Adieu, once more, my dearest love!
Aug. 25, 17—. _____
LETTER XXXII.
MADAME DE VOLANGES to the Presidente DE TOURVEL. _____
You wish then, Madam, that I should form a good opinion of the virtue of Monsieur de Valmont?
I own I cannot bring myself to it; and that I should have as much difficulty to think so from the simple fact you relate, as to believe a man of acknowledged worth to be vicious for the commission of one fault.
Human nature is not perfect in any shape, neither in good nor evil.
The profligate wretch has his virtues as well as the virtuous man his weaknesses.
This truth is so much the more necessary to be believed, because, from thence arises the necessity of indulgence for the wicked as well as the good; and that it preserves these from pride, and those from being discouraged.
You will, without doubt, think that I don't now practise the doctrine I speak; but it appears to me a most dangerous weakness, to put the man of virtue and the profligate on an equality.
I will not take upon me to scrutinize the motives of Mr. Valmont's action; I'll even think it in itself laudable; but nevertheless, has he not, all his life, been employed in spreading trouble, dishonour, and scandal in families?
Listen, if you will, to the voice of the unhappy people he has relieved: but let not that prevent you from attending to the cries of a hundred victims that he has sacrificed.
If, as you say, he was only one example of the danger of connections, would he be the less a dangerous connection?
You suppose him capable of a happy reformation: let us go farther, suppose this miracle completed; would not the public opinion be still against him, and ought not that to be sufficient to regulate your conduct?
God alone can absolve at the moment of repentance; he is the searcher of hearts; but men can judge only by actions; and no one, after having lost the esteem of the world, has a right to complain of diffidence, which makes this loss so difficult to be repaired.
I would have you think above all, my dear young friend, that to lose this esteem, it is sometimes enough to seem to set little value upon it, and do not tax this severity with injustice; for as the world has a right to think that no one renounces this precious jewel, who has good pretensions to it, whoever is not restrained by this consideration, is on the brink of danger.
Such, however, would be the aspect, an intimate connection with Mr. de Valmont would carry with it, were it ever so innocent.
Alarmed with the warmth with which you defend him, I hasten to anticipate the objections I foresee you'll make.
You'll quote Madame de Merteuil, whose connection with him has escaped censure; you'll perhaps ask me why I admit him to my house?
You will tell me, that far from being rejected by the worthy part of society, he is admitted, even sought for, by what is called good company: I can, I believe, answer to all.
Madame de Merteuil, who is really a very valuable woman, has, perhaps, no other defect but that of too much confidence in her own strength; she is a dexterous guide, who delights in driving her chariot between rocks and precipices, in which her success alone justifies her: it is right to praise her, but it would be imprudent to follow her; she herself is convinced, and condemns herself for it, and as she grows in experience, her conduct is more reserved; and I can confidently assure you, we are both of the same opinion.
As to what relates to myself, I will not excuse it more than in others; I admit Mr. de Valmont: without doubt he is received every where; that is an inconsequence to be added to the many others that govern society.
You know as well as me, that we spend our lives in remarking, complaining, and giving ourselves up to them.
Mr. de Valmont, with a pompous title, a great fortune, many amiable qualities, saw early, that to gain an ascendant in society, it was sufficient to know how to manage with equal address, praise, and ridicule.
No one, like him, possesses this double talent; with the one he seduces, with the other he makes himself dreaded: he is not esteemed, but flattered.
Such is his existence in the midst of a world, that, more prudent than bold, would rather keep on good terms with him than combat him.
But neither Madame de Merteuil nor any other woman would venture to shut herself up in the country, almost tete-a-tete, with such a man.
It was reserved for the most discreet, and the most virtuous among them, to set an example of such an inconsequence; pardon the expression, it slipped from me through friendship.
My charming friend, even your virtue betrays you, by the security it inspires you with.
Think, then, on the one hand, that you will have for judges frivolous people, who will not believe in a virtue, the model of which they cannot find among themselves; and on the other, profligates, who will feign not to believe in it to punish you.
Consider you are now doing what many men would be afraid to risk; for among the young men of fashion, to whom Mr. de Valmont is now become the oracle, the most prudent seem to dread appearing too intimately connected with him; and you are under no apprehensions; ah, return, I conjure you!
If my reasons are not sufficient to persuade you, at least give way to my friendship; it is it that makes me renew my instances, it is it must justify them.
You will think it severe, and I wish it may be useless; but I would much rather you should have reason to complain of its solicitude, than its negligence.
Aug. 24, 17—. _____
LETTER XXXIII.
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.