Juliette

by Marquis de Sade

  “The evil you fancy you do in killing a man, and the further evil you imagine exists where the question is of parricide—these, it seems to me, my dear, are the two notions I ought to endeavor to combat. However, I need waste no time examining the former of the two; a mind such as yours can only scorn the prejudices that hold criminal the destruction of one’s fellow beings.3 This homicide is a simple affair for you, since between your existence and the victim’s no tie exists; it only becomes complicated for my friend; you are awed by the stain of parricide he is only too willing to incur, and therefore it shall be from this viewpoint alone I’ll consider the deed.

  “Parricide: is it or is it not a crime?

  “Assuredly, if there is in all the world a single deed I esteem justified, legitimate, it is this one; and, pray tell me, what relationship can there be between myself and him who brought me into the world? How would you have me think myself in any way beholden to a man, merely because, once upon a time, some whimsy moved him to discharge into my mother’s cunt? Nothing is more preposterous than this piece of foolishness; but what now if I am unacquainted with him, what if I do not know the identity of this individual, this father of mine who sired me? Does the voice of Nature perhaps speak up in me and tell me who he is? Never. So should I not be as distant in my attitude toward him as toward anybody else? If this fact is sure, and thereof I do not believe any doubt can subsist, parricide in no wise increases the supposed evil in homicide, one does no worse murdering one’s own father than murdering some other person. If I kill the man who, unbeknownst to me, begot me, the fact that he is my father contributes nothing to my remorse; hence, it is merely because I am told we are kin that I pause or repent; well, I ask you, how can opinion worsen a crime? and can opinion possibly alter its nature? What! I am free to slay my father and feel no remorse provided I am not aware he is my father, but cannot in that other case where I know him to be? See the implications of such reasoning: even if it be an arrant lie, others have but to convince me it is the truth, that the man I have just slain was my father, and lo! I am to be filled with regrets and dread discomfort—’tis sheer nonsense.

  “And further: if remorse exists, though grounds therefor do not, that remorse cannot properly exist when the alleged grounds for it are present. If you can so very easily deceive me in all this, then I tell you, the crime you speak of is no crime at all, it is illusory; since Nature herself does not give me certain indication of who the author of my days is, ’tis surely because she would not have me feel any greater tenderness for him than for some other person who is of no particular concern to me; if your opinion alone creates occasion and cause for remorse, and if your opinion can deceive me, then this remorse is a paltry business, insignificant, null; and I am a fool if I consent to succumb to it. Do animals cleave worship-fully to their fathers? Have they even a bare inkling of which male begot them? Searching for motives to warrant filial gratitude, will you cite the care my father took of me during my infancy and childhood? Another error. Complying with them, he ceded to the customs of the country, to his pride, to a sentiment which, as a father, he managed to conceive for his handiwork but which there is no need whatever that I conceive for the artisan; for that artisan, acting uniquely at the behest of his own pleasure, had no thought at all for me when it so pleased him to proceed to the act of propagation with my dam; his sole concern was for himself, and I fail to see therein any basis for especially ardent feelings of gratitude.

  “Ah! let us entertain no more illusions on this article, the prejudice is unworthy of mature minds: to the person who gave us life we owe no more than we do to the remotest, chilliest stranger. In us Nature prompts absolutely no feeling for him, none; I shall go farther: she could not possibly imbue us with any feeling for him, friendship is not something that can be imposed upon us from outside; it is false that one loves one’s father, it is equally false, indeed, that we can love him: you fear him, yes, but love him you do not; usually a threat to you, always onerous, his existence cannot but disquiet and inconvenience you; personal interest, the most sacred of the laws of Nature, puts us under invincible compulsion to desire the death of the man from whom we await our inheritance; and the problem envisaged from this angle, not only would we hate that man as a matter of course, but, very probably, it would be even more natural still to attempt his life, for the excellent reason that everybody deserves to have his turn, and that if my father has for two score years enjoyed the fortune come down to him from his father, and that if I find myself growing old in everlasting expectancy of the substance whereupon my welfare dances attendance, I should definitely, and without a trace of remorse, aid a Nature that is sometimes behindhand or remiss, and myself, employing whatever means, accelerate the process whereby I enter into the exercise of rights Nature accords me but may well delay transmitting to me, out of some caprice neither I nor anyone else in his senses will refrain from taking steps to counteract. If self-interest is the general rule by which man measures all his actions, there is, necessarily, much less evil in killing one’s father than in killing some other human being; for our personal reasons for ridding ourselves of him who brought us into the light must always be stronger and more valid than those we have for putting any other person out of the way. Here also there exists another metaphysical consideration we ought not lose sight of: old age is the road to death; causing a man to age, Nature speeds him toward his grave: he, therefore, who slays an oldster does nought but carry out her intentions: whence it is, that among many nations, murder of the aged is accounted a virtue. Useless to the world, so much excess baggage in society, consuming provender that is scarce already, that is lacking to the young or which the young must buy dearly because of the overgreat demand, their existence is demonstrably to no purpose, it is harmful, and the wisest course is to liquidate them, that is self-evident. Hence, not only is it no crime at all, to kill one’s father, it is an excellent thing to do; it is a meritorious deed from the point of view of oneself, whom it serves; having regard now to Nature, it is also meritorious, for it is to free her of an unwelcome burden; and it is praiseworthy, since it supposes that a man be vigorous enough, philosophical enough to value himself, who may be of some use to humanity, above that dotard humanity has all but forgotten.

  “And so, Juliette, you are about to perform a handsome deed in destroying the enemy of your lover who, I am sure, serves the State to the utmost of his ability; for if, as I would be the last to deny, he is now and again guilty of some petty prevarication, some petty peculation, Saint-Fond is a very great minister nonetheless: he is bloodthirsty, he is rapacious, fierce is his grip, he considers murder indispensable to the maintaining of good government. Is he mistaken? Sulla, Marius, Richelieu, Mazarin—all history’s great statesmen, have they thought otherwise? Did Machiavelli lay down different principles? There is no room for doubt: bloodshed there must be if any regime, a monarchical one especially, is to survive; the throne of the tyrant must be cemented with blood, and Saint-Fond has yet to begin to spill anything like the quantity of it that should be flowing this very minute…. Finally, Juliette, perform this gesture and you remain in the good graces of a man who keeps you in what I believe may be accurately termed a state of prosperity; you increase the fortune of him who is responsible for yours: I really wonder that you even hesitate.”

  “Noirceuil,” said I very pertly, “who told you I was hesitating? ’Twas merely some involuntary reflex in me, no more. I am young yet. I am but a fledgling, my career has only just begun; that I stumble a little, backslide now and then—should this surprise my mentors? But they’ll soon see I am worthy of the pains they take with me. Let Saint-Fond make haste and send his father to me, he’s a dead man two hours after he crosses the threshold of my house. However, my dear, there are three categories of poison in the assortment your friend entrusted to me; do you know which I am to employ?”

  “The crudest, the one that causes the greatest suffering,” answered Noirceuil; “I am glad you reminded me. Saint-Fond w
as adamant on that score. He wishes that, in going to his death, his father be punished for having intrigued to his detriment, he wishes his agony to be hideous.”

  “I understand,” I said, “and you may tell him that the thing shall be handled to his satisfaction. But what is the plan?”

  “As follows,” Noirceuil replied. “As the friend of the Minister, you will invite the old man to dinner; that is, you will send him a note, in it you will make it clear that your design is to bring about a conciliation: you yourself sharing his views regarding his son’s retirement from public office, you’d like to discuss the matter with Saint-Fond senior. He will come; ill, he will be borne out of your house; Saint-Fond junior will attend to the rest. Here’s the sum agreed upon for the execution of the crime: a draft for one hundred thousand crowns on the Treasury. Will that suffice, Juliette?”

  “Saint-Fond gives me that much for a supper,” said I, handing back the scrap of paper; “tell him I’ll do this for nothing. I simply wish to be helpful.”

  “And here is another draft for the same amount,” Noirceuil went on; “your lover anticipated your objection—indeed, he would have been disappointed had you made none. ‘I want her to be paid, and paid according to her desires’—often has he repeated that to me. ‘So long as she evinces selfishness, and so long as I satisfy that selfishness, I am sure not to lose her.’”

  “Saint-Fond seems to know me very well,” was my reply; “I have a liking for money, I don’t hide the fact from myself, neither do I from you. But I shall never ask him for more than is necessary. These six hundred thousand francs will go into carrying out the project; I want six hundred thousand more for myself the day the old man expires.”

  “You’ll have them, never fear. Oh, Juliette, what a splendid situation is yours! Do nothing to spoil it, do everything to deserve it, enjoy it, and if you know how to conduct yourself intelligently, you’ll soon be the wealthiest woman in Europe; I have given you a marvelous friend.”

  “Out of respect for your principles, Noirceuil, I refrain from thanking you; arranging this liaison pleased you, you gain therefrom as well, it flatters you to have among your intimate acquaintances a woman whose social position, riches, and name have already started to eclipse those of the Court princesses…. I’d be ashamed to show myself at the Opera dressed as the Princesse de Nemours was yesterday evening; not a soul so much as glanced at her. Everybody’s eyes were upon me.”

  “And you are relishing all this, Juliette?”

  “Infinitely, my dear. To begin with, I am rolling in gold, which, for me, is the foremost of enjoyable things.”

  “But are you doing sufficient fucking?”

  “A great deal; precious few are the nights when the best Paris can boast in the one and the other sex does not come to offer me the greatest homage.”

  “And your favorite crimes?”

  “They are being committed, they are being committed. I steal every chance I get—I don’t let an odd franc get by. You’d think, from my graspingness, from my thievery, I was in imminent danger of starving to death.”

  “And vengeance?”

  “I have been particularly active on that score: the fearful unpleasantness that has befallen Prince de X.—you’ve heard the news? the whole town is talking about nothing else—’twas I alone arranged that. Five or six ladies who in the past few months have thought to challenge my social position are presently lodged in the Bastille.”

  Next, we entered into a few details touching the parties I gave for the Minister.

  “I must tell you,” said Noirceuil, “that of late there are signs you are relaxing your efforts, Saint-Fond has noticed it. There were fewer than fifty dishes at the last supper; you are of course aware that only by eating well can one hope to discharge copiously,” he continued, “and for us libertines, the quality and the quantity of our sperm is of crucial importance. Gluttony fares wonderfully well with all the tastes it has pleased Nature to instill in us; and experience shows that the prick is never so rigid, the heart never so staunch, as after one has sumptuously dined. I would say a word, too, about the choice of girls. Although those you place before us are without doubt very pretty, Saint-Fond feels that more research would improve the selection. I cannot but attempt to impress upon you the care that must be taken in this matter. We require that the game furnished us not only be of the finest breed, but that in addition it possess all those qualities, moral as well as physical, which make bagging it interesting.”

  For answer to this, I outlined the excellent measures I was taking: instead of six, now I had two dozen women working around the clock, and under them they had an equal number of subalterns combing the provinces; I was the mainspring of the entire mechanism; and I was putting forward a great effort.

  “Before contracting for an object,” Noirceuil recommended, “even if it involve a thirty-league journey, make it: there is no substitute for personal inspection; and never accept anything but what meets with your total approval.”

  “All very well,” said I, “but that formula is not always so easy to follow. The object is frequently kidnapped before I have had a description of it.”

  “Why then,” Noirceuil rejoined, “kidnap twenty to obtain a yield of five.”

  “But what am I to do with the rejects?”

  “Whatever you wish: sport with them yourself, sell them to your friends, to procuresses, to panders. With the apparatus you will have built up you should be able to traffic on a broad scale and, it would seem to me, even create a virtual monopoly; at any rate, there ought to be a good hundred thousand a year in this for you.”

  “True, if Saint-Fond paid me for every object acquired. As things stand, he only remits for three per supper.”

  “I think I can induce him to pay for the lot.”

  “He’ll be far better served if he does. Now, Noirceuil,” I said, “there are some other matters I should like to discuss, and they relate to me. You know the kind of mind I have: I need hardly tell you that with all these means for mischief-making, I indulge very heavily in it; the ideas which occur to me, the things I imagine are beyond description—but, my friend, I require your advice. Don’t you suppose that, ultimately, my behavior may make Saint-Fond jealous?”

  “Never,” Noirceuil answered at once. “Saint-Fond is an exceedingly reasonable person, as such he senses you cannot attain self-expression save through much wrongdoing; the idea itself amuses him, and only yesterday he was telling me that he was afraid you were not enough of a trollop.”

  “Oh, in that case, let him be easy; you may assure the Minister that it is seldom one finds a person with a more pronounced taste for every sort of vice.”

  “I have now and then heard it asked,” said Noirceuil, “whether the jealousy she inspires speaks in favor of or against a woman, and I have always thought the question odd: for my part it has from the beginning been obvious to me that the impulse leading to this mania being purely personal, women assuredly have nothing to gain from the tumult it produces in their lovers’ breasts. It is not by any means fondness for a woman that brings on jealousy; it is dread of the humiliation her change of heart would cause one; and to prove there is nothing but sheer egoism in and behind this passion, I have simply to remind you that no lover, if he be of good faith, and sincere, will deny he would prefer to see his mistress dead than unfaithful. Hence, it is rather her fickleness than the loss of her that afflicts us, and ’tis hence our own selves we are thinking of when the event takes place. Whence I conclude that, second only to the inexcusable folly of falling in love with a woman in the first place, the greatest extravagance a man can commit is to be jealous of her. With regard to her, this sentiment is dishonest, demonstrating, as it does, one’s lack of esteem for her; with regard to oneself, it is regularly painful and inevitably useless, since the surest way to breed in a woman the wish to fail us is to intimate to her our fear lest she do so. Jealousy and the terror of cuckoldry are two things based entirely upon our prejudices pertaining to the
enjoyment of women; were it not for this accursed habit of stubbornly and idiotically wanting, whenever it is a question of woman, to associate the moral and the physical, we’d long ago have had done with these vile notions. What? It is not possible, you say, to lie with a woman without loving her? And it is not possible to love her without lying with her? But why must you embroil the heart in something where it is exclusively the body that acts? They are two desires, they are two very different needs, so it seems to me. Araminthe has the world’s most beautiful figure, her face is endearing, her big brown sultry eyes promise an ample ejaculation of her sperm once the walls of her vagina or the interior of her anus are electrified by friction from the rubbing of my prick: I poke her and sure enough, behold! I was right, she squirts a quart. Why, pray tell, need anything heartfelt accompany the act whereby I take this creature’s body? It does appear to me once again, that loving and enjoying are distinct and separate affairs, and that not only is it unnecessary to love in order to enjoy, but that it suffices to enjoy in order not to love. For dreamy, tender sentiments rise out of compatibility of humor and expediency, but are in no wise due to the beauty of a bust or the pretty contours of a bum; and I would not allow these latter objects, which depending upon our peculiarities of taste can sharply excite the physical affections, to be able to exert a similar prise upon the moral affections. To complete my comparison: Belinda is ugly, she’s forty-two, not one hint of the gracious anywhere about her person, not a single attractive feature, no, she’s a slug, grossly ill-favored. But Belinda is clever, she has wit, a delicious character, a million things which mate nicely with my sentiments and tastes; I’d have no desire to bed with Belinda, but I’d be wild about her conversation nonetheless. I’d intensely desire to have Araminthe, but I’d cordially detest her the moment the fever of desire had abated, because in her I have found a body only, and none of the moral qualities which could win her a place in my heart. All this however is quite irrelevant to the present case; in Saint-Fond’s tolerant attitude toward the infidelities you commit there is an element of libertine sentiment for which none of the foregoing provides an adequate explanation. The idea of you lying in another’s arms entrances Saint-Fond, he himself puts you there, knowing you there, imagining you there, seeing you there hardens his prick; you’ll multiply his pleasures as proportionally you augment the size and number of your own, and Saint-Fond will never cherish you so much as when you do to the utmost that which would earn you the hatred of a clod. Here it is a question of one of those mental anomalies comprehensible, and indeed common, only to cerebral individuals like ourselves, but which are not on account of their rarity any the less delectable.”