This Work, or rather Collection, which the Public will, perhaps, still
find too voluminous, contains but a small part of the correspondence
from which it is extracted. Being appointed to arrange it by the
persons in whose possession it was, and who, I knew, intended it for
publication, I asked, for my sole recompence, the liberty to reject
every thing that appeared to me useless, and I have endeavoured to
preserve only the letters which appeared necessary to illustrate
the events, or to unfold the characters. If to this inconsiderable
share in the work be added an arrangement of those letters which I
have preserved, with a strict attention to dates, and some short
annotations, calculated, for the most part, to point out some
citations, or to explain some retrenchments I have made, the Public
will see the extent of my labours, and the part I have taken in this
publication.
I have also changed, or suppressed, the names of the personages, and
if, among those I have substituted, any resemblance may be found which
might give offence, I beg it may be looked on as an unintentional error.
I proposed farther alterations, as to purity of style and diction, in
both which many faults will be found. I could also have wished to have
been authorised to shorten some long letters, several of which treat
separately, and almost without transition, of objects totally foreign
to one another. This liberty, in which I was not indulged, would
not have been sufficient to give merit to the work, but would have
corrected part of its defects.
It was objected to me, that the intention was to publish the letters
themselves, and not a work compiled from the letters; that it would
be as distant from probability as truth, that eight or ten persons,
who were concerned in this correspondence, should have wrote with
equal purity of style:—And on my representing that there was not one
which did not abound with essential faults, and was not very open
to criticism, I was answered, that every reasonable reader would
undoubtedly expect to find faults in a collection of letters of private
persons, since among all those hitherto published by authors of the
highest reputation, and even some academicians, there are none totally
exempt from censure. Those reasons have not convinced me; and I am
still of opinion they are easier to give than likely to obtain assent;
but I had not my option, and submitted, reserving only the liberty of
entering my protest, and declaring my dissent, as I now do.
As to the merit of this work, perhaps it does not become me to touch
upon it; my opinion neither can, or ought, to influence any one.
However, as some wish to know something of a book before they take it
in hand, those who are so disposed will proceed with this preface—the
rest will do better to pass on to the work itself.
Though inclined to publish those letters, I am yet far from thinking
they will meet success; and let not this sincere declaration be
construed into the affected modesty of an author: for I declare, with
the same frankness, that if I had thought this collection an unworthy
offering to the Public, it should not have taken up any part of my
time.—Let us try to reconcile this apparent contradiction.
The merit of a work consists in its utility, or its agreeableness,
and even in both, when it admits of both. But success, which is not
always the criterion of merit, often arises more from a choice of
subject than the execution, more from the aggregate of the objects
presented than the manner of treating them: such a collection as the
title announces this to be, being the letters of a whole circle, and
containing a diversity of interests, is not likely to fix the attention
of the reader. Besides, the sentiments they contain being feigned or
dissembled, can only excite an interest of curiosity, always infinitely
inferior to that of sentiment, and less disposed to indulgence, as well
as more apt to be struck with defects in the narrative, as they are
constantly in opposition to the only desire curiosity seeks to gratify.
These defects are, perhaps, partly compensated by the quality of the
work; I mean the variety of style—A merit which an author seldom
attains, but which here presents itself, and prevents, at least, a dull
uniformity. Perhaps merit may also be allowed to many observations,
either new or little known, which are interspersed through those
letters: and this, to pass the most favourable judgment on them, will
be found to constitute their best pretension to pleasing.
The utility of the work, which will, perhaps, be more strongly
contested, appears more easy to establish: it is at least useful to
morality, to lay open the means used by the wicked to seduce the
innocent; and those letters will efficaciously concur for so salutary
a purpose. There will also be found in them the proof and example of
two important truths, which one would be apt to think unknown, seeing
how little they are practised: the one, that every woman who admits a
bad man to her society, ends with becoming his victim; the other, that
every mother is at least imprudent, that suffers any but herself to
gain possession of her daughter’s confidence.
Young persons, of both sexes, may also here learn, that the
friendship so readily held out to them by people of bad morals,
is ever a dangerous snare, equally fatal to their happiness and
virtue; yet, abuse or evil always unhappily confining too nearly on
good, appears so much to be dreaded in this respect, that far from
recommending the perusal of works of this kind to youth, I think it
of the utmost importance to keep all such very far from their reach.
The time when productions of the nature of the present may be no
longer dangerous, but begin to be useful, was fixed by a lady of
great good understanding. “I think,” said she to me, after having
read the manuscript of this correspondence, “I should render my
daughter an essential service in putting this book in her hands on
her wedding-day.” Should all mothers think thus, I shall congratulate
myself on having published it.
Yet I shall leave this flattering supposition at a distance; and I
still think this collection will please but few.—Men and women of
depraved minds will take an interest in discountenancing a work that
may injure them; and as they are never wasting in ingenuity, they may
bring over the whole class of rigorists, who will be alarmed at the
picture we have dared to present of profligacy.
The pretenders to free thinking will take no concern in the fate of a
devout woman, whom, for that reason, they will not fail to pronounce
weak, whilst the devotee will be displeased to see virtue sink under
misfortune, and will complain that religion does not sufficiently
display its power. On the other hand, persons of a delicate taste
will be disgusted with the simplicity and defective style of many of
the letters, whilst the generality of readers, led away with the idea
that every thing that appears in print is a work of labour, will think
he sees in some of the other letters the laboured style of an author
sufficiently apparent, notwithstanding the disguise he has assumed.
To conclude; it will be pretty generally said, that a thing is little
worth out of its place; and that if the too correct style of authors
takes off from the gracefulness of miscellaneous letters, negligences
in these become real faults, and make them insupportable when
consigned to the press.
I sincerely own that those reproaches may have some foundation. I
believe also, I might possibly be able to answer them, even without
exceeding the length of a preface: but it is clear, that were I to
attempt to answer every thing, I could do nothing else; and that if I
had deemed it requisite to do so, I should at once have suppressed both
preface and book.
EXTRACT
FROM THE
CORRESPONDENCE
ON WHAT CONCERNS THE
HAPPINESS OF MAN AND SOCIETY.
[No. III.]
THE UTILITY OF NOVELS.
THE NOVEL OF
DANGEROUS CONNECTIONS.
Are novels useful, or are they prejudicial to the morals? is a question
long agitated, and not yet resolved; for the reasons on both sides
are equally plausible. Undoubtedly Richardson, who is read and cited
every where, though prolix and diffuse, has not a little contributed
to the practice of pure morality; and yet, on the other hand, what
mischiefs have been produced by the immense multitude of novels of
all sorts with which France and all Europe have been overrun for some
years past; and, as if the evil done by these temporary plagues was not
sufficiently accomplished during their short existence, it is prolonged
by reviving them in eternal collections. A novel, the morality of which
is equivocal, is a very dangerous poison; a novel that only possesses
mediocrity, is at best useless. Even a good novel is but aliment for a
child, or some weak being, to whom morality unadorned is a disgusting
object. Hence we may conclude, that every thinking man will take care
to banish this kind of works from his library.
He will then likewise proscribe that novel, now so much prized,
called _Dangerous Connections, or Letters collected in a Society, and
published for the Instruction of other Societies_.
After having read a few pages of this work, one is almost led to think
this title a piece of pleasantry; the letters of Madame de Merteuil,
and of the Viscount de Valmont, _published_ truly _for the instruction
of society_. Is it in order to form people to the detestable art of
seduction, or to inspire them with a horror of it? and yet this work
has been censured, and approved; has had all the honours of war, while
so many other useful works are like the manes of the ancients, to whom
a sepulchre was denied, and who were forced to wander upon the gloomy
banks of the Styx, and admitted only by stealth. _O cæcas hominum
mentes!_
I am far from a wish to calumniate the author, who, I am assured, is
a military man of the highest character for wit and good conduct; but
his work, which seems to have a moral end in view, is in reality very
dangerous. It has been said to be a picture of the manners of a certain
class in society; and, if it was not a resemblance, where would be
its utility? Must monsters be created to cause in us an aversion of
ordinary vices? If it is true, it ought to have been concealed; there
are shocking nudities which our minds revolt at rather than receive
any instruction from. The veil that covers the Tiberiuses and the
Messalinas, ought not to be wholly lifted up.
Young men will find in this novel easy means of seduction; young women
will here see portraits of embellished vice; and old libertines will
be amused by the exploits of Valmont. But what a monster is Valmont,
if such a character exists; and those who know that class of society,
assure us, they have met with many such. If there really are such
beings, ought not their society to be avoided carefully? It is a forest
filled with robbers: to enter it we should be well armed. It is a road
full of great precipices, to avoid falling into which, we must be very
circumspect.
What a character is the Marchioness de Merteuil! Sometimes she is a
Medea, sometimes a Messalina. Read the tenth letter: vice is to be
drawn; but should it be drawn in such seducing colours? Are there many
young people who will prefer the character of a virtuous man to the
brilliant and lively one of the profligate Valmont? Are there many who
will not blush at the awkwardness of Cecilia? And when one blushes at
being ridiculed, they are not very far from the vice that exempts them
from it. In France, ridicule is too much dreaded; they would rather be
vicious; and this book will rather assist that taste.
The style of romances may serve to lead us to the knowledge of the
morals of ages and nations. Thus the country, which has lately produced
the natural and moving _Henrietta of Gerstenfeld_, is far from the
state of depravity of Paris and London. I form my opinion from the
book. In the last age the French novels were full of gallantry and
virtuous love, because then they were gallant and respectful. In this
age, they have substituted wit to love, and the novels are stuffed with
an unintelligible jargon of metaphysics. Of this they grew tired, and
libertinism succeeded to it. From thence so many licentious romances.
The immense quantity that are produced is a complete proof of the
corruption of the age; the rapidity with which they are bought, the
rage with which they are devoured, farther prove this depravation.
Doing justice to the zeal that seems to animate the author of those
observations, we may be permitted, I hope, to make some farther
remarks on the manner he has presented his? Before we begin to examine
the degree of moral utility contained in the novel of _Dangerous
Connections_, the author of the correspondence first begs leave to ask
whether novels in general are useful or prejudicial to morals? This
method is the most prudent; but is it not singular, that, acknowledging
the indecision of this question, because the reasons for and against
are equally seducing, he is still so bold to condemn, indiscriminately,
all novels, without assigning any new reasons in justification of this
definitive sentence? On the contrary, the author asserts, Richardson’s
novels have been useful to morality, to preserve them in their purity
and in the same breath advises all thinking men to banish them from
their libraries! Are the consequences suitable to the premises? Is
not that confounding the genus with the species? But if it was even
true, that the best novel is only food for infancy, or a weak being,
for whom unadorned morality is a terrifying object, would the author’s
decision be the more justifiable? I will not determine; but I would ask
what he means by those _thinking_ men, for whom unadorned morality is
not terrifying? It would be, perhaps, those declaiming misanthropes,
who censure and despise every thing that does not bear a resemblance
to their savage and austere way of thinking? I have sometimes had
a good opinion of their understanding, but been ever diffident of
their hearts; were we to attend to them, we should also banish from
our libraries the divine poem of Telemachus, which is the first of
novels, which modest qualification does not hinder it from being, if
one may venture to call it, the first of our books; not only by the
grandeur of the business it treats, but also by the manner in which it
is treated. We should also banish from our libraries even the works of
the _Correspondence_, the morality of which is become very interesting,
by an ornamented, pure and elegant style; if, notwithstanding those
qualities, this work has its opposers, would it find many readers if it
was divested of them? God forbid I should ever intend making a general
apology for all novels! that would be the idea of a Demoniac; I only
mean to justify useful novels. If any one makes a bad use of this kind
of writing, I most willingly acquiesce in their condemnation. Let us
now examine whether the author of _Dangerous Connections_ deserves to
suffer.
What is a novel? A correct picture of morals put in motion.—What
should be the aim of a novel? To blend instruction with
amusement.—When the morals of the actors are corrupt, is it allowable,
with deference to decency, to draw them in their proper shades and
colours? Undoubtedly it is; but with the greatest caution, lest by
giving vice, whose contagion must be dreaded, its true, though seducing
and agreeable aspect, without resisting, diminishing, or rendering
useless, the effect it may produce by the contrast of gentleness,
peace, and happiness, which virtue secures. The author of the _Errors
of the Heart and Mind_, and the other of the _Confessions of the
Count of ——_, have gone wide of this mark; yet their characters
are drawn after nature; the Meilcourts are still the ornament of
the Bon Ton societies. But should irregularities be drawn without
inflicting their punishment? Should vice, with impunity, applaud
its infamous triumphs? Should innocence weep without being avenged?
Certainly not. Those novels deserve the severest censure of the author
of the Correspondence; those are the books which should be carefully
concealed from the busy curiosity of young people. Let any one take
the trouble to compare the works I have now quoted, and similar ones,
with the novel of _Dangerous Connections_, shall we not always feel a
certain aversion, a kind of antipathy for Valmont and the Marchioness
de Merteuil, notwithstanding the brilliant cast he has given two
performers. Let some attention be paid to the skill with which he
has contrasted them in the gentle, sensible, and generous Madame de
Rosemonde; how moving, how unaffected her virtue. The following letter,
wrote to the victim of the profligate Valmont, is, in my opinion,
alone sufficient to counterbalance, at least, the impression this same
Valmont, and the infamous accomplice in his crimes, could make.