation to his fellow- men.

3. Finally those that relsrt % only to himself.

We should now be certain that there is no god with an) interest in us, and that we are creations made necessary by nature, like plants and animals, being in this world because it was impossible for us not to be in it. This certainty un- doubtedly destroys with one blow, as can be seen, the hrst part of these duties, those, I mean, for which we falsely hold our- selves responsible to the Deity. All religious transgressions vanish with them, all those known by vague and indeterminate name* such as impiety , sacrilege, blasphemy, atheism, etc . all those in fact tor which Athens punished so unjustly Alttbtades, and France the unfortunate Labarre .

Let us turn to the second class of man's duties, those binding him to his fellows This class is the most extensive of all.

Chiistian morality, which is too vague about man's rela- tionship with his fellow men, lays down foundations so full of sophistries that we cannot possibly admit them, because if you wish to construct principles you must avoid basing them on sophistries. This . . . morality tells us indeed to love our neighbour as ourselves Certainly nothing would be more sublime — if something which is false can ever possess the char acteristics of beauty. There is no question of loving our fellows as ourselves because that is against the law of nature, and our whole lives must be directed only by her agency. It is only possible to love our ieighbours as friends given to us by nature, and with whom she should live all the better in a republican State because the disappearance of distinctions must necessarily strengthen our ties.

Henceforth let humanity, fraternity and benevolence pre-

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scribe for us our reciprocal duties, according to these principles, and let us fulfil them each with the simple degree of energy that nature granted us for that purpose without blaming, and above all without punishing, those colder, more splenetic characters who do not find in these ties, touching though they are, all the sweet rewards experienced by others. For it will be agreed that it would be a palpable absurdity in this case to wish to lay down universal laws. Such a procedure would be as ridiculous as if the general of an army wished to dress all his soldiers in uniforms of the same size. It is a terrible injustice to expect men, whose temperaments are unequal, to bind them- selves to identical laws; what suits one does not suit another.

I recognise that it is impossible to make as many laws as there are men, but the laws could be so easy and so small in number that all men, whatever their natures, could easily submit to them. I would further demand that this small num- ber of laws be of the kind that is easily adaptable to every different character, the guiding principle being to strike in varying degrees, according to the individual to be affected. It is clear that the practice of particular virtues is impossible for certain men, as .there are particular remedies which do not suit certain temperaments. Would it not, therefore, be the height of injustice for you to bring down the law upon a man incapable of submitting to it?

Would not the iniquity you would thereby commit be as great as that of which you would be guilty if you tried to force a blind man to distinguish colours?

It follows from these first principles, one feels that it is necessary to make the law mild and above all to eliminate for ever the atrocity of the death penalty, because the law is b) its very nature cold and cannot be moved by passions which in a man may justify the cruel act of murder. Man receives impulses from Nature which enable him to pardon this act, but the law on the other hand is always in opposition to Nature and receives nothing from her. It has no authority to permit itself the same motives, and cannot possibly have the same rights. These are learned and subtle distinctions

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which escape many people because very few people think, but they will be welcomed by the educated audience I am address- ing, and will have an influence, I hope, upon the new code that is in preparation.

1 he second reason for abolishing the death penalty is that it has never stamped out crime, which goes on every day at the very foot of the gallows*

This punishment must be removed in fact, because there is no worse calculation than to kill a man for having killed another. The obvious result of this procedure is that where befoie there was one man less, suddenly there arc two less, and only executioners and imbeciles can be familiar with such arithmetic.

Be that as it ma), the sins that wc can commit against our brothers can be reduced in the end to four main groups; calumny, theft, offences proceeding from impunty which can disagieeably affect others, and murder .

All these actions were considered capital offences in a monarchical ^gime, are they so serious in a republican State? We shall am l ; se this question in the light of philosophy, for only in this way should such an examination be conducted. Do not accuse me of being a dangerous innovator, or tell me that there is a risk of softening the action of remorse on the con- science of the wrongdoer, as may perhaps be caused by these words, that it would be overwhelmingly wrong to increase the tendency to crime m the heart of the same wrongdoer by the mildness of my morality. I formally testify here that I have no such perverse intentions. I am expounding ideas which have crystallised within me since the age of reason, ideas whose flow, for so many centuries, has bedh opposed by the infamous despotism of tyrants; so much the worse for those who would be corrupted by these great ideas, so much the worse for those who can only fasten ipon the evil in philosophical views, which are capable of being corrupted to any need. Who knows if these people would not perhaps be poisoned by reading seneca and Charron? It is not to them that I speak* I only speak to those capable of understanding me, and they will read my words without danger.

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I confess with the utmost frankness that I have never believed calumny to be wrong, especially in a constitution like ours where all men are closer to each other, more intimately linked, and obviously have a greater interest in knowing one another better. There are two possibilities; calumny is either directed against a truly wicked man or it lights upon a man of virtue. It will be agreed that in the first case it makes hardly any difference if a little more evil is spoken about a man already known for his many sins. It may even happen then that the non-existent evil will throw a little light upon that which does exist, and then will the evildoer be better known.

Imagine there is an unhealthy influence in Hanover, but that exposing myself to this inclement air the only risk I run is catching a bout of fever. Would I have any grievance against a man who told me, in order to stop me going, that a visit there would kill me? No, without a doubt, for by frightening me with a major evil, he has prevented me from suffering a minor one.

What, on the other hand, when calumny strikes the virtu- ous man? There is nothing to be alarmed about, let him show himself and all the venom of the slanderer will soon rebound upon himself. For such people calumny is but a purifying test from which their virtue will only emerge more radiant. There is even some profit in this for the total sum of virtues in a republic, because the sensitive and virtuous man, stung bs the injustice he has just experienced, will devote himself to even better efforts. He will wish to triumph over this calumny from which he thought he was protected, and his good actions will only acquire a further degree of strength. Thus, in the first case the slanderer will have produced good enough results in exaggerating the vices of the dangerous man, and in the second he will have produced excellent results in forcing virtue to display itself in its entirety.

Therefore I ask you now in what respect you can have anything to fear from a calumniator, especially in a State where it is essential to distinguish the wicked and to increase the power of the good? So beware then of pronouncing any penalty

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against calumny, and regard it in two ways, as a warning light and as a stimulant, and in any case as something very useful. The legislator whose ideas roust all be of the same magnitude as the work on which he is engaged, must never study the effect of crime in its individual aspect only. It is the mass effect which must be examined, and when he observes the effects resulting from calumny in this light, I defy him to find in them anything to punish; I defy him to be able to attach any shadow of justice to the law which punishes it. On the other hand he will be the most just and upright of men if he favours and rewards it.

Theft is the second of the moral wrongs which we propose to scrutinise.

If we scan the records of antiquity we shall see that theft was allowed, rewarded, in all the republics of Greece. Sparta and Laceaaemonia openly favoured it; several other nations legarded it as a soldierly virtue; it is certain that it fosters courage, strength, dexterity, all the virtues in fact useful to a republican constitution, and consequently to our own. 1 would dare iu ask, without partiality now, whether theft, the effect of which is to equalise wealth, is a great evil in a State whose aim is equality? Surely not, for if it maintains equality on one side, it makes the other side more scrupulous in pre- serving its wealth. There was one nation which punished not the thief but him who let himself be robbed, in order to teach him to look after his property. This leads us to a wider field of reflection.

God forbid that I wish here to attack or destroy the oath of respect for property lately taken by tlie nation; but may I be allowed a few ideas on the injustice of this oath? What is the essence of an oath sworn by all the individuals of a nation? Is it not the maintenance of perfect equality between citizens, the equal submission of all to the law protecting the property of all? And therefore I now ask if a law is very just which orders the man with nothing to respect the man with every- thing? What are the elements of the social pact? Do they not consist in the surrender of a small part of your liberty and

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property in order to preserve and safeguard what you retain of both?

All laws rest on these foundations; they are the motives for the punishments inflicted on the man who abuses his free- dom; in the same way they authorise taxation. The reason why a citizen does not cry out against the demands made upon him is that what he gives is the means for safeguarding what remains to him. But, once again, by what right shall the man with nothing bind himself to a contract that protects only the man with everything? If you are performing an act ol equity in defending the property of the rich with your oath, are you not doing an injustice in extracting this oath from a defender who has nothing? What interest is there for the latter in your oath? Why do you want him to promise something in favour only of the man who differs from him so much by his riches? Surely there is nothing more unjust: an oath should have an equal effect on all who take it. It is impossible for it to bind a man with no interest in keeping it, for then it would no longer be the agreement of a tree people; it would be the weapon of the strong against the weak, and against that the latter should rebel unceasingly. Now that is what happens in the oath of respect for property that the nation has just demanded; the rich alone bind the poor with it, the rich alone have an interest In this oath, which the poor swear without reflecting that this vow, extorted from their good faith, is the means of engaging them to do something that cannot be done on their behalf. Convinced then as you must be of this bar- barous inequality, do not aggravate your injustice by punishing him who has nothing for daring to steal something from him who has everything. Your inequitable oath gives him more right to this than ever. In making him perjure himself with this oath, which for him is so absurd, you justify every crime to which this perjury may lend him. You no longer have the right to punish that of which you were the cause. I need say no more to make you realise the horrible cruelty of punishing thieves. Emulate the wise law of the nation I have just men- tioned; punish the man &o negligent as to let himself be robbed.

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but do not threaten punishment against the robber. Realise that your oath has authorised this action for him, and that in giving in to it he is only following the first and most sacred impulse of Nature, self-preservation at no matter whose expense.

We shall now examine in this second class of man’s duties towards his fellows those offices made up b) the acts which may be undertaken by debauchery; among these we can par- ticularly distinguish as injurious to the individual’s duties towards others prostitution , adultery , incest, jape, and sodomy . Surely we can have no doubt that all so-called moral crimes, that is to say all acts of the type of those which we have just cited must be of no consequence in a State whose sole duty consists in preserving bv whatever means possible the form essential to its maintenance; that is the sole ethic in a republican State.

Since therefore it is always opposed by the despots which surround it, you cannot reasonably imagine its means of main- tenance to be mo«al means , for it can only maintain itself by war, and nothing is less moral than war.

Now, I question how one can succeed in proving that in a State obliged to be immoral it is essential for the individuals to be moral ? I will go further — it is good if thc\ are not. The legislators of Greece were perfect^ aware of the importance of the need to corrupt its members so that their moral dissolu- tion upon that useful to the machine would result in that insurrection which is alwa\s indispensable in a government which, completely happy like a republican government, must necessarily excite hatred and jealousy in all who surround it. Insurrection, these wdsc legislators considered, is by no means a moral state; it should be however the permanent state of a republic. It would therefore be as absurd as it would be dangerous to demand that those who must maintain the per petual immoral ferment of the machine should themselves be moral beings. The reason is that the moral state of a man is one of peace and calm, whereas his immoral state is one of perpetual motion which reconciles him with that necessan

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insurrection in which the republican must always maintain the government of which he is a member.

Let us now begin our detailed study with an analysis of modesty, this cowardly emotion so opposed to impure attach- ments. If it had been Nature’s intention that man should be modest surely she would not have caused him to be born naked. A multitude of peoples, less degraded than we are by civilisa- tion, go naked and experience no shame. There can be no doubt that the use of clothing is based solely upon both the inclemency of the weather, and the coquetry of women; they realised that they would soon lose all the effects of desire if they anticipated them instead of letting them develop; they agreed that in addition nature had not created them without faults, and that they would so much better assure themselves of the means of pleasing by disguising these faults with orna- ments. And so modesty, far from being a virtue, was nothing but one of the first effects of corruption, one of the first weapons of female coquetry.

Lycurgus and Solon, in the firm conviction that the results of immodesty maintained the citizen in the immoral state essential to the laws of the republican constitution, obliged young girls to appear naked at the theatres. Rome copied this example; there wjw dancing in the nude at the Games of Flora. The greatest part of pagan mysteries were celebrated in this manner; nudity even passed as a virtue among several peoples. Be that as it may immodesty gives birth to luxurious tastes; the results of these tastes compose the so-called crimes that we are analysing and the first effect of which is prostitution. Now that we have completely turned cur backs upon the host of religious errors which enslave us, and in greater intimacy with nature, thanks to the destruction of an army of prejudice, we listen only to her voice, in complete assurance that if any- thing is criminal it is rather resisting the tastes that she awakes in us than fighting them; in the belief that lust was a conse- quence of these tastes, we are much less concerned with extinguishing these passions in ourselves than regulating the means of satisfying thfcm in peace. We must therefore apply

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ourselves to setting up some order in this sphere and establish- ing in it all the security necessary for the citizen who is impelled by need towards objects of lust to be able to abandon himself with these objects to all that his passions prescribe for him without ever being fettered by anything because there is no passion in man with a greater need for the full extension of liberty than this one. In the^towns diverse institutions will be built, healthy, vast, suitably equipped and reliable in every respect I must explain this still further, measur-

ing it against republican morals; I have promised the same logic throughout, I will keep my word.

If, as I have said just now, no passion has greater need for the full extension of liberty than this one, undoubtedly no other is as despotic. It is in this that man loves to command, to be obeyed, to surround himself with slaves forced to satisfy him. Now every rime you fail to give a man the secret means of working off the dose of despotism that Nature has placed in the depths of his heart he will turn round and exercise it on the objects which surround him, he will trouble the State. If sou wish to avoid this danger, give full scope to these tyrannical desires which despite himself unendingly torment him. Con- tented by the exercise of his petty sovereignty in the centre of the harem of pashas and sultanas that your cares and his monev put at his disposal, he will come away satisfied, with no desire to trouble a government that assures him so complacently every means of satiating his lust. But if, on the contrary, you employ different procedures, if you clutter these objects of public incontinence with all the ridiculous obstacles formerly invented by the tyranny of ministers and the lubricity of our Sardanapales, the man will soon become embittered with the government, jealous of the despotism you impose on him, and wearv of your manner of ruling him. Then he will change it, as he has just done.

See how the Greek legislators, imbued with these ideas, dealt with debauchery in Lacedaemonia, in Athens. Far from banning it, they intoxicated the citizen with it. No form of lasciviousness was forbidden him, and ‘Socrates, declared by

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the oracle to be the wisest of the earth’s philosophers, passing indifferently from the arms of Aspasia to those of Aldbiades, was none the less the glory of Greece. I shall go even further, and however contrary my ideas are to our present customs, since it is my aim to prove that we must hurry up and change our customs if we wish to maintain the government we have adopted

Firstly, by what right do you claim that women should be excepted from that blind submission to the caprices of men which nature prescribed for them and next, by what right do you claim to subject them to a continence that is both physic- ally impossible for them, and of absolutely no value to their honour?

I shall treat each of these questions separately.

It is certain that in the state of Nature women are born

vulgivagus. Such were, without doubt, both the first

laws of Nature and the only institutions made by the first assemblies of men. Profit, egoism, and love degraded these first designs, such simple and such natural designs. You hoped to get rich by taking a woman and her family’s wealth with her — satisfying the first two feelings I have just cited. More often still you carried off this woman and became attached to her; that is the second motive in action, and in every case, there is injustice.

An act of possession can never be exercised over a free being. The exclusive possession of a woman is as unjust as the ownership of slaves; all men are born free, all are equal in their rights. Never forget these principles. According to them, therefore, no one sex can ever be granted a legitimate right to take exclusive possession of the other, and one of these sexes or one of these classes can never possess the other arbitrarily.

These chimerical methods are meaningless We have seen earlier that modesty was an artificial and contemptible emo- tion. Love, which may be called the madness of the soul, has no better claim to justify their constancy. It only satisfies two individuals, the lover And the loved; it cannot serve the happi-

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ness of others, and it is for the happiness of everyone, not for an egoistic, privileged happiness, that we have been given women.

We must unquestionably recompense these women that we have so cruelly enslaved, and it is this which will form the answer to the second question that I posed myself.

If we admit, as we have just done, that all women must be subject to our desires^ we can undoubtedly allow them in the same way full satisfaction of all their own. On this point our laws should favour their ardent temperaments and it is absurd to measure both their honour and their virtue by the anti-natural strength they use to resist those inclinations which they have received in greater lavishness than we have; this moral injustice is all the more heinous in that we agree at the same time to weaken them by force of seduction and then to punish them for surrendering to the efforts we have made to provoke this fall The whole absurdity of our morals, it seems to me, is delineated in this inequitable atrocity, and this single example ought to make us realise the urgent need we have to change them for others of a purer character.

I say then that women, endowed with far more violent tastes for sexual pleasuies than ourselves, should be able to give in to them as much as they wish Women must have the liberty equall) to enjoy all whom thev think worths of giving them satisfaction.

Oh enchanting sexl You will be free. Like men you will enjoy all the pleasures that nature has created your duty. There will be no restrictions on am of them for you. Why should the most divine half of humanity lt>e chained up by the other? Bieak your fetters, natuie wishes it. Have no other restraints than those of your appetites, no other laws than your desires alone, no other morality than that of Nature. Do not languish any longer in yoin barbaric prejudices that despoil your charms and enslave the divine raptures of your way of life. You are free like ourselves, as free to make a career on the battlefields of Venus as we are. No longer need youtfear absurd reproaches,

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pedantry and superstition have been swept away. No longer need you blush (or your charming escapades, we will crown you with myrtle leaves and roses. The admiration we shall cherish for you will simply be in proportion to the greater extent you allow for your adventures.

Among the Tartars, the more a woman prostituted her- self, the more she was honoured. She wore openly around her neck the marks of her immodesty, and those who had no such decorations got no respect. In Pegu, families offered their wives or daughters to travellers and strangers, they were hired at so much per day like horses or carriages! I could fill volumes with examples showing that lust was never held to be criminal by any of the wise races of this earth.

But what of sodomy now, this so-called crime which dress the fires of heaven down upon the towns addicted to it?

What is the onlv crime which may be found in this? Surely it is not the placing of ourself in this or that part — unless you would maintain that all the parts of the body are different and some are pure and others defiled. Since it is impossible however to put forward such absurdities, the only crime which can be alleged in this connection is loss of seed. Now I ask you if it is at all probable that this seed can appear so precious to Nature’s eyes that it is impossible to waste it without committing a crime? If that were so, would she give us everyday occasion for such a wastage? Does she not justify it by permitting it in dreams, or in the act of enjoying a woman who is already pregnant? Can we possibly imagine Nature giving us the possibility of committing a crime which would offend her? Could she ever consent to let men destroy their pleasures, and thereby become stronger than her? It is astonish- ing into what pitfalls of absurdits vou tumble if. in reasoning, you abandon the guiding light of reason.

The taste for sodomy is the result of our organism and we contribute nothing*to this organism. Sometimes it is the

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fruit of satiety, but, even in that instance, is it any the less a part of Nature? It is her work, whichever way you look at it, and in all circumstances what she inspires should be respected by men. If an accurate census were to prove that this taste is infinitely more widespread than the other, that its pleasures are much more entrancing, and that .or that reason its disciples are a thousand times more numerous than its enemies, could you not then conclude’ -"hat far from outraging Nature this vice serves her purposes, and that she is far less adamant about procreation than we so foolishly believe? Now, if we scan the whole world, do we not find many races that despise women 1 There are some that only make use of them for producing the children necessary for replacing them. The habit of living all together, which is natural to republican citizens, will always make this vice more frequent in States of this kind, but it is certainly not dangerous. If the Greek legislators had believed it to be so, would they have introduced it into their republic? Far from thinking that, they believed it necessary for a warrior nation. Plutarch enthusiastically tells us of the regiment of

• he lover f and the loved; for a long time they were the sole

defenders of Greece. This vice was supreme in the brother- hood of men in arms and cemented their allegiance. The great- est of men were addicted to it. The whole of America, when it was discovered, was peopled with tribes which shared this taste. In Indiana, among the Illinois, male Indians dressed as women prostituted themselves like courtisans. The negroes of Benguela openly kept men. Almost all the brothels of Algiers today are inhabited mainly by young boys. At Thebes thev were not content with merely tolerating the love of young boys, they commanded it. The philosopher of Cherones pre- scribes it to moderate the love of young people.

We know the degree to which it flourished in Rome. There were public places there where young boys prostituted themselves dressed as girls, and girls as boys. Martial, Catullus, Tibullus, Horace and Virgil wrote to men as to their mistresses, and we even read in Plutarch that women should have no part in the love of men. The Amasians of the Isle of Crete some-

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times kidnapped boys with the most singular ceremonies. If they loved one, they notified the parents of the day the ravisher would abduct him. The young man offered some resistance if his lover was not to his liking, but when this was not the case he went off with his seducer who returned him to his parents as soon as he had made use of him — for with this passion, as with that of women, jou have always had too much when you have had enough.

Strabo tells us that on this same island the seraglios were filled only with boys. They were publicly offered as prostitutes.

Listen to Jerome the Peripatetician. “The love of boys/' he tells us, “was widespread throughout Greece because it inspired courage and strength, and contributed to the downfall of tyrants. Lovers formed conspiracies among themselves, and would rather let themselves be tortured than reveal their accomplices, thus sacrificing everything in their patriotism to the prosperity of the State. It was commonly accepted that these liaisons strengthened the republic, and women were decried. Attachment to such creatures was a weakness reserved for despotism*'. Pederasty has always been the vice of warlike people. Caesar informs us that the Gauls were extraordinarily addicted to it. The separation of the two sexes resulting from the wars which republics had to suffer propagated this vice, and when the usefulness of its consequences to the State was recognised it was soon consecrated bj religion. We know that the Romans sanctified the loves of Jupiter and Ganymede. Sextus Empiricus assures us that the Persians were ordered to indulge in this fancy. Finally the women, despised by the men and jealous, offered to rendef their husbands the same service that their young boys gave them. Several of them tried it but returned to their former habits, finding the illusion was not possible.

The Turks .... have strong leanings towards this deprav- ity which Mohammed sanctified in his Koran

Sixtus V and Sanchez permitted this debauch

Eventually the women *found compensation with each other.

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This fancy is undoubtedly no more harmful than the other because its only effect is the refusal to reproduce, and those who have the taste for procreation possess sufficiently powerful means to prevent its adversaries from doing harm. The Greeks even supported this perversion among women by reasons of State. One of its consequences was 'hat women, finding satis- faction among themselves, had less frequent communication

with men, and thereby

would survive? Alas! No. Nature in her entirety would not even be affected, and the foolish vanity of the man who believes that everything is done for him would be vastly shocked to see that after the total destruction of humankind nothing is changed in nature and the stars do not even falter in their courses. Let us continue. How should murder be considered in a republican and war- like State? It would undoubtedly be utterly dangerous either to view this deed with disfavour or to punish it. A republican’s pride demands a little ferocity. If hi grows soft, if his strength diminishes, he will soon be subjugated. And here a very singular thought occurs to me, but as it is true I shall tell you of it despite its boldness. A nation which begins to govern itself as a republic will only keep itself alive by virtue, because in order to reach the top, you must always begin at the bottom. But a nation which is already old and corrupt when it courage- ously throws off the yoke of monarchical government to adopt

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De Sade Selections a republican constitution will only maintain itself by plenty of crime. For it is already steeped in crime, and if it wished to change from crime to virtue, that is to say from a violent to a peaceful state, it would fall into inertia, the result of which would soon be certain ruin. What would happen to a tree if you transplanted it from soil teeming with life to an arid sandy plain? All intellectual ideas are so subordinated to the physical laws of Nature that comparisons drawn from agriculture will never mislead us in questions of morality. The most independent of men and those closest to Nature are savages; with impunity they devote themselves to murder every day. In Sparta, or in Lacedaemonia, they hunted helots as we in France hunt partridges. The freest peoples are those who accept murder most easily. In Mindanao the man who commits murder is raised to the rank of the braves; he imme- diately receives the award of a turban. Among the Caraguos you must have killed seven men to merit the honour of this head-dress. The inhabitants of Borneo believe that those they put to death will serve them when they are no more. Even devout Spaniards make a promise to St. James of Galicia to kill a dozen Americans a day. In the kingdom of Tangut a strong and vigorous young man is chosen who is allowed on certain days of the year to kill everyone he meets 1 Was any race more friendly towards murder than the Jews? You find it in all its forms on every page of their history. From time to time the Emperor and the mandarins of China took steps to make their people revolt so as to obtain by these manoeuvres the right to carry out a horrible massacre. If this soft and effeminate nation ever frees itself from the yoke of these tyrants they will be slaughtered in their turn with much greater reason. Murder, always chosen and always necessary, will only have made a change of victims. From being the happiness of some, it will become the delight of others. An infinity of nations tolerated public assassination. It was completely permissible in Genoa, Naples, Venice, and throughout Albania. At Kachao, on the San-Domingo River, the muderers, in a recognised established costume, will slay,

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La Philosophic dans le Boudoir at your orders* and before your very eyes, any individual you point out to them. Indians take opium in order to bolster up their murderous desires, and fling themselves into the streets, massacring everyone they meet. Fnglish travellers have also discovered this mania in Batavia.' What people was at one and tut same time greater and more cruel than the Romans, and what nation preserved its splendour and its freedln longer? It sustained its courage with spectacles of gladiators, and became warlike through its habit of making a sport of mtirder. Every day twelve or fifteen hundred victims filled the arena at the circuses, and the women there, more cruel than the men, dared to demand that the dying fell with grace, and distinguished themselves even in their death agonies. From that the Romans passed on to the pleasures of watching midgets cutting each other’s throats m public. Then when the Christian cult infected the earth and persuaded men that killing was a sin, this race at once became enslaved by tyrants, and the heroes of the world soon became its puppets. Everywhere in fact, the murderer, that is, the man who suppresse his scruples to the point where he kills his fellow and risks private or public vengeance, everywhere, I say, such a man is always considered very courageous, and consequently precious to a warrior or republican State. Let us glance at those races which are even more violent and are only satisfied by child sacrifices, very often of their own children. We shall see that acts of this kind are universally adopted, and are some- times even made part of the law. Several savage tribes kill their infants as soon as they are born. On the banks of the River Orinoco the mothers believe that their daughters are born only to a most miserable existence, being destined to be the wives of the savages of this country who do not tolerate women. Therefore they kill their female children as soon as they have brought them into the world. In Trapobanis and the kingdom of Sopil all deformed children were sacrificed by the parents themselves. The women of Madagascar exposed those of their children that were born on certain days of the, week to savage beasts.

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De Sade Selections In the Greek republics all new-born children were carefully examined to see whether they possessed the possibility of one day defending the republic; if they did not conform to this requirement they were immediately slain. They did not judge it necessary there to maintain richly endowed houses for the preservation of this vile scum of human nature. Until the transference of the Imperial Throne all Romans who did not wish to foster their children threw them to the cesspits. In the past legislators had no scruples about consigning children to their death, and none of their codes ever suppressed the rights that a father considered himself to own over his family. Aristotle favoured abortion, and these ancient republicans, filled with enthusiasm and zeal for the fatherland despised this compassion for the individual which is found in modern nations. They loved their children less, but loved their country better. Every morning in every town in China you will find an incredible number of children abandoned in the streets. A wagon scoops them up at daybreak, and they are cast into a ditch. Frequently the midwives themselves relieve the mothers of their offspring by plunging them immediately into tubs oi boiling water, or throwing them into the river In Peking the children are placed in little reed baskets and abandoned on the canals; the famous traveller Duhalde assesses the number lost at a daily total of more than 30,000. It cannot be denied that it is absolutely necessary and extremely politic to stem the population under a republican government. For entirely opposite reasons, under a monarchy, the popula- tion must be encouraged, since tyrants are only rich in propor- tion to the number of their slaves and therefore they definitely need men. But let us have nd doubts about it, this abundance of population is a real vice in a republican state. However, it is not necessary to slaughter the people in order to reduce their numbers, as our modern decemvirs have been saying.* It is merely a question of not allowing them the means of propagating themselves beyond the limits dictated to them by their happiness. Take care not to multiply too far a people

• Robespierre. (Trans.)

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La Philosophic dans le Boudoir of which each individual is a sovereign, and rest assured that revolutions are never anything more than the result of a too numerous population. If, for. the glory of the state, you grant your warriors the right to destroy men, grant also, for the preservation of the same state, the nght to each individual to allow himself as far as he wants, sL.ce he can do so without flying in the face of nature, the right to dispose of the children whom he cannot support ur who cannot be of any use to the state. Allow him also th$ right to dispose of, at his own risk, all the enemies who can do him harm, because the result of all these actions, entirely valueless in themselves, will be to main- tain your population at a moderate level, and never let it be numerous enough to upset your state. Let the monarchists say that a country is only large because of its big population. This country will always be poor if its population exceeds its means of e’^rence and «t will be always flourishing if it contains itself within its proper limits and can dispose of its surplus. Do you not prune a tree which has too many branches, and in order to preserve the trunk do you not cut off the boughs? Every theory which diverges from these principles is folly, the abuses of which would soon lead us to the total overthrow of the edifice we have just built up with so much difficulty. But it is not when the man has grown up that you must destroy him in order to reduce the population. It is unjust to shorten the days of a well-formed individual; it is not unjust, I sas, to prevent the existence of a being who will certainly be useless in the world. The human species should be purified from the cradle. What you can see as never capable of being useful to society should be torn out of its midst. Those are the only reasonable motives for reducing a population whose over-large extent is, as we have just prosed, the most dangerous of abuses. It is time to sum up. Should murder he suppressed by murder? No, certaiuls not. Let us never impose any punishment on the murderer except the risk he mas run through the vengeance of the friends or relations of the man he killed. I fotgix'f you , said Louis XV to Charolais, svho had just killed a man for his own amuse-

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De Sade Selections ment, but I also forgive the man who will kill you. All the foundations of the law against murderers can be found in this sublime remark. In fact, murder is a horror, but it is a horror often necessary. But must it be considered as a deed committed in order to be punished with death? Those who reply to the following dilemma will have answered the question satisfac- torily: Is murder a crime or not? If it is not a crime, why make laws to punish it? If it is a crime, by what barbarous and stupid inconsistency would you have it punished by a similar crime? It remains for us to speak of the duties of man towards himself. Since the philosopher only assumes these duties inas- much as they serve his pleasure or his preservation, it is com- pletely useless to recommend their practice to him and even more useless to impose punishment on him if he fails. The only crime that man can commit in this respect is suicide. I shall waste no time in proving the stupidity of those people who regard this action as a crime. I refer those who may still have some doubts about this to the famous letter by Rousseau. Almost all the ancient governments authorised suicide on behalf of politics and religion. The Athenians explained to, the Areopagus the reasons they had for killing themselves. They stabbed themselves afterwards. All the republics in Greece tolerated suicide. It entered into the plan of the ancient legislators. People killed themselves in public and their deaths were regarded as a fine spectacle. The Roman republic encouraged suicide. The famous examples of devotion to the state were only suicides. When Rome was conquered by the Gauls, the most illustrious senators gave themselves up to death; in assuming the same spirit again we are adopting the same virtues. During the campaign of *91, a soldier killed himself through chagrin at not being able to follow his comrades to the battle of Jemmapes.* When we

• A small town in Belgium, where the French were victorious against

the Austrians. (Trans!) * La Philosophic dans le Boudoir place ourselves immediately at the height of these proud republicans, we will soon surpass their virtues. It is the state that makes the man. Such a long habit of despotism had com- pletely sapped our energy. It had undermined our way of life, and now we are being reborn. Wc shall soon see of what sublime acts the French genius and cl aracter is capable, when it is free. Let us uphold,^ at the cost of our fortunes and our lives, this liberty which is already costing us so many victims. We shall regret nothing jf we reach our goal. These victims all devoted themselves willingly; do not let us make their bloodshed vain. But unity, unity, ... or we shall lose all the fruit of our labours. Let us found excellent laws on the victories which we have just won. Our first legislators, who were still the slaves of the despot whom we have finally overthrown, had only given us laws worthy of this tyrant, whom they still wor- shipped Let us do their work anew, remembering that at last we are going to work for republicans. May our laws be as mild as the people they are to govern. In explaining here, as I have just done, the emptiness, the indifferent nature of an infinity of actions that our ancestors, regarded as criminal, I reduce our work to verj little. Let us make few laws, but let them be good ones— there is no question of multiplying restrictions, it is a question onl\ of giving an indestructible quality to that which wc use — may the laws we make have as their only aim the citizens’ peace of mind, his happiness and the glory of the republic. But after having driven the enemy from your lands, French- men, I would not want the ardour of propagating your principles to take you am further. It is only with fire and sword that you will be able to carry them to the ends of the earth. Before acting on these resolutions, remember the unfor- tunate end of the crusades. When the enein> is on the other side of the Rhine, believe me, guard your frontiers and stay at home. Revive your trade, bring back energy and outlets to your manufactures. Make your arts flourish again, encourage agriculture, so necessary under a government such as yours; its spirit should be able to supply the who!,* world, without need- De Sade Selections ing anyone. Let the thrones of Europe crumble of their own accord. Your example and your prosperity will soon overthrow them without your needing to do anything about it. When you are invincible at home and a model for all countries through your policy and your fine laws, there will not be one government in the world which will not try to imitate you, not one which will not be honoured by associating with you; but if, for the empty glory of carrying your principles further, you abandon the care of your own happiness, despot- ism, which is only sleeping, will be born again, you will be torn apart by internal strife and you will have exhausted your finances and your soldiers. All that merely to embrace once more the chains which tyrants, having subjugated you in your absence, will impose on you again. All that you wish for can come to pass without there being any need for you to leave your hearths; may other peoples see your good-fortune and thev will hasten towards happiness bv the same road that you have traced out for them.

[edit]

IDEE SUR LES ROMANS

Reflections on the Novel

This essay, given here in its entirety, was written in 1800 as a preface to Les Crimes de L'Amour, the collection of stories which had been first published easier. It adds greatly to our knowledge of de Sade’s background shows the extent of his reading, and in particular his appreciation of contemporary writers. De Sade attempt s a reasoned analysis but, as in most of his attempts, the writing soon takes on an emotional and personal tone.

In the introduction that he wrote in 1881 to Dorci ou la Bizarrerie du Sott, one of the stories intended for Les Crimes de l 9 A mow, Anatole France - wrote ‘He was intelligent; in his Idee sur les Romans there are some judicious remarks and a reasonably good literary sense*.

• * * * *

ESSAY ON THE NOVEL

The name roman . or in English novel, is given to an imaginative work made up of the most outstanding adventures in the life of men.

But wh) docs this type of work bear the name roman ?

In what nation should wc seek its origin, and which ones are the most celebrated?

And finally what arc the rules that must be followed to achieve perfection in the art of writing it?

Those are the three questions that we propose to discuss; let us begin with the etymology of the word.

As there is nothing to tell us the name given to this com- position by the peoples of antiquity we should only devote ourselves, it seems to me, to discovering the reason why it bears for us the name that we still give it.

The Romance tongue was, as we know, a mixture of Celtic idiom and latin in use by the first two dynasties ' tf our kings. It is reasonable enough to believe that works of the type of

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which we are speaking, composed in that language, should bear its name, and that one should speak of une romane to define a work concerned wit hamorous adventures, as one spoke of une lomance to express plaintive ballads of the same type. It would be in vain to seek a different etymology for this word; common sense offering no other, it would seem simple to adopt it.

Let us pass then to the second question.

In what nation should we seek the origin of this kind of works, and which ones are the most celebrated?

The common belief is that it is to be found in the Greeks, from whom it passed to the Moors, was taken from there by the Spaniards who next transmitted it to our troubadours from whom our chroniclers of chivalry received it.

Although I respect this hliation and sometimes submit to it I am however far from adopting it strictly; is it not in fact a very difficult line of descent in eras when so little was known about travelling, and communications were so often inter- rupted? There are some fashions, customs, and tastes which are not transmitted; inherent in all men, the) are born natui ally with them. Wherever men exist traces of these tastes customs and fashions recur.

Let us not be in an\ doubt about this: it was in the countiies which first recognised the Gods that novels found their source, and consequently in Fgvpt, the undeniable cradle of all cults. Men had hardly suspected the existence of immortal beings before they made them act and speak; from then onwards we see metamorphoses, fables, parables, novels; in fact we sec works of fiction, as soon as fiction seizes upon the mind of men. We sec fabulous books, as soon as there is am question of fancies; when nations, led first by the priests, after having been sacrificed for their fantastic divinities, finally took up arms for their king or their country, the homage offered to heroism counterbalances that of superstition. Not only are the heroes, and very wisely, put in the place of the Gods, but songs praise the sons of Mars just as they had celebrated those of heaven. The narrator embellishes the great actions of their

Idee sui les Romans

lives, or weary of feeding upon them, creates characters who resemble them. . .who surpass them, and before long new novels appear, doubtless more probable, and created much more for man than those that only celebrated phantoms.

Hercules/ a great captain, 1 'as to fight his enemies gallantly, there we see the hero and history. Hercules destroy- ing the monsters and leaving in twain the giants, there we see the god. . .the fable and the origin of superstition, but of a reasonable superstition, since its only basis is the reward ol heroism, and the gratitude due to the liberators of a nation; whereas that which coins unformed and never-glimpsed beings has only fear, hope, and disorder of the mind as its motive. Thus every people had its gods, its demigods, its heroes, its true stories and its fables; something as we have just seen may have been true in what concerned the heroes; as lor the rest it was all imagined, fabulous, the work of invention, it was all a novel, because the gods only speak through the organ of men more or less interested in this ridiculous artifice, who did not I ail to constitute the language of the phantoms of their minds from evu /thing that they imagined to be most likely to inspire fascination or fear, and consequently most fabulous. 'It is an accepted belief/ said the scholarly Huet, 'that the name of novel was formerly given to histories, and has since been applied to fictions, which is an incontestable proof that the latter have developed from the former*.

Thus theie were novels written in ever) tongue, in every nation, the style and facts of which are seen to be closely traced both onto the national customs and onto the accepted opinions of these nations.

Man is subject to 'wo weaknesses which pervade his exist- ence and characterise it. Everywhere he needs to pray, every- where he needs to love, and those are the bases of all novels. He made them .n order to depict the beings whom he beseeched ,

• Hercules is a generic name, composed of two Celtic words Her-Coule,

that is to say master captain. Hercoule was the name of the general of the army, which multiplied infinitely the number of Hercoules-, the fable then attributed to one person the miraculous deeds of several. (See the History of the £elts, by Peloutier.)

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he made them also to celebrate those whom he loved. The former, dictated by terror or hope, had to be sombre, gigantic, full of falsehoods and fictions; such were the ones composed by Esdras during the Babylonian captivity. The latter, filled with refinements and sentiments, such as the story of Theagenes and Charidea, by Heliodorus. But since man prayed and loved everywhere, in every part of the globe on which he dwelt, there were novels, that is to say works of fiction which sometimes depicted the fabulous objects of his worship, sometimes the more real ones of his love.

It is not therefore necessary to apply yourself to findi ng the source of this type of writing in this or that nation of your choice. You should be convinced by what has just been said that all have more or less used it, in proportion to the greater or lesser indination that they have felt for either love or superstition.

Now for a rapid glance at the nations which have most welcomed these works, at the works themselves, and at those who have composed them. Let us follow the thread up to the present day so as to enable our readers to establish some ideas of comparison.

Aristeides of Miletus is the most ancient storyteller men- tioned in antiquity, but his works no longer exist. We know only that his tales were called the Milestaichs. A reference in the preface to the Golden Ass seems to prove that the pro- ductions of Aristeides were licentious. ‘I am going to write in this fashion’ said Apuleius at the beginning of his Golden Ass.

Antonius Diogenes, a contemporary of Alexander, wrote in a more polished style of,the loves of Dinias and Dercillis, a story full of fictions, sorceries, voyages, and highly extra- ordinary adventures, that le Seurre copied in 1745 in a small work that was even more remarkable, for not content like Diogenes to make his heroes travel to known countries be marches them off sometimes to the moon, sometimes to Hell.

Next followed the adventures of Sinonis and Rhodanis by Iamblicus; the loves of Theagenes and Charidea, that we have just mentioned; the (Hyroptedia of Xenophon; the loves of

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Daphnis and Chloe of Longus; those of Ismen and Ismenia, and many others, either translated, or totally forgotten in these days of ours.

The Romans, more inclined t o criticism and to malice than to love or pra\er, were content wit> a few satires such as those of Petronius and Varro that we should be careful not to classify as novels.

The Gauls, more suujett to the two weaknesses, had their bards, who may be regarded as the first story-tellers of the part ol Europe in which wc live today. The profession of these bards, says Lucan, was to write in verse the immortal deeds of the heroes of their race, and to sing them to the accompaniment of an instrument resembling the lyre; very few of these works are known to our times.

We had next the deeds and exploits of Charlemagne, uu'huted to Archbishop Turpin, and all the tales ol the Round Table, the lnstans, the Lancelots of the Lake, and the Percevals, all written with the intention of immortalising well- known heioes, 01 to invent them from those who with the embell nmcnts of imagination surpassed them in marvels. But what a distance there is between these works, long, tedious, and riddled with superstition, and the Greek narratives which had preceded them! What barbarism and vulgarity followed the tasteful stories filled with agreeable fictions which the Greeks had given us as models, for although there had undoubt- edly been others before them, at that time at least no others were known.

The troubadours appeared next, and although they must be regarded rather as poets than as story-tellers, the abundance of delightful tales that they composed in prose will however secure them a fair and rightful place amongst the writers we are discussing. If you need to be convinced cast a look at their fabliaux written in the Romance tongue during the reign of Hugh Capet, and copied with such alacrity by Italy.

This beautiful region of Europe, still groaning under the Saracen )oke, still far from that epoch in which it was to become the cradle of the Renaissanct of the arts, had almost

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no story-tellers at all until the tenth century. They appeared gradually at the same time as our troubadours in France and imitated them. But let us venture to come to an agreement about this glory, it was not the Italians who became our masters in this art, as Laharpe* says (page 84a, Vol. 3), but on the con- trary it was by us that they were moulded; it was at the school of our troubadours that Dante, Bocaccio, Tasso, and even to some extent Petrarch, sketched out their compositions. Almost all the tales of Boccaccio are to be foqnd in our fables.

It is not the same with the Spaniards. Instructed in the art of fiction by the Moors, who themselves had it from the Greeks, all of whose works of this kind they possessed, trans- lated into Arabic, the Spaniards created delectable novels, which were imitated by our writers, and we shall return to them.

As gallantry took on a new aspect in France, the novel reached perfection, and it was then, that is to say at the begin- ning of last century, that d’Urfe wrote his novel I’Astrie which caused us to prefer, and on very just grounds, his charming shepherds of the Lignon to the extravagant champions of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. From then on the fury ol imitation fastened on all those to whom nature had given the taste for this type of writing. The astonishing success oi I’Astree, which was still being read in the middle of this cen- tury, had completely fired all imaginations, and it was copied without being equalled. Gomberville, la Calprendde, Desmarets and Scud£ry thought to surpass their original by putting princes or kings in the place of the shepherds of the Lignon, and they fell into the error that their model had avoided. La Scudlry made the same mistake as her brother; like him she wished to ennoble the style of d’Urf£, and like him she substituted tire- some heroes for the charming shepherds. Instead of represent- ing in the character of Cinna a prince such as Herodotus had painted she created an Artamine more foolish than all the characters of VAstrie. . .a lover who could only weep from morning to night, and whose languors tax our patience instead of holding our interest* The same drawbacks are seen in her

480

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Clilie, in which the attributes to the Romans, whom she makes unnatural, all the extravagances of the models she was follow- ing, and who have never been more disfigured.

Let us be allowed to retrace our steps for a moment to fulfil the promise we made just in w of having a glance at Spain.

Certainly, if chivalry had inspired our story-tellers in France, to what a degree iiad it not equally uplifted the minds across the mountains. The catalogue of Don Quixote’s libran, so amusingly compiled by Miguel Cervantes reveals this plainly , but however this may be, the celebrated author of the memoirs of the greatest madman who has ever entered the brain oi a story teller has indisputably no rivals His immortal work, udiich must be consideied as the first ol all the novels, is known throughout the world, translated into every language and |'^SS» j withou* any doubt more than any other, the art of nar- xating, of pleasantlv interweaving incidents, and particularly of giving instruction at the same time as amusement ’This book,' said Saint Evremond, ‘is the only one that I reread without oncoming bored, and the only one that I would like to have created' The twelve stories of the same author, all filled with inteiest, wit and finesse, succeed in placing m the very first rank this celebrated Spanish writer without whom perhaps wc would not have had either the charming works oi Scarron or the majority of those of Lesage.

After d’Urfc and his mutators, after the Arianes, the Cleopatras, the Pharamonds and the Polixandrcs, all those works in fact in which the hero, sighing his way through nine volumes, was extremely lucky to be ^cd in the tenth; as I was saying, after all this heap of now unintelligible rubbish there appeared Madame de la Fayette who, although seduced by the languorous tone which she found established in her pre decessors, was nevertheless considerably briefed, and by becom- ing more concise, she made herself more interesting. It has been said, because she was a woman (as if this se\, naturally more delicate, and belter suited to writing novels, could not in this field lay claim to far more laurels than we), it has been

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claimed, I was saying, that, with an infinite amount of assist- ance, La Fayette only composed her novels with the help of La Rochefoucauld for the thought, and of Segrais for the style. However that may be, there is nothing more interesting than Zayde, nothing written so agreeably as La Pnncesse de Clever Charming and delightful woman, if the Graces were holding your quill, was love, therefore, not permitted to guide it sometimes?

Flnelon appeared and thought that he was making himscli interesting by poetically dictating a lesson to sovereigns who never followed it. Voluptuous lover ol Guion, your soul had need to love, your mind to portray. By abandoning pedantry or the pride of teaching government, you would have given us masterpieces instead of a book that no one reads an) more That will never be the case with you, delicious Scarron; until the end of the world your immortal novel will inspire laughter, and your scenes will never grow old. T£16maque, who had but a century to live, perished in the ruins of this century which already is no more; but your actors of Le Mans, dear delightiul child of folly, will amuse even the gravest readers as long as there are men on the earth.

Towards the end of the same ceutun, the daughter of the famous Poisson (Madame de Gomez), in a style quite different from that of 'the writers of the same sex who had preceded her, wrote works which for all that were none the less agreeable; and her amusing journals, as well as her hundred stories, will always, despite their many failings, provide the basis ol the libraries of all cne amateurs of this mode. Gomez understood her art, and no one can deny^her that just praise. Mademoiselle de Lussan, Mesdames de Tensin, de Graffigny, Elie de Beau- mont and Riccoboni rivalled her; their writings, full of taste and delicacy, assuredly do honour to their sex. The lettres Pei u- viennes of de Grafhgny will always remain a model of tenderness and affection, just as those of Milady Catesby by Riccoboni will be of eternal service to those who demand only grace and lightness of style. But let us return to the century we have left, stimulated by the desirt to praise some lovable women who in

• 8 *

Idee sur les Romans

this field gave such good lessons to the men.

The epicureanism of the Ninons de Lenclos, the Marion de Lormes, the Marquises de Sdvign£ and de Lafare, the Chaulieus and the Saint Evremopds, in fact of all that charm- ing society which turned its back 01 the langours of the God of Cytherea and began to think like Buffon that there was nothing good in love % hut the physical , soon changed the tone of the novel. The writers who appeared next felt that insipidities would no longer amuse an age which had been perverted by the Regent, an age that turned away from chivalrous follies, religious extravagances and the adoration of woman; and finding it more simple to amuse or to coirupt these women than to serve or idolise them, they created events, scenes and conversations more in tune with the spirit of the times. They swathed immoralities in cynicism, emplo)ing a pleasant, waggKi, sometimes even philosophical style, and at least they pleased even if they did not instruct.

Gr£billon wrote Le Sopha, lanzai, Les Egaiements du Coeur et de VEsprit, etc. All novels which smiled on vice and banishco virtue; but which, when presented, were to aspire to the greatest success.

Marivaux, more original in his manner of portrayal, more vigorous, did at least offer characters, captivate the soul and cause tears to be shed; but how could a man with such power have a style so precious, so mannered? He is sure proof that nature never grants a novelist all the gifts that are necessary for the perfection of his art.

Voltaire’s intention was quite different. Having no other aim beyond inserting philosophy in his novels, he abandoned everything for this project. With what skill he succeeded, and despite all criticisms, Candide and Zadig will always be masterpieces!

Rousseau, *o whom nature had accorded in sentiment and delicacy what she had given Voltaire in wit alone, treated the novel in quite a different fashion. What vigour, what energy in H 4 loise\ Where Momus dictated Candide to Voltaire, Love traced with his torch each burning page of Julie, and it

• 8 S

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can rightly be said that this sublime book wHl never have imitators. Would that truth would cause the pens to fall from the hands of that crowd of ephemeral writers who for the last thirty years have not ceased giving us bad copies of that immortal original. May they realise then that to equal it they need a soul of fire like Rousseau’s, and a philosophic intellect like his, two things that nature does not bring together twice in the same century.

Far removed from all this, Marroontel gave us tales which he called moral, not (so says an estimable man of letters) to teach morality, but because they depicted our moral customs, a little too much, however, in the mannered fashion of Marivaux; besides, what are these tales? Puerilities, wiitten solely for women and children, and that you would never be- lieve came from the same hand that wrote Bilisaire, a work which alone would suffice for its author’s glory. Must the man who created the fifteenth chapter of this book then pretend to the small glor) of having given us these milk-and-water tales?

Finally the English novels, the vigorous works of Richard- son and Fielding, were to teach the French that it is not in painting the fastidious languishings of love, or the tiresome conversations of the boudoir, that success in this field was to be won, but by penning virile characters, the playthings and victims of that effervescence of the heart known as love, who show us at one and the same time both its dangers and its mis- fortunes. From that alone it is possible to obtain these develop- ments and passions so well traced in English novels. It is Richardson and Fielding who have taught us that only the profound study of the hear^ of man, that veritable lab)rinth of nature, can inspire the novelist, whose work must make us see man not only for what he is or what he shows of himself, (that is the duty of the historian) but for what he may become, for what he may be made by the modifications of vice and the blows of passion. It is necessary therefore to know them all and to employ them all if you wish to work this field. We learnt also that it is not always by making virtue triumph that interest is maintained; that it is quite certainly necessar)

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to aim at it«as far at possible, but that this rule, existing neither in nature nor in Aristotle, but being only one to which we would wish that all men subjected themselves for the sake of our happiness, is by no means at all essential in the novel, and is not even one which must o mpel interest for when virtue triumphs, things being what aey should be, our tears dry up before thev begin to flow, but if aftei the severest afflictions we at last sec vntue crushed down b\ vice, our souls cannot escape harrowing, and the work, having moved us exceedmglv, having, as Diderot said, steeped out hearts through- out in blood , must indubitably evoke interest which is the only surety of fame

I et us ask this question if after twelve or fifteen volumes the immortal Richardson had ended virtuously by converting Lovelace, and making him marry Clarissa quietly, would we, i« an -w, ihis novc 1 taken in the reversed fashion have shed the delicious t«,ars that it draws from every sensitive creature-' It is therefore nature that we must grapple with when working in this sphere, it is the heart of man, the most remarkable of all his \ >iks, and not virtue at all, because virtue, however beautiful and nccessarv it may bc f is nevertheless but one of the moods of this astonishing heart the profound study of which is so necessarv to the novelist and everv twist of which the novel, that faithful minor of this heart must necessarily plot

\nd you Prevost, mastcilv tianslator of Richardson, to whom wc must owe the passing into our language of the beauties of this celebrated author should we not pay you an equally well merited tribute of prat ** 3 on voui own account, and have you not a just claim to be called the French Richardson > ^ou alone possessed the art of long interesting us with complex fables bv always maintaining attention while yet dividing it You alone always handled vour episodes so well that the principal intrigue was to gam rather than to suffer from their abundance or complexitv Thus this ini Ititude of incidents for which Lahaipc reproaches you is not only what produces the most sublime effect in your works but at the

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same time what best reveals both the magnanimity of your spirit and the excellence of your genius.

Les Mimoires d*un Homme de Qualite moreover (to add to what we think of Provost what others besides us have equally thought) 9 Cleveland , the Histoire d'une Grecque Modeme, Le Monde Moral, and above all Manon Lescaut* are filled with these moving and terrible scenes which invincibly affect and compel us; the situations in these works, so happily adminis- tered, lead up to those moments in w)}ich nature trembles with horror, etc. And there wc have what it means to write a novel; that it what will assure Prdvost a place in posterity to which none of his rivals will attain.

Next came the writers of the middle of this century: Dorat, as mannered as Marivaux, as cold, as little concerned with morals as Crlbillon; but a more likeable writer than the two to whom we are comparing him. The frivolitv of his age excuses his own, and he had the art of skilfully capturing it.

Charming author of La Reine de Golcondc ** will you allow me to offer you a laurel wreath? Seldom has there been a more agreeable wit, and the prettiest tales of the century are not worth the one which immortalises you. At once more likeable and more fortunate than Ovid, since, by recalling you to the bosom of your motherland, the Saviour-Hero of France proves that 'he is as much the friend of Apollo as of Mars, then respond to this great man’s hopes by placing still more of your lovely roses on the breast of fair Aline.

Damaud, the rival of Provost, mav often claim to have surpassed him; both dipped their pens into the Styx, but Damaud sometimes tempered his on the skirts of Elysium.

• What tears arc those wc shed on reading this delightful work 1 How it

depicts nature, how interest is maintained and how bv degrees it is increased 1 What difficulties are vanquished! What a philosopher to have conjured up all this mtercst m a ruined girl would it be saying too much in daring to affirm that this work has right to the title of our best novel, it was in this that Rousseau saw that despite her rashness and blunders a heroine could still claim to move us to pity, and perhaps we would never have had Julie without Manon Lescaut.

•• Le Chevalier de Bouffifrs. (Trans.)

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Provost, the more powerful, never falsified the colouring of him from whom he drew Cleveland.

R. . .* inundates the public, he needs a press at the head of his bed; happily even that alone would groan at his terrible production. A base pedestrian style adventures of the most disgusting kind, always culled from tl e worst society; in short no other merit than that °f prolixity. . .for which the spice- mongers alone will thank nim.

Perhaps it is here that we should analyse these new novels in which sorcery and phantasmagoria constitute almost their entire merit, by placing at their head The Monk , superior in all its connections to the bizarre flights of Mrs. Radcliffe’s bril- liant imagination. But this dissertation would be too long; let us agree that this style, whatever ma) he said about it is undoubt- edly not without merit. It was the inevitable fruit of the revo- lu^una.y shocks r elt by the whole of Europe. For one who knew all the miseries with which the wicked can afflict humanity the novel became as difficult to create as it was monotonous to read. There was not a single individual who had not r * pei lenced more misfortune in four or five years than the most famous novelist in literature could paint in a century. It was therefore necessary to call Hell to one’s aid m order to draw up a title to our interest and Lo find in the country of chimeras that which we are only too easily acquainted with when we scan the history of man alone in this age of steel But what drawbacks are presented by this style of writing* The author of The Monk has no more avoided them than Mrs. Radcliffc. Of two courses here, one is inevitable, either you must unravel the mysteries, and cea*e from then on to be interesting, or you must never raise the curtain, and then you find yourself in the most frightful impossibilities. If a work in this style should ever appear that is good enough to achieve its aim without foundenng on one or the other of these reefs, then far from reproaching it with its devices, w'e would offer it as a model.

• Rcstif de la Brctonne. (Trans.)

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Before starting upon our third and last question, what are the rules of the art of novel writing , we ought, it seems to me, to answer the perpetual objection of certain atrabilious spirits who in order to give themselves the veneer of an ethic that is often very foreign to their heart never cease to ask you what good are novels ?

What good are they, perverse hypocritical men, for you are the only ones to ask this ridiculous question; they are good for painting you just as you are, vain individuals, who would like to escape the pen because you fear its effects. The novel, being, if il is possible to define it thus, the portrait of agelong customs , is as essential as history to the philosopher who will understand man; for the brush of the latter only paints him when he makes himself seen, and then it is no longer he. Ambition and pride cover his face with a mask that only repre- sents to us these two passions, and not the man. On the other hand, the pen of the novelist pierces his innermost thoughts. . . catches him when the mask is off, and this much more interest- ing sketch is at the same time much truer. That is the useful- ness of the novel. And you cold censurers who do not like it, you resemble that hobbledehoy who also asked, and why does one paint portraits?

If then it is true that the novel is useful, let us not be afraid to outline here some of the principles that we believe necessary to bring this art to its perfection. I fully realise that it is difficult to accomplish this task without providing weapons to be used against myself. Would I not be doubly guilty of not having done well , if I prove that I know what is necessary to do well. Ah! let us abandon these vain considerations, let them be sacrificed to the love of art.

The most essential knowledge that is demanded is most certainly the understanding of the heart of man. Now this important understanding, and all the best minds will doubt- less approve this assertion of ours, is only acquired through misfortune and travel. You must have seen the men of every race to know them well, and you must have been their victim to know hpw to appreciate them. The hand of ill-fortune, by

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exalting the« character of him she crushes, places it. in the right and necessary perspective for the study of men; from there the victim sees them as the traveller sees the waves break- ing in fury against the rocks on .which the tempest has flung him. But in whatever situation nau re or fate has placed him, let him, if he wishes to know men, *ay little when he is with them. You learn nothing when you talk, you only learn by listening; and that is why chatterers are commonly but fools.

O, you who would pursue this thorny career, never forget that the novelist is the man of nature, she has created him to be her painter. If he suffers this burning thirst to portray all, if tremulously he gropes for nature’s breast, there to seek his art, and there to draw his models, if he possesses the fevei o\ talent and the enthusiasm of genius, let him obey the hand which guides him, he has found the clue to man, he will por- tray him. Let hi^ yield to that imagination which has mastered him, let him embellish what he sees. The fool plucks a rose and tears away its petals, the man of genius inhales its fragrance and paints it. That is the man whom we shall read.

Bu' in advising you to embellish, I forbid you to depart from probability. The reader has the right to be annoyed when he sees that too much is being asked of him, when he sees that you would make a dupe of him. His self-esteem is hurt, and he no longer believes anything, once he suspects you wish to cheat him.

With no barriers, moreover, to restrain you, use lightly the right to impugn the anecdotes of history, when the bursting of this restraint becomes necessary for the pleasures that you are preparing for us. Once again we do not demand that you be truthful, but only that you be probable. To ask too much of you would be to harm the delights that we await: do not however replace the true by the impossible, and that which you invent will be well said. We only excuse your putting your imagination in the place of the truth on the express condition that you adorn and dazzle. No one ever has the right to speak badly when he can say whatever he likes. If like R. . . you only write what everybody knows and should vou, like him,

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give uS* four volumes a month, it is not worth the trouble of taking up your pen. Nobody is forcing you to accept this craft; but if you do undertake it, do it well. Above all do not adopt it as an aid to your existence. Your work will be the worse for your needs, to it you will transmit your weakness, it will have the pallor of hunger. Other occupations present themselves for you; make shoes, and do not write books. We will not esteem you any the less, and since you will not be boring us, perhaps we may love you the more. ,

Once you have set down your sketch, work ardently to extend it, but without imprisoning yourself within the limits that it seemed at first to demand of you. With this method you .will become cold and meagre. It is wings that we require of you, not rules. Exceed your plans, vary them, add to them. It is only by working that the ideas flow. Why do you not want the idea that besets you when you are composing to be as good as that dictated by your sketch? Essentially I demand of you but one thing, and that is to sustain the interest until the final page. You will miss your goal if you break up your narra- tive by incidentals that are either too repetitive or irrelevant to the subject. Let those that you allow yourself be even more carefully treated than the central theme: you owe the reader some compensations when you make him leave what interests him to embark upon some incidental. He may allow you to interrupt him, but he will not forgive you for boring him. Always make your episodes arise out of the essence of your subject and then return to it. If you make your heroes travel, be well acquainted with the countries to which you take them. Carry the magic to the point of identifying me with them. Imagine that I am walking at their side, in all the regions in which you place them, and that, perhaps more knowing than yourself, I will not excuse either an improbability in customs, or an error in costume, still less a mistake in geography. Since nobody is forcing these escapades upon you, it is imperative that your local descriptions be real, or else you must keep to your own fireside. It is the one case in all your works in which invention may not be ^suffered, unless the country to which

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you transport* me is imaginary, and on this hypothesis even, I still demand probability.

Avoid the affectation of a moral; we do not look for it in a novel. If the characters that your plan demands are some- times forced to reason, let it always L without conceit, without claiming the right to do so. It is new c the author who should moralise, but the character, and even then he is only allowed to do so when compelled 0} circumstances.

Once you reach the climax, let it be natural, never con- strained, never engineered, but always born of circumstances. I do not demand of you, like the authors of the Encycloptdie, that it conform to the desire of the reader. What pleasure would be left him if he has guessed everything? The climax should be such that events prepare it, probability exacts it, and imag- ination inspires it. And let your mind and your spirit relax v itn these prinr-'ples that I am imposing, if you do not do well, at lea&t you will do better than we. For it must be admitted, in the stories we are going to read, the audacious flight that we are allowed to take is not always in accord with the severity of the r aies of the art; but we hope that the extreme truthful- ness of the characters will perhaps prove a recompense. Nature, more bizarre than the moralists depict her lo us, escapes at every moment from the confines that those gentlemen would like to prescribe for her. Uniform in her plans, irregular in her effects, her ever-stirring womb resembles the crater of soipe volcano from which in turn are cast up either precious stones uhich serve man’s luxury or balls ol fire which destroy him; magnificent when she peoples the earth with many an Antonius and a Titus, frightful when she vomits up an Andronicus or a Nero, but alwiys sublime, always majestic, always worthy of our studies, our pens and our respectful admiration, because her designs are unknown to us, because, slaves as we arc to her caprices and her needs, it is never upon what we are made to suffer that we should regulate our feelings for her, but upon her grandeur and her might, whatever their results may be.

As minds become corrupted and a nation grows old, by

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virtue, of the fact that nature is studied more^and analysed better, that prejudices are better destroyed, it is necessary to get to know them further. This law is the same for all the arts, it is only by advancing that they become perfected, they only arrive at their goal by means of trying. Doubtless it was not necessary to go so far in those frightful times of ignorance when, crushed beneath the iron yoke of religion, those who wished to appraise them were punished with death, and the Inquisition *s faggots were the rewards of talent. But in our present state, let us always set foith from this principle, when man has weighed up all the checks, when with an audacious glance he measures up his barriers, w’hen with the example of the Titans he dares to lift his bold hand against the Heavens, and, armed with his passions as the former were with the coals of Vesuvius, he no longer fears to declare war on those who formerly made him tremble, w'hen even his delinquencies seem no more to him than errors justified b\ his studies, then should one not speak to him with the same force that he himself employs in his behaviour? The man of the eighteenth century, in short, is he then the man of the eleventh?

Let us finish with a positive assurance that the stories that w'e offer today will be absolutely new, and in no wav embroider ies of knowm sources. This quality is perhaps of some merit in ail age when everything appears to have been done t when the exhausted imaginations of authors seem no longer able to create anything new, and when the public is no longer offered anything but complexities, extracts or translations.

Nevertheless La 7 out Enchanlee* and La Conspiration d'Ambois* have certain historical bases: it mas be seen from the sincerity of our admissions how far we ate from wishing to deceive the reader. One must be original in this work or take no part in it.

This is what in each of these stories you mav find in the sources that we indicate.

The Arab historian Abul-caecim-t erif -abend aiiq , a writer

• Two stories in Les Crtmes de l* Amour. (Trans.)

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hardly know 4 to the literary men of our day, recounts (he fol- lowing, on the subject of the Enchanted Tower:

'Rodrigue, an unmanly prince, attracted to his court, from an instinct of voluptuousness, the daughters of his vassals, and abused them. Florinda, the daugh^r of Count Julian, was of their number. He violated her. He? father who was in Africa received this news in an allegorical letter from his daughter; he raised the Moors and returned to Spam at their head. Rodrigue did not know what to do, with no funds in his treasuries anywhere. He went to ransack the Enchanted Tower near Toledo, where he had been told he ought to find immense sums. He entered it and *aw a statue of Time which struck with its club, and on an inscription announced to Rodrigue all the disasters which awaited him. The prince advanced and saw a great vat of water, but no monc\ He retraced his steps; f ie -cu^ed the door to be locked; a thunderbolt destroyed this building of which nothing remains but the merest traces. The king, despite these fatal omens, gathered together an army, fought for eight days near Cordova, and was killed without his bods ever being recovered/

This is what history has provided lor us. Now read our work and see if the multitude of events that we have added to the dryness of these facts merits or not our regarding the anecdote as our private property.*

As for the conspiracy of Amboise, read it in Gamier, and it will be seen how little we have borrowed irom history

No guide has preceded us in the other stories. Theme, narrative, episodes, all is ours Perhaps it may be none the

1. This anecdote is that with w hich Jtngandas begins m the episode in

the novel of Alme et V air our entitled Samvtlle et Leonore and which interrupts the circumstance of the bodv found in the towei. The plagiarists of this episode, m copy ing it word for word, have not failed to copv also the first four lines of the anecdote which is found in the mouth of the chief of the Bohemians It is therefore as essential for us at this momeiii as for those who buy novels to warn them that the work which is sold at Pigoreau and Leroux’ under the title of Valmor et Ltdia and at Clenoux and Moutardier’s under that of Alzonde et Koradtn are absolutely the same thing, and both of them literally looted word by word from the episode of Samvtlle et Leonore which forms almost three volumes of my novel Altne et Valcour.

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happier for it, what matter, we have always believed and we shall never cease to be convinced that it is better to invent, even if one is weak, than to copy or to translate The one has a claim to genius, it is at least one of them What may be the claim of the plagiarist ? I know no baser trade no confessions more humiliating than those to which such men are con strained, in themselves admitting that they must inevitably lack intellect, since they arc obliged to borrow that of other men

With regard to the translator, God forbid we rob him of his merit, but he only increases the estimation of our rivals, and it it were only foi the honour of the Fatherland, would it not be more worthy to say to these proud rivals and we also know how to aeate

Final 1\ I must reply to the censures made on me about Aline et Valcoui appeared My pen it was said, is too strong, attributes to vice characteristics that are too odious And do you wish to know the reason ^ I do not wish to make vice liked I do not have like Cr£billon and Dorat the dangerous intent of making women love the persons who deceive them On the contrary, I want them to detest them It is the only wav to prevent them from becoming their dupes, and to succeed m this I have rendered those of my heroes who follow a careei of vice so terrible that they will quite certainly inspire neither pity nor love In this, I dare to sav , I am more moral than those who believed themselves permitted to enhance them The pernicious works of such authors leseinblc those fruits of America which beneath the most brilliant colouring cany death within their bosoms This treachcrv of nature the icason for which it is not for us to unveil, is not designed for man Never, m fact, and this I repeat, never will I paint crime other than the colours of Hell I want it to he seen in all its nakedness, to be feared, to be loathed, and I know no other means of achieving that than by showing it m all the horror that characterises it Woe to Lhosc who surround it with roses, their aims are not so pure, and I will never copy them Following from these principles, theiefore, let no one attribute to me

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any longer tljp novel of J. . never have I composed such works, and assuredly I never will. It is only the stupid or the malicious who despite the authenticity ol my denials can still suspect or accuse me of being its author, and henceforth the most supreme contempt will be the only weapon with which I shall combat their calumnies.

•Justine. (Trans)

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ZOLOE ET SES DEUX ACOLYTES OU QUELQUES DECADES DE LA VIE DE TROIS JOLIES FEMMES

ZOLOE ET SES DEUX ACOLYTES, OU QUELQUES DECADES DE LA VIE DE TROIS JOLIES FEMMES

Written in 1800, this book was an undisguised attack on Napoleon and the Empress Joseph ne; they appeared in the book under the respective names of Baron d’Orsec and Z0I06, and although the story seems now to be inoffensive and merely silly it led to de SadeS arrest, on a charge concerning La Nouvelle Justine.

• * * * *

PORTRAIT OF ZOLO#

Znlol, who is approaching fort), has none the less the same pretension to please that she had at twenty-five. The credit in which she is held draws to her the crowd of courtesans and supplements, in some way, the graces of youth. In addition to a very delicate wit, a character adaptable or proud according to circumstances, a very insinuating tone of voice, a consummate faculty for hypocritical dissimulation, in addition to everything that can seduce and captivate she brings an ardour for pleasure a hundred times more strong than Laureda, the avidity of a usurer for money, which she dissipates with the promptitude of a gambler, and the unbridled luxury which would swallow up the revenue of ten provinces.

Zoloe was never beautiful; ‘but at fifteen she was already a rehned coquette, with this flower of youth which often serves as a passport for love, and great riches had attached a swarm of adoring men to her chariot.

Far from dispersing on her marriage to the Count of Barmont, who was well known to the court, all these admirers swore not to be wretched, and Zolol, the sensitive Z0I06, could not decide to make them break their vow. From this union

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were bprn a son and a daughter, attached today tp the fortune of their illustrious father-in-law.

Z0I06 originates from America. Her possessions in the colonies are immense : but the troubles which have devastated these mines, so fruitful for Europeans, have cut her oft from the yield of these rich domains, which would have been so necessar) here to sustain her prodigal magnificence.

PORTRAIT OF THE BARON d'ORSEC

'Indeed/ said the Lord, 'they speak of her marrying the Baron d'Orsec'.

• Laur6da has confided this secret to me/ the Spaniard said

gravely. 'Can you imagine such a union?'

‘I can see/ replied the Italian, 'that you do not know the Baron. This man thinks of nothing except fame and every t)pe of fame. He does not confine himself to being another Caesar, a Pericles or a Solon. He wants to give to the world an example of all the virtues which have honoured humanity. Bold in his fighting, it is to show to the soldier the road to victoi). Impene- trable in council he only collects opinions in order to perfect his own, and the one he adopts is always the best or the most successful. TKe future unfurls itself before his eyes. He will be everything that the destiny of his countr) allows him to be. He only works for its happiness. He would go to the ends of the earth to win new laurels, provided that the) contribute to the prosperity of his countr). . . The piesent government is palpably absurd: he admires K and fears it, but the people see nothing in him except a hero; the hero will save them; the plan of his success is mapped out in his head; sooner or later he will put it into operation; right-minded people will sigh for that happy moment.

lord forbess: He is the only man whose politics, value and wisdom are feared by the English. But we have Pitt, and a few guineas more or less could easily rid us of him.

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the Spaniard^ What are you saying, Forbess? It is licprible; no, the English people are too noble in spirit to want to use means so cowardly.

iord forbess: Have I not mentioned Pitt?

the n At ian : Pitt will fail in his plots. The spirit of France and his wisdom protect him. Bu if you do not realise the aim of the marriage in question, here it is. All the parties in France cut across on^another and clash together, there is no rallying point. Those # whom we call aristocrats detest the domination of men smothered in crimes and blood. The lurious demagogue is angry at seeing that people dare to muzzle him and that those in power abandon him in his disgrace. The fearful and the indifferent, who form the great- est number, invoke one master alone who unites courage with perspicacity, virtue with talent, and they find all that in d’Orsec. His marriage with Z0I06 attaches to him a pro- scribed class. The lenown of his victories does not allow envy to be offended by them. He has showm his proofs of justice and honour towards all the parties: all esteem and revere him like a friend or a superior man.

iord forbfss: Maj it be as fortune decrees. I don’t want to tire myself over it here. Heie I am in France; it peace reigns there, I shall be a citizen of France, if not I shall see m\ household gods again. I only know d’Orsec through his repu- tation and his tiiumphs. He can only protect all men ^ho are friends of peace and public oidei. As foi me, I onb want to enjoy myself. It matters little to inc under which pilot I reach port, provided that I get there without distress and without shipwreck.'

3 <”

[edit]

TESTAMENT

Sade's Last Will and Testament

When Jules Janin published this portion of de Sade’s will in 1834 he left out the last part of the last sentence, stopping at ‘the minds of men*. He disapproved strongly of de Sadc and apparently did not wish to show that de Sade was capable of affection. Tne early part of the will nas never been published.

All de Sade’s last wishes concerning his burial were ignored.

• * * * *

DE SADE’S WILL

I forbid tm bodv to be opened under am pretext what- soever. I demand with the greatest insistence that it should be kept torty-eight hours in the room where I shall die, placed in a wooden coffin which will only be nailed down after the forty-eight hours referred to above, on the expiration of which the said coffin will be closed; during this time a dispatdi shall be sent to the Sieur Lenormand, wood merchant. Boulevard l’Egalit£ No. 101 at Versailles, asking him to come himself together with a wagon to take m) body in ordei to transport it under his escort to the wood on m) estate at Malmaison in the province of Mancc near Epcrnon where I want it to be placed without any form of ceremony in the first overgrown thiclct which is found on the right in the said wood as you come into it on the side of the old castle bv the wide alle) which divides the wood in two. My grave shall be dug in this thicket by the farmer of Malmaison under tlie inspection of Monsieur Lenormand, who shall not leave nn bod) before it has been placed in the said grave. He can be accompanied during the ceremon), if he washes, b) those among my relatives or friends who without an) show of mourning will want to give me this •last sign of attachment. Once the grave has been filled in it shall be sown over with acorns so that afterwards ’he ground of the said grave having been replanted and the thicket being

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De Sade Selections

overgrt>wn as it was before, the traces of my tomb will dis- appear from the surface of the earth, as I flatter myself that my memory will be effaced from the minds of men, except none- theless from those of the small number of people who have been pleased to love me up to the last moment and of whom I carry into the grave a most tender recollection.

Made at Charenton-Saint-Maurice when of sound mind and in good health, January 30th, 1806.

signed D. A. F. Sade

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