Letters From Prison

by Marquis de Sade

  Adieu, tomorrow I shall be dining at Milady Folleville’s.5 I trust you can join us there. We shall discuss politics, and sip a bit of punch. We shall keep to ourselves, drink sparingly, listen to no one, and share a few spiteful words.

  1. In English in the letter.

  2. Another nickname for Milli de Rousset.

  3. Madame de Sade. The Marquis de Mazan was a pseudonym Sade used during more than one of his flights abroad.

  4. The epithet, which Sade underlines, remains intriguingly elusive, though Sade is clearly referring to himself.

  5. Literally, Lady Crazycity. Sade’s view of Parisian high society is increasingly caustic.

  74. To Mademoiselle de Rousset

  [May, 1783?]

  To Mademoiselle

  Mademoiselle de Rousset

  Wherever she may be.

  Mademoiselle:

  I was on the verge of responding to your letter, and you would most surely been pleased with the objects that. . . all the more so because . . . what? No, I was saying . . . you would truly have been most touched when, all of a sudden, just as I was just taking pen to hand, an accursed carillon,* the sole instrument of misfortune that I can still hear within these walls, began to chime, making an infernal racket. Since a prisoner is always completely self-centered and lives in the firm belief that whatever takes place is done with him and him alone in mind, that every word uttered has a purpose—what did I do but take it into my mind that this accursed bell-ringing was speaking directly to me and was saying, very distinctly:

  I pity you—I pity you,

  You’re doomed to be, you must

  End up as dust, as dust.

  I rose to my feet in a state of indescribable fury, and all I wanted to do was rush over and beat the bell-ringer’s brains out, but then I saw to my great regret and sorrow that the door to revenge was not yet open. So I sat back down, took pen again in hand, and decided that what I really ought to do was respond to this knave the bell-ringer in the same spirit and tone, since I had no other choice,

  So I said:

  From pleasure, from joy

  You must depart

  My heart, my heart.

  Friar, friar

  Be pleased to meet

  A hand that b-s, that b——s.1

  But here—with naught but worry

  My hand remains, may god be

  praised,

  My own best friend.

  So come—do come

  And with thy c—

  Provide release for all that’s pent.

  Half of me, half of me

  Is made to be, pitilessly,

  Tantalus, Tantalus.

  O what a fate! o what a fate,

  ’Tis simply more than I can take.

  ’Tis killing me, ’tis killing me.

  Grain untended, dies forlorn

  Come fetch at least

  The seeds, the seeds.

  Martyr I am, martyr will be

  Suffering’s my fate, that I see,

  Without surcease, without surcease.

  At this point I stopped, I counted, and I saw that all I had written was to the tune of a dirge. Ye gods, my friend, I cried out to myself, your mind’s as bad as that of madame la présidente; and at least as puffed up with pride as when that lady departs after a session with Madame Gourdan. I immediately set about polishing this masterpiece, which I am having sent on to you so that you can see with your own eyes, Mademoiselle, how I am coming along and how my wit is increasing by leaps and bounds.

  By the by, Mademoiselle, send me some of those wonderful little Provençal green peas; this year ’tis impossible for me to eat any, Dom Sebastien de Quipuscoa2 has placed an embargo on little green peas— ergo either I have to forgo eating any at all or eat those served the cart-men and carriers—last year it was cherries that were forbidden, but he didn’t profit in the slightest from that little game because I was paying for it; he put in a special request with madame la présidente for permission this year to make a slight profit on what is served me—oh! the poor beggar doesn’t miss a trick, of that you may be sure—and when one lodges a complaint, his response is that ’tis too trifling for him to bother with.

  If you should run into anyone in Provence to whom I owe an annual pension or who asks you for some wheat, tell them point-blank that ’tis too trifling to bother with.

  Adieu, my angel, do think of me from time to time when you are between the sheets, your thighs widespread and your right hand busily. . . looking for fleas. At such times, remind yourself that the other hand should be busy as well. Otherwise the pleasure is only half what it could be.

  One hand should be . . . thus occupied, and the other the way madame la présidente does her sums.

  * The carillon was from a nearby church. You either have to sing these couplets to the tune of the carillon or toss them into the fire, for they are not made to be read. (Sade’s note.)

  1. In the French, Sade, as he often does, elides: “qui b . . ., qui b . . . ” the full word intended being branle, masturbate.

  2. One of Sade’s many derogatory titles for Monsieur de Rougemont.

  75. To Madame de Sade

  [Between July 3 and 11, 1783]

  what in the world is this accident at the dungeon1 you keep talking about? There’s been no accident here. On July 2 they were setting up a lightning rod on the roof; there was a thunderstorm, in the course of which lightning struck the rod, as it happens in such cases. Is that what you’re referring to? If so, ’tis not an accident, ’tis an experiment, nothing more. I’m nonetheless no less touched by what you write me on that subject; but verily, if that were the cause of my death, ‘twould be, of all the possible accidents, among the least terrible. In fact, as far as I’m concerned I should prefer it above all others because of all deaths ’tis over in an instant and one does not suffer. Perhaps ’tis for that reason that of all the scourges of life, being struck by lightning is the one that I feared the least, since even during the fiercest thunderstorms it didn’t occur to me even to close the windows, nor did lightning ever produce in me that natural emotion it does in animals. And as for yourself, another accident voided: there you are living on a grand scale, ensconced in the sweet pleasures of your widowhood; and there, too, is your son, the young count himself, ready willing and full able to come into his fortune. Young, handsome, and rich, with no longer a father around to embarrass him . . . What a marriage! what an institution! . . . A princess, at the very least . . . Upon my word, keep up what you’ve been doing! Yes, word of honor, if la présidente has in her possession one of these lightning rods, let her aim it at me—and if all works out well that’s the best thing that could happen to make you all happy. What’s more, the only one amongst you who might mourn my passing would perhaps be the young knight, because he would benefit in no wise from my death, and also because he’s a fine and sensitive young man . . . But he doesn’t really know me. How old was he? Four years old at most when I left him; his mourning could not conceivably be very profound; he must scarce remember me.

  Do you realize that you should soon think of sending the young count to Provence, so that the people who dwell on his lands get to know him. He really ought to learn something about his estates . . . In short, one never knows what may happen, and ’tis always good for a lord to be known personally by those under his jurisdiction. In what army corps does he intend to enlist? Will you be so kind as to supply me with that information?

  If your lofty occupations, madame marquise, allow you the time to think of him to whom you owe the existence of these offspring, about whom you seem presently besotted and for whose benefit you sacrifice even your own husband, would you be so good as to recall that for a full year now I have been deprived of fresh air, which causes me to suffer horribly, that I can absolutely no longer sleep at night, I mean not a wink, and that in a word, amongst all the various ways of assassinating a man that the scoundrels your mother has surrounded herself with may have advised, I beg of her to choose o
ne that is shorter, for the excessive heat waves make it impossible for me to endure her present method, namely to keep me here any longer. Moreover, I beg of you to ask Monsieur Le Noir to send an oculist to see me; I am in urgent need of one. I wrote him expressly about that, and I have also spoken to Monsieur de Rougemont about it. Thus I ask that you make sure ’tis done as promptly as possible.

  Tell Hugues Aubriot* (Monsieur Le Noir) that he’s pulling your leg when he tells you you can’t come until after the dungeon repairs are completed. When the lightning rod is struck by lightning, no damage is done, and at present the only repairs being made to the dungeon are those being made by Monsieur de Rougemont’s gardeners, who are enlarging and beautifying a garden into which the said Mustapha prohibits anyone from entering for fear that someone might eat some of his fruit.

  Send me some fresh linen; I cannot do without it in this heat; I am completely out of fresh linen.

  Tomorrow we may have a much more lively scene than that of the lightning rod. The little hired brute, the one who blinded me, is supposed to come to shave me, and for the past two years people have been egging him on to play the role of Harlequin the paralyzed barber, in order to legitimize the gash in the face he is supposed to inflict upon me. Let him beware! Whenever he shaves me I am always holding in my hand a pair of very sharp scissors, and I swear to you upon all that is most holy in the world that if ever he tries to implement any of his foul deeds, as he has done with my eye, I shall drive the scissors deep into his heart.

  I am returning a stupid novel (Betzi).

  You must have ten volumes of Velly;1 you will have the two following volumes only in a few days, because I’m making a slight pause, because of my eyes, every time I’ve finished ten volumes.

  To carry it out. ’Tis one of your phrases. Oh, how your style smacks of the knaves you see! That is precisely the same expression used by the police lackeys, the informers and spies, the Hugues Aubriots, the Albarets of this world, and all the other vile riffraff that befoul France, and all of whom, from first to last, I would have burned to death at the stake were it in my power to do so. Therefore—rid yourself of such trite expressions, for by resorting to that kind of jargon you will seem like a policeman’s wife; no one will want to come near you. Leave such language to madame la présidente; pricks are made for swine.

  Make sure, I beg you, to respond without exception to the last list I sent you.

  1. That is, Vincennes. On July 2, a lightning rod had been set up on one of the towers to test its efficiency. The very next day lightning struck, leading some of the neighboring populace to report to the authorities that there had been a catastrophe at the dungeon. Word got back to Madame de Sade. Worried, she wrote her husband to keep away from this infernal new invention, lest he be killed. Sade’s tragicomic reaction is typical.

  * The leader of the Parisians who under Charles VI rose in revolt, and provost marshal of the Paris shopkeepers, thereby in control of the police in the capital. (Sade’s note)

  1. Paul-François Velly, the author of the very influential Histoire générate de France.

  76. To Madame de Sade

  [July, 1783]

  Be so good as to tell me which of the two it is, Goodie Cordier1 or Gaffer Fouloiseau,2 who is against my having any shirts. You can deny clean linen to the inmates of a hospital, but I do not intend to go without it. How your meanness, that of your origin and that of your parents, shines forth in your every act! My dove, the day I so far forgot what I was as to be willing to sell you what I am may have been to get you under the covers—but it wasn’t to go uncovered. You and your crew, keep what I say there well in mind until I have the chance to bring it out in print.

  If I go through as much linen as I do, blame it on the laundress who every day either loses or tears to shreds everything of mine she can get her hands on, and rather than remonstrate with me, enjoin his lordship the warden to issue orders remedying this state of affairs. Not a month passes but all this costs me eight or ten francs. Should such things be allowed?

  At any rate, I declare to you that if inside the next two weeks the linen I request is not forthcoming I shall interpret this as proof positive that I am on the eve of deliverance, and shall pack my baggage; only my imminent release can possibly justify your stupid refusal to send me something to put on my back. Let them but remove the madmen from this establishment and one will be less loath to use what the house provides, one could then forgo asking to have things sent all the time from home. This place was not intended for the insane; Charenton is where they are to be put, not here, and the disgraceful greed that led to keeping them locked away there seems now to have been set aside by the police, the result being that those who are not mad risk becoming so by contagion. But the police are tolerant, tolerant of everything except discourtesy toward whores. You may render yourself guilty of every possible abuse and infamy so long as you respect the backsides of whores: that’s essential, and the explanation is not far to seek: whores pay, whereas we do not. Once I am out of here I too must contrive to put myself a little under the protection of the police: like a whore I too have an ass and I’d be well pleased to have it shown respect. I will have M. Fouloiseau take a look at it—even kiss it if he’d like to, and I am very sure that moved by such a prospect he will straightway record my name in the book of proteges.

  The story was told to me that upon arriving in Paris (when you had me arrested) it was thus you went about having yourself certified. Before anything else the question was one of determining whether the said ass had or had not been outraged—because my good mother-in-law claimed I was an outrager of asses. Consequently she wanted an examination by an expert. There she was, as I understand it, telling him: You see, gentlemen, you see, he’s a little devil, full of vices; he might even . . . perhaps . . . who knows? There’s so much libertinage in that head of his!. . . And, as I understand it, there you were, lifting your petticoats. Magistrate Le Noir adjusts his spectacles, Albaret is holding the lamp, Le Noir’s alguazils have got pen and paper. And a report upon the state of the premises was writ out in these terms:

  “Item, having betaken ourselves to the said Hotel de Danemark at the requisition of Dame Montreuil nee Cordier, Marie-Magdeleine, we did uncover the said Pélagiedu Chauffour,3 daughter to the aforementioned, and having with care made proper and thorough examination we proclaim the said du Chauffour well and duly provided with a set of two very fair buttocks, excellently formed and intact within and without. We did ourselves approach and have our assistants as nearly approach the said member. They, at their risk and peril, did pry, spread, sniff, and probe, and having like ourselves observed naught but health in these parts, we have delivered these presents, whereof usage may be made in conformance to the law; and do furthermore, upon the basis of the exhibition described above, grant the said Pélagie du Chauffour access to the Tribunal and in the future our powerful protection.

  “Signed: Jean-Baptiste Le Noir, trifler extraordinary in Paris and born protector of the brothels in the capital and surroundings.”

  Well? Is that how it went? Come, be a friend, tell me about it . . . In addition or, if you prefer, in spite of it all, you have not sent me a quarter of the things I need.

  To begin with, I need linen, most decidedly I must have linen, otherwise I make ready my departure; then four dozen meringues; two dozen sponge cakes (large); four dozen chocolate pastille candies, vanillaed, and not that infamous rubbish you sent me in the way of sweets last time.

  What, will you tell me, are these twelve quarter-quires of paper? I asked for no quires of anything; I asked you for a copybook to replace the one containing the comedy I had conveyed to you. Send me that copybook and don’t prattle so, it’s very tiresome. So acknowledge receipt of my manuscript. It is not at all of the sort I’d like to have go astray. It belongs safely in a drawer for the time being; later, when it goes to the printer, it can be corrected. Until then it need not get lost. With manuscripts you delete, you amend, you tinker, they are m
eant for that; but they are never meant to be stolen.

  For God’s own sake! when will you finally be tired of truckling? Had you ever noticed one of your servilities meet with success, I’d let it pass; but after close to seven years of this, where has it brought you? Come, speak up. You aim at my undoing? you would unsettle my brain? If so, you are going to be wonderfully rewarded for your efforts, for by everything that is most holy to me I swear to pay every one of your farces back, and with good measure; I assure you I shall grasp their spirit with an artfulness that will stun you, and shall compel you all to recognize for the rest of your days what colossal imbeciles you have been. I confess I was a long while believing your Le Noir had no hand in these abominations, but since he continues to suffer them, that alone proves he has his part in them and convinces me that he is no less a damned fool than the others.

  Do not forget the nightcap, the spectacles, the six cakes of wax, Jean-Jacques’ Confessions and the coat M. de Rougemont claims that you have. I am returning a boring novel and vols. 4 and 6 of Velly. With these I send a hearty screw in the buttocks and am, devil take me, going to give myself a flick of the wrist in their honor! Now don’t run off and tell the présidente so, for being a good Jansenist, she’s against wives being molinized.4 She maintains that M. Cordier has never discharged anywhere but in her vessel of propagation and that whomsoever steers any other course is doomed to roast in hell. And I who had a Jesuit upbringing, I who learned from Father Sanchez that one must avoid plunging in over one’s depth, and look hard lest one swim in a vacuum, because, as we learn from Descartes, nature abhors a vacuum, I cannot agree with Mama Cordier. But you’re a philosopher, you have a most charming misconstruction, a way of moving and a narrowness in that misconstruction and heat in the rectum, which is why I am able to get on with you so well.