O thou my friend! The prosperity of Crime is like unto the lightning, whose traitorous¹ brilliancies embellish² the atmosphere but for an instant, in order to hurl³ into death's very depths the luckless one they have dazzled.

 

Yes, Constance, it is to thee I address this work; at once the example and honor of thy sex, with a spirit of profoundest sensibility combining the most judicious⁴ and the most enlightened of minds, thou art she to whom I confide⁵ my book, which will acquaint thee with the sweetness of the tears Virtue⁶ sore beset⁷ doth shed and doth cause to flow. Detesting⁸ the sophistries⁹ of libertinage¹⁰ and of irreligion, in word and deed combating them unwearingly, I fear not that those necessitated¹¹ by the order of personages appearing in these Memoirs¹² will put thee in any peril¹³; the cynicism remarkable¹⁴ in certain portraits (they were softened¹⁵ as much as ever they could be) is no more apt to frighten thee; for it is only Vice¹⁶ that trembles when Vice is found out, and cries scandal immediately it is attacked. To bigots Tartuffe was indebted for his ordeal¹⁷; Justine's will be the achievement of libertines¹⁹, and little do I dread²⁰ them: they'll not betray my intentions, these thou shalt perceive; thy opinion is sufficient to make my whole glory and after having pleased thee I must either please universally or find consolation²¹ in a general censure²².

 

The scheme of this novel (yet, 'tis less a novel than one might suppose) is doubtless new; the victory gained by Virtue over Vice, the rewarding of good, the punishment of evil, such is the usual scheme in every other work of this species: ah! the lesson cannot be too often dinned²³ in our ears!

 

But throughout to present Vice triumphant²⁴ and Virtue a victim of its sacrifices, to exhibit a wretched creature wandering from one misery²⁵ to the next; the toy of villainy; the target of every debauch²⁶; exposed to the most barbarous, the most monstrous²⁷ caprices; driven witless by the most brazen²⁸, the most specious²⁹ sophistries; prey³⁰ to the most cunning seductions, the most irresistible³¹ subornations for defense³² against so many disappointments, so much bane and pestilence³³, to repulse³⁴ such a quantity of corruption³⁵ having nothing but a sensitive soul, a mind naturally formed, and considerable courage: briefly³⁶, to employ the boldest scenes, the most extraordinary situations, the most dreadful maxims³⁷, the most energetic brush strokes, with the sole object of obtaining from all this one of the sublimest³⁹ parables⁴⁰ ever penned for human edification; now, such were, 'twill be allowed, to seek to reach one's destination by a road not much traveled heretofore.

 

Have I succeeded, Constance? Will a tear in thy eye determine my triumph? After having read Justine, wilt⁴¹ say: "Oh, how these renderings⁴² of crime make me proud of my love for Virtue! How sublime³⁸ does it appear through tears! How 'tis embellished⁴³ by misfortunes !"

 

Oh, Constance! may these words but escape thy lips, and my labors⁴⁴ shall be crowned.

 

The very masterpiece of philosophy would be to develop the means Providence⁴⁵ employs to arrive at the ends she designs for man, and from this construction to deduce some rules of conduct acquainting this wretched two-footed individual with the manner wherein he must proceed along life's thorny⁴⁶ way, forewarned of the strange caprices of that fatality⁴⁷ they denominate by twenty different titles, and all unavailingly, for it has not yet been scanned nor defined.

 

If, though full of respect for social conventions and never overstepping the bounds they draw round us, if, nonetheless, it should come to pass that we meet with nothing but brambles and briars, while the wicked tread upon flowers, will it not be reckoned - save by those in whom a fund of incoercible virtues⁴⁸ renders deaf to these remarks-, will it not be decided⁴⁹ that it is preferable to abandon oneself to the tide rather than to resist it? Will it not be felt that Virtue, however beautiful, becomes the worst of all attitudes when it is found too feeble to contend with Vice, and that, in an entirely⁵⁰ corrupted⁵¹ age, the safest course is to follow along after the others? Somewhat better informed, if one wishes, and abusing the knowledge they have acquired, will they not say, as did the angel Jesrad in `Zadig', that there is no evil whereof some good is not born? and will they not declare, that this being the case, they can give themselves over to evil since, indeed, it is but one of the fashions of producing good? Will they not add, that it makes no difference to the general plan whether such-and-such a one is by preference good or bad, that if misery persecutes⁵² virtue and prosperity accompanies crime, those things being as one in Nature's view, far better to join company with the wicked who flourish, than to be counted amongst the virtuous⁵³ who founder⁵⁴? Hence, it is important to anticipate those dangerous sophistries of a false philosophy; it is essential to show that through examples of afflicted⁵⁵ virtue presented to a depraved spirit in which, however, there remain a few good principles, it is essential, I say,- to show that spirit quite as surely restored to righteousness by these means as by portraying⁵⁶ this virtuous career ornate with the most glittering honors and the most flattering rewards. Doubtless it is cruel to have to describe, on the one hand, a host of ills overwhelming a sweet-tempered and sensitive woman who, as best she is able, respects virtue, and, on the other, the affluence⁵⁷ of prosperity of those who crush and mortify⁵⁸ this same woman. But were there nevertheless some good engendered⁵⁹ of the demonstration⁶⁰, would one have to repent⁶¹ of making it? Ought one be sorry for having established a fact whence there resulted, for the wise man who reads to some purpose, so useful a lesson of submission⁶² to providential decrees and the fateful warning that it is often to recall us to our duties that Heaven strikes down beside us the person who seems to us best to have fulfilled his own ?#p#分页标题#e#

 

Such are the sentiments which are going to direct our labors, and it is in consideration of these intentions that we ask the reader's indulgence for the erroneous doctrines⁶³ which are to be placed in the mouths of our characters, and for the sometimes rather painful situations which, out of love for truth, we have been obliged to dress before his eyes.

 

Madame la Comtesse de Lorsange was one of those priestesses of Venus whose fortune is the product of a pretty face and much misconduct, and whose titles, pompous⁶⁴ though they are, are not to be found but in the archives of Cythera, forged by the impertinence that seeks, and sustained by the fool's credulity that bestows⁶⁵, them; brunette, a fine figure, eyes of a singular expression, that modish⁶⁶ unbelief which, contributing one further spice to the passions, causes those women in whom it is suspected to be sought after that much more diligently⁶⁷; a trifle wicked, unfurnished with any principle, allowing evil to exist in nothing, lacking however that amount of depravation in the heart to have extinguished its sensibility; haughty⁶⁸, libertine¹⁸; such was Madame de Lorsange.

 

Nevertheless, this woman had received the best education; daughter of a very rich Parisian banker, she had been brought up, together with a sister named Justine, by three years younger than she, in one of the capital's most celebrated⁶⁹ abbeys where, until the ages of twelve and fifteen years, the one and the other of the two sisters had been denied no counsels, no masters, no books, and no polite talents.

 

At this period crucial to the virtue of the two maidens⁷⁰, they were in one day made bereft⁷¹ of everything: a frightful⁷² bankruptcy⁷³ precipitated⁷⁴ their father into circumstances so cruel that he perished of grief. One month later, his wife followed him into the grave. Two distant and heartless relatives deliberated what should be done with the young orphans⁷⁵; a hundred crowns apiece was their share of a legacy⁷⁶ mostly swallowed up by creditors⁷⁷. No one caring to be burdened with them, the convent's door was opened, their dowry was put into their hands, and they were left at liberty to become what they wished.

 

Madame de Lorsange, at the time called Juliette, whose mind and character were to all intents and purposes as completely formed then as at thirty, the age she had attained⁷⁸ at the opening of the tale we are about to relate, seemed nothing but overjoyed to be put at large; she gave not a moment's thought to the cruel events which had broken her chains. As for Justine, aged⁷⁹ as we have remarked, twelve, hers was of a pensive⁸⁰ and melancholy⁸¹ character, which made her far more keenly appreciate all the horrors of her situation. Full of tenderness, endowed with a surprising sensibility instead of with her sister's art and finesse⁸², she was ruled by an ingenuousness⁸³, a candor⁸⁴ that were to cause her to tumble into not a few pitfalls⁸⁵. To so many qualities this girl joined a sweet countenance⁸⁶, absolutely unlike that with which Nature had embellished Juliette; for all the artifice⁸⁷, wiles⁸⁸, coquetry one noticed in the features of the one, there were proportionate amounts of modesty⁸⁹, decency⁹⁰, and timidity to be admired in the other; a virginal air, large blue eyes very soulful and appealing, a dazzling fair skin, a supple⁹¹ and resilient body, a touching⁹² voice, teeth of ivory and the loveliest blond hair, there you have a sketch⁹³ of this charming creature whose naive⁹⁴ graces and delicate traits are beyond our power to describe.

 

They were given twenty-four hours to leave the convent; into their hands, together with their five score crowns, was thrown the responsibility to provide for themselves as they saw fit. Delighted to be her own mistress, Juliette spent a minute, perhaps two, wiping away Justine's tears, then, observing it was in vain, she fell to scolding instead of comforting her; she rebuked⁹⁵ Justine for her sensitiveness; she told her, with a philosophic⁹⁶ acuity⁹⁷ far beyond her years, that in this world one must not be afflicted save by what affects one personally; that it was possible to find in oneself physical sensations of a sufficiently⁹⁸ voluptuous⁹⁹ piquancy¹⁰⁰ to extinguish all the moral affections whose shock could be painful; that it was all the more essential so to proceed, since true wisdom consists infinitely¹⁰¹ more in doubling the sum of one's pleasures than in increasing the sum of one's pains; that, in a word, there was nothing one ought not do in order to deaden in oneself that perfidious¹⁰² sensibility from which none but others profit while to us it brings naught¹⁰³ but troubles. But it is difficult to harden a gentle good heart, it resists the arguments of a toughened bad mind, and its solemn satisfactions console it for the loss of the bel-esprit's false splendors¹⁰⁴.

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