_The_ Marchioness de Merteuil _to the_ Viscount de Valmont.
How your fears raise my compassion! How much they convince me of my
superiority over you! So you want to teach me how to conduct myself!
Ah, my poor Valmont! what a distance there is still between you and me!
No; all the pride of your sex would not be sufficient to fill up the
interval that is between us. Because you are not able to execute my
schemes, you look upon them as impossible. It well becomes you, who are
both proud and weak, to attempt to decide on my measures, and give your
opinion of my resources. Upon my word, Viscount, your advice has put
me out of temper. I cannot conceal it.
That to hide your incredible awkwardness with your Presidente, you
should display as a triumph the having disconcerted for a moment this
weak woman who loves you, I am not displeased. That you should have
obtained from her a look, I smile, and pass over. That feeling, in
spite of you, the insignificancy of your conduct, you should hope to
deceive my attention, by flattering me with the sublime effort you have
made to bring together two children, who are eager to see each other,
and who, I will take upon me to say, are indebted to me only for this
eagerness; that I will also pass over. That, lastly, you should plume
yourself on those brilliant acts, to tell me in a magisterial tone,
that _it is better employ one’s time in executing their projects than
in relating them;_ that vanity hurts me not; I forgive it. But that
you should take upon you to imagine I stand in need of your prudence;
I should go astray, if I did not pay a proper regard to your advice;
that I ought to sacrifice a whim, or a pleasure, to it: upon my word,
Viscount, that would be raising your pride too much for the confidence
which I have condescended to place in you.
What have you then done, that I have not surpassed by a million of
degrees? You have seduced, ruined several women: but what difficulties
had you to encounter? What obstacles to surmount? Where is the merit
that may be truly called yours? A handsome figure, the effect of
mere chance; a gracefulness, which custom generally gives; some wit,
it’s true, but which nonsense would upon occasion supply as well; a
tolerable share of impudence, which is solely owing to the facility of
your first successes. Those, I believe, are all your abilities, if I am
not mistaken; for as to the celebrity which you have acquired, you will
not insist, I presume, that I should set any great value on the art of
publishing or seizing an opportunity of scandal.
As to your prudence and cunning, I do not speak of myself, but where is
the woman that has not more of it than you? Your very Presidente leads
you like a babe.
Believe me, Viscount, one seldom acquires the qualities one thinks
unnecessary. As you engage without danger, you should act without
precaution. As for you men, your defeats are only a success the less.
In this unequal struggle, our good fortune is not to be losers; and
your misfortune, not to be gainers. When I would even grant you equal
talents with us, how much more must we surpass you by the necessity we
are under of employing them continually?
Let us suppose, that you make use of as much address to overcome us, as
we do to defend ourselves, or to surrender; you will, at least, agree
with me, it becomes useless after you succeed. Entirely taken up with
some new inclination, you give way to it without fear, without reserve;
its duration is a matter of no consequence to you.
And really those reciprocal attachments, given and received, to speak
in the love cant, you alone have it in your power to keep or break.
Happy yet do the women think themselves, when in your fickleness
you prefer secrecy to scandal, or are satisfied with a mortifying
abandonment, and that you do not make the idol of to-day the victim of
to-morrow.
But if an unfortunate woman should first feel the weight of her chains,
what risks does she not run if she attempts to extricate herself
from them, if she should dare to struggle against them? She trembling
strives to put away the man her heart detests. If he persists, what
was granted to love must be given to fear; her arms are open, while
her heart is shut; her prudence should untie with dexterity those same
bonds you would have broken. She is without resource, at the mercy of
her enemy, if he is incapable of generosity, which is seldom to be met
with in him; for if he is sometimes applauded for possessing it, he is
never blamed for wanting it.
You will not, doubtless, deny those self-evident propositions. If,
however, you have seen me disposing of opinions and events; subjecting
those formidable men to my whims and fancies; taking from the one
the will, and from the other the power, of annoying me. If I have
discovered the secret, according to my roving taste, to detach the
one, and reject the other, those dethroned tyrants becoming my slaves;
if in the midst of those frequent revolutions, my reputation has been
still preserved unsullied; should you not from thence have concluded,
that, born to revenge my sex and command yours, I found out means
unknown to any that went before me.
Ah, keep your advice and your fears for those infatuated women, who
call themselves sentimental; whose exalted imaginations would make
one believe, that Nature had placed their senses in their heads; who,
having never reflected, blend incessantly the lover with love; who,
possessed with that ridiculous illusion, believe that he alone with
whom they have sought pleasure is the sole trustee of it, and, true to
enthusiasm, have the same respect and faith for the priest that is due
to the Divinity only.
Reserve your fears for those who, more vain than prudent, do not know
when to consent or break off.
But tremble for those active, yet idle women, whom you call
_sentimental_, on whom love so easily and powerfully takes possession;
who feel the necessity of being taken up with it, even when they don’t
enjoy it; and, giving themselves up without reserve to the fermentation
of their ideas, bring forth those soft but dangerous letters, and do
not dread confiding in the object that causes them these proofs of
their weakness; imprudent creatures! who in their actual lover cannot
see their future enemy.
But what have I to do in common with those inconsiderate women? When
have you seen me depart from the rules I have laid down to myself, and
abandon my own principles? I say, my own principles, and I speak it
with energy, for they are not like those of other women, dealt out by
chance, received without scrutiny, and followed through custom; they
are the proofs of my profound reflections; I have given them existence,
and I can call them my own work.
Introduced into the world whilst yet a girl, I was devoted by my
situation to silence and inaction; this time I made use of for
reflection and observation. Looked upon as thoughtless and heedless,
paying little attention to the discourses that were held out to me, I
carefully laid up those that were meant to be concealed from me.
This useful curiosity served me in the double capacity of instruction
and dissimulation. Being often obliged to hide the objects of my
attention from the eyes of those who surrounded me, I endeavoured to
guide my own at my will. I then learnt to take up at pleasure that
dissipated air which you have so often praised. Encouraged by those
first successes, I endeavoured to regulate in the same manner the
different motions of my person. Did I feel any chagrin, I endeavoured
to put on an air of serenity, and even an affected cheerfulness;
carried my zeal so far, that I used to put myself to voluntary pain;
and tried my temper, by seeming to express a satisfaction; laboured
with the same care and trouble to repress the sudden tumult of
unexpected joy. It is thus that I gained that ascendancy over my
countenance which has so often astonished you.
I was yet very young and unconcerned, but still reflected. My thoughts
were my own, and I was exasperated to have them either surprised or
drawn from me against my will. Provided with such arms, I immediately
began to try their utility. Not satisfied with the closeness of my
character, I amused myself with assuming different ones. Confident
of my actions, I studied my words; I regulated the one and the other
according to circumstances, and sometimes according to whim. From that
moment I became selfish; and no longer showed any desire, but what I
thought useful to me.
This labour had so far fixed my attention on the characters of the
physiognomy, and the expression of the countenance, that I acquired the
penetrating glance, which experience, however, has taught me not to
place an entire confidence in, but which has so seldom deceived me.
I had scarce attained my fifteenth year, when I was mistress of those
talents to which the greatest part of our female politicians owe their
reputation, and had only attained the first rudiments of the science I
was so anxious to acquire.
You may well imagine, that like all other young girls, I wanted to be
acquainted with love and pleasure: but never having been in a convent,
having no confidant, and being moreover strictly watched by a vigilant
mother, I had only vague ideas. Nature even, which certainly I have
had since every reason to be satisfied with, had not yet given me any
indication. I may say, she silently wrought to perfect her work. My
head alone fermented. I did not wish for enjoyment; I wanted knowledge:
my strong propensity for instruction suggested the means.
I was sensible, the only man I could apply to on this occasion without
danger was my confessor. As soon as I was determined, I got the better
of my bashfulness. I accused myself of a fault I had not committed, and
declared I had done _all that women do_. Those were the exact words:
but when I spoke thus, I really had no idea of what I expressed.
My expectations were neither entirely satisfied, nor altogether
disappointed; the dread of discovering myself prevented my information:
but the good father made the crime so heinous, that I concluded the
pleasure must be excessive; and the desire of tasting it succeeded that
of knowing it.
I don’t know how far this desire might have carried me; being then
totally unexperienced, the first opportunity would have probably ruined
me: but fortunately a few days after my mother informed me that I was
to be married. Immediately the certainty of coming to the knowledge
of every thing stifled my curiosity, and I came a virgin to Mr. de
Merteuil’s arms.
I waited with unconcern the period that was to resolve my doubts; and I
had occasion for reflection, to assume a little fear and embarrassment.
This first night, which generally fills the mind with so much joy or
apprehension, offered me only an opportunity of experience, pleasure,
and pain. I observed every thing with the utmost exactitude, and those
different sensations furnished matter for reflection.
This kind of study soon began to be pleasing: but faithful to my
principles, and knowing, as it were, by instinct, that no one ought to
be less in my confidence than my husband, I determined, for no other
reason than because I had my feeling, to appear to him impassible. This
affected coldness laid the foundation for that blind confidence which
he ever after placed in me: and in consequence of more reflection, I
threw in an air of dissipation over my behaviour, to which my youth
gave a sanction; and I never appeared more childish than when I praised
him most profusely.
Yet, I must own, at first I suffered myself to be hurried away by the
bustle of the world, and gave myself up entirely to its most trifling
dissipations. After a few months M. de Merteuil having brought me to
his dreary country house, to avoid the dulness of a rural life, I again
resumed my studies; and being surrounded by people whose inferiority
sheltered me from suspicion, I gave myself a loose in order to improve
my experience. It was then I was ascertained that love, which is
represented as the first cause of all our pleasure, is at most but the
pretence.
M. de Merteuil’s sickness interrupted those pleasing occupations. I
was obliged to accompany him to town, where he went for advice. He
died a short time after, as you know; and though, to take all in all,
I had no reason to complain of him, nevertheless I was very sensibly
affected with the liberty my widowhood gave me, which had so pleasing
a prospect.
My mother imagined that I would go into a convent, or would go back to
live with her: I refused both one and the other: the only sacrifice
I made to decency was to return to the country, where I had yet some
observations to make.
I strengthened them by reading, but don’t imagine that it was all of
that kind you suppose: I studied my morals in romances, my opinions
amongst the philosophers, and even sought amongst our most severe
moralists, what was required of us.—Thus I was ascertained of what
one might do, how one ought to think, and the character one should
assume. Thus fixed on those three objects, the last only offered some
difficulties in the execution: I hoped to conquer them; I ruminated on
the means.
I began to be disgusted with my rustic pleasures; they were not
sufficiently variegated for my active mind, and felt the necessity of
coquetry to reconcile me to love; not really to be sensible of it, but
to feign it, and inspire it in others. In vain I have been told, and
had read, that this passion was not to be feigned. I saw clearly, that
to acquire it, it was sufficient to blend the spirit of an author with
the talent of a comedian. I practised those two characters, and perhaps
with some success; but, instead of courting the vain applause of the
theatre, I determined to turn what so many others sacrificed to vanity,
to my own happiness.
A year was spent in those different employments. My mourning being
expired, I returned to town with my grand projects, but did not expect
the first obstacle which fell in my way.
The austere retreat and long solitude I had been accustomed to, had
given me such an air of prudery as frightened our prettiest fellows,
and left me a prey to a crowd of tiresome gallants, who all made
pretensions to my person; the difficulty was, not to refuse them; but
several of those refusals were not agreeable to my family: I lost in
those domestic broils the time which I flattered myself to make so
charming a use. I was obliged then to recall the one, and disperse the
others, to be guilty of some frivolities, and to take the same pains to
hurt my reputation that I had taken to preserve it. In this I easily
succeeded, as you may very well imagine; but, not being swayed by any
passion, I only did what I judged necessary, and dealt out prudently
some little acts of volatility.
As soon as I had accomplished my aim, I stopped short, gave the credit
of my reformation to some women, who not having any pretensions to
beauty or attractions, wrapt themselves up in merit and virtue. This
resolution was of great importance, and turned out better than I could
have expected; those grateful duennas became my apologists, and their
blind zeal for what they called their own work, was carried to such a
length, that upon the least conversation that was held about me, the
whole prude party exclaimed shame and scandal! The same means acquired
me also the good opinion of our women of talents, who, convinced that I
did not pursue the same objects they did, chose me for the subject of
their praise, whenever they asserted they did not scandalize every body.
However, my former conduct brought back the lovers; to keep the balance
even between them and my new female friends, I exhibited myself as
a woman not averse to love, but difficult, and whom the excess of
delicacy rendered superior to love.
Then I began to display upon the grand theatre the talents I had
acquired: my first care was to acquire the name of invincible; in
order to obtain it, the men who were not pleasing to me were the only
ones whose addresses I seemed to accept. I employed them usefully in
procuring me the honours of resistance, whilst I gave myself up without
dread to the favoured lover; but my assumed timidity never permitted
him to appear with me in public company, whose attention was always
thus drawn off to the unfortunate lover.
You know how expeditious I am in my decisions; this proceeds from my
observation, that it is always the preparatory steps which betray
women’s secrets. Let one do what they will, the _ton_ is never the
same before as after success. This difference does not escape the
attentive observer; and I have found it always less dangerous to be
mistaken in my choice, than to suffer myself to be seen through; I
moreover gain by this conduct, to remove probabilities on which only a
judgment may be formed.
Those precautions, and that of never corresponding, to give any proof
of my defeat, may appear satisfactory; however, I never thought them
sufficient. Examining my own heart, I studied that of others; then
I found, there is no person whatever who has not a secret that it
is important should not be revealed; an established truth of which
antiquity seems to have been more sensible than we are, and of which,
perhaps, the history of Samson may have been an ingenious emblem.
Like another Dalilah, I always employed my power in discovering this
important secret. Ah! how many of our modern Samsons do I not hold by
the hair under my scissars! Those I have no dread of; they are the
only ones that I sometimes take a pleasure in mortifying. More pliant
with others, I endeavour to render them fickle, to avoid appearing
inconstant myself. A feigned friendship, an apparent confidence, some
generous dealings, the flattering idea that each was possessed with, of
being my only lover, has secured discretion; in short, when all those
means have failed, I have known how to stifle beforehand, (foreseeing
my rapture), under the cloak of ridicule and calumny, the credit those
dangerous men might obtain.
What I now tell you, you have often seen me put in practice; and yet
you call my prudence in question! Don’t you recollect, when you first
began your courtship to me? I never was more flattered; I sighed for
you before I saw you. Captivated by your reputation, you seemed to
be wanting to my glory; I burned with the desire of encountering you
face to face; it was the only one of my inclinations that ever took
a moment’s ascendancy over me; yet, had you been inclined to ruin
me, what means had you in your power? Idle conversations that leave
no traces after them, that your reputation even would have rendered
suspicious, and a set of facts without probability, the sincere recital
of which would have had the appearance of a romance badly assimilated.
It is true, you have since been in possession of all my secrets; but
you are sensible how our interests are united, and which of us two
ought to be taxed with imprudence.[1]
Since I am in the humour of giving you an account of myself, I will do
it with the utmost exactitude.—I think I hear you say I’m at least at
the mercy of my chambermaid! Truly, if she is not in the secret of my
sentiments, she is at least in that of my actions. When you spoke to me
on this subject formerly, I only answered you, I was sure of her; the
proof this answer was then sufficient to make you easy, is, you have
since confided in her, and for your own account; but now Prevan gives
you umbrage, that your head is turned, I doubt much you’ll not take my
word: you must, then, be edified.
First, this girl is my foster-sister; this tie, which appears nothing
to us, has a great influence with people of her condition: moreover, I
am in possession of her secrets; she is the victim of a love intrigue,
and would have been ruined if I had not saved her. Her parents, armed
at all points with sentiments of honour, wanted to have her shut
up: they applied to me about it; I instantly saw how useful their
resentment might be to me, and seconded their intentions; solicited the
order from court, which I obtained; then suddenly, preferring clemency,
brought her parents round, employing my credit with the old minister of
state, and prevailed on them to depute me the trustee in this business,
to stop or demand the execution of it, according as I should think the
behaviour of the girl would deserve. She knows, then, her fate rests
in my hands; and if, which is impossible, those powerful motives would
not prevent, is it not evident, that her conduct being laid open, and
her punishment authenticated, it would soon wipe away all credit to her
tale?
Add to all these precautions, which I call fundamental ones, a thousand
others, either local or eventual, that reflection and habitude would
produce, if needful, the detail of which would be too minute, but the
practice very important, and which you must take the trouble to collect
in the whole of my conduct, if you want to arrive at the knowledge of
them.
But to pretend that I, who have taken so much pains, should not receive
any benefit, after having raised myself so much above other women by my
assiduous labours;—that I should consent to creep, like them, between
imprudence and timidity; but, above all, I should dread a man so far as
to find my salvation only in flight. No, Viscount; I must conquer or
perish. As to Prevan, I must and will have him. He will tell, you say:
but he shall not tell. This, in a few words, is our romance.
_Sept._ 20, 17—.
[1] Hereafter will be seen, in the 152d Letter, not Mr. de Valmont’s
secret, but pretty nearly of what kind it was; and the reader will
perceive, that we could throw no more light on that subject.