Pages

Saturday 14 September 2024

Is Dangerous Liaisons a cynical book?

Under my previous blog post about Dangerous Liaisons (or Les Liaisons dangereuses), Michael wrote: 

“I feel odd commenting because I’ve never read the book. But I think I still need some convincing that this is a book I would enjoy.

It sounds extraordinarily well written, but didn’t you find the ugliness and corruption of the characters off-putting? I recall, in reading Madame Bovary, feeling like the novel was extremely well-written and a deeply insightful picture of people whom I didn’t like and didn’t want to know (and maybe I’m wrong, but I felt Flaubert felt the same way.) Corrupt or ugly people can be fun to read about of course, but I find I don’t love books where they are the prime focus. There’s a novel by Trollope called The Eustace Diamonds that suffers from this problem; the main character is more or less a sociopath, and I find Thai [sic] tire of her company. Vanity Fair is a counter example, I suppose, but then Becky Sharp is just one character, and there are some other redeeming central characters in that novel that balance her out. Perhaps I’m just an unsophisticated and puritanical American, I don’t know. But Does [sic] Laclos have any redeeming central characters? I guess I just need some convincing that I’d enjoy it.” 

Interesting question, so I thought I’d answer in a blog post. 

To put it simply: is Dangerous Liaisons a cynical book that just focuses on people’s ugliness and corruption? 

I’d say no. 

Firstly, Dangerous Liaisons is not a celebration of cynicism and corruption. The sex games, the manipulation, the way Merteuil and Valmont play with others’ feelings bring misery to everyone involved, including themselves.

Secondly, Choderlos de Laclos dissects the cruelty and depravity of these two characters, but doesn’t depict these traits as universal or common traits of humanity—Merteuil is seen as exceptionally evil; she is, in the end, condemned and shunned by society. 

Contrast that with Balzac’s vision of life in Eugénie Grandet: “She has the noblest qualities of sorrow, the saintliness of one who has never soiled her soul by contact with the world…” (translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley). In Eugénie Grandet, the world is corrupt; everyone is materialistic, selfish, scheming, dishonest; the father has no humanity; the only good people are Eugénie Grandet, her mother, and Nana, who do not understand society and its lies and deceit, who are not soiled “by contact with the world.” 

That is not the vision of life in Dangerous Liaisons: Cécile de Volanges, her mother Madame de Volanges, Madame de Tourvel, Madame de Rosemonde (Valmont’s aunt) are good people; Danceny is also arguably good-natured, though his infidelity to Cécile is disappointing. 

Thirdly, evil doesn’t triumph. It corrupts, it destroys, but it doesn’t win in the end. Think about King Lear: evil destroys many things in its wake and kills Cordelia (and arguably Lear), but the evil characters of the play—Cornwall, Oswald, Goneril, Regan, Edmund—are all defeated. It is similar with Dangerous Liaisons

Choderlos de Laclos depicts two characters who like pulling the strings and manipulating other people and having power over them, but they gradually realise that many things are beyond their control. Despite their cleverness, despite their manipulation, despite their understanding of psychology, Merteuil cannot control Valmont, Valmont cannot control his own feelings for Tourvel, Merteuil cannot triumph over Cécile. Their little games are all futile. 

Contrast Laclos’s vision of life in Dangerous Liaisons and the vision of life in Naomi: Tanizaki’s book is a picture of perversity, control, and baseness; the manipulative character triumphs in the end; Naomi left a bad taste in my mouth. That is not the case for Dangerous Liaisons

Most importantly, Dangerous Liaisons is a masterpiece. Choderlos de Laclos’s psychological insight and talent for characterisation are astonishing. Even if it doesn’t end up as one of your favourite novels (which after all is personal), it is very much worth reading. 

17 comments:

  1. Very well argued! You’ve convinced me to try it. King Lear is an interesting example, except that we don’t focus wholly on the evil characters, even if we can temporarily feel intrigued by the clever deceptions of, say, Edmund. There is a miraculous symmetry and balance that allows one to absorb the horror and evil, but feel ultimately uplifted despite it all. But, it’s Shakespeare. Finding perfect symmetry and balance in his works is about as surprising as finding it in Mozart.

    I do wonder if my view of the novel is too much influenced by the 1988 film, which I quite like — but which always leaves me feeling slightly sullied. In the film I felt that we were being invited, a bit too much, to revel in the cynicism and immorality of the characters. Sounds like perhaps Laclos judges his characters more harshly than one gets a sense of in the film?

    Anyway, you’ve made me interested in trying it, so thank you.

    ReplyDelete
  2. As you know, I think that Madame Merteuil's getting smallpox and losing her looks is a contrived ending put there to pacify censors. It does not follow from the rest of the plot in any way. It is wholly arbitrary.

    I think that Laclos is saying that love is a form of war, and that the book is not so much cynical as nihilistic.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Coming in here a bit late: one interesting possibility is that Merteuil's smallpox is made up by her as a tactical ploy to facilitate her getaway after losing her reputation and her lawsuit. What better way to make sure people give her a wide berth? Note that Laclos makes sure we know that Mme. de Volanges, from whom we get the information about Merteuil's illness and disfigurement, hasn't actually seen her. (Also, Volanges is chronically clueless.) But I still don't see the book as nihilistic.

      Delete
    2. Hahahahaha "chronically clueless".

      Delete
  3. Coleman,
    Thanks for your comment, though I didn't say a single word about the smallpox. That may or may not be "a contrived ending put there to pacify censors", depending on how you see it, but the more important point is that she is defeated and proven wrong, as I have argued above.
    I strongly disagree with the idea that "Laclos is saying that love is a form of war." That is the thinking of Merteuil and Valmont, and it's precisely because they think of love that way and act accordingly that they are defeated. Look at Tourvel. Look at Cécile. Look at Danceny, who in the end, when he has to choose, chooses Cécile. Love is not a form of war.
    The book is not at all nihilistic.

    Michael,
    There is no doubt that Merteuil and Valmont are charming and fascinating, but I don't think the book invites us to revel in their cynicism and immorality as such. I'm both fascinated and repulsed by them.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks. Again, you have my interest.

      Am I correct in my hypothesis that the film has a very different, and perhaps more cynical, tone than the book? Yes, the evil characters are punished, but we as viewers are invited to enjoy their deception and corruption a bit too much for my taste. Again, it may be just a subtle question of tone or valence.

      Delete
    2. Maybe? It was years ago when I saw the film though.

      Delete
  4. Deeply cynical is my vote. But I disagree about Lear as well. Endings are often ironic.

    I recommend a return, in search of irony, to the Publisher's Note and the Editor's Preface, apparently written by John Ray, Jr., Ph.D. (Lolita reference for those who don't know). I think you are giving way (way way, way way way) too much credit to "society." There is a reason readers soon saw the novel as prophetic.

    Balzac, despite his deep interest in furniture, is actually the Swedenborgian mystic in this comparison, while Laclos is the Enlightenment materialist.

    ReplyDelete
  5. I have to disagree with Amateur Reader. Laclos is not really a materialist, and the irony of the novel is (as is often the case, cf. Flaubert) an inverted idealism. I think the contending prefaces suggest this, as does the novel's very negative view of Cécile's mother, with her plans for pushing into an arranged marriage a daughter she is culpable for having kept in ignorance. Laclos is being didactic here about what a mother-daughter relationship should be, not gleefully subversive of parental authority. From what we know of Laclos' life, he seems to have been a model bourgeois husband, even if his marriage did begin (so it's said) with an unauthorized courtship like Danceny's. But setting that aside, we shouldn't downplay the role of Mme de Rosemonde, whose compassionate perspective in my opinion is not subjected to destructive irony and indeed is probably close to the author's own.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yes, Laclos fathered a child out of wedlock but after that he married the mother, had two more kids with her, and was a faithful husband and devoted father his entire life. He actually planned to write a second novel demonstrating that "there is no happiness except in family life," but never got around to it. (Tbh, it probably would have been boring!)

      The preface, I think, is ironic, and the novel isn't preachy. But it does suggest that the ideas and lifestyle espoused by Valmont and Merteuil ultimately bring misery to them as well as others. Valmont's "Ah, believe me, only love makes one happy!" in his last letter to Danceny is a key line (granted there remains some ambiguity because it *could* be strategic to push Danceny to choose Cécile over Merteuil, but it has a very sincere feel). Interestingly, this may not even be a completely new idea for him: in Letter 6, defending to Merteuil his infatuation with Tourvel, he writes, "Let us be frank: in our affairs, as cold as they are easy, what we call happiness is hardly even pleasure. Shall I tell you? I thought my heart was withered, and with nothing left but the senses, I lamented a premature old age. Mme. de Tourvel has given back to me the charming illusions of youth."

      Merteuil seems much more hardcore in her rejection of love ... until, in Letter 131, she composes a mini-essay on how sex invariably leads to revulsion unless there is love.

      Also, I think you can argue that Valmont and Tourvel share a brief time of genuine happiness found in love--or, at least, it's entirely genuine for Tourvel, because Valmont always remains conflicted. Tourvel's transcendent love is also affirmed when, learning about Valmont's death shortly before her own (and even unaware of Valmont's repentance), she prays to God to forgive him.

      Lastly: a couple of years ago I read a Liaisons adaptation by Russian writer/poet Leonid Filatov called "Dangerous, Dangerous, Very Dangerous," a verse play which is somewhere between parody and satire. In that version, Valmont briefly believes he's in love with Tourvel but then loses interest basically as soon as he's had sex with her. Now *that's* nihilistic. The difference is very striking and palpable.

      Oh, and lastly, I don't necessarily agree that Mme. de Rosemonde's perspective is not subjected to irony. I think she has more shades of gray than is commonly believed (there's a fascinating 2003 essay on the subject which argues that she more or less knowingly facilitates Valmont's seduction of Tourvel). She's also quite cynical about men and is a total adherent of the sexual double standard -- she's willing to condone Valmont's libertinism, but regards women who enjoy sex without love as incredibly depraved. I don't think that was Laclos's view.

      Delete
    2. Oh yes, I agree. If Valmont lost interest in Tourvel the moment he's had sex with her, that would be nihilistic. But that's not the case in Laclos's novel.
      There are certain books that left a bad taste in my mouth after I read them, like Naomi or Joyce Carol Oates, but Dangerous Liaisons isn't one of them. It doesn't make me think humanity is so base and vile and disgusting.

      Delete
    3. I've seen arguments in scholarly literature that Valmont doesn't love Tourvel and that everything he writes to Merteuil about his feelings for her is calculated to make Tourvel a valuable bargaining chip in his game with Merteuil. But I just don't see anything to support that (and it would make Valmont a completely different character than most of the book shows him to be).

      I think you *could* put a very cynical spin on his feelings for Tourvel -- e.g. that the intensity of her adoration and devotion feed his narcissism in a way he can't resist. But the way both he and Tourvel describe their relationship feels like something more. And I'm always struck by his line to Danceny in the last letter where he says "I would give half my life for the happiness of devoting the other half to her." Which is very darkly ironic considering that he has about two days of life left at that point, but even so, it's a line that seems to indicate that he is finally transcending his habitual narcissism. (And again, the explanation that he's just saying it to nudge Danceny to choose "true love" over his fling with Merteuil just doesn't seem convincing.)

      Delete
  6. "Inverted idealism" is a good phrase. It seems to me it is often a complement to direct cynicism.

    ReplyDelete
  7. I definitely read it more as a comment that, however dark human nature can be, there are other options besides just accepting it. The depravity inevitably comes back to haunt those who engage in it, where a true Machiavellian take would, if not outright celebrate it, at least not emphasize its downsides to such an extent. Also agree with your point about the good-natured, if sometimes flawed, characters. His ability to depict human nature is truly impressive, I haven't read it in about 15 years and it still stuck with me.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yeah.
      I'm reading Pamela right now and need to resist making comparisons haha.

      Delete
  8. I more or less agree with you, Di. My feeling is the novel is beautifully poised between cynicism and idealism. Laclos reserves his strongest acid for the cynical approach to love and sex that Valmont and Merteuil try, and ultimately fail, to keep up; in that sense, the book is cynical about cynicism, and therefore not cynical at all. Few characters in literature can have made a better fist of being callous monsters immune to tender feeling, but not even they can manage it, suggesting not that humanity is depraved, but rather the opposite: that total depravity is impossible for human beings.

    On the other hand, the more idealistic characters are not on the whole rewarded for it, & soon disabused. Danceny finds that his innocent Cecile has been sullied, Tourvel is dumped by Valmont & can never be certain how real his love for her was, Cecile's dreams of love and marriage are shattered. Nobody, above all, succeeds in being the person they set out to be.

    If it is cynical about one thing, I suppose Liaisons is cynical - perhaps sceptical is a better word - about the stories we tell ourselves about who we are, and shows how fragile those stories become when we mix with the rest of the species. But that is not the same as being cynical about human beings all in all. It is just showing an intelligent curiosity about human beings as social animals. Depicting human beings as social animals whose actions affect each other, as opposed to self-created demigods who can impose their personae on the world, is to depict humans as limited, certainly, but hardly as irredeemable.

    At least, that's how it strikes me.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. You just had to write "sullied", didn't you?
      Now that is a very well-written, well-thought out comment, I think I'm just gonna stop blogging.

      Delete

Be not afraid, gentle readers! Share your thoughts!
(Make sure to save your text before hitting publish, in case your comment gets buried in the attic, never to be seen again).