Dangerous Connections
Dangerous ConnectionsPREFACE.LETTER I.LETTER II.LETTER III.LETTER IV.LETTER V.LETTER VI.LETTER VII.LETTER VIII.LETTER IX.LETTER X.LETTER XI.LETTER XII.LETTER XIII.LETTER XIV.LETTER XV.LETTER XVI.LETTER XVII.LETTER XVIII.LETTER XIX.LETTER XX.LETTER XXI.LETTER XXII.LETTER XXIII.LETTER XXIV.LETTER XXV.LETTER XXVI.LETTER XXVII.LETTER XXVIII.LETTER XXIX.LETTER XXX.LETTER XXXI.LETTER XXXII.LETTER XXXIII.LETTER XXXIV.LETTER XXXV.LETTER XXXVI.LETTER XXXVII.LETTER XXXVIII.LETTER XXXIX.LETTER XL.LETTER XLI.LETTER XLII.LETTER XLIII.LETTER XLIV.LETTER XLV.LETTER XLVI.LETTER XLVII.LETTER XLVIII.LETTER XLIX.LETTER L.LETTER LI.LETTER LII.LETTER LIII.LETTER LIV.LETTER LV.LETTER LVI.LETTER LVII.LETTER LVIII.LETTER LIX.LETTER LX.LETTER LXI.LETTER LXII.LETTER LXIII.LETTER LXIV.LETTER LXV.LETTER LXVI.LETTER LXVII.LETTER LXVIII.LETTER LXIX.LETTER LXX.LETTER LXXI.LETTER LXXII.LETTER LXXIII.LETTER LXXIV.LETTER LXXV.LETTER LXXVI.LETTER LXXVII.LETTER LXXVIII.LETTER LXXIX.LETTER LXXX.LETTER LXXXI.LETTER LXXXII.LETTER LXXXIII.LETTER LXXXIV.LETTER LXXXV.LETTER LXXXVI.LETTER LXXXVII.VOL. III.LETTER LXXXVIII.LETTER LXXXIX.LETTER XC.LETTER XCI.LETTER XCII.LETTER XCIII.LETTER XCIV.LETTER XCV.LETTER XCVI.LETTER XCVII.LETTER XCVIII.LETTER XCIX.LETTER C.LETTER CI.LETTER CII.LETTER CIII.LETTER CIV.LETTER CV.LETTER CVI.LETTER CVII.LETTER CVIII.LETTER CIX.LETTER CX.LETTER CXI.LETTER CXII.LETTER CXIII.LETTER CXIV.LETTER CXV.LETTER CXVI.LETTER CXVII.LETTER CXVIII.LETTER CXIX.LETTER CXX.LETTER CXXI.LETTER CXXII.LETTER CXXIII.LETTER CXXIV.VOL. IV.LETTER CXXV.LETTER CXXVI.LETTER CXXVII.LETTER CXXVIII.LETTER CXXIX.LETTER CXXX.LETTER CXXXI.LETTER CXXXII.LETTER CXXXIII.LETTER CXXXIV.LETTER CXXXV.LETTER CXXXVI.LETTER CXXXVII.LETTER CXXXVIII.LETTER CXXXIX.LETTER CXL.LETTER CXLI.LETTER CXLII.LETTER CXLIII.LETTER CXLIV.LETTER CXLV.LETTER CXLVI.LETTER CXLVII.LETTER CXLVIII.LETTER CXLIX.LETTER CL.LETTER CLI.LETTER CLII.LETTER CLIII.LETTER CLIV.LETTER CLV.LETTER CLVI.LETTER CLVII.LETTER CLVIII.LETTER CLIX.LETTER CLX.LETTER CLXI.LETTER CLXII.LETTER CLXIII.LETTER CLXIV.LETTER CLXV.LETTER CLXVI.LETTER CLXVII.LETTER CLXVIII.LETTER CLXIX.LETTER CLXX.LETTER CLXXI.LETTER CLXXII.LETTER CLXXIII.LETTER CLXXIV.LETTER CLXXV.Copyright
Dangerous Connections
Pierre Choderlos de Laclos
PREFACE.
This Work, or rather Collection, which the Public will,
perhaps, still find too voluminous, contains but a small part of
the correspondence from which it is extracted. Being appointed to
arrange it by the persons in whose possession it was, and who, I
knew, intended it for publication, I asked, for my sole recompence,
the liberty to reject every thing that appeared to me useless, and
I have endeavoured to preserve only the letters which appeared
necessary to illustrate the events, or to unfold the characters. If
to this inconsiderable share in the work be added an arrangement of
those letters which I have preserved, with a strict attention to
dates, and some short annotations, calculated, for the most part,
to point out some citations, or to explain some retrenchments I
have made, the Public will see the extent of my labours, and the
part I have taken in this publication.I have also changed, or suppressed, the names of the
personages, and if, among those I have substituted, any resemblance
may be found which might give offence, I beg it may be looked on as
an unintentional error.I proposed farther alterations, as to purity of style and
diction, in both which many faults will be found. I could also have
wished to have been authorised to shorten some long letters,
several of which treat separately, and almost without transition,
of objects totally foreign to one another. This liberty, in which I
was not indulged, would not have been sufficient to give merit to
the work, but would have corrected part of its
defects.It was objected to me, that the intention was to publish the
letters themselves, and not a work compiled from the letters; that
it would be as distant from probability as truth, that eight or ten
persons, who were concerned in this correspondence, should have
wrote with equal purity of style:—And on my representing that there
was not one which did not abound with essential faults, and was not
very open to criticism, I was answered, that every reasonable
reader would undoubtedly expect to find faults in a collection of
letters of private persons, since among all those hitherto
published by authors of the highest reputation, and even some
academicians, there are none totally exempt from censure. Those
reasons have not convinced me; and I am still of opinion they are
easier to give than likely to obtain assent; but I had not my
option, and submitted, reserving only the liberty of entering my
protest, and declaring my dissent, as I now do.As to the merit of this work, perhaps it does not become me
to touch upon it; my opinion neither can, or ought, to influence
any one. However, as some wish to know something of a book before
they take it in hand, those who are so disposed will proceed with
this preface—the rest will do better to pass on to the work
itself.Though inclined to publish those letters, I am yet far from
thinking they will meet success; and let not this sincere
declaration be construed into the affected modesty of an author:
for I declare, with the same frankness, that if I had thought this
collection an unworthy offering to the Public, it should not have
taken up any part of my time.—Let us try to reconcile this apparent
contradiction.The merit of a work consists in its utility, or its
agreeableness, and even in both, when it admits of both. But
success, which is not always the criterion of merit, often arises
more from a choice of subject than the execution, more from the
aggregate of the objects presented than the manner of treating
them: such a collection as the title announces this to be, being
the letters of a whole circle, and containing a diversity of
interests, is not likely to fix the attention of the reader.
Besides, the sentiments they contain being feigned or dissembled,
can only excite an interest of curiosity, always infinitely
inferior to that of sentiment, and less disposed to indulgence, as
well as more apt to be struck with defects in the narrative, as
they are constantly in opposition to the only desire curiosity
seeks to gratify. These defects are, perhaps, partly compensated by
the quality of the work; I mean the variety of style—A merit which
an author seldom attains, but which here presents itself, and
prevents, at least, a dull uniformity. Perhaps merit may also be
allowed to many observations, either new or little known, which are
interspersed through those letters: and this, to pass the most
favourable judgment on them, will be found to constitute their best
pretension to pleasing.The utility of the work, which will, perhaps, be more
strongly contested, appears more easy to establish: it is at least
useful to morality, to lay open the means used by the wicked to
seduce the innocent; and those letters will efficaciously concur
for so salutary a purpose. There will also be found in them the
proof and example of two important truths, which one would be apt
to think unknown, seeing how little they are practised: the one,
that every woman who admits a bad man to her society, ends with
becoming his victim; the other, that every mother is at least
imprudent, that suffers any but herself to gain possession of her
daughter's confidence.Young persons, of both sexes, may also here learn, that the
friendship so readily held out to them by people of bad morals, is
ever a dangerous snare, equally fatal to their happiness and
virtue; yet, abuse or evil always unhappily confining too nearly on
good, appears so much to be dreaded in this respect, that far from
recommending the perusal of works of this kind to youth, I think it
of the utmost importance to keep all such very far from their
reach. The time when productions of the nature of the present may
be no longer dangerous, but begin to be useful, was fixed by a lady
of great good understanding. "I think," said she to me, after
having read the manuscript of this correspondence, "I should render
my daughter an essential service in putting this book in her hands
on her wedding-day." Should all mothers think thus, I shall
congratulate myself on having published it.Yet I shall leave this flattering supposition at a distance;
and I still think this collection will please but few.—Men and
women of depraved minds will take an interest in discountenancing a
work that may injure them; and as they are never wasting in
ingenuity, they may bring over the whole class of rigorists, who
will be alarmed at the picture we have dared to present of
profligacy.The pretenders to free thinking will take no concern in the
fate of a devout woman, whom, for that reason, they will not fail
to pronounce weak, whilst the devotee will be displeased to see
virtue sink under misfortune, and will complain that religion does
not sufficiently display its power. On the other hand, persons of a
delicate taste will be disgusted with the simplicity and defective
style of many of the letters, whilst the generality of readers, led
away with the idea that every thing that appears in print is a work
of labour, will think he sees in some of the other letters the
laboured style of an author sufficiently apparent, notwithstanding
the disguise he has assumed.To conclude; it will be pretty generally said, that a thing
is little worth out of its place; and that if the too correct style
of authors takes off from the gracefulness of miscellaneous
letters, negligences in these become real faults, and make them
insupportable when consigned to the press.I sincerely own that those reproaches may have some
foundation. I believe also, I might possibly be able to answer
them, even without exceeding the length of a preface: but it is
clear, that were I to attempt to answer every thing, I could do
nothing else; and that if I had deemed it requisite to do so, I
should at once have suppressed both preface and book.Are novels useful, or are they prejudicial to the morals? is
a question long agitated, and not yet resolved; for the reasons on
both sides are equally plausible. Undoubtedly Richardson, who is
read and cited every where, though prolix and diffuse, has not a
little contributed to the practice of pure morality; and yet, on
the other hand, what mischiefs have been produced by the immense
multitude of novels of all sorts with which France and all Europe
have been overrun for some years past; and, as if the evil done by
these temporary plagues was not sufficiently accomplished during
their short existence, it is prolonged by reviving them in eternal
collections. A novel, the morality of which is equivocal, is a very
dangerous poison; a novel that only possesses mediocrity, is at
best useless. Even a good novel is but aliment for a child, or some
weak being, to whom morality unadorned is a disgusting object.
Hence we may conclude, that every thinking man will take care to
banish this kind of works from his library.He will then likewise proscribe that novel, now so much
prized, calledDangerous Connections, or Letters
collected in a Society, and published for the Instruction of other
Societies.After having read a few pages of this work, one is almost led
to think this title a piece of pleasantry; the letters of Madame de
Merteuil, and of the Viscount de Valmont,publishedtrulyfor
the instruction of society. Is it in order to
form people to the detestable art of seduction, or to inspire them
with a horror of it? and yet this work has been censured, and
approved; has had all the honours of war, while so many other
useful works are like the manes of the ancients, to whom a
sepulchre was denied, and who were forced to wander upon the gloomy
banks of the Styx, and admitted only by stealth.O
cæcas hominum mentes!I am far from a wish to calumniate the author, who, I am
assured, is a military man of the highest character for wit and
good conduct; but his work, which seems to have a moral end in
view, is in reality very dangerous. It has been said to be a
picture of the manners of a certain class in society; and, if it
was not a resemblance, where would be its utility? Must monsters be
created to cause in us an aversion of ordinary vices? If it is
true, it ought to have been concealed; there are shocking nudities
which our minds revolt at rather than receive any instruction from.
The veil that covers the Tiberiuses and the Messalinas, ought not
to be wholly lifted up.Young men will find in this novel easy means of seduction;
young women will here see portraits of embellished vice; and old
libertines will be amused by the exploits of Valmont. But what a
monster is Valmont, if such a character exists; and those who know
that class of society, assure us, they have met with many such. If
there really are such beings, ought not their society to be avoided
carefully? It is a forest filled with robbers: to enter it we
should be well armed. It is a road full of great precipices, to
avoid falling into which, we must be very circumspect.What a character is the Marchioness de Merteuil! Sometimes
she is a Medea, sometimes a Messalina. Read the tenth letter: vice
is to be drawn; but should it be drawn in such seducing colours?
Are there many young people who will prefer the character of a
virtuous man to the brilliant and lively one of the profligate
Valmont? Are there many who will not blush at the awkwardness of
Cecilia? And when one blushes at being ridiculed, they are not very
far from the vice that exempts them from it. In France, ridicule is
too much dreaded; they would rather be vicious; and this book will
rather assist that taste.The style of romances may serve to lead us to the knowledge
of the morals of ages and nations. Thus the country, which has
lately produced the natural and movingHenrietta
of Gerstenfeld, is far from the state of
depravity of Paris and London. I form my opinion from the book. In
the last age the French novels were full of gallantry and virtuous
love, because then they were gallant and respectful. In this age,
they have substituted wit to love, and the novels are stuffed with
an unintelligible jargon of metaphysics. Of this they grew tired,
and libertinism succeeded to it. From thence so many licentious
romances. The immense quantity that are produced is a complete
proof of the corruption of the age; the rapidity with which they
are bought, the rage with which they are devoured, farther prove
this depravation.Doing justice to the zeal that seems to animate the author of
those observations, we may be permitted, I hope, to make some
farther remarks on the manner he has presented his? Before we begin
to examine the degree of moral utility contained in the novel
ofDangerous Connections, the
author of the correspondence first begs leave to ask whether novels
in general are useful or prejudicial to morals? This method is the
most prudent; but is it not singular, that, acknowledging the
indecision of this question, because the reasons for and against
are equally seducing, he is still so bold to condemn,
indiscriminately, all novels, without assigning any new reasons in
justification of this definitive sentence? On the contrary, the
author asserts, Richardson's novels have been useful to morality,
to preserve them in their purity and in the same breath advises all
thinking men to banish them from their libraries! Are the
consequences suitable to the premises? Is not that confounding the
genus with the species? But if it was even true, that the best
novel is only food for infancy, or a weak being, for whom unadorned
morality is a terrifying object, would the author's decision be the
more justifiable? I will not determine; but I would ask what he
means by thosethinkingmen, for
whom unadorned morality is not terrifying? It would be, perhaps,
those declaiming misanthropes, who censure and despise every thing
that does not bear a resemblance to their savage and austere way of
thinking? I have sometimes had a good opinion of their
understanding, but been ever diffident of their hearts; were we to
attend to them, we should also banish from our libraries the divine
poem of Telemachus, which is the first of novels, which modest
qualification does not hinder it from being, if one may venture to
call it, the first of our books; not only by the grandeur of the
business it treats, but also by the manner in which it is treated.
We should also banish from our libraries even the works of
theCorrespondence, the
morality of which is become very interesting, by an ornamented,
pure and elegant style; if, notwithstanding those qualities, this
work has its opposers, would it find many readers if it was
divested of them? God forbid I should ever intend making a general
apology for all novels! that would be the idea of a Demoniac; I
only mean to justify useful novels. If any one makes a bad use of
this kind of writing, I most willingly acquiesce in their
condemnation. Let us now examine whether the author ofDangerous Connectionsdeserves to
suffer.What is a novel? A correct picture of morals put in
motion.—What should be the aim of a novel? To blend instruction
with amusement.—When the morals of the actors are corrupt, is it
allowable, with deference to decency, to draw them in their proper
shades and colours? Undoubtedly it is; but with the greatest
caution, lest by giving vice, whose contagion must be dreaded, its
true, though seducing and agreeable aspect, without resisting,
diminishing, or rendering useless, the effect it may produce by the
contrast of gentleness, peace, and happiness, which virtue secures.
The author of theErrors of the Heart and
Mind, and the other of theConfessions of the Count of ——, have
gone wide of this mark; yet their characters are drawn after
nature; the Meilcourts are still the ornament of the Bon Ton
societies. But should irregularities be drawn without inflicting
their punishment? Should vice, with impunity, applaud its infamous
triumphs? Should innocence weep without being avenged? Certainly
not. Those novels deserve the severest censure of the author of the
Correspondence; those are the books which should be carefully
concealed from the busy curiosity of young people. Let any one take
the trouble to compare the works I have now quoted, and similar
ones, with the novel ofDangerous
Connections, shall we not always feel a certain
aversion, a kind of antipathy for Valmont and the Marchioness de
Merteuil, notwithstanding the brilliant cast he has given two
performers. Let some attention be paid to the skill with which he
has contrasted them in the gentle, sensible, and generous Madame de
Rosemonde; how moving, how unaffected her virtue. The following
letter, wrote to the victim of the profligate Valmont, is, in my
opinion, alone sufficient to counterbalance, at least, the
impression this same Valmont, and the infamous accomplice in his
crimes, could make.LETTER CXXX.Madame deRosemonde,to the Presidente deTourvel."Why, my lovely dear, will you no longer be my daughter? Why
do you seem to announce that our correspondence is to cease?[1]Is it to punish me for not
guessing at what was improbable; or do you suspect me of creating
you affliction designedly? I know your heart too well, to imagine
you would entertain such an opinion of mine.—The distress your
letter plunges me in is much less on my own account than yours. Oh!
my young friend, with grief I tell you, you are too worthy of being
beloved ever to be happy in love. Where is there a truly delicate
and sensible woman, who has not met unhappiness where she expected
bliss? Do men know how to rate the women they possess?"Not but many of them are virtuous in their addresses, and
constant in their affections—but even among those, how few that
know how to put themselves in unison with our hearts. I do not
imagine, my dear child, their affection is like ours. They
experience the same transport often with more violence, but they
are strangers to that uneasy officiousness, that delicate
solicitude, that produces in us those continual tender cares, whose
sole aim is the beloved object. Man enjoys the happiness he feels,
woman that she gives."This difference, so essential, and so seldom observed,
influences, in a very sensible manner, the totality of their
respective conduct. The pleasure of the one is to gratify desires;
but that of the other is to create them. To know to please is in
man the means of success; and in woman it is success
itself."And do not imagine the exceptions, be they more or less
numerous, that may be quoted, can be successfully opposed to those
general truths, which the voice of the public has guarantied, with
the only distinction as to men of infidelity from inconstancy; a
distinction of which they avail themselves, and of which they
should be ashamed; which never has been adopted by any of our sex
but those of abandoned characters, who are a scandal to us, and to
whom all methods are acceptable which they think may deliver them
from the painful sensation of their own meanness."I thought, my lovely dear, those reflections might be of use
to you, in order to oppose the chimerical ideas of perfect
happiness, with which love never fails to amuse our imagination.
Deceitful hope! to which we are still attached, even when we find
ourselves under the necessity of abandoning it—whose loss
multiplies and irritates our already too real sorrows, inseparable
from an ardent passion. This task of alleviating your trouble, or
diminishing their number, is the only one I will or can now fulfil.
In disorders which are without remedy, no other advice can be
given, than as to the regimen to be observed. The only thing I wish
you to remember is, that to pity is not to blame a patient. Alas!
who are we, that we dare blame one another? Let us leave the right
of judging to the Searcher of hearts; and I will even venture to
believe, that in his paternal sight, a crowd of virtues may
compensate a single weakness."But I conjure you, above all things, my dear friend, to
guard against violent resolutions, which are less the effects of
fortitude than despondency: do not forget, that although you have
made another possessor of your existence (to use your own
expression) you had it not in your power to deprive your friends of
the share they were before possessed of, and which they will always
claim."Adieu, my dear child! Think sometimes on your tender mother;
and be assured you always will be, above every thing, the dearest
object of her thoughts."Castle of ——."If the openness of the little Volanges, or her ignorance,
should seem ridiculous to those of her own age, the unhappy
consequences that resulted from it, will be an useful lesson to
mothers to be cautious in what hands they intrust the education of
their children. But can a young girl, who has once imbibed this bad
education, avoid the consequences I mention, without any other
guide but her timidity and absolute ignorance of vice? Is it in a
corrupt world, in which she is just entering, that she will receive
the fatal knowledge? Does not the author of the Correspondence
himself say, "To enter it, we should be well armed; it is a road
full of precipices: to avoid falling into which, we must be very
circumspect." This is all well—But if, unfortunately, I am blind,
or without a guide, who is to restore me sight, or lead me? I
conclude, then, that a young person, who would be pleased, at
first, with the brilliant character of the Marchioness de Merteuil,
would soon change her opinion, and not be tempted to imitate her,
when she would see the dreadful and examplary punishment inflicted
on this guilty woman. She will shudder at the thought of the
miseries to which one single fault condemned Cecilia Volanges.
Valmont perishing in the bloom of life, by a violent death, loaded
with the contempt and disgrace of all men of worth, disowned even
by the wicked, will deter all those, whose vanity and a desire to
shine might induce them to copy such a character, from attempting
to imitate him.[1]SeeLetter
cxxviii.
LETTER I.
CECILIA VOLANGEStoSOPHIA
CARNAY,at the Convent of the Ursulines of
——.You see, my dear friend, I keep my word, and that dress does
not totally take up all my time; I shall ever have some left for
you. In this single day I have seen more finery of attire, than in
the four years we have spent together; and I believe the haughty
Tanville[1]will be more
mortified at my first visit, when I shall certainly desire to see
her, than she used to be every time she came to see usin fiochi. Mamma advises with me in
every thing; she behaves to me no longer as a boarder in a convent.
I have a chamber-maid to myself; a chamber and a closet of my own,
and a very pretty scrutoire, of which I keep the key, and where I
can lock up every thing. My Mamma has told me, I must be with her
every morning at her levee; that it would be sufficient to have my
head dressed by dinner, because we should always be alone, and that
then she would each day tell me what time I should come to her
apartment in the evening. The remainder of my time is at my own
disposal; I have my harpsichord, my drawings, and books, just as in
the convent, only that the mother abbess is not here to scold. And
I may always be idle, if I please: but as I have not my dear Sophy
to chat and laugh with, I am as well pleased with some occupation.
It is not yet five, and I am not to go to Mamma till seven: what a
deal of time, if I had any thing to tell you! but nothing has been
yet mentioned to me of any consequence: and if it were not for the
preparation I see making, and the number of women employed for me,
I should be apt to think they have no notion of my nuptials, and
that it was one of old Josephine's[2]tales. Yet Mamma having so often
told me, that a young lady should remain in a convent, until she
was on the point of marriage, and having now brought me home, I am
apt to think Josephine right.A coach has just stopped at our door, and Mamma has sent for
me. If it should be my intended!—I am not dressed, and am all in
agitation; my heart flutters. I asked my maid, if she knew who was
with my Mamma? "Why," says she, laughing, "it is Mr. C——." I really
believe it is he. I will certainly return and write you the whole;
however, that's his name. I must not make them wait. Adieu, for a
moment!How you will laugh at your poor Cecilia, my dear Sophy! I'm
quite ashamed! But you would have been deceived as well as I. On
entering Mamma's room, I saw a gentleman in black, standing close
by her, I saluted him as well as I could, and remained motionless.
You may guess, I examined him from head to foot. "Madam," said he
to Mamma, "this is a most charming young lady, and I am extremely
sensible of your goodness." So positive a declaration made me
tremble all over; and not being able to support me, I threw myself
in an armed chair, quite red and disconcerted. In an instant he was
at my knees, and then you may judge how poor Cecilia's head was
bewildered; I instantly started up and shrieked, just as on the day
of the great thunder. Mamma burst out laughing, saying, "Well,
what's the matter? Sit down, and give Mr. —— your foot." Thus, my
dear friend, Mr. —— turns out to be my shoemaker. You can't
conceive how much I was ashamed; happily, there was no one but
Mamma present. I am, however, resolved when I am married he shall
not be my shoemaker. Well! am I not now much the wiser? Farewell!
it is almost six, and my maid says it is time to dress. Adieu! my
dear Sophy; I love you as much as I did at the
convent.P. S. I don't know whom to send with this, and shall wait
till Josephine calls.Paris, Aug.3, 17—.[1]A boarder in the same convent.[2]Josephine was the portress of the
convent.
LETTER II.
TheMARCHIONESS DE MERTEUILto theVISCOUNT VALMONT,at the Castle of ——.Return, my dear Viscount, return! How can you think of idling
your days with an old aunt, whose fortune is already settled on
you! Set out the moment you receive this letter, for I want you
much. A most enchanting idea has just struck me, and I wish to
confide the execution of it to you.This hint should be sufficient, and you should think yourself
so highly honoured by my choice, as to fly to receive my orders on
your knees: but my favours are thrown away on one who no longer
sets a value on them; and you presume upon my kindness, where the
alternative must be eternal hatred, or excessive indulgence. I will
acquaint you with my scheme; but you, like a true knight errant,
must first swear to undertake no other adventure until this is
achieved. It is worthy a hero. You will at once satiate love and
revenge. It will be an additional exploit to your memoirs; yes,
your memoirs, for I will have them published, and I will undertake
the task. But to return to what more immediately concerns us.
Madame de Volanges intends to marry her daughter: it is yet a
secret; but she yesterday informed me of it. And whom do you think
she has chosen for her son-in-law? Count Gercourt. Who could have
thought I should have been allied to Gercourt? I am provoked beyond
expression at your stupidity! Well, don't you guess yet? Oh, thou
essence of dulness! What, have you then pardoned him the affair of
Madame the Intendante? And I, monster![1]have I not more reason for
revenge? But I shall resume my temper; the prospect of retaliation,
recalls my serenity.You and I have been often tormented with the important idea
framed by Gercourt, of the lady he intended honour with his hand,
and his ridiculous presumption of being exempt from the unavoidable
fate of married men. You know his foolish prepossessions in favour
of conventual education, and his still more weak prejudices for
women of a fair complexion: and I really believe, notwithstanding
Volanges' sixty thousand livres a year, he never would have thought
of this girl, had she not been black eyed, or not educated in a
convent.Let us convince him, he is a most egregious fool, as one day
or other he must be: but that's not the business; the jest will be,
should he act upon so absurd an opinion. How we should be diverted
the next day with his boasts! for boast he will: and if once you
properly form this little girl, it will be astonishing if Gercourt
does not become, like so many others, the standing ridicule of
Paris. The heroine of this new romance merits all your attention;
she is really handsome, just turn'd of fifteen, and a perfect
rose-bud; awkward as you could wish, and totally unpolished: but
you men don't mind such trifles; a certain languishing air, which
promises a great deal, added to my recommendation of her, leaves
only to you to thank me and obey. You will receive this letter
to-morrow morning: I require to see you at seven in the evening. I
shall not be visible to any one else till eight, not even to my
chevalier, who happens to be my reigning favourite for the present;
he has not a head for such great affairs. You see I am not blinded
by love. I shall set you at liberty at eight, and you'll return to
sup with the charming girl at ten, for the mother and daughter sup
with me. Farewell! it is past noon. Now for other
objects.Paris, Aug.4, 17—.[1]To understand this passage, it must be
remarked, that the Count de Gercourt had quitted the Marchioness de
Merteuil for the Intendante de ——, who had on his account abandoned
the Viscount de Valmont, and that then the attachment of the
Marchioness to the Viscount commenced. As that adventure was long
antecedent to the events which are the subject of these letters, it
has been thought better to suppress the whole of that
correspondence.
LETTER III.
CECILIA VOLANGEStoSOPHIA
CARNAY.I have yet no news for my dear friend. Mamma had a great deal
of company at supper last night. Notwithstanding the strong
inclination I had to make my observations, especially among the
men, I was far from being entertained. The whole company could not
keep their eyes from me; they whispered; I could observe plainly
they were speaking of me, and that made me blush; I could not help
it: I wish I could; for I observed when any one looked at the other
ladies they did not blush, or the rouge they put on prevented their
blushes from being seen. It must be very difficult not to change
countenance when a man fixes his eyes on you.What gave me the most uneasiness was, not to know what they
thought of me; however, I think I heard the word pretty two or
three times: but I'm sure I very distinctly heard that of awkward;
and that must be very true, for she that said so is a relation, and
an intimate friend of Mamma's. She seems even to have taken a
sudden liking to me. She was the only person who took a little
notice of me the whole evening. I also heard a man after supper,
who I am sure was speaking of me, say to another, "We must let it
ripen, we shall see this winter." Perhaps he is to be my husband;
but if so, I have still to wait four months! I wish I knew how it
is to be.Here's Josephine, and she says she is in haste. I must,
however, tell you one of my awkward tricks—Oh, I believe that lady
was right.After supper, they all sat down to cards. I sat next Mamma. I
don't know how it happened, but I fell asleep immediately. A loud
laugh awoke me. I don't know whether I was the object of it; but I
believe I was. Mamma gave me leave to retire, which pleas'd me
much. Only think, it was then past eleven! Adieu, my dear Sophy!
continue to love thy Cecilia, I assure you the world is not so
pleasing as we used to think it.Paris, Aug.4, 17—.
LETTER IV.
TheVISCOUNT DE VALMONTto theMARCHIONESS DE MERTEUIL.
Your orders are enchanting, and your manner of giving them
still more delightful; you would even make one in love with
despotism. It is not the first time, you know, that I regret I am
no longer your slave; and yet, monster as you style me, I recall
with rapture the time when you honoured me with softer names. I
have often even wish'd again to deserve them, and to terminate, by
giving along with you an example of constancy to the world. But
matters of greater moment call us forth; conquest is our destiny,
and we must follow it: we may, perhaps, meet again at the end of
our career; for permit me to say, without putting you out of
temper, my beautiful Marchioness! you follow me with a pretty equal
pace; and since, for the happiness of the world, we have separated
to preach the faith, I am inclined to think, that in this mission
of love, you have made more proselytes than I. I am well convinced
of your zeal and fervour; and if the God of Love judged us
according to our works, you would be the patron saint of some great
city, whilst your friend would be at most a common village saint.
This language no doubt will surprise you; but you must know, that
for these eight days I hear and speak no other; and to make myself
perfect in it, I am obliged to disobey you.
Don't be angry, and hear me. As you are the depository of all
the secrets of my heart, I will intrust you with the greatest
project I ever formed. What do you propose to me? To seduce a young
girl, who has seen nothing, knows nothing, and would in a manner
give herself up without making the least defence, intoxicated with
the first homage paid to her charms, and perhaps incited rather by
curiosity than love; there twenty others may be as successful as I.
Not so with the enterprise that engrosses my mind; its success
insures me as much glory as pleasure; and even almighty Love, who
prepares my crown, hesitates between the myrtle and laurel, or will
rather unite them to honour my triumph. Even you yourself, my
charming friend, will be struck with a holy respect, and in a fit
of enthusiasm, will exclaim, This is the man after my own
heart!
You know the Presidente Tourvel, her devout life, her
conjugal love, and the austerity of her principles; that is the
object I attack; that is the enemy worthy of me; that is the point
I intend to carry. I must tell you, the President is in Burgundy,
prosecuting a considerable suit, (I hope to make him lose one of
greater importance,) his inconsolable partner is to remain here the
whole time of this afflicting widowhood. A mass each day, a few
visits to the neighbouring poor, prayers morning and evening, a few
solitary walks, pious conferences with my old aunt, and sometimes a
melancholy game at whist, are her only amusements: but I am
preparing some of a more efficacious nature for her. My guardian
angel led me here for our mutual happiness. Fool that I was! I used
to regret the time that I sacrificed to the customary ceremonies.
How should I now be punished, by being obliged to return to Paris!
Fortunately there must be four to make a whist party; and as there
is no one here but the curate of the place, my eternal aunt has
pressed me much to sacrifice a few days to her; you may judge, I
did not refuse her. You can't conceive how much she caresses me
ever since; and above all, how much she is edified by seeing me so
regular at mass and at prayers. But little does she imagine the
divinity I adore there.
Thus, in the space of four days, have I given myself up to a
violent passion. You are no stranger to the impetuosity of my
desires, and how readily all obstacles fly before me: but I'll tell
you what you don't know, that solitude adds immensely to the ardour
of desire. I have but one idea; I cherish it by day, and dream on't
by night. I must possess this woman, lest I should be so ridiculous
as to be in love; for whither may we not be led by frustrated
desire? Oh, delicious enjoyment! I implore thee for my happiness,
and, above all, for my repose. How happy it is for us, that the
women make so weak a defence! Were it otherwise, we should be but
their cowardly slaves. I feel myself at this moment penetrated with
gratitude towards complaisant ladies, which, naturally leads me to
you, at whose feet I prostrate myself to obtain my pardon, and
finish this already too long letter. Adieu, my charming
friend!
Castle of ——, Aug.3, 17—.
LETTER V.
TheMARCHIONESS DE MERTEUIL,to theVISCOUNT VALMONT.
Do you know, Viscount, your letter is wonderfully insolent,
and has almost made me angry? But it plainly proves that you have
lost your reason; and that consideration alone suppresses my
indignation. Like a tender and generous friend, I forget my own
injury, and am wholly taken up with your danger; and irksome as it
is to enter into argument, I yield to the necessity of it at this
time.
You possess the Presidente Tourvel! What a ridiculous
extravagance! I here plainly perceive your downright folly, whose
nature is to desire that you cannot obtain. But let's examine this
woman. She has regular features, it's true, but a total want of
expression; a tolerable shape, but without the least elegance;
dresses most horridly, with a bundle of ruffs about her neck, and
her stays up to her chin. I tell you as a friend, two such women
would be quite sufficient to ruin your reputation. Do you remember
the day she collected for the poor at St. Roch, when you thank'd me
so much for the view of so curious an exhibition. I think I see her
still giving her hand to that great looby with the long hair, ready
to fall at each step with her calash of four ells over every one's
head, and blushing at every courtesy. Who then would have dared to
tell you, you will sigh for this woman? For shame, Viscount! Blush
yourself, and return to reason. I'll promise to keep this matter
secret.
Let us now examine the disagreeable consequences that await
you. What rival have you to encounter? A husband. Don't you feel
yourself humiliated at that name? What a shame if you fail! and if
you succeed, where is the glory?—I go farther: pleasure is out of
the question; for who ever had any with a prude? I mean, with a
sincere one: reserv'd in the very bosom of pleasure, they give you
but half enjoyments. The entirely devoting one's self, that
delirium of voluptuousness, where pleasure is refined by excess—all
those gifts of love are strangers to them. I'll prognosticate for
you: suppose your summit of happiness, you'll find your Presidente
will think she has done enough in treating you as a husband; and,
be assured, that in the most tender conjugal tête-à-tête, the
numerical distinctiontwois
always apparent. But in this case it is much worse; your prude is a
devotee, and of that sort you are in a perpetual state of
childhood; perhaps you may get over this obstacle: but don't
flatter yourself that you'll annihilate it. Should you conquer the
love of God, you'll not be able to dispel the fear of the devil;
and though in holding your charmer in your arms, you may feel her
heart palpitate, it will be from fear, not love. You might,
perhaps, had you known this woman sooner, have made something of
her; but she is now two-and-twenty, and has been married almost two
years. Believe me, Viscount, when a woman is so far incrusted, she
must be left to her fate; she will never be any thing more than an
undistinguishable individual of a species.
And for such a curious object you refuse to obey me; you bury
yourself in your aunt's sepulchre; you abandon a most delicious
adventure that is marked out for the advancement of your
reputation. By what fatality is it, that Gercourt must always have
the advantage of you?
I declare I am not out of temper: but at this instant I am
inclined to think you don't deserve the reputation you possess; and
I consider your conduct with such a degree of indignation, as
tempts me to withdraw my confidence from you. No, I never can bring
myself to make Madame de Tourvel's lover the confidant of my secret
designs.
I will tell you, however, that the little Volanges has made a
conquest. Young Danceny is distracted for her. He has sung with
her, and she really sings better than belongs to a convent boarder.
They have yet many duos to rehearse together, and I am much
mistaken if she would not readily get into unison with him; it is
true, Danceny is but a boy yet, who will waste his time in making
love, but never will come to the point. Little Volanges is wild
enough; but at all events, it will never be so pleasing as you
could have made it. I am out of temper with you, and shall most
certainly fall out with the Chevalier when he comes home. I would
advise him to be mild, for at this time I should feel no difficulty
to break with him.
I am certain that if I had sense enough to break off with him
now, he would be a prey to the most violent despair; yet nothing
diverts me more than an enraged lover. He, perhaps, would call me
perfidious, and that word has ever pleased me; it is, after the
epithet cruel, the sweetest to a woman's ear, and the least painful
to deserve. I will seriously ruminate on this rupture. You are the
cause of all this—I shall leave it on your conscience. Adieu!
recommend me to your Presidente in her prayers.
Paris, Aug.7, 17—.
LETTER VI.
VISCOUNT DE VALMONTto theMARCHIONESS DE MERTEUIL.
There is then no woman that does not abuse the empire she has
gained; and you, whom I have so often called my indulgent friend,
are no longer so, you are not afraid to attack me even in the very
object of my affections. What a picture have you drawn of Madame de
Tourvel! What man would not have forfeited his life by so daring an
act of insolence? And what woman but you would not, at least, have
determined me to blast her reputation? For heaven's sake! never put
me to such rude trials again. I will not be answerable for the
consequence. In the name of friendship, have patience till I have
this woman, if you must slander her. Don't you know, that the time
for its causing any impression on me will be after I have enjoyed
her? But where do I wander? Does Madame de Tourvel, in order to
inspire a passion, need any deception? No; to be adorable, 'tis
enough she is herself. You find fault with her dress: you are
right; all ornaments are prejudicial to her; every thing that hides
her lovely form is hurtful. It is in unaffected negligence she is
truly ravishing. Thanks to the suffocating heat of the season, a
deshabille of plain lawn adorns her charming, easy shape. A thin
muslin handkerchief covers her bosom; and my stolen, but
penetrating glances, have already seized its enchanting form. You
say her figure has no expression. What should it express, when
nothing speaks to her heart? No, indubitably, she has not, like our
coquettes, those false looks, which sometimes seduce, but ever
deceive. She knows not how to fill up a void of phrase by an
affected smile; and though she has the finest teeth in the world,
she only laughs at what pleases her. But she is particularly
admirable in the most trifling amusements, where she gives the
picture of the frankest and most natural gaiety. In visiting a
wretched being that she hastens to relieve, her looks declare the
unsullied joy and compassionate bounty of her heart. At the most
trifling expression of praise or flattery, the tender embarrassment
of unaffected modesty is suffused over her celestial figure. She is
a prude and devotee, and thence you conclude, she is cold and
inanimate. I think quite otherwise. What astonishing sensibility
must she not have, to diffuse it as far as her husband, and to love
a being always absent! What stronger proof can you require? I found
out a method, however, to obtain another; I directed our walk in
such a manner that we had a ditch to leap over, and although very
active, she is still more timid—you may very well judge a prude
dreads taking a leap. She was obliged to trust herself to me. I
raised this modest woman in my arms. Our preparations, and the skip
of my old aunt, made our sprightly devotee laugh most immoderately:
but as soon as I seized on her, by a dexterous awkwardness, our
arms were mutually entwined in each other; I pressed her bosom
against mine, and in this short interval I felt her heart palpitate
more quickly; a lovely blush covered her face, and her modest
embarrassment informed me her heart beat with love and not with
fear. My aunt was deceived as you had been, and said, "The child is
frightened;" but the charming candour of this child would not
permit her to countenance a lie, and she ingenuously answered, "Oh,
no; but—" That word alone has cleared up my doubts. From this
instant, sweet hope has banished cruel inquietude. I will have this
woman. I will take her from a husband who does not deserve her.
I'll even snatch her from the god she adores.
How delicious to be by turns the object and conqueror of her
remorse! Far be from me the idea of curing her of her prejudices!
they will add to my glory and happiness. Let her rely on her
virtue, and sacrifice it. Let her crime terrify her, without being
able to resist its impulse; and, alarmed with a thousand terrors,
let her neither be able to forget or conquer them but in my
embraces.
Then I'll consent to her saying, "I adore thee." She, of all
your sex, will be the only one worthy to pronounce that word. Then
shall I truly be the god of her idolatry. Confess ingenuously to
me, that in our arrangements, as indifferent as they are free, what
we style happiness scarce deserves the name of pleasure. I'll
freely acknowledge, I imagined my heart withered, and incapable
only of sensual gratification; I began to deplore my prematurely
advanced age; Madame de Tourvel has restored me to the illusive
charms of youth. With her, actual enjoyment is not necessary to my
happiness. The only thing that alarms me is the time this adventure
will take up; for I am resolved to risk nothing. In vain do I bring
to remembrance my successful acts of temerity on many occasions; I
can't think of attempting them now. To crown my bliss, she must
give herself up, and that's not an easy matter to
accomplish.
I am confident even you must approve my discretion, for as
yet I have not mentioned the word love; but we are already got as
far as those of friendship and confidence. In order to deceive her
as little as possible, and, above all, to guard against any thing
that may come to her knowledge which might shock her, I have myself
related to her, by way of self-accusation, some of my most
remarkable adventures. You would be delighted to see how innocently
she catechises me. She says she is determined to make a convert of
me: but has not the least suspicion how much the purchase will cost
her. She does not think, that her becoming advocate, to use her own
words,for the many I have undone, she is beforehand pleading her own cause.
This idea struck me yesterday, in the midst of one of her
little sermons, and I could not resist the pleasure of interrupting
her, to tell her that she spoke like a prophet. Adieu, my lovely
friend! you see I am not totally lost.
P. S. But what's become of our poor Chevalier? Has he
destroyed himself in a fit of despair? Indeed you are a million of
times worse than I; and if I was vain, you'd mortify me to be so
much outdone.
From the Castle of——,Aug.9, 17—.
LETTER VII.
CECILIA VOLANGEStoSOPHIA
CARNAY.[1]
If I have not said any thing to you as yet of my marriage, it
is because I am as ignorant of the matter as the first day I came
home. I begin to accustom myself not to think about it, and I am
very happy as I am. I practice my harpsichord and singing much; and
I am fonder of them than when I had a master, or rather now I have
got a better one. The Chevalier Danceny, the gentleman I mentioned
to you before, with whom I sang at Madame Merteuil's, is so
obliging to come every day to sing with me for hours together. He
is exceedingly agreeable. He sings like an angel, and sets the
words of his own composition to very pretty music. It is a great
pity he is a Knight of Malta! I think, were he to embark in
wedlock, his wife would be very happy. He is the sweetest creature
breathing. Without the affectation of complaisance, every thing he
does is endearing. He always chides me about music, or some other
trifle; but he blends with his censures so much concern and good
nature, that one can't help being pleased. His very looks seem to
speak obliging things. And with all this, he is the most
complaisant man possible: for instance; yesterday he was asked to a
private concert, but spent the evening at Mamma's, which gratified
me exceedingly; for, when he is absent, I have no one to speak to,
and am quite stupid: but, when he is with us, we chat and sing
together, and he always has something to say to me. Madame de
Merteuil and he are the only two amiable persons I yet know. Adieu,
my dear friend! I promised to be perfect to-day in a little air,
with a very difficult accompaniment, and I must keep my word. I
must set about practising it against his return.
From ——, Aug.7, 17—.
[1]Not to tire the reader's patience, we
suppress many of the letters of this daily correspondence, and give
only them we think necessary for unfolding the events of this
society. For the same reason we suppress all those of Sophia
Carnay, and several of those of the actors in this piece.
LETTER VIII.
Presidente DE TOURVELtoMADAME DE VOLANGES.
Permit me, Madam, to assure you, no one can be more sensible
of the confidence you repose in me, nor have more at heart the
happy establishment of Mademoiselle de Volanges than I have. With
my whole soul I wish her that felicity which I am confident she
merits, and which I have no doubt she will obtain through your
prudence. I have not the honour of knowing Count Gercourt, but
conceive the most favourable opinion of him, as he is your choice.
I limit my good wishes to the hope that this match may be as happy
as mine, which was also one of your making, and which gratitude
daily calls to my remembrance. May the happiness of Mademoiselle de
Volanges be the reward of that I enjoy, and may the best of friends
be also the happiest of mothers!
I am really mortified that I am not at present able,
personally, to assure you of the grateful sentiments of my heart,
and to accomplish what I wish for much, an acquaintance with
Mademoiselle de Volanges.
After having experienced your maternal fondness, I think I am
entitled to the tender friendship of a sister from her. I entreat
you, Madam, to claim it for me, until I have it in my power to
deserve it. I propose residing in the country during Mr. de
Tourvel's absence. I now enjoy and improve in the respectable
company of Madame Rosemonde. This lady is ever delightful; her
great age has not the least impaired her gaiety or memory; her body
may be eighty-four, but her understanding is only twenty. Our
retirement is enlivened by the Viscount Valmont, her nephew, who
has condescended to spend a few days with us. I only knew him by
character, which gave me an unfavourable opinion of him, that now I
don't think he deserves. Here, where the bustle of the world does
not affect him, he is very agreeable, and owns his failings with
great candour. He converses with me very confidentially, and I
sometimes sermonize him with asperity; you, who know him well,
will, I dare say, think such a conversion worth attempting: but I
am afraid, notwithstanding all his promises, eight days in Paris
will destroy all my labours; however, his residence here will be so
much gained from his general course of life, and I am clear, that
the best thing he can do will be to remain in inactivity. He knows
that I am now writing to you, and begs leave to present his most
respectful compliments. I beg you'll also accept mine with that
condescension you have ever had for me, and be assured of the
sincerity of the sentiments with which I have the honour to be,
&c.
From the Castle of——,Aug.9, 17—.
LETTER IX.
MADAME DE VOLANGESto thePresidente DE TOURVEL.
I never yet doubted, my young and charming friend, of your
friendship for me, nor of the interest you take in all my concerns.
It is not to clear up this point, on which I hope we are for ever
agreed, that I reply to your answer; but I think myself obliged to
say a word or two relative to Viscount Valmont.
I must own, I did not expect to meet such a name in a letter
from you. How is it possible there can be any communication between
you and him? You do not know that man. Where did you find the idea
you have imbibed of the heart of a libertine? You tell me of his
uncommon candour; yes, truly, Valmont's candour is very uncommon.
He is yet more false and dangerous than he is lovely and seducing:
never since his earliest youth, has he taken a step, or spoke a
word, without a design; and never formed a design that was not
criminal or improper. My dear friend, you know me; you know that of
all the virtues I endeavour to acquire, indulgence is the one I
cherish most; and if Valmont had been hurried away by the
impetuosity of his passions, or if, like a thousand more at his
time of life, he had been seduced by the errors of youth, I would
have compassionated his person, blamed his conduct, and have
patiently waited until time, the happy maturer of green years,
should have made him fit for the society and esteem of worthy
people: but that's not Valmont's case; his conduct is the result of
principle; he calculates how far a man can proceed in villainy
without risking reputation, and has chosen women for his victims,
that his sacrifices may be wicked and cruel without danger. I shall
not dwell on the numbers he has seduced; but how many has he not
utterly undone? Those scandalous anecdotes never come within the
sphere of your retired and regular course of life. I could,
however, relate you some that would make you shudder; but your
mind, pure as your soul, would be defiled with such descriptions:
convinced, as I am, that Valmont will never be an object of danger
to you, such armour is unnecessary to guard you. I can't, however,
refrain telling you, that successful or not, no woman he ever yet
dangled after, but had reason to repent her folly. The only
exception to this general rule is the Marchioness de Merteuil; she
alone has been capable not only of resisting, but of completely
defeating his wickedness.
I must acknowledge, this trait in her character strikes me
the most forcibly; and has amply justified her to the world for
some trifling indiscretions in the outset of her widowhood.[1]However, my charming
friend, authorised as I am, by age, experience, and much more by
friendship, I am obliged to inform you, the world take notice of
Valmont's absence; and that if they come to know that he has for
any time formed a trio with you and his aunt, your reputation will
be at his mercy, which is the greatest misfortune that can happen
to a woman. I therefore advise you to prevail on his aunt not to
detain him longer; and if he should still determine to remain, I
think you should not hesitate a moment on quitting the place. But
why should he remain? How does he employ himself in the country? I
am certain, if his motions were watched, you would discover that he
has only taken up his residence in that commodious retreat for the
accomplishment of some act of villainy he meditates in the
neighbourhood.
When it is not in our power to prevent an evil, let us at
least take care to preserve ourselves from its consequences. Adieu!
my lovely friend. An accident retards my daughter's marriage for
some little time. Count Gercourt, whom we daily expected, informs
me his regiment is ordered for Corsica; and as the military
operations are not yet over, it will be impossible for him to
return before winter: this disconcerts me; however, it gives me
hope we shall have your company at the wedding; and I was vexed it
should take place without you. Adieu! I am as free from compliment
as reserve, entirely yours.
P. S. Bring me back to the recollection of Madame de
Rosemonde, whom I shall always love for her great merit.
[1]Madame de Volanges' error informs us, that
Valmont, like most profligate wretches, did not impeach his
accomplices.
LETTER X.
TheMARCHIONESS DE MERTEUIL,toVISCOUNT VALMONT.Are you out of temper with me, Viscount, or are you dead, or,
which is pretty much the same, do you live no longer but for your
Presidente? This woman, who has restored you to theillusive charms of youth, will also
soon restore you to its ridiculous follies. You are already a timid
slave; you may as well be in love at once. You renounce yourhappy acts of temerity on many occasions;and thus, without any principle to direct you, give yourself
up to caprice, or rather chance. Do you know, that love is like
physic,only the art of assisting
nature?You see I fight you on your own ground,
but it shall not excite any vanity in me; for there is no great
honour in engaging a vanquished enemy.She must
give herself up
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