Letters From Prison

by Marquis de Sade

  In an earlier letter to his wife shortly after his incarceration Sade writes: “My blood is too hot to bear such terrible confinement. . . If I am not released in four days, I shall crack my skull against these walls.”

  Many subsequent letters raise the threat of suicide if he is not soon set free. But Sade’s innate love of life, of pleasure, and his growing conviction that through writing he could find another kind of release and also take revenge on his hated enemies kept him from that fatal step. Still, had he known in those early months that he was to spend the next thirteen years behind bars, he might well have put an end to his agony there and then.

  1. To Madame de Montreuil

  [End of February 1777]

  Of all the possible forms revenge and cruelty could assume, you must agree, Madame, that you have indeed chosen the most horrifying of all. Having come to Paris to bid farewell to my mother, who was breathing her last, with no other thought in mind than to see her and embrace her one last time, if indeed she were still alive, or to mourn her if she were not, ‘twas that very moment you chose to make me your victim once again! Alas! I asked you in my first letter whether I would find in you a second mother or a tyrant, but you have not left me in doubt for more than a trice! Is it thus that you repay me for having wiped away your tears when you lost the father you cherished? And did you not find at that trying time my heart as sensitive to your grief as it was to my own? It is not as if I had come to Paris only to defy you, or with purposes in mind that might have made you wish to see me gone! . . . But after the care and attention my mother’s situation required, my second goal was only to calm and comfort you, then to come to an understanding with you, and as far as my affair1 is concerned, to take whatever measures would have suited you and that you would have suggested to me. Apart from my letters, Amblet, if he is candid (which I do not believe), must have told you as much. But the perfidious friend has been working in concert with you to deceive me, to undo me, and in this both of you have succeeded admirably. As I was being taken away [after my arrest] they told me it was only to expedite my case, and for that reason my detention was essential. But in all good faith, do you believe I can be duped by such talk? And when in Savoy2 you resorted to the same measures, what slightest effort on my behalf was undertaken? Since then did my two year-long absences produce the slightest initiatives? And is it not exceeding clear that what you seek is my total undoing, and not my rehabilitation?

  I am willing to go along with you for a moment that a lettre de cachet has been indispensable, in order to avoid a remonstration, which is always troublesome, but did it have to be so harsh, so cruel? Would a letter banishing me from the kingdom not have served the same purpose? And would I not have most scrupulously complied with that order, since I had just, of my own volition, put myself in your hands and submitted to whatever you might have demanded? When I wrote you from Bordeaux, asking that you send me the money wherewith to move to Spain, and you refused it to me, was that not a further proof you wanted me not far away but behind bars; and the more I ponder the circumstances the more I am completely convinced that you have never had any other thought in mind. But I am mistaken, Madame: Amblet revealed to me another one of your devices, and that is the one I intend to fulfill. He told me, Madame—at your behest no doubt— that a death certificate was the most essential and most appropriate document to bring this unfortunate affair to an end as quickly as possible. You must procure that piece of paper, Madame, and I swear I shall make sure you have it very soon. As I shall not multiply my letters, not only because of the difficulty I have in writing them but also because they seem to have not the slightest effect upon you, the present one shall contain my final sentiments, of that you may be sure. My situation is horrible. Never—and you know it—has either my blood or my brain been able to bear being cooped up. When I was under much less rigorous confinement—that you also know—I risked my life to rid myself of that yoke.3 Here such means are denied me, but I still have one that no one on earth can strip me of, and I shall take full advantage of it. From the depths of her grave my poor mother beckons to me: I seem to see her open her arms to me again and summon me to bury myself in her bosom, into the one haven I still have left. To follow her so closely is to me a satisfaction, and as a last favor I ask you, Madame, to have me laid to rest near her. Only one thing holds me back; ’tis a weakness, I admit, but I must confess it to you. I should have liked to see my children. For I so enjoyed going and holding them in my arms after having seen you. My most recent misfortunes have not stilled this desire, and I shall in all likelihood bear it with me to the grave. I commend them to your care, Madame. Even though you have hated their father, at least do love them. Give them an education which, if that is possible, will preserve them from the misfortunes my neglectful upbringing has vouchsafed to me. If they were aware of my sad fate, their souls, modeled after that of their tender mother’s, would hasten to cause them to fall at your knees and their innocent hands, raised in supplication, would doubtless cause you to be swayed. ’Tis from my love for them this consoling image arises, but it can in no wise affect the course of events, and I make haste to destroy it for fear it may soften my heart at a time when what I most need is steadfastness. Adieu, Madame.

  1. Sade is referring to his sentencing as a result of the Marseilles scandal.

  2. After his brief but passionate idyll with his wife’s younger sister Anne-Prospère in Italy, Sade traveled to Savoy, where he lived for several months incognito. As noted, he wrote a letter to Madame de Montreuil in late November 1772, thus revealing his whereabouts to the one person who most wanted him behind bars. On December 8, only days after that fateful letter, he was arrested and incarcerated in Miolans, doubtless at the request of Madame de Montreuil.

  3. Sade is referring to his imprisonment in the fortress of Miolans, from which he made a daring escape in April, 1773.

  2. To Madame de Sade

  March 6, 1777

  Oh, my dear friend! When will my horrible situation cease? When in God’s name will I be let out of the tomb where I have been buried alive? There is nothing to equal the horror of my fate! Nothing that can depict everything I am suffering, that can convey the state of anxiety wherewith I am tormented and the sorrows that devour me! Here, all I have as support are my tears and my shouts, but no one hears them . . . Where is the time when my dear friend1 shared them? Today I no longer have anyone; it seems as if the whole of Nature were dead for me! Who knows whether you even receive my letters? No reply to the last one I wrote you proves to me that they are not being given to you and that ’tis to make sport of my sorrow or to see what is going on in my head that I am allowed to write them to you.2 Yet another refinement invented no doubt by the rage of her who stalks me as her personal prey!3 What can so much cruelty auger for the future? Judge for a moment in what state my poor mind must be. Till now, a faint hope sustained me, calmed the early moments of my terrible sorrow; but everything concerts to destroy it, and I clearly see from the silence wherein I am left, from the state I am in, that all they want is my undoing. If ‘twere for my good, would they proceed in this manner? They must realize full well that the severe measures that are being taken with me can only unhinge my brain, and, consequently, from this naught can result (supposing they mean to keep me alive) save the greatest ill. For I am quite certain I cannot hold out a month here without going mad:4 which is probably what they want, and that fits in wonderfully with the means they proposed this past winter. Ah! my dear friend, I can see all too well my fate! Remember what I sometimes told you, that they had decided to let me finish out my five years in peace, and then . . . There’s the idea that torments me and is driving me to my grave. If ’tis in your power to reassure me on that score, please do so, I beseech you, for my state is frightful in the extreme and if you could only understand it fully for what it is, your heart would most assuredly be filled with pity for me. Nor do I doubt that they are making every effort to separate us: for me that would be the final blow, and I wo
uld not survive it, of that you may be sure. I beseech you to oppose this with all the strength at your command, and to understand that the first victims of this effort would be our children: there is no example of children made happy when their mother and father are in disagreement. My dear friend, you are all I have left on earth: father, mother, sister, wife, friend, you are all those to me, I have no one but you: do not abandon me, I beg you, let it not be from you that I receive the final blow of misfortune.

  Is it possible, if indeed they have my best interests in mind, that they do not sense they are ruining everything by meting out this punishment? Do they imagine the public will even try to understand? It will simply say: He certainly must have been guilty, since he has been punished. When a crime has been proven, you resort to these means either to calm a high judicial court or prevent it from passing sentence, but when ’tis certain no crime has been committed and that the sentence has been the height of madness and of meanness, one must not be punished, because you then undo all the good that could be accomplished if the verdict was annulled, and you clearly prove that influence alone has been operative, that crime has existed, and that one has besought the king to punish to avoid having the court do so.5 I contend that there could be nothing worse done against me than that, ‘twould be to do me in for the rest of my life; and only a few years ago your mother was offered an excellent example of how little the military and the public were taken in by these maneuvers and continued to look askance at whoever took it upon himself to mete out punishment, whether it be at the king’s hands or the court’s. But that is how she is: whenever it’s a question of acting on some matter, she leaps before she thinks, people mislead her, and they end up doing me far more harm than she has often intended. ’Tis the St. Vincent story all over again, tell her I would be greatly obliged if she would bear that in mind; here somebody else is playing the same role, and it’s not difficult to figure out who.

  Finally, my dear friend, all I humbly ask of you is that you get me out of here as soon as possible, no matter what the cost, for I feel I cannot hold out much longer. They tell you I’m fine; it calms you to hear it, so much the better, nothing could make me happier. I am not going to disabuse you, because I’m forbidden to do so: that is all I can say to you. But please remember that I have never endured anything like what I am experiencing today, and that, considering the circumstances I was in, ‘twas vile of your mother to have forced me into this present situation. The poor lawyer who said ’tis unnatural to heap sorrow upon sorrow, knew little about your mother when he made that declaration. I beseech you, while awaiting the blessed day when I shall be delivered from the horrible torments into which I am plunged, to arrange to come and see me, to write to me more often than you do, to obtain permission for me to take a little exercise after my meals, something which you know is more essential to me than life itself, and to send me without delay my second pair of sheets. For the past seven nights I haven’t slept a wink, and during the night I throw up everything I’ve eaten during the day. Get me out of here, my good friend, get me out, I beg of you, for I feel I’m dying a little more each day. I don’t know why they were so barbaric as to refuse me my camp bed: ‘twas a very slight favor to grant, and which would at least have given me the satisfaction of forgetting my misfortunes for a few hours each night. But at least send me my sheets right away, I beg of you. Farewell, my dear friend, love me as much as I suffer, that is all I ask of you, and believe that I am at the height of my despair.

  1. Sade is of course referring to his wife.

  2. All of Sade’s letters were read and if deemed necessary censored by the prison authorities.

  3. That is, Madame de Montreuil.

  4. Sade understands that the family’s easiest explanation for his unrepentant sexual excesses is simply that he is mad. If by keeping him confined in prison they manage to drive him mad, they will prove to the world they were right.

  5. Under the monarchy, while an elaborate judiciary system did exist, the king could take matters into his own hands and condemn—or pardon—as he saw fit.

  3. To Madame de Montreuil

  March 13, 1777

  If in a soul capable of having betrayed in one fell stroke all the most sacred sentiments, those of humanity in having a son arrested beside the coffin of his mother, those of hospitality by betraying someone who had just given himself over to your care, those of Nature in not even respecting the refuge of your daughter’s embrace; if, I say, in such a person some slight spark of compassion might still exist, I should perhaps try to awaken it by the most accurate and at the same time most frightful description of my horrible plight. But independently of the fact that these complaints are completely useless, I still have enough pride, however brought low it may be, not to embellish your triumph with my tears, and even in the bosom of misfortune I shall still find the courage to refrain from complaining to my tyrant.

  A few simple considerations will therefore be the sole point of this letter. You can value them as you like, and then I shall say no more . . . Yes, I shall seal my lips, so that my opinions shall no longer be dinned into your ears, leaving you for a while at least the chance to revel in the knowledge of my unhappiness.

  I have long been your victim, Madame, but do not think to make me your dupe. It is sometimes interesting to be the one, always humiliating to be the other, and I credit myself with being blessed with as much insight as you can presume to have of deceit. For pity’s sake, Madame, let us never confuse my case and my imprisonment: you will seek to bring my case to a conclusion for the sake of my children; and my imprisonment, which you claim indispensable to that end, and which it is most certainly not, is not, and cannot be, anything but the effect of your own vengeance. The most terrifying of all the legal opinions heard so far is that of M. Simeon of Aix, who said in no uncertain terms that it was quite possible to obtain a judgment whereby exile would serve as prison to the accused. Those are Simeon’s very own words.1 Would not a lettre de cachet, in fact, which would have banished me from the kingdom, have served the same purpose?—of course it would— but it would not have served your fury nearly as well.

  Was it you, then, who concocted and had carried out the plan to have me locked up between four walls? And by what misadventure have the wise magistrates who today govern the State allowed themselves be hoodwinked to the point of believing they were serving the interests of a family when it was clearly a question of slaking a woman’s thirst for revenge? Why am I once again behind bars? why is an imprudence being mistaken for a crime? why am I not being allowed to prove to my judges the difference between the two? and why are you the one who is keeping me from doing so? These are the questions to which Madame deigns not to reply, is that not true? Ten or a dozen bolts and locks serve as your answer instead, but this tyrannical argument, to which the laws are formally opposed, is not eternally triumphant. That is what consoles and comforts me.

  Focusing upon my case alone, is it to clear my name that you are having me punished? and are you suffering under the illusion that this punishment shall be ignored? Do you for a moment believe that they who, sooner or later, shall hear of it shall surely assume that there has to have been a crime somewhere, since there has been a punishment? Be it meted out by the king, be it meted out by judges, ’tis still a punishment, and will the public—which is neither indulgent nor overly curious to find out the truth of the matter—make this frivolous distinction? And will it not always see crime wherever punishment has been exacted? And what a triumph then for my enemies! What fertile soil you prepare for them in the future! and how tempted they will be to have a further go at me, since the results correspond so nicely to their intentions! All your scandalous acts over the past five years have nicely prepared people’s minds and behavior in my regard, and you have been well aware of the cruel situation I have found myself in during this whole period, the constant target of fresh calumnies, which a sordid interest used to build upon the unhappiness of my situation. How do you think people can fa
il to judge a man guilty when the authorities have come knocking at his door three or four times, and when they then throw him in jail once they have their hands on him? Who do you hope to convince that I have not been in prison when they haven’t seen me or even heard from me all this time? After all the means taken to capture me, you can well imagine that the only conclusion people can come to, since I have dropped out of sight, is that I have been arrested. What advantage will derive from this? My reputation lost forever, and new troubles at every turn. That is what I shall owe to the wonderful manner in which you are handling my affairs.

  But let us consider matters from another point of view. Is this a personal punishment I’m receiving? and is the thought this will turn me back onto the straight and narrow, as if I were a naughty little boy? A complete waste of time and effort, Madame. If the wretchedness and ignominy to which the Marseilles judges’ absurd proceedings have reduced me, by punishing the most commonplace of indiscretions as though it were a crime, have failed to make me mend my ways, your iron bars and your iron doors and your locks will be no more successful. You ought to know my heart well enough by now to be convinced that the mere suspicion of dishonor is capable of withering it completely, and you are smart enough to understand that a misdeed, whose origin lies in hot-bloodedness, is not corrected by making that selfsame blood more bitter, by firing the brain through deprivation and inflaming the imagination through solitude. What I am calling to mind here will be supported by every reasonable being who knows me passing well and who is not infatuated with the idiotic notion that, to correct or punish a man you must shut him up like a wild beast; and I challenge anyone to conclude other than that, from such methods, the only possible result in my case is the most certain perturbation of my organs.