Letters From Prison

  To come to the point, I must first admit that I have a weakness for our hero . . . Yes, Monsieur, a weakness! Who after all does not have a weakness? The world is molded out of weaknesses, and as our contemporary philosophers are wont to say, ’tis through the world’s weaknesses that the machine whose job it is to do away with virtue accomplishes its task. There can be no equilibrium without weakness, as we all know. Without Nicolas Cordier,2 who had the weakness to go borrow fifteen thousand francs, his pistol at one’s throat; without Guillaume Partiet, who had the weakness to steal from the infirm and disabled; without Nicodem d’Evry, who had the weakness to have someone shit in his mouth; without Claude de Montreuil, who out of weakness slept with his sister and three daughters, the entire universe, which sustains itself only through weaknesses, suddenly dragged off into the vast deserts of space, would perhaps be hundreds of millions of miles farther from the sun than it is today.

  Be that as it may, the weakness of our dear count is not nearly as great. It consists merely of his absolute loathing to have to account to anyone, and as you can well imagine his torturers have seized upon that weakness to further vex and mortify their unhappy patient. But guess to whom they made him accountable?. . . The prison stool pigeon! That’s right, good Sir, the stoolie! As a result, yesterday the count was questioned, sympathized with, comforted, filled with hope, but most of all questioned by his presumed companion-in-misfortune, but since it appears that you know the man, I shall cut my story short and leave it to your imagination to figure out how he behaved and how he responded to that provocation.

  Are you not utterly amazed, Monsieur, as am I, that such tactics are used with a man of good common sense? Such shopworn tricks of the trade, such base and vile methods, completely despicable and so unworthy of decent people? But verily, Sir, ’tis not with decent or honorable people we are dealing here but with a troop of out-and-out scoundrels, who have the misfortune of thinking that the count is as stupid as they.

  I have the honor of being, Sir, etc.

  More to follow.

  1. Although ostensibly addressed to a newspaper columnist, one can presume it was sent to Mme de Sade.

  2. Sade is enumerating the weaknesses, or serious shortcomings, of his wife’s family.

  99. To Commander Sade1

  [October, 1786]

  Monsieur de Sade, having found that all the reasons that have been presented to him regarding the preservation of his goods and possessions make all sorts of sense, and having felt, in complete agreement with his uncle, how essential it is that someone be put in charge of this stewardship, hereby declares that no one is more competent to fulfill this function than the Count de Sade2 himself, and that the reasons he is being kept in prison are no more compelling than those that render his detention both harmful and hurtful to him, to his wife, and to his children. As a result, he kindly requests that the Commander de Sade set forth in his written report to the minister all the details he included in his requisition explaining both how urgent it is for him to be physically present on his estates and how essential it is that the king’s order be lifted, this after so long a detention and because of reasons so compelling, the minister is too fair-minded to refuse Commander de Sade’s request. This reply is the last one he will make on this subject. There is no point asking any further for a power of attorney,3 which he will not grant so long as he remains in prison.

  1. The marquis’s paternal uncle, Richard-Jean-Louis de Sade. A year younger than Sade’s father and two years older than the Abbe de Sade, he was a humorless pedant whose holier-than-thou attitude impressed Madame de Montreuil greatly but few others. In 1787 he was appointed Grand Prince of Toulouse. Despite Sade’s refusal, the Sade family attained a writ from the Châtelet of Paris granting the commander and the Sade family the right to control the marquis’s estates and his children’s education.

  2. Sade means himself.

  3. Earlier that month, two notaries, at the behest of his family, visited Sade in prison and tried to convince him to sign a power of attorney relinquishing his rights to handle his affairs. Sade refused. Sade’s letter to his uncle is the result of that demand.

  100. To Madame de Sade

  November 16, 1786

  One cannot refrain from being convinced of Madame de Sade’s innate predilection for throwing her money out the window. One had thought her thrifty, but it now becomes apparent that one was wrong, for extreme thriftiness does not consist of depriving oneself of the basics (that is called avarice): it consists of obtaining produce of whatever kind and paying for it at the lowest possible price. That is the only reasonable means of being thrifty; and ’tis most assuredly not that of a woman who simply sends a footman to purchase a bit of Indian ink diluted in charcoal at Dulac’s, for which she pays the sum of six livres for a purchase that is worth no more than ten sous. True thriftiness consists of going to buy such things oneself, trying them out on the spot, and buying them only when they have proven to be of top quality. To spare her the problem of going herself, Madame de Sade would be so kind as to send her footman to pick up the purchase, return it to Dulac, or ask that he exchange it; in any event, we do not want what you bought. Madame de Sade is thus excused from having to run an errand which nonetheless, this being female merchandise, should concern only a lady, and despite her lack of thriftiness and her inferior India ink, her husband embraces her.1

  A true copy.

  1. In the original letter, the last word is followed by six “bayonets,” which are presumably six kisses.

  101. To Madame de Sade

  November 25, 1786

  The Spanish and Portuguese replies are becoming most pressing.1 It seems to me the simplest thing would be to find and send for a teacher whose native languages they are, ask him those questions, and have him write out the answers, in return for which you should pay him a crown, which is more than he would receive for a lesson that would take him a lot more time and effort. Please, I beg of you, send on those written answers as soon as possible.

  1. Sade was writing his novel Aline and Valcour, part of which was set in those two countries. To finish it, he needed answers concerning the geography and mores of both places.

  102. To the Staff Officers of the Bastille

  [1787 (?)]

  Monsieur de Sade hereby declares to the staff officers of the Bastille that the governor of this establishment is compelling the undersigned to drink a wine that is so adulterated that his stomach is upset by it every day. The undersigned is convinced that ’tis not the king’s intention that the governor be allowed to adversely affect the health of those he is in charge of feeding and keeping, and that for the purpose of lining the pockets of either Monsieur de Lau-nay1 himself or of his underlings.

  In consequence, the undersigned kindly asks that the staff officers, whom he knows to be both equitable and honest, step in and mediate on his behalf so that justice may be served in this matter,

  1. Commandant of the Bastille.

  103. To Madame de Sade

  August 24, 1787

  There are some things that give such pleasure one simply cannot find words to express them. One’s soul is too moved, too touched; one needs to withdraw into oneself for a moment in order to savor and appreciate fully what one is feeling, which would be lost without that inner contemplation. ’Tis the tale of him who thanks you from the bottom of his heart for the delightful present you have just given him . . .1 a divine and beloved present that gives rise to feelings which, as they grow and multiply over time, will, despite all those who wish him ill, till he breathes his last sow a thousand flowers, forever budding and blooming anew, on the thorny path of his life.

  He embraces you and will thank you far more fully when he has the opportunity of holding you in his arms.

  P.S. The portrait, the tortoise-shell frame, everything is lovely, everything appreciated, everything affords an incredible pleasure; and you may rest assured that I would sooner forfeit my life than ever forgo a possession that will remain wi
th me till my dying day

  1. Four days before, Madame de Sade had spent a two-and-a-half-hour visit with her husband, during which she had given him a present of her portrait in a tortoise-shell frame.

  104. To Monsieur du Puget, Knight of the Kingdom1

  [Early October, 1787]

  All things considered, Sir, a letter to Monsieur de Launay such as you have advised me, after everything that that police official takes the liberty of inflicting upon me, strikes me as ill-considered; it would seem to be either an act of submission toward him or a kind of fence-mending vis-a-vis the soldier Miray. The fact is, I flatter myself that you know me well enough to realize that that is the furthest thing from my mind. Truth to tell, ‘twould be duplicitous on my part to take that step, and duplicity is a vice I loathe: to implore his forgiveness and feign to be repentant would be devious and hypocritical, when my mind and heart are entirely focused on the best and surest means to avenge myself for all the daily insults these three rogues2 have visited upon me during my detention here, and to broadcast their infamies the length and breadth of France. I shall succeed in that effort, I hope, and that notion consoles me for everything else. Once again, all this is but one more scene staged by my family, a scene for which that lowlife de Losme was contemptible enough to assume the role of stage director. ’Tis the hundredth such scene, with more to follow before we’re through . . . But when we do reach the end, as the proverb has it, he who laughs last laughs best. My fortune and my life, and this I swear to you, will be as nothing to me, except insofar as they enable me to wreak revenge on my torturers and expose them for what they are to the entire country.

  Therefore, to have my walks restored, ’tis to Baron de Breteuil, and to you, Sir, that I shall address myself, beseeching you most earnestly to support with all your might my urgent need to get some fresh air, and to see to it that my eyes, which are in dire straits, are taken care of, for if I am deprived of the ability to breathe there is no question but that I shall soon go blind.

  I would not presume, Monsieur, to ask you to burden yourself personally with my letter to the minister; I limit myself to asking that you support my request for my walks to be restored.

  Together with the enclosed I add another essential request relative to my health, which I most earnestly ask that you support in like manner. During the more than four years that I have been confined here, I have not yet had the opportunity to see a doctor. The condition of my eyes, and the lack of satisfactory care I have had from oculists, absolutely demands that I consult other specialists, and I ask to see a doctor.

  Also enclosed is a letter for my wife, which I take the liberty of commending to your care; and in thanking you for the care and attention you have bestowed upon me, and that I deserve only to the degree that my feelings toward you are both warm and heartfelt, in sending you, I say, my most sincere esteem, I dare tell myself that I am infinitely closer to you, kind sir, than your most humble and obedient servant.

  DE SADE

  This morning you said to me that I should take but scant notice of people’s roots, of where they came from. That is true, but only when people’s virtues blind you to their birth; in which wise, they should even be esteemed far more than those of noble birth, whose lives are useless or completely wasted, who, waving the parchment of their patrimony before the eyes of society, only reveal how great is the difference between themselves and their illustrious forebears. But when the son of a gardener from Vitry (Losme), the son of a ferryman from Avignon (Miray), the son of an overseer of galley slaves (Jourdan), having only recently crawled up out of their muck and dissolution, bring to the positions in which their baseness has placed them naught but the shameless vices of their origins, everything combines to thrust them back down once again—without their so much as being aware of it—into the stinking quagmire which is their native habitat; and their noses, which they have barely managed to raise above the ground, make them look, in my opinion, like some dirty and disgusting toad that is making a momentary effort to emerge from its mire, only to sink down again and merge back into the soil.

  O Launay, Losme, and Miray, unworthy comrades of the most amiable, most witty, and most decent of men, look at yourself, all three of you, in this picture and tell me whether in all of Paris there is a mirror that portrays you more true to life.

  1. The king’s lieutenant-general at the Bastille, Du Puget, liked Sade, and had in fact attended a prison reading of Sade’s Jeanne Laisné or The Siege of Beauvais, staged in the council hall of the Bastille in the fall of 1787.

  2. Monsieur de Launay, Major de Losme-Salbray, and a soldier named Miray who was an aide to the warden were all detested by Sade. Less than two years later, Sade got his revenge. When the Bastille was stormed on July 14, 1789, all three men were dragged out by the mob to the Place de Grève and killed.

  105. To Madame de Sade

  1787

  I have an overwhelming desire to scold you: the way in which you ramble on endlessly without making the slightest sense is frightful and, verily, beyond all comprehension. With you, one never knows what to believe, and that is absolutely atrocious. The more I think about it, however, I see ’tis really not astonishing: since we have no longer been together, my pet, you have really come into your own. And yet, I confess, I fail to see what lies behind your behavior, and you are the strangest of women. Do you for a moment fancy that I shall forgive you for all that? You have to know that I am completely embittered because of your behavior. Farewell. This evening I am trying to write, like some animal, like an ass, like some Spanish stallion: thus I bid you good-bye. Do come and see me, I beseech you. Come whenever you like, I shall always be pleased and honored by your visits, and you may be sure that, in spite of all the pain and anguish you cause me, you will be the object of my close embrace, yes, I shall embrace you with all my heart and soul.

  106. To Monsieur du Puget, Knight of the Kingdom

  1787

  Tomorrow during your visit they have been most kind as to allow this tragedy of Beauvais, which we talked about briefly the other day, to be performed. Will Sir du Puget decline to offer his opinion? The author would be most grateful to have it, but the request is ill-timed, we know . . . To give up an entertaining day for something you know will be boring! I can’t conceive how such things come to pass, and I remember clearly that when I was part of the social whirl I used to look upon these invitations as traps, or ambushes. . . to which I asked my doctor to respond and make my excuses.

  107. To Madame de Sade

  [October, 1788]

  I am greatly disturbed, my dear friend, to be costing you so much money, especially at a time when you are ill; but when I committed to that expenditure I was quite unaware that you were not feeling well: if I had known, I most assuredly would never have made it.

  I was sorely mistaken about the cost of my move.1 The expenditures are considerably more than I had thought; not that I spent any more than was absolutely necessary, and the only item that might be thought of as extravagant cost but one louis; everything else was of basic necessity, and is limited to an old wall hanging, an army cot, and some paper: that is strictly all there is in my room, and yet I am still twenty louis short. Please, my dear friend, do me the favor of seeing to it that they will be ready for me without fail at the end of the month, for everything is virtually finished, ’tis not the time to hold back. If you are at all concerned about my well-being in the context of the wretched situation in which I find myself, have no regrets, for at least I shall be as well off as one can possibly be in prison, and reasonably healthy to boot, which is the most important. I embrace you and beg of you to take care of yourself. You have no idea how much the knowledge that you’re not feeling well upsets me, and how much I am distressed to know that, at this very moment, I am the cause of so much trouble and expense.

  You must without fail acknowledge receipt of this letter within the next few days, failing which I shall be obliged to ask the officers to inform you of its contents. Adieu
. News of your health, I beg of you.

  1. In September Sade had requested transfer to another cell, number 6 in the same tower, a request that was granted. But any costs involved in the move had to be borne by the prisoner. In addition, because of his obesity and continuing eye problems, he was granted a disabled man of the prison staff to attend to his needs when he was ill and run errands for him, which was an added expense, however modest.

  For the eight months between October 1788 and mid-June 1789, Madame de Sade was allowed to visit her husband at the Bastille virtually every week or ten days. Thus there are few if any letters between them during this period. They met in the council room of the prison, always under the watchful eye of a guard, which continued to irritate Sade no end, but he generally managed to control himself, knowing any temper tantrum would curtail or end the visits. Throughout the spring Renée-Pélagie brought him news of the increasing unrest of the city, where worsening food shortages and the seeming indifference of both court and clergy to the people’s plight had brought them closer and closer to open rebellion.

  On the second day of summer Madame de Sade, bedridden and unable to make her planned visit to the Bastille that day, wrote Gaufridy that she had heard of a meeting held at the Jeu de Paume, during which an “infuriated populace” had demanded that “the damn priests be taken out to the gallows and strung up,” adding that some of the local bishops had also been insulted. She doubtless would not have reported the incident to her husband had she been able, for his views of the clergy had not changed, but hers had. Still lodged at the convent of Sainte-Aure, she was increasingly under the influence of her father confessor, who kept reminding her that, approaching fifty as she was, she should soon make peace with God. Her indefatigable mother was working on her just as assiduously, and the combined effort was having its effect. She even hoped, it turned out, that she might convince her husband that he too should make peace with the deity, the priests having assured her that it was never too late, even for one gone so far astray as the marquis. Thus her grave concern about the treatment of the clergy at the hands of the populace was all the more understandable.