_The_ Marchioness de Merteuil _to the_ Viscount de Valmont.
Now that you dread succeeding, my dear Viscount, now that your scheme
is to furnish arms against yourself, and that you wish more to fight
than conquer, I have nothing more to say. Your conduct is certainly a
masterpiece of prudence; in a contrary supposition, it would be the
highest act of folly; and to tell you my sentiments freely, I fear your
project is entirely chimerical.
I do not reproach you for having let slip the opportunity; for I really
cannot see that you had it in your power; and I know well, whatever
others may say, that an opportunity lost may be found again, and that a
rash step is irrecoverable.
But I admire your wisdom in commencing a correspondence, and I defy
you to foresee how it will end. You perhaps hope to prove to this
woman, that she should give herself up? And that seems to me a truth of
opinion, more than of demonstration; and that to make it be relished,
you soften, and not argue; but what purpose would it answer to soften
by letter, since you would not be on the spot to benefit by it? If all
your fine phrases should even produce the intoxication of love, do you
flatter yourself that it would be of so long a duration that reflection
would not come time enough to prevent its consequences? Think, then,
how much it will take to write a letter, and how much before it can be
delivered; and then consider if a woman, of the principles of your
devotee, can think so long on what she endeavours never at all to think
of: this proceeding may do very well with children, who while they
write, I love you, do not know they say I give myself up to you; but
Madame de Tourvel’s reasoning virtue makes her know the value of the
terms. This appears very plain; for notwithstanding the advantage you
had over her in your conversation, she foils you in her letter; and
what will be the consequence? That by long debating, you will not bring
to compliance; that by dint of searching for good reasons, she will
find them, will give them, and stick to them; not so much because they
are good in themselves, as not to act inconsistently.
Moreover, a remark I am astonished you have not made, is, that nothing
is so difficult in love, as to write what one does not feel. I mean to
write with the appearance of truth; it is not but the same phrases are
used; they are not arranged in the same manner; or rather, they are
arranged with too much perspicuity, and that is worse.
Read over your letter again; it displays so much regularity that you
are discovered in every phrase. I am inclined to think your Presidente
is so unfashionable as not to perceive it; but what is that to the
purpose? the consequence will be still the same; that is the defect
of romance; the author racks his brain, heats his imagination, and
the reader is unmoved. Heloise is the only exception I know; and
notwithstanding the great talents of the author, from this observation
alone, I have ever been of opinion, that the work is grounded in
truth; not so in speaking; the custom of conversation gives it an air
of tenderness, to which the facility of tears still greatly adds;
expressive desires blend themselves with the languishing look, and,
at last, incoherent speeches more readily bring on that turbulence
of passion, which is the true eloquence of love; but above all, the
presence of the beloved object banishes reflection, and makes us wish
to be overcome.
Believe me, my dear Viscount, she does not desire you should write any
more; retrieve your error, and wait for the opportunity of speaking
to her. This woman has more fortitude than I expected; her defence is
good, and were it not for the length of her letter, and the pretence
she gives you for a replication in her grateful phrase, she would not
at all have betrayed herself.
And what, I think, ought to ascertain your success is, she exhausts all
her strength at once; and I foresee she will persist in it, for the
defence of a word, and will have none left for the crisis.
I send you back your two letters, and, if you are prudent, they should
be the last till after the happy moment. It is too late to say any
thing of the little Volanges, who comes on very well, and gives me
great satisfaction. I believe I shall have done before you, which ought
to make you very happy. Farewell for to-day!
_Aug._ 24, 17—.