The 18th century French novel Les Liaisons dangereuses, by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, examines the twin passions -- seduction and destruction -- of two former lovers, the Vicomte de Valmont and the Marquise de Merteuil.
Here is a reasonably close photographic depiction of their relationship:
My friend Jehanne recommended the book, describing it as a lengthy collection of letters written in old-timey French -- not a very tempting endorsement, I admit. But, nothing ventured, nothing gained -- and fortunately for my attention span, I was hooked from the first page, a “Warning to Readers”:
« Nous croyons devoir prévenir le Public que, malgré le titre de cet
Ouvrage, et ce que dit le Rédacteur dans sa Préface, nous ne
garantissons pas l’authenticité de ce Recueil, et que nous avons même
de fortes raisons de penser que ce n’est qu’un Roman. »
{We find it our duty to warn the Public that, in spite of the title of this
Work, and what is written by the Editor in his Preface, we cannot
guarantee the authenticity of this Collection and even have strong
reasons to believe that this is nothing more than a Novel.}
Has any other author so embraced the artifice of his craft? I was tickled. Laclos continually returns to this tension, such as when the “Editor” explains why a lost letter is missing from the sequence, or informs us that other letters were excluded because they were tedious and did not advance the story. In the instance I like most, the Marquise de Merteuil scolds the Vicomte de Valmont for confounding love and fidelity:
« Celui qui s’en abstinent [des infidélités] aujourd’hui passe pour
romanesque ; et ce n’est pas là, je crois, le défaut que je vous
reproche. »
{In our time, he who abstains [from infidelity] passes for a romantic;
and that, I believe, is not the fault I reproach in you.}
In French, the twist is that the word romanesque (“romantic”) comes from the French roman (“novel”) and can also be translated as “fictional.” In other words, the Marquise de Merteuil is taking care not to accuse Valmont of being a character in a novel.
But these types of winks to the reader do not unduly interrupt the flow of the narrative, which is so engrossing that one tends to keep the book close at hand until it’s finished. Valmont and the Marquise de Merteuil engineer downfalls, humiliations, and disgraces with casual delectation. They prey upon the innocent, the virtuous, and the merely convenient. Their adventures are contemptible, but also titillating -- any rising sentiment of moral outrage is quashed by the fact that book is so much fun.
The central action of the novel revolves around Valmont and the Marquise’s plan to revenge themselves upon two ex-lovers by corrupting the virginal daughter of a certain Madame de Volanges. The plot is thick and thickens, and Laclos skillfully weaves together the letters so that the narrative seems oddly natural. I admit to never having read another epistolary novel, but this time, at least, the trope worked.
In their machinations regarding the young Mademoiselle de Volanges, Valmont and the Marquise would not be content with a mere deflowering. Valmont, her corrupter, goes so far as to use “only the technical term” for certain love acts, with the goal of providing a nasty surprise for her fiancé on his wedding night. Valmont and the Marquise possess a perfect cynicism: take this gem from the Marquise de Merteuil:
« Ne souvient-il plus que l’amour est, comme la médicine, seulement l’art
d’aider la Nature ? »
{Is it not often said that love, like medicine, is only the art of helping
Nature?}
And yet the Marquise and Valmont both refer continually to their “principles”: together, they have created an ethical code that is as coherent as it is straight out of Bizarre-o World. Their cruel and sadistic Weltanschauung, which justifies all manner of horrors, is opposed by that of the “virtuous” class of characters -- the elderly Madame de Rosemonde, Madame de Volanges, and the benighted Présidente de Tourvel, the final victim of Valmont’s passions. These characters hold equally dear the values of fidelity, benevolence, and belief in God -- yet this seems no more than a helpless attempt at rebuttal to the depravity of Valmont and the Marquise. As for Laclos, we don’t know which side he favors. His work is a masterpiece of the philosophy of the Marquise and Valmont -- has it endured because it reveals not an essential noble truth, but rather an essential vileness in the human spirit? This would certainly put a damper on what was otherwise a lively read.
In the end, Laclos chooses to punish the sins of the guilty, but also the innocents caught up in their sinister maneuverings. As the French would say, il a coupé la poire en deux (“he split it down the middle”). I found it disappointing -- was he unwilling to judge his characters too harshly because they would be his posterity? Or was he really as conservative as Madame de Volanges, whose final letters bemoan the mortal risk of a "single dangerous liaison"? I tend to think it’s the former -- a prodigal son is, after all, still a son.
-- Sarah Dalglish
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