Letters From Prison

  I take this opportunity to assure Monsieur de Montreuil of my sincere respects, and to thank him for the books he so kindly lent me this past summer.

  This letter has been written the 29th of October, but shall be dispatched only when I know for certain that they intend to make me spend the winter here, which shall be determined when I see which of the latest objects I requested are indeed dispatched.

  1. As noted, Madame de Montreuil had declared she would neither write her son-in-law nor receive his letters. In a letter that January (1779) she wrote to Renée-Pélagie: “The indelible memory of an entire past prevents me from having any direct contact with him.” Still, as he nears the beginning of his third year of prison, increasingly desperate to see if not an end to his imprisonment at least an alleviation of its harsh conditions, he turns to the one person he thinks can, by word or deed, offer a change.

  2. That is, from February 1777 until his return from Aix in mid-1778.

  3. Following his reincarceration, Sade was prohibited from having anyone remain with him while he ate.

  4. The former warden of Pierre-Encize prison, whom Sade respected as much as he respected anyone in the prison system.

  5. After his recapture at La Coste on August 26, 1778, he was escorted back to Vincennes by five armed guards.

  6. The prison near Lyons where Sade was confined from the end of April 1768 until November 16. Relatively speaking, it was an indulgent prison.

  21. To Madame de Sade

  [December 2, 1779]

  In truth, Madame, I believe you think I complain for no reason . . . to make myself interesting. Ah! great God! what would I stand to gain from resorting to such a stupid trick? What use could it possibly be for someone as convinced as he is of his own existence that his term has been fixed and determined, and that were he on his deathbed, nothing could either shorten it or make someone tell him what that date is? Am I not painfully aware of what an old idiot’s stubbornness can lead to?. . . Have no fear that I shall ever try to overcome it . . . ‘Twould be a stain on my pride . . . Since ’tis absolutely impossible for you to believe that the ills about which I complain are true, ’tis necessary, in order to justify the lack of interest you take in them and your continued stabs in the back, even in my present state, ’tis necessary, I say, that they who ought to describe those ills to you as they truly are, are instead offering you a watered-down portrait . . . And coming from them, this does not surprise me . . . In truth, they are not such fools as to report the situation accurately: to do so would have the effect of arousing people’s concern, and cost them their prisoner . . . And with him, their salary! Must blood not forever flow into the gullet of the cannibal who feeds himself upon it? What would become of him were the flow to be stemmed? Yes, Madame, I am suffering, and what is worse, suffering more and more every day. On this score, would you like me to tell you a little story that illustrates the humane rules which govern this establishment? Last night, having felt much worse over the past several days, I thought I would write a little note to the surgeon, in which I asked him for a new medicine I hoped might make me feel better. I went to bed and fell asleep feeling slightly calmer in the hope that he would shortly give me what I asked for. When I awoke in the morning, I said, “So have you brought what I asked for?” “Not another word,” was the reply, “I am returning your note to you.” “My note?” “Yes, Sir, your note: you addressed it to the surgeon, and that is a crime . . . The note has to be addressed to the commandant.” “And the medicine?” “Oh, the medicine! When you’ve addressed your request through the right channels . . .” So! what do you say to that? Is it nice? is it kind? is it attentive? But in all fairness, ’tis not the fault of those who carry out the orders, and I save my curses for the inexcusable stupidity of those who give them . . . Would you like another little example, piping hot?. . . Three or four days ago, because of the cold, I had not been able to go down to the garden. One day the weather waxed warmer . . . Down I went . . . While I’m there I’m informed the surgeon is on the premises. “Very well,” I say, “have him come to the garden.” “Sir,” I am told, “he’ll do nothing of the sort; the rules strictly forbid him from doing so. The choice, Sir, is up to you: either lose the surgeon’s visit or lose the walk.” “Alas!” was my answer, “the fact is, both of them would do me a great deal of good.” “That may well be, Sir, but ’tis not one’s good we are concerned with here, ’tis the rules . . .” So what do you say to that, Madame Marquise? A surgeon unable to see a sick man in the garden! . . . As though you absolutely had to be at death’s door in order to have the right to consult a doctor! What an infamy! . . . And is the eye of the government completely blind to such abominations? And is there no one to reprimand a little subaltern capable of subjecting proper gentlemen to every tyranny on the books, to every whim that passes through his imbecilic imagination? And the whole world is not to hear about this someday? I would rather have both my hands cut off than not serve the nation by enlightening it about such abuses . . . And how could such abuses fail to exist, when the person on whom everything depends, Monsieur Le Noir, and whose duty it is to keep an eye upon such matters, blindly takes his cue from a subordinate1 who has every reason in the world to deceive him? Oh! I shall unmask them, indeed I shall, these horrors, these odious schemes, these plots concocted by greed and rapacity! I am now familiar with them all, I have learned about them at my own expense: all France must know about them as well.

  Why have you not sent me the books from the new list that I had sent to you? ’Tis passing strange that you have not received the old ones, for ’tis more than a fortnight that I sent them to you. They were a treatise on the Inquisition; I’m not surprised if it was waylaid by the Reverend Father Inquisitor; but whatever horror this treatise contains, whatever iniquitous law may be found therein, whatever the measures every wise nation may have taken to proscribe this tribunal—I defy him to find therein anything he didn’t already know, and after having read it he will still be able to say, like the pheasant in the fable: Ah! I knew a great deal more about it than that!

  And here is another startling example. Just as I was writing you this letter, the letter to the surgeon was returned to me because the address, made out at first to him, then later to Monsieur de Rougemont, appeared scrawled. Take care how you address your letter, or no remedy . . . I do believe the dear man is going mad; one has to twit his little vanity, and that I am going to do in a letter I shall enclose with the other. You have told me that I was allowed to write to whomever I so pleased. ‘Twould be most unusual if I were able to write to my friends and yet could not send a note about my state of health to the doctor. One does not at all enjoy having to deal with madmen who, all puffed up with pride from hearing themselves called Commandant by soldiers and jailers, think themselves entitled to add even heavier chains to their betters when chance or misfortune brings them to their inn. Be good enough to have them make up their minds, yes or no, whether or not I can communicate in writing my state of health to the doctor, at other than the prescribed hour or when I do not feel it necessary to have him pay me a visit but only want to check with him on some matter. What a place! What a man! If only he knew how I despise and detest him! If only he realized how stupidity disgusts those who have a little common sense! But I hope that I shall someday have the opportunity to tell him all that. Only that sweet hope keeps me going.

  Do send me the books listed in the little note I recently had forwarded to you. ’Tis incredible that you don’t want to send them. I’m distressed to learn that the author of Le Voyageur français is ill. He is a charming writer. Read that book if you want to have a delightful time. I know nothing so instructive and at the same time so entertaining. I promise you that ’tis the first book my son will read. Send me whatever you can find out about this author. I am especially interested in him because of the delightful evenings he provided me, both last winter and this . . . A Father Inquisitor, a familiar of the Holy Office, an Auvergnat scissors grinder, all that vile
scum of the human race will live to the age of eighty, as it is well known ’tis the characteristic of all useless and noxious animals to outlive the others, and a certain Abbe de La Porte, a delightful and charming author who must charm the social world as he does those who read him, will be snatched away in mid-career and not know the pleasure of completing his work! . . . And Providence is just! . . . Oh, upon my honor ’tis not! My chest, worse than ever . . . How could one get better with such scenes taking place day in and day out? And yet, ‘twill one day be over, and I shall still have full use of both my arms.

  I beg of you, if ’tis not too late, please include in the package a pot of beef-marrow ointment, or ordinary ointment, a pound of powder, not of plaster like the last time, and a pair of fine leather gloves similar to those you previously sent.

  1. That is, Monsieur de Rougemont.

  22. To Carteron, a.k.a La Jeunesse, a.k.a. Martin Quiros

  [Early January 1780]

  I hasten to take this opportunity, Monsieur Quiros, at the turn of the New Year, to wish you and all those near and dear to you the happiest of years. At long last my trials and tribulations are coming to an end, Monsieur Quiros, and thanks to the many kindnesses and the unstinting protection of Madame la présidente de Montreuil, I hope, Monsieur Quiros, to be able to offer you the same good wishes in the flesh the day after tomorrow five years hence. Long live influence, Monsieur Quiros! If my unlucky star had allied my fortunes to any other family, ‘twould have meant I’d have been in here for life, for you know, Monsieur Quiros, that in France ’tis not with impunity one shows disrespect for whores. One may speak ill of the government, the king, religion: all that doesn’t matter. But a whore, Monsieur Quiros, gadzooks! be careful never to offend a whore lest in a flash the Sartines, the Maupeous, the Montreuils, and other brothel-lovers arrive in soldierly fashion in defense of the whore and intrepidly jail your gentlemanly self for a dozen or fifteen years, all over a whore. So there is nothing finer than the French police, you see. If you have a sister, a niece, a daughter, Monsieur Quiros, advise her to become a whore; I defy her to find a finer profession. And indeed, how can a girl be better off than in a situation where, in addition to a luxurious and easy life, plus the constant intoxication of debauchery, she also has quite as much support, influence, and protection as the most high-minded bourgeoise? That’s what they call encouraging high moral standards, my friend; that’s what is meant by discouraging decent girls from ending up in the gutter. God be praised! ’Tis well thought out! Oh, Monsieur Quiros, what an enlightened age we live in! As for myself, I give you my word of honor, Monsieur Quiros, that if by heaven’s hand I had not been born in a position to feed my daughter, I swear to you by all I hold most holy in the world that I’d turn her into a whore this instant.

  I hope, Monsieur Quiros, that you will allow me to offer you as a New Year’s gift a new little work, selected by your dear mistress’s little lackeys and fully worthy of their taste. I was quite convinced that this little work would be of interest to you, and so I am relinquishing it in your favor. ’Tis anonymous; great authors, as you know, preferring to appear clandestinely. But as book lovers like ourselves like to guess who is hiding behind the mask of anonymity, I believe I have ferreted this one out, and if ’tis not by the drudge at the corner of your street, at least it’s safe to say that ’tis by none other than Albaret. That worthy child must have as father one or the other of those two great men, the marketplace or the courthouse, there can be no other. My error stemmed from the fact that they look so much alike, for ’tis so easy to attribute to the one what comes from the other that the chances are great of making a mistake. ’Tis like the pictures of Carracci and Guido: those two renowned masters ascend so equally into the sublime that one may sometimes mistake their brushes. Gadzooks! Monsieur Quiros, what a pleasure to discuss the fine arts with you! The Palmiéris, the Albanos, the Solimenos, the Dominicanos, the Bramantes and the Guerchinis, the Michelangelos, the Berninis, the Titians, the Paolo Veroneses, the Lanfrancos, Espagnolets, Luca Giardinos, the Calabreses, etc., all those people are as well known to you as are whores to Sartine and pimps to Albaret. But here, when I try to talk about such things, no one can follow me. There’s only the excellent Lieutenant Charles,1 a very learned person, who will tell you at the drop of a hat that in the twelfth century the keep of his fortress was besieged by cannon fire. However, one does not unfortunately have a chance to chat with him as often as one would like . . . He is like Molé,2 he only performs on the important days.

  To enrich the enclosed book I have appended some notes in an effort to enlighten the text, which, I trust, will not displease you, Monsieur Quiros, and I like to think that you will keep this little gift all your life. I have included with it a little song, a trifle old and a trifle bawdy, but which, even so, ought to brighten your evening when you and your friends, Monsieur Quiros, come out to Vincennes to dine on a veal stew or one of rabbit-and-bacon at Vincennes, La Rapée, or La Redoute.