Textual Promiscuities: Eighteenth-Century Critical Rewriting

Textual Promiscuities: Eighteenth-Century Critical Writing

Antoinette Marie Sol

Associated University Presses

Textual Promiscuities

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Textual Promiscuities Eighteenth-Century Critical Rewriting

Antoinette Marie Sol

Lewisburg Bucknell University Press London: Associated University Presses

䉷 2002 by Rosemont Publishing & Printing Corp. All rights reserved. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use, or the internal or personal use of specific clients, is granted by the copyright owner, provided that a base fee of $10.00, plus eight cents per page, per copy is paid directly to the Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, Massachusetts 01923. [0-8387-5500-3/02 $10.00 Ⳮ 8¢ pp, pc.]

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Sol, Antoinette Marie. Textual promiscuities : eighteenth-century critical rewriting / Antoinette Marie Sol. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-8387-5500-3 (alk. paper) 1. Laclos, Choderlos de, 1741–1803. Liaisons dangereuses. 2. Riccoboni, Marie Jeanne de Heurles Laboras de Maˆzia´res, 1713–1792—Influence. 3. Burney, Fanny, 1752–1840—Influence. I. Title. PQ1993.L22 L69 2002 843'.6—dc21 2001035893

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Contents Preface Acknowledgments 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

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Critical Rewriting From Nature to Life Moral Authority and Textual Indiscretions Subversions of Meaning Conclusion: Genre, Gender, and Intertexts

Notes Bibliography Index

17 51 110 159 191 205 222 239

5

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Preface THIS STUDY

LOOKS AT THE CENTRAL PLACE OF THE EIGHTEENTH-

century woman’s novel in the development of the genre through an examination of the cross-cultural/cross-gender movement of ideas carried out in the rewriting and reworking of texts by novelists both English and French of this period. Choderlos de Laclos’s Les Liaisons dangereuses is the focal point in this attempt to integrate two important woman writers of the eighteenth century, Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni and Frances Burney, into the well documented but gender-limited critical studies of this celebrated novel. The connections between these three writers illustrate the ‘‘promiscuous’’ nature of textual relations in this period as a whole. Setting aside its more modern pejorative and titillating connotations for the moment, the word ‘‘promiscuity’’ comes from the Latin ‘‘promiscuus,’’ from pro and miscere, meaning to mix. The semantic field of the adjective ‘‘promiscuous’’ ranges from 1) a combination of diverse elements, 2) rarely of a single thing, 3) done or applied without respect for kind, to 4), in its rarer acceptation, as being of a common gender, meaning neither male nor female.1 This mixing, combining without hierarchy or order, this transgendering, aptly describes the multiple nature of relations between genders, genres, authors, and cultures in this study. Male writers and the masculine tradition of the novel always furnish the points of comparison for Les Liaisons dangereuses despite Laclos’s own statements concerning the importance of women’s novels in the formation of his own aesthetic. The military officer and ‘‘libertine’’ novelist has shown both obliquely and openly in his critical writing and correspondence the important place that ‘‘sentimental’’ authors such as Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni (French) and Frances Burney (English) occupied in the formation of his aesthetic, in particular. Yet in traditional scholarship Laclos’s reading of these women authors is excused either as an aberrant lapse in taste and dismissed as such or ignored altogether. The promiscuity of Laclos’s taste in literature has been difficult to explain and critics 7

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PREFACE

have been hard-pressed to account for his frank appreciation of novels written by women. I argue that, to the contrary, in lieu of dismissing them, one must look to women writers and their particular gendered narrative traditions in order to understand the full import of Les Liaisons dangereuses. Until recently literary scholarship almost entirely neglected eighteenth-century women novelists. French women writers from this period are beginning to come into their own due in large part to pioneering studies by critics such as Nancy K. Miller, Joan DeJean, and Joan Hinde Stewart, to name a few. The growing number of studies of English woman novelists are important and much needed, but one is left with the impression of separate gendered and national literary traditions: English and French, male and female. They are, however, closely intertwined. Although particularized studies are a necessary step on the way to legitimization, it is now time to begin to integrate the two traditions. Laclos’s beautifully constructed novel, written in elegant, classic prose, is considered a chef d’oeuvre. Critics view this unique work as not only the culmination of the epistolary novel as a genre, but see Les Liaisons dangereuses as a masterpiece of social criticism that heralds the end of an age. Of course, the ultimate target of this social criticism is not always very clear. Is it Libertinism? Is it the wave of Sentimentalism so popular at the time? Is it a condemnation of class divides? This singular novel seems to escape any attempt at the imposition of a unified meaning. One thing critics have agreed upon, however, is the fact that Laclos is an intertextual writer who draws heavily on particular (male) novelists such as ´billon fils, Richardson, and Rousseau as well as on general roCre manesque conventions to create his masterpiece. These novelists are known and appreciated for their ‘‘feminine’’ qualities: the subtle natural style of their writing, the fine psychological analysis, their exploration of manners, and the like. One cannot help wonder why only the masculine appropriation of the feminine is considered worthy of study if these ‘‘feminine’’ traditions of narrative (recognized as such in the eighteenth century as well as today) are integral to these writers’ aesthetic. The three writers in question in this study, Laclos, Riccoboni, and Burney, all stage through their textual reworking of traditional material, often through typically ‘‘feminine’’ narrative strategies, the confrontation of the sentimental and the libertine. They explore both the moment when the individual enters into anxious ne-

PREFACE

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gotiation with the opposing ideology and the consequences of such an encounter. Works, ideas, and authors—both male and female— are equally subject to revision under their pen. Interpreting Laclos’s novel is not an either/or proposition, it defies any binary interpretation. Although Laclos explores the gender divide as well as the ideologically opposed sentimental and libertine epistemologies, he does so in such a way as to manipulate the reader into a promiscuous identification with all sides: male, female, sentimental, and libertine. The true subject of the novel is the tragic nature of an individual’s inability to create and sustain a self-authorized identity independent of existing systems. At the same time, Laclos explores the contradictions inherent to those very systems that underpin an individual’s behavior and his or her social identity. Through Merteuil, Tourvel, and Valmont, he seduces the reader with the progressive idea of transcending societal ideological and gender boundaries (gender prescribed as well as proscribed behaviors) at the same time as he demonstrates its ultimate impossibility. To do so, Laclos calls upon the full narrative tradition: male and female. In fact, this author’s relationship with other works and novelists can be seen as a paradigm for eighteenth-century narrative practices in general. Laclos engages in the social discourse typical of the Enlightenment through a cross-gendered as well as multinational textual conversation. In chapter 1, in order to help form a more comprehensive version of literary history—male and female, English and French—I explore the central position of the eighteenth-century woman’s novel in the development of the genre. I address the significance of the cross-cultural/cross-gender movement of ideas brought about through reading and critical rewriting by novelists in this period. This reading and critical rewriting is a textual generic manifestation of a larger social phenomenon: the widespread exchange of ideas through conversation and correspondence in the eighteenth century. The novel as a genre, then, can be said to function as a textual salon for the discussion of ideas between writers. Chapter 1 also looks at how women were progressively written out of literary history. The exclusion of women’s works in Laclosian criticism is a significant omission for an author who is recognized as owing a great debt to his literary forebears. It reviews traditional literary ´billon fils, Richardson, and Rousseau were criticism’s view that Cre the primary influences on Laclos and suggests that one must look

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to women’s texts to complete the study of Les Liaisons dangereuses. This epistolary novel, as one whose very form is dialogical, engages in a textual conversation with other writers. Therefore, by discounting the importance of women’s novels in its creation, one diminishes the import of the text through a one-sided reading. Chapter 2 turns to the textual relationship between Riccoboni and Burney. It contains, through close readings of their novels, textual analyses of works by the two women which reveal subtle ideological differences. It explores Riccoboni’s position as a writer in the development of the novel of sentiment as a forum for a particular feminine ‘‘voice’’ protesting social inequities between the sexes. It shows how Riccoboni continues the female literary tradition preceding her work, while simultaneously linking with a practical application of the philosophy of moral sentiment, an important platform for women’s authority to speak. Finally, the chapter discusses her pivotal role in the formation of Frances Burney as a writer of comic fiction. Chapter 3 turns to Laclos’s reading of Riccoboni’s fiction and explores the manner in which Laclos 1) condenses various characters in Riccoboni’s novels, Lettres de Mistriss Fanni Butlerd (1757); Histoire de M. le marquis de Cressy (1758); Lettres de Mylady Ju` Mylady Henriette Campley, son amie (1759); Letliette Catesby a ` M. le comte tres d’Ade´laı¨de de Dammartin, comtesse de Sancerre, a ` Sir Charles de Nance´, son ami (1767); Lettres de Mylord Rivers a ` LonCardigan, entremeˆle´es d’une partie de ses correspondances a dres pendant son se´jour en France; 2) uses them in Les Liaisons dangereuses (1782); and 3) literally makes use of the feminine voice, plot elements, and physical space in Histoire d’Ernestine (1772) in the creation of this celebrated novel. The striking polarization of female behavior seen in Laclos’s Madame de Merteuil and Madame de Tourvel draws on those played out in Riccoboni’s works. Chapter 4 analyzes Frances Burney’s Evelina or the History of a Young Lady’s Entrance into the World (1778), Laclos’s reading of it, and the convergence of the three authors. As stated, Laclos was a reader of Riccoboni’s works directly and then, once again, indirectly by way of Burney who, as a reader of Riccoboni herself, combines the English domestic theme with the French novel of sentiment. Laclos also draws on the dark comic vision of Burney that is essential to his work and which addresses a neglected area in Laclosian studies. This chapter contains a parallel reading of

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Burney’s second novel, Cecilia or Memoirs of an Heiress (1782), with Laclos’s Les Liaisons dangereuses (1782), which were published the same year. These two novelists draw on traditional female literary conventions to produce disturbingly similar works. The overt confrontation and ultimate failure of available and socially acceptable discourses, whether materialist or sentimental, are exploited as a narrative strategy in both of these works. This analysis suggests that Laclos deliberately draws upon the ‘‘faulty’’ narrative strategy found most often in the novel written by women. He, like Burney and Riccoboni, in the very act of compliance to convention, demystifies it. Finally, in chapter 5, I conclude with a look at the reverse strategies used by Laclos and Burney evident in their language as well as their plots. The ultimate difficulty in the interpretation of the meaning of these two novels is due to the difficulties of discourse, of the individual’s position in society, and the lack of control of the individual over signification. Laclos in particular resorts to generic interplay to achieve his ends. The elements of intertextuality for these writers, as addressed in the four previous chapters, furnish the literary context and point of departure for many other writers. This chapter suggests other texts that would benefit from a crosstextual reading, such as Jane Austen’s early epistolary work Lady Susan (1795). Other forms of critical rewriting such as translations and adaptations are examined as well in the course of a discussion of the eighteenth-century practice of textual conversation. The end of this practice of critical rewriting comes to a close with the century and the rise of the appreciation of originality so important to the nineteenth century.

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Acknowledgments THIS BOOK NEVER COULD HAVE BEEN COMPLETED WITHOUT THE HELP and support of a cast of thousands. First and foremost I would like to thank Stephen Werner, Eric Gans, and Jayne E. Lewis for reading innumerable versions of this text. Stephen Werner not only believed in this project from its inception, but also lent me his precious 1787 edition of Liaisons dangereuses and generously gave me permission to reproduce the title page for inclusion in this project. Without Stephen Werner this book never would have been written. I am grateful to the UCLA Center for 17th- and 18th- Century Studies and the Williams Andrews Clark Memorial Library for their support in the form of a fellowship. The time spent at the Clark was not only invaluable to the completion of this project but I have never worked with nicer and more helpful people. I also wish to express my gratitude to the University of Texas Arlington for the Research Enhancement Grant that allowed me to take the time needed to write. The special collection and microfiche staff at the Bibliothe`que nationale de France were very helpful and special thanks go to the people at the Service de reproduction who were very patient with all those faxes and phone calls. This project would have faltered without the support of Gregory Clingham, director of Bucknell University Press and their wonderful new series on the eighteenth century. To my anonymous reader I wish to express how helpful I found your advice and how much I enjoyed your comments. My hat goes off to Christine Retz, managing editor at Associated University Presses, who made me laugh and patiently walked me through the complicated process of preparing a manuscript for publication. My fellow colleagues in the UTA Department of Foreign Languages were wonderfully pushy and this book is in large part due to their encouragement. Ruth Gross, thank you for hiring me; I love working with you. Thanks also go to the ‘‘summer crew,’’ Kim Jansma, Nicole Dufresne, Andrea Loselle, who are, I am sure, truly 13

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weary of hearing about the different stages of this book’s writing. I would like to thank Julia Dyson for her Latin expertise and Ellen Moody for her words of encouragement. I never would have made it through these past few years without the help of my dearest friends, Sarah Davies Cordova, Leakthina Ollier, and Kimberly van Noort who kept me on an even keel and made me laugh. Merci mille fois, les copes. Last but not least, I am profoundly grateful to my family. Susie, Madeleine, and Mom, you showed me what strong women are made of and what determination (or just plain stubbornness) can accomplish. Dad, if I knew where to send you a copy of this, it would already be on its way to you. To Francis, who got more than ´ bastien and Ste ´ phane he bargained for and my wonderful Se —thank you for your patience.

Textual Promiscuities

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1 Critical Rewriting CONTEXTS

IT

IS COMMONPLACE TO STATE THAT THE MAJOR MODE OF THE

eighteenth century was sociability. Contact, exchange, and dialogue structured social intercourse in this time of intense ideological investigation in which oppositional discourse flourished. The dissemination and exchange of knowledge, ideas, and information in all areas was carried out in the salons as well as through the Encyclope´die and the growing circulation of newspapers, gazettes, correspondence, and so on. The bourgeoisie made their presence felt in that zone of contact between the state and the individual subject referred to as the public sphere and where the Republic of ´gime. The common Letters anxiously negotiated with the ancien re factor linking these phenomena was the promiscuous encounter of ideas, theories, religions, governments, nations, literatures, and genres which together constituted the social makeup of the eighteenth century. Nowhere perhaps were these encounters more promiscuous than in the novel, which occupied a privileged place in a period that called into question the very foundations of the social order. Often considered of secondary importance in the propagation of social change, novels explored the contradictions that arose from the clash between ideas and reality. As important as the scientific and philosophical tracts and treatises, they offered new interpretations of the world and performed much the same ideological function as didactic works. They were in fact a major component in the dissemination of new knowledge and instrumental in bringing about cultural change. In the eighteenth century novels assumed a more experimental role than in the past as they explored new and conflicting intellectual and moral systems.1 They were the testing ground for new 17

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social theories. In a genre where epistemology is clearly the structuring principle, novels created a space within which a new subjectivity could be imagined, where the conflicts between the individual and society, between passion and reason, happiness and virtue, love and sexuality could be enacted. Novels functioned as social laboratory where theory could be put into practice, the results of which were open for general public discussion. The resulting discussion contributed to and, in part, made possible the epistemological mutation that characterized the Enlightenment. However, the novel is just as much a private exploration or a personal communication as it is a public one. It is an envoy sent out to the community at large to participate in an ongoing social discourse. For, as a work of fiction, it makes its mark at the point of contact where the individual interjection of a writer joins the general social dialogue. This means that novels, expressing at once the individual vision and a reflection of larger communal concerns, entwine to make up one of the threads of the larger discursive fabric of their time. Thus they form a larger social text which incorporates scientific, philosophic, and religious discourses as well as fictional ones.2 At a time when, as Dena Goodman points out, dialogical modes made up the central discursive practices of the Enlightenment, text, dialogue, and conversation were inextricably linked and sociability and writing about it became part and parcel of the same enterprise.3 Novels, like other genres, entered into the fray of competing ideas as participants in a sort of romanesque conversation in which each presented its vision or re-vision of the sociopolitical world of the time.4 In the early modern period it was common practice to ‘‘respond’’ to another work, be it through parody, sequel, imitation, reference, allusion, or even by rewriting the entire text through translation. Authors suffered little from any ‘‘anxiety of influence.’’ In fact, translations were often anything but faithful to the original by modern standards. They were simply a way to comment on the original material, a way to come into writing (especially for women), and a starting point for further explorations. Translations and imitations were often critical rewritings of the original text, modified to such an extent that they often proposed an opposing ideology.5 However, it is not only in translation that this notion of critical rewriting surfaces. Eighteenth-century writers’ and readers’ predilection for rewritings is also apparent in less direct forms of textual revision. Writers, through direct borrowings or by new twists on common

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convention, responded, refashioned, and rewrote each other, often calling upon the reader’s participation to tease out the connections. Novels, therefore, do not simply stage confrontations between old and new epistemologies. They also mark their place in the chain of novelistic production as discrete units as well as in conjunction with other texts. Readings that look for these entanglements offer new perspectives on the texts’ impact. It is at the point of contact between two or more texts where the ideological import of rewritings comes to the surface. Literary history, in which the novel plays a major role in the ongoing reevaluation of competing ideologies, functions, then, along the same principles as the historical process described as a renewable dialogue or cultural conversation.6 Any reading of a work of fiction that looks for the intersection of an individual vision and a collective one can reveal surprising insights into the author’s creative process, and these encounters open up the text to new schemes of meaning. This study looks at how novels participate in the social debate centered around sensibility, moral authority, and the personal consequences of a liberal philosophy through the interplay of texts by Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni, Frances Burney, and Pierre-AmbroiseFranc¸ois Choderlos de Laclos. These three authors exemplify the writing community which consisted of men and women both English and French writing about and refashioning common concerns.

INTERACTIONS Why these particular writers? One reason is that the dialogical nature of their textual connections is particularly rich. Riccoboni’s, Burney’s, and Laclos’s work form a network of textual connections whose interactive nature models general eighteenth-century discursive practices as a whole. A second reason is that these authors read each other. Although the interactive aspect of any discursive community is something that often gets lost in the elaboration of literary history which tends to focus on singularity, the contact between these writers is not only historically evident, but their works show to what extent these three authors participated in their discursive community as well. Laclos’s, Burney’s, and Riccoboni’s textual relationship is an ex-

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ample of rhetorical invention conceived of in terms of social invention. Karen Burke Lefevre explains that social invention looks at the inventing writer as part of a community, a socioculture, a sphere of overlapping (and sometimes conflicting) collectives. It draws our attention to social contexts, discourse communities, political aims. It reminds us that writers invent not only . . . alone but with others with whom they must work, or with whom they choose to think: and not in utter isolation even when they are alone, but by means of inner conversations carried on with internalized others.7

The interaction—the internal dialectic—of ideas and convention between these three writers is a dynamic one. Their narratives, at once passionate and transgressive, demonstrate not only close thematic connections but also question social custom. They offer exciting gendered explorations of ideological inconsistencies that arise out of the practical application of abstract social theories under discussion at the time. In particular, Riccoboni, Burney, and Laclos explore the nexus of social issues centered around gender, authority, and identity. One may well ask how readings such as the one traced out here differ from traditional studies of influence. This question is pertinent with respect to Laclos since few writers have been studied as much for ‘‘influence’’ as has this individual author. Even so, the import of most all of these studies of ‘‘influence’’ has been restricted for the most part to male writers. In ‘‘Laclos studies, 1968– 1982,’’ David Coward is not alone when he complains of the futility and proliferation of comparisons made between Laclos and other novelists. Critics have, however, remained undeterred by Coward’s cautionary words and have continued to write on Laclos and Ra`re, Laclos and Pre ´vost, to cine, devoted pages to Laclos and Molie the influence of Marivaux, Diderot, Rousseau, Richardson on Laclos. They looked to his influence on Sade, Stendhal, Balzac, Baudelaire; even Laclos and the Surrealists have been subjected to critical appraisal.8 There is a general consensus that his rewriting is a response to what critics have established as the three main ´billon fils, Richardson, and Rousseau. There sources for Laclos: Cre is a very good reason for the persistence of these studies even during a time when studies of influence are considered old-fashioned and have fallen out of favor with the critical community in general; Laclos is an intertextual writer par excellence. He was an astute,

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insightful reader who integrated his response to these other writers into his work and in so doing created a wonderfully rich intertextual novel. Laclos’s work begs the reader to make connections through his use of convention, themes, and even particular scenes culled from other works. The ultimate question underlying most such studies, whether Laclos is a libertine or a sentimental author, remains unresolved as this androcentric orientation has proved unequal to the task. Laclos not only drew upon the work of male authors, he read and rewrote texts from the women’s literary tradition as well. Any attempt to define Laclos’s genre (libertine or realist, sentimental or idealist) must include novels written by women. Clearly Laclos’s novel comes out of the often-studied male tradition, but the female tradition influenced it just as strongly. The textual ties to and rewritings of Riccoboni’s and Burney’s work reveal profound connections that form the point of departure for his own novel. The recognition of the role the two novelistic traditions play in Laclos’s aesthetic is integral to understanding the dual nature (male and female, libertine and sentimental) of Laclos’s literary creation. Riccoboni, Burney, and Laclos question the eighteenth century’s reified and naturalized concept of gender as the base for a coherent and unconflicted identity. Their narratives stage subversive ruptures with accepted social practice at the same time as they bring to the fore (and to the reader’s attention) the artificial and arbitrary nature of these gendered practices through exaggerated, stylized repetition of the same. The demarcations between reader, writer, character, and narrator are all in one way or another blurred, forcing the reader to question the liminalities between self and other, between public and private, between opposing visions. The three writers examine the implications, ramifications and difficulties of the gendered body through the performative, arbitrary social aspects of gender roles.9 Their characters either illustrate the struggle against social expectations defining their gender along with the very real dangers of transgressing societal norms or they experience the contradictions and difficulties associated with the wholesale adoption of these same gender expectations. The novels question not only the assumptions underlying social authority but the possibility or validity of any central unified authority at all. The narratives by means of their epistolary structure or, in the case of a third person narrative through the use of free indirect discourse, under-

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mine the possibility of any central narrative authority and, by extension, the hegemony of discredited societal forces. The lack of an overt powerful narrative authority, the epistolary structure or the use of indirect discourse combined with representation of the social community as an oppressive force are all common discursive practices associated with women’s fiction, reflecting the woman writer’s experience of the world. Laclos turns to this narrative tradition to question the socially determined female passivity, the dangers of transgressing gender boundaries, and the implications of the Sentimental and Libertine positions, two dominant epistemological modes structuring eighteenth-century thought. He draws on the epistolary model, an implicitly feminized mode of writing, to stage the ultimately futile struggle between both ideological and gendered positions of his characters. He debunks the existence of an empowered male authority independent of social approbation and shows how all identity, male and female, in so far as it is mediated by social forces, can be figured as ‘‘feminized.’’ Laclos’s ambivalent and ironic stance towards both libertine (realist) and sentimental (idealist) modes is best understood when viewed from the double perspective of male and female literary traditions. The ultimately irreductible nature of Les Liaisons dangereuses to a uniquely libertine or sentimental aesthetic is comprehensible only when one situates Laclos as a reader of both. In a very real sense, Laclos speaks with a foot planted firmly in both camps. Through his use of irony, Laclos reveals himself as a critical reader of both modes as he plays one off against the other with the result of a zero endgame, leaving the reader at a loss. The triangulation of these three writers calls for a reading that pushes beyond a study of residual influences toward one which takes into account the writers’ direct responses to each other. It is the interactive and dialogical relationship of these three authors that orients my reading. Paired readings of Riccoboni’s works along with Burney’s first two novels show their critical role in the deadly game of seduction and death played out in Les Liaisons dangereuses. Even if evidence that these writers were reading each other’s work had not appeared in their personal letters, journals, and essays, the textual conversation carried out between them concerning social constructions of gender and the elaboration of the underlying cultural paradigms defining those constructions would link these writers.10 Burney participates in the female and English novelistic tradition

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that so pleased Laclos. Despite their different nationalities and gender, this shared heritage led to the publication of two novels that are both very different and surprisingly similar. Although Frances Burney is primarily known for her diaries and her influence on Jane Austen, the past two decades have witnessed a change in critics’ attitudes toward her fiction as evidenced in the work of Margaret Doody, Julia Epstein, and Kristina Straub among others. Burney had not been understood in terms of her influence, just as Laclos is not understood to have been influenced by her. Burney’s connections with other national literatures is just now beginning to be explored. The same can be said of Riccoboni who has, only in the last two ´e decades, captured the interest of Joan Hinde Stewart, Andre Demay, Colette Cazenobe, and a few others. Riccoboni was a pivotal writer in many ways; a best-selling author up through the nineteenth century, she was widely read in England as well as other European countries. One of her most popular novels, Lettres de ` Mylady Henriette Campley, son amie Mylady Juliette Catesby a (1759), was translated into English by a friend of the Burney family, Frances Brooke, in 1760. Riccoboni’s relationship to Marivaux, in addition to the Enlightenment philosophers Diderot, Hume, Smith, and Holbach, is integral to her work. The Frenchwoman’s novels provide a common ground between Laclos and Burney who in turn both explore the possible repercussions of the philosophy of moral sentiment for women. Both writers turned to her novels to find a distinct voice of feminine desire combined with a strong sense of the injustice of society’s attitude toward women. Drawing on both English and French philosophical theories of knowledge, she represents strong female characters who can access rationality experientially and affectively. This cross-pollination of French and English sentimental traditions in fiction begs to be studied.

CONNECTIONS Laclos openly wrote of the important place ‘‘sentimental’’ authors, Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni and Frances Burney, occupied in the formation of his aesthetic. In reading the three authors side by side, the presence of the pre-sentimental novel of Riccoboni and the novel of manners as written by Burney become evident. These women authors represent the problematic position of women in so-

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ciety and demystify their status as conventional victims. They proposed viable alternatives to victimary convention while exploring the difficult situation of women in a patriarchal society. Through the fictional exploration of sensationist philosophies that situated authority in the individual, these women questioned the validity of political and societal institutions.11 Novels chosen for this reading are: Riccoboni’s Lettres de mis` milord Charles Alfred de Caitombridge, comte triss Fanni Butlerd a de Plisinthe, duc de Raslingth (1757), Histoire de M. le Marquis de ` Milady HenCressy (1758), Lettres de Milady Juliette Catesby a riette Campley (1759), Les Vrais caracte`res du sentiment ou his` Sir Charles toire d’Ernestine (1765), Lettres de Mylord Rivers a Cardigan (1776) and Frances Burney’s Evelina or The History of a Young Lady’s Entrance into the World (1778) in addition to Ce´cilia or Memoirs of an Heiress (1782). Published from 1757 to 1782, these works span the second half of the eighteenth century and mark the limits of this study. The advent of the Revolution, the proliferation of copyright laws, and the increasing emphasis on ‘‘originality’’ render the type of textual relation examined here difficult if not outmoded in later periods. In addition, the culture that produced these texts changed radically over the next several decades. Indeed, the price paid for the social change envisaged was very high; in the nineteenth century the novel as a proactive genre gave way to more a descriptive type.12

LIBERTINE AND SENTIMENTAL PARADIGMS Before any more can be said about these works, and at the risk of digressing somewhat, some terms need to be defined. Libertine and Sentimental discourse dominated both the French and English literary scene toward the last half of the eighteenth century. It follows the evolution of philosophical discourse from the school of moral sentiment to that of the materialists. Both the Libertine and the Sentimental schools of thought participated in the Enlightenment debate over legitimate authority by approaching the problem from opposite sides. Where sentimental narrative struggles with authority and legitimacy, libertine narrative struggles against it. Their emphasis on the importance of experience and sensation is the point at which they meet. According to John O’Neal, both traditions rely on a relocation of authority to the experiential self as a way to em-

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powerment, ‘‘it [experience] has the force . . . to move not just individuals but entire institutions and societies.’’13 Any discussion of the eighteenth-century novel needs to situate itself in relation to these structuring concepts. In addition to the larger philosophical implications of the terms Libertine and the Sentimental, there are generic ones as well. In coupling these authors in their various permutations—Riccoboni and Burney, Riccoboni and Laclos, and Burney and Laclos—one comes up against generic and often gendered descriptive divisions with the use of the adjectival form of sentimental and libertine. The use of one or the other term to qualify a writer and his or her work is more than a question of sub-generic divisions. ‘‘Sentimental’’ and ‘‘Libertine,’’ then, are terms that can be used to explain epistemologies, modes of social behavior, and an ideological stance as well as serve as descriptors; each use carries its own particular implication. However, beginning in the nineteenth century, with few exceptions, to qualify a novel as sentimental was to condemn it to the margins of literary history. Taking on pejorative connotations, it became a convenient catchall category used to dismiss a variety of works. Women writers’ novels, as Nancy Miller has pointed out, were most often categorized as ‘‘sentimental’’ while works by men were ‘‘libertine’’: the use of one term over the other relegates a work to the realm of emotion or to that of reason when both ‘‘types’’ are often concerned with ‘‘depicting manners and psychological analysis—a social vision of life subject to moral judgement according to the respective position taken.’’14 In addition, works of fiction narrated from the point of view of a male narrator by a male author are most likely to be labeled ‘‘libertine.’’15 This double gendering of the masculine (author and narrator) does not explain why works which are either narrated from the point of view of a woman or in polyphonic epistolary form but authored by a man are often labeled ‘‘libertine’’ or ‘‘roman de mœurs’’ instead of ‘‘sentimental.’’ Eighteenth-century novels labeled ‘‘libertine’’ or ‘‘sentimental’’ in the nineteenth century were equally concerned with the role of the senses, the problematic relationship of the physical to the moral, and a description of social behavior. This rather arbitrary categorization created false divisions and carried an implied critical judgment as to the texts’ literary value. Compounding the ‘‘modern’’ use of the terms ‘‘sentimental’’ and ‘‘libertine’’ is their use in the eighteenth century. These were gen-

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erally slippery terms which could have diverse meanings, cross gender boundaries, and whose signification and valence shifted over ´ ter Nagy, tracing the various meanings of time. For example, Pe ‘‘libertine’’ and ‘‘libertinage’’ from the sixteenth century to its usage in the eighteenth century, points to the double nature of the term: Libertinus ⳱ freed from slavery, joined to the idea of liberty is that of socially infamous behavior; in French the word libertine implies from its very beginnings . . . as much aspiration to spiritual criticism as it does to dissolute morals and sexual promiscuity.16

Libertinism has encoded in its definition the notion of a free spiritual quest as well as a physical one. It contributed to the ‘‘birth of rationalism as a bourgeois philosophical movement: liberation of the mind and the body conforming to the etymology of the word libertine.’’17 ‘‘Libertine,’’ then, is a protean term used to indicate a rational mode of thinking in opposition to a sentimental one along ´’’ with its sexual connotations. with the later meaning of ‘‘roue ‘‘Sentimental’’ is also difficult to define with its many connotations. The term is often encountered in the phrase ‘‘sentimental novel’’ where it refers to the movement of sensibility which for the most part has been emptied of its moral content. The words ‘‘sentiment,’’ ‘‘sensibility,’’ and ‘‘sentimental’’ are distinct yet have overlapping meanings. Anne C. Vila posits sensibility as the one unifying construct of the eighteenth century which serves as a empirically observed phenomena and as a structuring concept.18 It is as a structuring concept and a locus for the point of contact for aesthetic and moral concerns that ‘‘sensibility’’ particularly interests Riccoboni, Burney, and Laclos. Sensibility was not a static concept but one that evolved in time. Like the changing notion of ‘‘libertinism’’; both terms eventually lost their spiritual content. In the first half of the eighteenth century, morality was grounded in the shared sentiments of man ‘‘based on the belief in or hope of the natural goodness of humanity and manifested in a humanitarian concern for the unfortunate and helpless.’’19 However, during the late 1740s to early 1750s, the spiritual dimension is rather rapidly reduced to primarily physiological constitutive phenomena regulating the human organism. The material side of sensibility displaces the spiritual component which was so important earlier in favor of a growing emphasis on its or-

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ganic aspect as the determining principle underlying mind and matter.20 Sensibility in the second half of the eighteenth century is associated with the elaboration of a certain medical discourse and materialist philosophy. The second half of the century, then, is one of ‘‘high sentimentalism,’’ a degenerate form of sensibility in which the spectacle of emotion was prized for itself, detached from any notion of morality.21 The use of the phrase ‘‘novel of sentiment’’ refers to work written in the early stages of the sentimental move´vost and Mariment of the 1730s and 1740s with the works of Pre vaux for example as well as to the work of certain novelists of the 1750s and early 1760s such as Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni, and Rousseau when sentiment, lagging behind philosophy, still implied a natural morality. Riccoboni wrote at a pivotal moment in the evolution of the meaning of sensibility and reflected the philosophical theories of her acquaintances such as David Hume, who proposed a model of sympathy to describe a society that was based on a principle of natural sociability; Adam Smith who proposed an isolated self and a simulacrum of sympathetic passion; and Diderot who was a proponent of atheistic materialism. By 1759, when Adam Smith published his Theory of Moral Sentiments, the essentially social conception of sensibility and of intimate contact of selves via sentiments was manifested in a ‘‘self isolated from other selves by the nature of perception.’’22 Laclos and Burney worked within these later definitions of sensibility and sociability. The notion of sensibility, however, in all its permutations, provides the juncture of the private self with the social body. As the novel of sentiment or the pre-sentimental novel gave way to the exploitation of high sentimentality, it also engendered other works that subtly questioned earlier conceptions found in Clarissa and La Nouvelle He´loı¨se. Riccoboni’s post-Richardsonian and preRousseauean fictional works reflect the earlier idealist position. They gave the female voice a moral authority that simultaneously warned against the trap that the later ‘‘high sentimentalism’’ tendered to women after Riccoboni’s most popular works in the 1750s. Women writers bowed to the popularity of the movement in the wake of La Nouvelle He´loı¨se and adopted a discourse which reflected sensibility but also subversively encoded its negation into their text. Although Frances Burney employed techniques and plot devices common to the tradition of feeling, she overtly questioned the latter sentimental stance proposed for women, the materialistic

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attitudes of the growing bourgeois class, and the traditionalism of the aristocracy. The source for the sentimentalism perceived in Laclos’s text is generally attributed to Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Samuel Richardson. Of course these works were influential and their importance undeniable, but to limit the sentimentalism to these male writers is to promote a reductive gendered reading of Laclos’s novel and truncate the evolution of the novel as a genre. The sentimental novel, because it is considered a feminine mode, has been marginalized in critical studies and even its two great proponents, Richardson and Rousseau, suffered to a certain extent from this. There is a certain irony in the exclusion of women writers from a mode that prized and even structured itself around the ‘‘feminine.’’ Novels from La Princesse de Cle`ves to Les Liaisons dangereuses have been seen as non-‘‘realist’’ and therefore incidental to the coming of age of the novel.23 Recent studies have begun to question the hegemony of the realist aesthetic and to explore the debt ‘‘realist’’ works owe to the ‘‘idealist’’ or sentimental novel and romance. Hovering irresolutely between the libertine and sentimental, between realism and idealism, Les Liaisons dangereuses was banned in 1824 and was not part of the French literary canon until the twentieth century. Based as it was, on the one hand, on textual strategies employed in the novel written by women and, on the other, the conventions of the libertine novel, Les Liaisons dangereuses has proved as fascinating as it has seemed problematic to critics. The preoccupation with ‘‘realism’’ and male authors and the pejorative connotations associated with ‘‘idealism’’ and female authors are symptomatic of the treatment of women writers in the formulation of literary history in general. The labeling of authors as libertine or sentimental—usually according to gender—has meant canonical inclusion for the libertine or effacement from literary histories for the sentimental.24 Feminist literary critics have attempted to remedy this situation by an intense study of women authors, the conditions under which they wrote, their reception, and their difference from male writers.25 More recently, however, a few literary critics have turned their attention to the place women authors occupy in the history of the novel in general. Critics such as Joan DeJean, William Warner, Judith Kegan Gardiner, and Naomi Schor, for example, have examined the process of the gradual erasing of women’s texts from the canon, the ideological implications

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behind this suppression, and the consequences of integrating these texts into the mainstream of literary history. The reevaluation of works labeled ‘‘sentimental’’ is due in large part to the growing interest in sensibility as a pan-European cultural phenomenon. Sentimentalism plays a central role in the cultural patterns of the period and sentimental narratives represent the social relationships that make up the Enlightenment project.26 Current research on the various permutations of sentimentalism and on its pervasive infiltration into all areas of knowledge in the eighteenth century leads to a more comprehensive version of literary history—male and female, English and French—and entails the examination of the central position of the eighteenth-century women’s novel in the development of the genre. The study of sentimental movement leads to consideration of the significance of cross-cultural/cross-gender movements of ideas brought about through the reading and critical rewriting by novelists in this period.

CONTESTED GROUND The neglect of women writers by literary scholars in France is, as DeJean has demonstrated, the result of a deliberate rewriting of literary history. The version of literary history where women’s writings play at best a small role has been in the making since the seventeenth century and has only come under fire in the last half of the twentieth century. As early as Richelieu’s Testament politique (1643) one can see the role political agendas played in the redaction of literary history. Of course the effacement of women writers was not a wholesale, one-time-only disappearing act. It was a rather slow yet steady undermining of the position of women’s texts through an aesthetic devaluation which was finally fully institutionalized in the nineteenth century. In his textual legacy, Richelieu pointed out in rather biblical terms the threat women posed to the stability of the state by reminding his readers of their subversive and revolutionary potential: ‘‘A woman caused the worlds to fall: nothing is more capable of harming the state than this sex.’’27 Women’s participation in the Fronde (1648–53), an aristocratic revolt against the monarchy’s abrogation of the aristocracy’s remaining feudal powers, only reinforced this notion. With Louis XIV’s reestablishment of an authori-

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tarian state, men who had rebelled were integrated back into the system, while women who had participated in the Fronde were forced into social exile away from the court.28 This is the point where a direct link between the literary and the political for women is apparent. As direct political action was no longer available to women, they turned to the literary arena, developing indirect methods to continue their participation in public life. As a result, the pre´cieuses turned to the resources of the private sphere to promote their reforms. The salon culture established by these women as well as the romances and novellas coming out of them proved to be popular and soon extended their influence to England. If one relies on more traditional literary histories of the English novel, women played an exemplary (and passive) role as readers in the development of the novel.29 However, the fact that women published quite a lot in the eighteenth century in France as well as England and that their works were read by men as well as women on both sides of the Channel seems to get left out of traditional accounts.30 If the proliferation of works published by women is mentioned, it is dismissed as notable in quantity while lacking in quality.31 A strong tradition of female narratives existed in France from the twelfth century on through works by writers such as Marie ´ lisenne de Crenne, Jeanne de de France, Christine de Pizan, He Flore, and Marguerite de Navarre up to the seventeenth century, ´ry, Catherine which produced Mme de Lafayette, Mme de Scude ´ dacier-Durand, Mme de Gomez, and Mme de Bernard, Mme Be Villedieu, to name only a few. These women writers had an important impact on the formation of the English and French novel and served as a conduit for the circulation of literature from Spain and Italy, adapted and transformed to French taste, to England. One woman author in particular proved especially important to both ´ry’s role in English and French literary traditions. Madeleine Scude the development of the novel and whose roman a` clef, Artame`ne ou Le Grand Cyrus (1649–53), written concurrently with the Fronde rebellion, provided a model of political effectiveness in the guise of a rousing adventure story. As a writer of political fiction, Scude´ry’s narratives provided a forum to explore alternative arenas of power for women and pointed to the direction the modern French novel was to take.32 ´ry particularly valued the art Coming out of a salon milieu, Scude of conversation and it became a structuring principle in her most popular novels. Originally a female concept invented in the salons

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and reinscribed in prose fiction, the important role of conversation has long been recognized at the same time as the role of women as writers has been marginalized. The dialogical structure of conversation worked into traditional narratives laid the foundation for the philosophical dialogue and what would come to constitute French literary modernity. The connection between women and the novel is a vexed one. The view that women were especially attuned to the novel had become commonplace by the beginning of the eighteenth century when, as Bayle points out, ‘‘our best French novels have for some time been written by women.’’33 However, this accolade was a dubious honor at best considering that the novel itself was under attack. During the second half of the seventeenth century and throughout the eighteenth, a literary debate on the overall value of the novel as genre was well underway: Boileau’s argument against women and the novel (L’Art poe´tique, 1674; Contre les femmes, 1693) was taken up by Desfontaines (Observations sur les ´e crits modernes, 1737) and, in the mid-eighteenth century, by Jaucourt in the Encyclope´die (c. 1762). Perrault’s praise of modernism (Sie`cle de Louis le Grand, 1687; Apologie des femmes, 1694) stands in opposition to this point of view. The contributions of women to the formation of the novel were seconded by Huet (Traite´ de l’origine des romans, 1669) and endorsed by Lenglet-Dufresnoy (De l’usage des romans, 1734) in the eighteenth century.34 The faults of the women’s novel that so disturbed Boileau (use of love to define heroism and the subsequent feminization of heroic deeds, the blurring of social stratification, the rendering public of the very private, and its historical revisionism) were seen by Huet as key attributes of the genre. Conservative forces perceived women’s novels as a threat to the stability of French society, while liberal thinkers welcomed their destabilizing tendencies.35 Topical political and theological matters such as the redefinition of the sacrament of marriage as a contract and the subsequent loss of power and control by the church were acted out in novels. This secular appropriation of ecclesiastical power proved detrimental to women’s interests. The church, though misogynist, proved more lenient toward women than state control, which subordinated all rights of the woman to the father or husband. A woman’s sole recourse was to claim imminent ruin due to fiscal abuse by the husband. The reduction of moral concerns to pecuniary interests foreshadowed the reduction of the

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school of moral sentiment of the 1750s to the later materialistic form of the 1770s and 1780s. The reins were tightened on women out of fear of the havoc uncontrolled female desire could wreak on the transmission of property. The strictures imposed on women within the social sphere were replicated in the aesthetic arena as well. A concerted effort was made to counteract any threat from subversive and threatening content through the reevaluation of aesthetic principles. Women’s plots were considered to be absurd fantasies that could only be encountered in a novel and never in real life. The realignment of aesthetic value along the lines of realism was particularly effective in turning attention away from social and political critiques embedded in women’s narratives. ‘‘The serious content of these [women’s] works,’’ Joan DeJean remarks, ‘‘has been so carefully obscured that the reader familiar with them only in the pages of literary history would have difficulty imagining that they could ever have been controversial, that anyone would have bothered to attack them.’’36 By labeling these women’s novels ‘‘sentimental,’’ they have been effectively sidelined from any aesthetic that values ‘‘realism.’’ The redefinition of aesthetic worth and circumscription of women’s literary endeavors to a feminine social sphere went hand in hand with the political restriction of the woman’s sphere of influence to the private domain. An early attempt by literary critics to write women out of (masculine) literary history can be seen in ´ry’s work, which was qualified Boileau’s efforts to denigrate Scude as fit only for undiscerning women readers.37 The masculinization of literature is apparent with regard to epistolary endeavors. Manuals on how to write letters were very popular in the seventeenth century and generally included sample letters written by both men and women. Lacking the formal education of men, women were said to excel in the epistolary genre, which required only an elegant and passionate pen. On the surface the manuals seemed to praise the feminine access to emotions, their sensitivity, and their style. And yet, if looked at more closely, editorial practice belies the praise. There are comparatively few female-authored models compared to male-authored letters. The female-authored examples are authentic love letters while male examples are literary conceits (Franc¸ois de Grenaille, New Collection of Ladies’ Letters both Ancient and Modern, 1642, and Franc¸ ois des Rues, The Flowers of Beautiful Speaking, 1605). Manuals of this kind proposed models of female victimization. They reinforced an ‘‘ideology of the emo-

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tional femininity that creates masculine sexual supremacy’’ and championed male literary superiority.38 With the publication of Letters on all Sorts of Subjects with Advice on the Manner to Write `re stated: Them (1690), Ortigues de Vamorie I would not like for a sex, which must be endowed with modesty, to evidence passion. I would like, on the contrary, for a woman to enclose the signs of her love, to be content with letting them be glimpsed, to blend her tenderness with a character of restraint and decency.39

This statement defines a model that stood as one of the fundamental structures of femininity in the eighteenth century and clearly describes the masculine paradigm of female authorship. `re’s text articulates the paradox of female expression of Vamorie desire and its simultaneous suppression, a desire filtered through female modesty and virtue. This statement is all the more significant when the success of the scandal chronicle (at the height of popularity at this time) is taken into consideration. The scandal chronicle had evolved from the historical nouvelle, which claimed to reveal the hidden importance of love (and therefore women) in the making of history to include adventure stories. Often it was the story of the trials and tribulations of women brought about by the inequities of their position in society and with regard to the law. What is important to note here is that women were not passive victims in these novels. They were active agents who fought for their rights, amatory as well as legal. The French scandal novel was enormously popular and had a proportionate, but rarely recognized, influence on the course of the novel in France as well as in England. When the scandal chronicle is taken into account when tracing the evolution or ‘‘rise’’ of the novel, a whole new heritage—maternity— comes to light, but this restoration of women to the mainstream has serious consequences for traditional literary history. To remedy a truncated view of the forces involved in the development of the novel, to see with both eyes, one must also read afresh. Any revision of literary history entails an aesthetic one.40 Readers have been half blinded by the effacement of early women writers and the promotion of an aesthetic of realism which was not their primary concern. By setting up the model of nineteenth-century realism as the standard by which all previous novels are to be judged, modern literary critics force an alien aesthetic upon these novels.41 The role of women’s fiction in England was ultimately cast in the

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same terms as it was in France. Women’s words were subversive, immoral, and dangerous, and women in both countries after 1740 were obliged to adapt their plots to the ‘‘realistic’’ models furnished by Richardson. Obliged, because the late seventeenth century saw the idea of the book as something to ‘‘endure’’ transform into a commodity used to earn one’s living and subject to market forces (in France, for example, there are Catherine Desjardins [Madame de Villedieu], Mme de Tencin, and Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni and in ` re Manley, Susan Centlivre, and England Aphra Behn, Delarivie Eliza Haywood). The women adapted to the changing market and wrote according to current taste, which determined what was selling. This can clearly be seen in Haywood’s corpus and in some of the later novels of Riccoboni. The pressure of women’s counterdiscourse caused by the distance between the proposed ideal and the weight of reality erupts in the cracks and fissures of the new sentimental narratives. The old scandal chronicles or secret histories are transformed into sentimental novels that incorporate their counter-discourse in a variety of novel ways. Overt protest over legal and social gender discrimination is ever present but now hidden in the text. The widening gap between what a text appears to say (in accordance with expectations) and what it really says becomes apparent to the uneasy reader. The androcentric orientation of Western aesthetics has come under scrutiny by critics such as William Warner who question the novel’s fable of origin, which posits Richardson and Fielding as ‘‘rival inventors of two opposed, yet complementary types of novelistic writing, one that explores psychic depths, and another that narrates the diverse forms of the social: in short as the two fathers of the novel.’’42 This fable of paternal origin displaces a more diversified and complex history of early novel writing through the erasure of the earlier forms.43 What Richardson and Fielding did, in fact, was rearticulate women’s adventure stories. This re-inscription of feminine stories in a masculine mode along with the rise in popularity of ideas such as bienfaisance and the school of moral sentiment produced what critics consider the ‘‘modern’’ novel. Richardson’s and Fielding’s novels not only displace the novels of Behn, Manley, and Haywood in androcentric aesthetic realignment, but they replace them altogether. In fact, the ‘‘new’’ type of novel turns out to be similar to the ‘‘older’’ type. Meta-textual documents, however, such as pref-

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aces, title pages, public letters, and critical essays publicize the reorientation of the novel: Richardson and Fielding successfully hegemonize the novel through a series of articulatory moves that reshape what their culture takes the novel to be. First they annul the significant differences between prior instances of novel writing. Thus under the opprobrious terms ‘‘romance’’ and ‘‘novel’’ they include; the artificial, idealistic and long out ´ d’Urfe ´ , La Calprene ` de, and of fashion ‘‘grand romance’’ of Honore ´ry ; the short novel adapted out of Italian, Spanish Madeleine de Scude and French novella by Aphra Behn in the late Restoration and turned into a formula for popular fiction in the 1720s by Eliza Haywood; and finally the ‘‘secret history,’’ adopted from French models by Behn, and practiced with enormous notoriety and scandal by Manley, who was imitated by Haywood and Defoe.44

In an early version of the modern publicity campaign, writers of the ‘‘new improved’’ novels push to evince the suddenly obsolete and immoral earlier (feminine) novel. Richardson and Fielding did not merely change the rules to novel writing: they rewrote the genre and lineage. The two authors thus create a vision of the eighteenth-century novel that a close examination of the works themselves does not bear out. The intricate seduction plots and scenes are taken away from the female perspective and rewritten in a masculine one. No longer a desiring subject, the female character is now dependent on her status as an object. The change in novelistic techniques came earlier in France than in England. In France the publication of La Princesse de Cle`ves signaled the turning point of romance into the novel. However, Mme de Lafayette did not repudiate earlier practitioners and acknowl´ry in the preface (an action which later litedges her debt to Scude erary critics reinterpret as a break with the past).45 The great stakes in the literary history game become clear when one considers Judith Kegan Gardiner’s version of the origin of the English novel, which begins with Aphra Behn’s Love Letters between a Nobleman and His Sister (1684–87). Gardiner wonders: What happens if we do start the English canon with Aphra Behn? For one thing, we immediately discover that the mother of this mother of the novel is Madame de Lafayette and that the first English novel is really La Princesse de Cle`ves. . . . Starting the English novel with Behn

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thus makes apparent the new genre’s dependence on French models. By originating the novel in the thick soup of early modern journalism, saint’s lives, fantastic voyages, and so on, the new literary histories keep the origins of the English novel safely English as well as male rather than largely French and conspicuously female.46

The same sort of aesthetic revisionism goes on in Laclosian scholarship, where the feminine is discounted in favor of masculine literary affiliations.

LACLOS AND HIS LITERARY FOREBEARS When we look at Laclos’s literary heritage, we find a similar intertwining of women and male-authored texts and a similar neglect of this fact in the studies concerning his work. The first third of the eighteenth century saw the publication of female-authored novels that dealt with the problematic expression of feminine desire and the double standard imposed on women by society, just as the earlier roman galant, written for the most part by women at the turn of the seventeenth century, dealt with the many political ramifications of the marital and proprietal reforms on the private lives of women. Novels of sentiment written by women, often epistolary in form, incorporated conflicting ideologies in conventional fictional structures. Later women writers continued the tradition by includ` scandale into a story ing the counter-ideology found in the roman a with a didactic bent to conform to the more restrictive social atmosphere of the 1740s and 1750s. The increasing interest in sentiment and sensibility furnished a vocabulary with which women could integrate the older (and less reputable) type of novel with the decorum required in a novel written by a woman. Women were considered to have a privileged access to both sentiment (moral feelings springing from the heart) and sensibility (a hyperreactive body). They could overtly focus on sentiment and at the same time covertly explore the consequences of its repression. The ‘‘dialectical’’ nature of these novels is what attracted Laclos to women’s fiction. Ample evidence of its appeal can be found in his own work. Laclos’s first public literary endeavor was an unsuccessful operatic adaptation of Ernestine, a very popular novella by MarieJeanne Riccoboni. The forum in which Laclos chose to ground his only discussion of the novel as a genre was in his critical review of

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Cecilia, a novel by Frances Burney. Although Laclos’s appreciation for the Englishwoman’s work is not in doubt, critics dismiss his appreciation out of hand as some sort of aberration. Critics who have written about Laclos and these two works (the adaptation of Ernestine and the review of Burney’s second novel) seem either to ignore the fact that they were written by women or apologize for the temporary lack of taste and lapse of judgment on the part of a normally skillful writer and critic. It was only in 1963 that Georges May deplored the lack of interest in women novelists writing in eighteenth-century France. Although this area of study has, of late, proved of interest to English and French literary critics alike, a comprehensive study which integrates authors of both genders has yet to be published. Scholarly studies of the figure of the woman in eighteenth-century literature abound, but studies in the area of women authors in the French eighteenth century remains meager, despite some good ones devoted to seventeenth-century women authors. Laclos’s works have, of course, been of great interest to feminists. Several interesting essays have been written on the war between the sexes or, as Roger Vailland contends, a war between the classes. Nancy Miller in The Heroine’s Text: Readings in the French and English Novel has offered an insightful reading of the female characters, where she reverses the common critical view of Merteuil’s triumph. The latter, she says, is the one that has been ‘‘castrated,’’ and is as much a victim as Tourvel.47 Other critics have focused on three essays on the education of women that Laclos left unfinished. Opinion is divided on whether to use them as support for a feminist Laclos (as Hoffman, Charpentrat, and Vailland read him) or whether Les Liaisons dangereuses should stand alone, as Seylaz, Stewart, and Brooke contend. Suellen Diaconoff, on the other hand, gives us a clue to another way to read Laclos’s text by pointing to the strangely feminized nature of Laclos’s writing, which she terms feministic, when she describes Laclos’s enactment of strategies of resistance to patriarchal authority at the same time as he retreats from action. Laclos’s text, like women’s, stages the ongoing struggle for authority.48 In almost every work on Laclos and Les Liaisons dangereuses, there are numerous references to Richardson and Rousseau. In a monumental study on intertextuality and Laclos, Laurent Versini treats each of these authors at length in separate chapters. He goes into great detail about the debt Laclos owed to Rousseau and Rich-

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ardson. Although Versini also writes of the many women authors to whom Laclos is indebted, it is done in such a manner that the reader is left with a vague impression of an undifferentiated group of women novelists. Woman as a theme in Laclos’s work has been thoroughly analyzed, but studies of texts authored by women in relation to his novel have been cursory or nonexistent. Even when names of women writers are inscribed in critical studies, the women’s place is literally in the margins. A footnote found in Versini’s study on Laclos is indicative of the treatment of women writers in general and is worth reproducing here. In the body of the text, Ver´vost, Diderot, and sini writes: ‘‘Laclos’s admiration joins that of Pre Mme Riccoboni along with many others who rewrote Clarisse Harlove [sic], when he places it along side Marianne, Tom Jones, and la Nouvelle Heloı¨se as the masterpieces of the genre.’’ A curious reader must refer to a quite substantial footnote if he or she wants to find out who exactly makes up this group of ‘‘many others.’’ The reader finds a list of thirteen titles authored by women, five by men, and eleven anonymous ones: (1) Here are some of the imitations that often served as intermediaries between Clarissa and L.D. 1757—Mme Riccoboni, Lettres de Fanni Butler. 1759—Mme Riccoboni, Lettres de Juliette Catesby. 1762—Mrs. Sheridan, Me´moires d’une jeune dame. 1764—Mrs. Brooke, Histoire de Julie Mandeville. 1765—Mrs. Blower, Maria ou les ve´ritables me´moires d’une dame de qualite´. Mme de Saint-Aubin, Me´moires en forme de lettre de deux jeunes personnes de qualite´s. 1766—Mme Leprince de Beaumont, La nouvelle Clarisse. De La Solle, Lucy Wellers. 1767—Mme Benoist, Lettres de Colonel Talbert. 1769—Mme Becarri, Me´moires de Lucie d’Olbery. Anonyme, La Nouvelle femme. 1770—Mrs. Brooke, Histoire d’Emilie Montague. Anonyme, La Constance des femmes. Anonyme, L’Heureuse De´couverte ou l’histoire de Miss Emilie Creswel. Anonyme, Le Libertin corrige´ ou l’Histoire de l’hon. Charles Belmont ´ecuyer de Miss Melville. 1771—De la Grange, Elise ou histoire de Miss Granville. Anonyme, C’e´tait sa faute, histoire par une dame.

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Anonyme, Le Cloitre ou l’histoire de Miss Sophie Harvard. Anonyme, La Fille de´sobe´issante ou l’histoire de Miss Goodwin. Anonyme, Miss Melmothe ou la Nouvelle Clarice. 1772—Thomas Aull, Les Mœurs du jour ou Histoire de William Harrington. 1776—Kelly, Les Egarements re´pare´s ou l’Histoire de Louise Mildmay. Wieland, Me´moires de Sophie de Sternheim. Anonyme, Le Choix pre´cipite´ ou Histoire de Lord d’Ossory et de Miss Rivers. 1778—Mme Beccari, Milord d’Ambi. 1780—Mme de Bournon-Malarme, Me´moires de Clarence Welldone ou le Pouvoir de la vertu. 1781—Mme Beccari, Me´moires de Fanni Spingler. 1782—Miss Burney, Cecilia, etc. For the most part, these novels end happily.49

Given the number of novels written by women at the time, one can reasonably suppose that the anonymous category includes at least some titles by women; this makes for quite a number of ‘‘intermediaries’’ by anyone’s count. When we move them from the margins and give them their place in the body of the critical text, we can see that Laclos’s textual relationship with his literary forebears, particularly Richardson and Rousseau, is far from straightforward. Laclos’s rather ambiguous relationship to Richardson and Rousseau as well as the apparent contradiction between morality and immorality argues for a closer look at the women novelists. Laurent Versini has, to date, furnished the most complete exploration of the works that have contributed to the makeup of Les Liaisons dangereuses. He answers the question of how to reconcile Les Liaisons dangereuses’ proclaimed moral lesson with its ‘‘elegant immoralism’’ through a study of the relationship between Laclos, ´billon fils, and Richardson. For Versini, it is Laclos’s connection Cre to Rousseau that resolves the apparent conflict between moralism and gallantry. However, this reading has also proved unsatisfying and has come to be questioned as critics review the status of the Rousseau-Laclos relationship which turns out to be as problematic ´billon fils or Richardson connection. as the Cre Before exploring an alternative and supplementary answer to Versini’s questions about how to better reconcile the opposition be´billon fils, tween gallantry and moralism, Laclos’s connection to Cre Richardson, and Rousseau is worth reviewing.

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CRE´BILLON FILS The conflict between le cœur et l’esprit [the heart and mind] in the eighteenth century has been studied at great length. Though ´ billon fils (at the end of the present in various forms before Cre seventeenth century Madame de Lafayette concentrated on the effect passion had on l’esprit, while Robert Challes wrote of the ´billon who inextricably links the two senses and l’esprit), it is Cre terms in all of his novels by exploring the effects of one upon the ´billon accomplished this association between the heart other. Cre and mind by drawing upon the moralists of the preceding century `re, La Rochefoucauld) and aligning himself with the phi(La Bruye losophes. As biological determinism was gaining ground in the writings of Diderot, Maupertuis, and Helve´ tuis, metaphysical love was to be ´billon showed how displaced in favor of purely physical desire. Cre the heart was at the mercy of the mind or the senses. He created a universe where the libertine confronted sentimental hypocritical justifications which reconciled morality with desire in the pursuit ´billon subof self-serving behavior. However, at the same time, Cre tly questioned the belief that a Libertine ideology would allow any more freedom than a sentimental one.50 Crebillon’s works were directed at exposing the sentimental as ´billon wrote during the ‘‘golden age’’ of the novel of insincere. Cre ´vost, and Marivaux, but his sentiment, along with Richardson, Pre ´bilwas an oppositional discourse. According to Henri Coulet, Cre lon rejected Marivaux’s analyses of the inner self because it made readers believe in ‘‘the reality of moral scruples where he only saw ´ billon’s cynical a masquerade of the sensual.’’51 Yet behind Cre stance lies a longing for an authentic passion able to unite heart and mind. Versini rightly remarks: ´billon’s universe with its sterile capricious games of mind and vanity Cre . . . would ultimately prove boring if it were not saved by stylistic elegance . . . but also by the victory he accords women who are capable of a delicacy and tenderness that enables a soul to know ‘‘true ecstasy and voluptuousness.’’52

´billon’s This possibility of an ideal passion is what distinguishes Cre work and the combination of idealism and cynicism caught Laclos’s ´billon for more than simply a gallant voattention. Turning to Cre

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cabulary to animate his libertines, Laclos will expose as fiction the notion of any true authentic saving grace at the same time as he allows his libertines to be seduced by it, bringing them to their ruin. ´billon furnishes a rather poor but interesting model In fact, Cre for Laclos’s more successful (and sly) attempt at critical rewriting with Les Heureux Orphelins, a ‘‘translation’’ of Eliza Haywood’s The Fortunate Foundlings. In the two versions, both Haywood and ´billon explore le danger de l’e´garement [the danger of both afCre fective and sensual distraction] for libertines and the sentimental ´billon turns what starts out as a faithful translaalike. However, Cre tion of the English woman’s novel into something else entirely, reverses its ideological orientation, and rewrites it as an indictment of the sentimental as a stance of empowerment for women. In his rewriting, Cre´ billon takes an oppositional ideological stance that exposes the weaknesses inherent in the Sentimental ethos. This same sort of ideological rewriting describes Laclos’s relationship ´billon, Rousseau, and Richardson, but also with with not only Cre women writers such as Haywood, Riccoboni, and Burney. How´billon’s revision fails in part due to his inability to present ever, Cre a believable sentimental position, reducing his sentimental heroines to insincere cardboard stereotypes. The vexed nature of the ´billon has so disturbed textual relation between Haywood and Cre critics that there was in the past a concerted attempt to omit Les ´billon’s corpus.53 Heureux Orphelins from Cre A contemporary of Cre´ billon, Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni bridges the gap not only between the ‘‘golden age’’ and Rousseau, but also intervenes in Laclos’s reading of Rousseau in the way Eliza Haywood’s work mediates Laclos’s relationship to Cre´ billon’s work. The connection between Riccoboni and Laclos is just as apparent ´billon’s and it is, if anything, more profound. One need not as Cre ´billon for Riccoboni. Riccoboni in turn read and wrote displace Cre ´billon as well as Marivaux both with and against her peers, and Cre can be seen as having been an integral part of her literary formation. If one takes into consideration women authors, the troubling gaps in the evolution from romance to the novel are narrowed and the apparent contradictory elements of libertinism and sentimentalism in Laclos’s novel are explained away.

SAMUEL RICHARDSON The second literary pillar supporting Laclos’s Liaisons dangereuses is Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa. Laclos is traditionally seen

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as having called upon Richardson’s sentimental aesthetic to sup´ billon’s worldly characters.54 Alplement the skepticism of Cre though the seduction plot was hardly fresh when Richardson wrote Clarissa, his handling of the topos was such that almost all novels published after 1742 owe something to the Englishman. Laclos could not but have been drawn to Clarissa as a matter of course given his interests. A forerunner in what would become a trend in criticism, La Harpe along with other critics pointed to the connection between Laclos and Richardson as well as between Laclos and ´billon. Right from the start, the libertine element proves fasciCre nating to critics. La Harpe writes, ‘‘The author appears to have ´billon fils’s Versac of the Egarewanted to up the stakes over Cre ments and Richardson’s Lovelace.’’55 Even in the first reviews of the French novel, the sentimental is passed over in favor of the libertine. The link between Richardson and Laclos has been studied with special fervor. The principal borrowings are located at the thematic and structural level: the persistence of the seducer, for example; the correspondence of the two young friends, Clarissa and Anna; as well as the psychological battle waged between oppositional characters are all attributed to the English author. Richardson exploited multiple correspondents and the notorious Lovelace supplied Valmont with a great deal of his libertine vocabulary. Particular situations are taken from the English work and included in the French text; Valmont, like Lovelace, uses the keyhole to spy on his intended victim. Like his English counterpart, Valmont feigns illness as a ploy for sympathy, and Madame de Tourvel copies Clarissa when she requests Valmont’s departure, and so on. In his study of influence, Versini draws parallels between Valmont and Lovelace, Clarissa and Madame de Tourvel of course, but also calls attention to the role of the secondary characters. Azolan, Valmont’s valet, is the image of Lovelace’s Leman. Father Anselme occupies the place of Doctor Lewin, and we find that Clarissa and Madame de Tourvel share many traits. The two women resemble each other physically, each having been endowed with a natural elegance, and both are proud of their reputation as exemplary virtuous women. They also share an ambivalence and a vivid curiosity toward their pursuer which leads them to self-delusion and ruin. Yet underlying the superficial resemblance there are differences that indicate the true nature of the two texts. The two women differ in their reaction to their persecutors. Where Clarissa is confident

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of her ability to resist passion, Mme de Tourvel fears it. The Frenchwoman possesses a humanity that is lacking in Clarissa. Versini points to the essential difference between Richardson and Laclos which gives the key to Laclos’s ideological revision of the Englishman’s text when he writes ‘‘The two novels differ profoundly: Clarissa starts by loving Lovelace whose actions will alienate her, ´sidente to his Valmont, however, owes his progressive hold on la Pre behavior.’’56 The essential difference between Richardson and Laclos lies in their positions with respect to sensibility as empowerment or weakness. Clarissa remains in control of herself in the presence of Lovelace where Mme de Tourvel, who fights against a growing passion for Valmont, is unable to do so. The difference between the two women is also apparent in their attitude toward their seducer: Clarissa is indifferent to the happiness of Lovelace while Mme de Tourvel finds solace for her dishonor in Valmont’s happiness. There is a generosity of spirit in Mme de Tourvel that is missing from Clarissa. Even the death of the two heroines points to the key difference. Clarissa actively looked for redemption in an exemplary death that would obliterate the act that sullied her. Her sensibility to this act will be the salvation and redemption of her soul albeit at the expense of her body. Mme de Tourvel’s sensibility, on the other hand, makes her decide to give her body as well as her spirit to Valmont after the assault. It is the breaking of her spirit that causes her death. She forgives Valmont and dies from remorse, deceived by her lover but not her love. For all of their superficial affinities, Valmont and Lovelace are at opposite poles of human feeling. There is an impulsive brutality and childish cruelty to Lovelace with his band of friends which is absent in Valmont, who is solitary and carries out his plans coldly. Riccoboni in her correspondence with Laclos remarked: . . . Lovelace is a man of reason. The truly strong and tender passion that Richardson gives Lovelace puts him beyond nature. Your libertine, indifferent and vain, comes much closer to it. He cheats, he cold-bloodedly betrays, this is something of which a man truly in love would not be capable.57

Valmont wants complete destruction. Like Lovelace, Valmont is given to moments of sensibility, but unlike Lovelace, he enjoys far more self-control. Because Richardson describes Lovelace’s childhood in detail and the circumstances of his first initiation into the

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world (by a coquette), the reader sees the latter as socially determined. Valmont, depicted with minimal details of his past, seems far more a creature of will and self-determination. Lovelace is more naive and less lucid than Valmont and will fall victim to his sensibility while Valmont is brought down by his strict adherence to the Libertine code. Stressing the sensibility of Lovelace, Versini comes to the following conclusion: If Lovelace is capable of such transports [of sensibility], it is because he is in the throes of contradictory feelings. In this he is very different from the unified character of Valmont whose sensibility ultimately cedes to his persona. Lovelace is pulled in many conflicting directions at the same time: Valmont does not know this inconstancy of ideas. . . .58

In addition to thematics and character types, Richardson contributed to Laclos’s Les Liaisons dangereuses by supplying a polyphonic epistolary model, one in which the writers of the letters varied speech patterns according to their station and psychology. There is less ‘‘realism’’ in the French novel, the narrative is less detailed, and the variety of voices and the style in which they write are smoothed out in the French version. This difference is often attributed to the norms of biense´ance held over from the seventeenth century and still followed in eighteenth-century France. But the fact that Laclos is more concerned with staging an ideological confrontation than he is with depicting a varied social tableau must be taken into consideration.59 The solution to the aesthetic differences between Richardson and Laclos has been found in what critics believe to be Laclos’s true affiliation, which lies with Rousseau.

JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU Critics contend that if Clarissa served as structural and thematic source for Les Liaisons dangereuses, one must turn to Rousseau to find the heart of Laclos’s novel: ‘‘Laclos nourished himself on JeanJacques lessons; the moralist, artist, and poet helped him to observe, write, and feel. One can no longer speak of a source, but rather an affiliation.’’60 Michel Delon, following Versini, finds that Laclos’s ‘‘admiration for Rousseau the man and the influence of his work on him gives rise to the bitter observation of an unjust and untenable social order.’’61 However, this relationship is problem-

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atic. If Laclos is a disciple of Rousseau his is a paradoxical one at best. Laclos used St. Preux as a model for Danceny as well as Valmont in his sentimental mode. In their arguments, pleadings, and prostration before the object of their desire, Danceny and Valmont imi´cile (who shares her tate St. Preux. Julie furnished the model for Ce adventures) and Madame de Tourvel (who has her soul). Merteuil can be found in the figure of Claire and Gercourt in Wolmar. Laclos’s Rousseauism is most clearly seen in the distinction he makes between pleasure and love, the lyricism evident in some of the letters and in Laclos’s conception of evil as a social problem.62 Laclos’s choice of the epigraph (‘‘J’ai vu les mœurs de mon ´ ces lettres’’ [I saw the morals of my day, and I temps, et j’ai publie published these letters]) taken from Rousseau’s La Nouvelle He´loı¨se seems to declare his fidelity to Rousseau’s principles, but after having finished the novel, the reader rereads it as a declaration of his separation from the ‘‘maıˆtre.’’ The difference between the two authors has been attributed to aesthetic choice, not to differing convictions: The disgust inspired by the observation of the morals of his time leads Jean-Jacques to compose an ideal novel in which Clarens’s small society is miraculously perserved from evil and where entry is forbidden to the corrupt, even the atheist is cast as an honneˆte homme. Laclos is inspired to give society a representation that one is tempted to qualify as realist.63

The argument places Rousseau and Laclos on opposite sides of a debate on the novel’s ethical properties, but passes over ideological differences between the two men’s novels. Although true, explaining the differences between Rousseau and Laclos by reducing them to a question of the novel’s moral purpose is ultimately as unsatisfying as imputing the differences between Richardson and Laclos to nationally determined aesthetics. Both positions reduce the considerable ideological distance between Laclos and the two authors to a simple difference in methodology, while the parodic dimension of the French text is passed over. Laclos rewrote Rousseau to represent the actual (albeit exaggerated) state of society and to explore the problems posed by the Rousseauean vision of the sentimental as a privileged discourse practiced by a few choice souls. One cannot ignore the numerous

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instances of parody in Laclos’s novel. His oppositional stance is apparent in his dismemberment and reuse of elements lifted from past powerful texts and put into use to serve his own ends. Although one can locate an intense longing for a Rousseauean transparency of language and heart, as well as for a unity of sign and signification, Laclos makes clear its impossibility. Parodically and ironically, Laclos quotes out of context, fails to attribute quotations and, as often as not, suppresses the markers that signal citation. Leaving it up to the reader to recognize origins, Laclos empties a citation of its meaning and demonstrates the problematic nature of any ‘‘authentic’’ language. On a larger scale, he appropriates a discourse (sentimental as well as libertine) associated with certain key texts and, playing with incongruous contexts and with metonymy or synecdoche, subverts its meaning or intention by connecting it with conflicting texts; one example is Laclos’s coupling of ´bRichardson’s Clarissa or Rousseau’s La Nouvelle He´loı¨se with Cre illon fils’ Le Sopha and Les Fables de La Fontaine. Laclos’s problematic attitude towards authority of all types, religious, moral, social, authorial, and textual, makes up the foundation of his novel. Joan DeJean’s perceptive analysis of Laclos’s work has convincingly demonstrated the complicated nature of Laclos’s relationship with authority. She situates Laclos’s work in a ‘‘novelistic no man’s land, a textual space beyond origin and authority.’’64 However, while Laclos’s text may be in ‘‘no man’s land,’’ it is, on the contrary, solidly rooted in a land of women’s novelistic tradition.

HISTORICAL ELLIPSES The single woman novelist recognized and admitted into the canon as a possible influence on Laclos is Madame de Lafayette. There is no doubt that Lafayette is important to the Laclosian aesthetic. However, by limiting Laclos’s connection to women authors to Lafayette, ninety years of feminine novelistic tradition separating Lafayette and Laclos has been effaced.65 Typical of the manner in which literary history has been recorded, Laclos’s literary apprenticeship is traced directly from Mme de Lafayette to Rousseau: Dorat, Loaisel, Restif, Bernardin, but also Sade and Laclos would not have found their path without Rousseau. . . . Confirming Mme de La-

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fayette’s lesson, Jean-Jacques taught Laclos not only that a novel can be a work of art, and that analysis can nourish an entire novel without conceding to adventure and strange events, but also that sentiment can escape banality without being forced; he communicated a poetic, an ethic, and a theory of civilized society; he convinced him that society’s tyranny can not suppress the call of the heart and that of nature, and that the scandal of the corrupt is not definitive.66

If we take into consideration feminist readings of Rousseau such as those of Nancy Miller or Joan DeJean, this Rousseauean poetic and ‘‘ethic’’ is subject to question as they both point to Laclos’s ambivalence with regard to Rousseau. Laclos’s poetic appreciation of women’s works was not confined to Mme de Lafayette’s. One must look to Frances Burney’s and to Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni’s works to find additional models that fill the gap. Riccoboni’s and Burney’s texts supply Laclos with models of writing missing from Rousseau. They indicate their continuation of a long tradition in women’s writings and write their resistance to convention through manipulation of those very conventions, and through double plotting.67 One may well ask why these works serve as models for Laclos. What particular interest could he have had in these novels written by women? One might look for a partial answer to Laclos’s unstable social position, which had consequences for his career. As early as 1905 questions have been recorded about the impact of the Laclos family’s degree of nobility with regard to Laclos’s military career. Where Emile Dard sees Laclos as an aggressive man whose ambitions toward power were frustrated at every turn, Georges Poisson, in a more recent biography, posits the existence of some unofficial black mark against Laclos to explain the extraordinarily mediocre nature of his military career.68 Poisson depicts a young officer who is marginalized, passed over despite his not inconsiderable capabilities, and goes so far as to speculate upon the existence of a secret dossier which would explain Laclos’s slow advancement.69 This frustration played a large role in the formation of Laclos’s attitude toward authority. By dint of newly ennobled (therefore sometimes unacceptable) lineage, Laclos may not have been given the same consideration as many of the other officers. The arbitrary nature of the requirements must have been doubly galling to Laclos, who invariably found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. The military’s sporadically enforced and uneven policies on the degrees of nobility required for officers underscored

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their aleatory nature. After the reign of Louis XIV, during which there was a certain democratization of the officer ranks, there was a tightening of restrictions in 1718 and again in 1727. In 1734 there was a short-term liberalization in the restrictions governing the degree of nobility required to access higher military positions. Again in 1750 a push was made to liberalize the restrictions, only to be countermanded in 1757 in a reaction led by the aristocracy. This last aristocratic retrenchment was especially unfortunate for Laclos who, in 1757, was affected by this ‘‘new’’ restriction. To enter the newly formed Ecole Militaire, four degrees of nobility were required; Laclos only had three. Butting up against arbitrary, changing social constrictions and seeking a way to power through mediation, Laclos’s position in society can be figured, to certain extent, as ‘‘feminized.’’ He was, or felt himself, obliged to work indirectly to realize his ambitions. He chose to accomplish this by taking up the causes of other men. Ronald Rosbottom writes: the artillery man of letters was the perfect amanuensis, a secretary, a person who wrote for and about others. Every major work written by Laclos, that is every work that brought him some recognition in his career, was mediated by someone else. There is an absence of directness, of self-attribution in Laclos’s career that seems, on close analysis, pur´ans, Robespierre, the Jacobins, the Composeful. Montalembert, Orle mittee on Public Safety, Bonaparte and even Merteuil and Valmont: all of these personages and entities make use of Laclos’s talents, directly and indirectly, providing him with cover as well.70

This need for ‘‘cover’’ can be tied in with Laclos’s real or perceived marginality (his rather precarious status as a nobleman). Laclos continually worked behind the scenes. He either wrote under another man’s name or anonymously; both of these strategies were traditionally employed by women novelists and can be seen as writing in a ‘‘feminine manner.’’71 Laclos’s lifelong modus operandi is, then, one of indirection. On those occasions when he did act in his own name he was severely reprimanded. His defense of Montalembert against Vauban caused a military scandal and impeded his career’s advancement.72 Later, Laclos would pay for the fact that he let it be known he was the author behind the rather easily discernible M.C. de L. on the title page of Les Liaisons dangereuses. It almost cost him his life during the Terror. However, even before the

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Revolution, his reputation as author of the notorious novel proved to be a millstone around his neck and one more impediment to his advancement, social and military. Laclos’s problematic position with respect to authority permitted an appreciation of material treated in women’s texts. The difficulty of reconciling the private self with public dictates, the contradictory position of women in society, the pitfalls of the sentimental paradigm for women, the impossibility of any socially unmediated identity as well as the dangers associated with women’s precarious position as author all appealed to Laclos. Georges Daniel and Irving Wohlfarth have used the metaphor of the boulet creux, a hollow missile that Laclos invented, to describe the structure of Les Liaisons dangereuses, which they see as lacking a center.73 The word ‘‘lack’’ brings up many connotations, almost all of them pejoratively refer to the feminine, as has been amply demonstrated in androcentric psychoanalytical theoretical elaborations. However, in a reversal of the usual references with regards to women’s perceived ‘‘lack,’’ this time it is the masculine structure which lacks. It is, in fact, masculinist readings of Les liaisons which form the shell enclosing this empty space. Laclos’s novel is built around a framework that loosely encloses what Kristeva would call the chora (the semiotic) which disrupts (patriarchal) discourse, and which is associated with the maternal or feminine. In place of the ‘‘boulet creux,’’ the figure of the female body could serve as a multiple metaphor for Laclos’s novel. Like Laclos’s text, the body is the stage upon which the battle for control between different levels of opposing discourses is waged. The image of a woman’s body as text comes up time and again, not only in Les Liaisons dangereuses, but also in Riccoboni’s and Burney’s novels where the conflict between social constraints and expectations is acted out on the heroine’s body. The corporeality of the struggle between private desires and social expectation is tightly woven into their discussion of authority. The woman’s body/text does not enclose a hollow or an absence, but rather an interior desire whose fullness society continually and somewhat unsuccessfully attempts to suppress, repress, and contain through discourse. The use of the female body to stage this battle between the individual and society, between the public and the private, makes clear the connection between a socially mediated identity as an implicitly feminized one. The ongoing struggle against the socially gendered

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mediated identity is inscribed figuratively and literally on the body/ text, to be read by all. Laclos’s novel, then, is structured in the feminine. His deep affinity with women writers and identification with women’s difficult position is demonstrated in his treatment of subject matter long of interest to women writers. When considered as a whole, the diverse elements making up the Les liaisons—the epistolary form, the rhetoric, the subject matter, the opposing discourses, and mise en question of common socially accepted gender conventions, combined with the absence of a clear controlling vision—tie Les liaisons to a long line of novels as practiced by women using these same tools and writing on these same issues. Laclos draws on a long tradition of feminine novelistic discourse and pushes its consequences to the limit. There can be no doubt that Laclos draws on work by writers such ´billon fils, Richardson, and Rousseau. He slyly writes against as Cre their grain, exaggerating and condensing parts of their works to bring their inconsistencies to the fore. However, for a more nuanced and less unified and artificially coherent vision of the world, Laclos turns to Riccoboni’s and Burney’s works, which serve as both as a model and sounding board at a deeper level. Riccoboni, Burney, and Laclos explore the conflict between desire and structure (society, convention, language) in similar ways. Embedded in conventional plots, resistance to patriarchal constructs can be found in the female characters’ refusal to follow convention blindly and in their attempt to assume responsibility for themselves. The way that Riccoboni’s and Burney’s work is imbricated in Laclos’s reveals his relationship as one of affiliation and not one of opposition. In fact, Laclos reacted to women’s texts very differently than to those of his male models. Although he extended and compressed events, rewrote plots, and incorporated characters in different combinations in order to create his own representation of the world (as he did with Rousseau and Richardson) he did so in a manner which allowed him not to set himself up as a rival or disciple, but rather as a successor. Laclos’s astute readings of women’s as well as men’s texts led him to write a novel that fused the techniques of a full novelistic tradition (male and female). Laclos drew upon sentimental and libertine discourses, male and female, to create a truly dialogical text which defies any attempt to construct a unified interpretation. The women’s texts with which his novel converses remain unnamed, but they are used to ground Laclos’s criticism of male-authored novelistic models.

2 From Nature to Life SUSAN BURNEY WROTE TO HER SISTER FRANCES IN JULY 1778, RELATING a conversation between Dr. Burney and Mrs. Thrale: ‘‘Your mother [Mrs. Burney],’’ said my father, ‘‘was telling Mrs. Thrale she was sure she would be greatly entertain’d by reading Madame Riccoboni’s novels—there was so much human nature in them—’’ ‘‘Well,’’ said Mrs. Thrale—‘‘I don’t know how much of human nature there may be in Mad[ame] Riccoboni, but I am sure there’s a great deal of human life in this book, and of the manners of the present time. It’s writ by somebody that knows the top and the bottom, the highest and lowest of mankind—It’s very good language, and there’s an infinite deal of fun in it.’’—1

Mrs. Thrale was, of course, referring to Frances Burney’s newly published and very popular Evelina, but exactly which of Riccoboni’s novels Mrs. Burney lent to Mrs. Thrale is not known. Riccoboni’s novels were widely read throughout Europe. One hundred years past the height of Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni’s popularity, her books were still in circulation although soon her works would no longer be reprinted as her mode and style of representation increasingly fell short of the standards for nineteenth-century realist ´ ne ` s Doudan, former tutor to Mme de aesthetics. In 1869, Xime Sta¨el’s son, recommended Riccoboni’s works to his niece, Mlle Gavard. Reacting to her lukewarm reception of them, Doudan replies: Je vous trouve un peu froide pour les volumes de madame Riccoboni. ´, mais les pastels un peu efface ´s sont Cela est lent et pas vivement colore quelquefois bien jolis. Ils laissent a` l’imagination a` remettre ¸ca et la` les teintes qui ont paˆli.2 [I find you a bit cold toward madame Riccoboni’s volumes. The work moves slowly and is not highly colored, but her somewhat faded pastels

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are sometimes quite beautiful. They leave the imagination room to add here and there tones which have paled.]

The use of ‘‘pastel’’ with its muted tone is curious in reference to Riccoboni’s novels, portraying as they do strong women and strident critiques of patriarchal attitudes. The word evokes a mildness out of keeping with the decisive feministic texts that she wrote. Riccoboni’s work fully partakes in the Enlightenment discussion of the role and place of women in society. Her texts stage a protest against then-current cultural practices as well as offer alternatives to them. How, then, can they be described in terms of ‘‘pastels un peu ef´s’’ [somewhat faded pastels]? face The key to the textual relationship between Riccoboni and Burney can be found in both of these exchanges. Although Thrale had not yet read the Frenchwoman’s novels, she effectively hit upon the connection and difference between the two women authors, which resides in the shift from Riccoboni’s portrayal of an innate nature to Burney’s representation of the complications of life as well as in the shift in novelistic poetics. Riccoboni depicts an innate moral female nature. She seeks to demonstrate that sentimentality and reason are not mutually exclusive categories and not necessarily tied to a woman’s physical virtue, but to her moral sense. Riccoboni’s heroines are, for the most part, wise and witty women who navigate the dangerous social waters with aplomb. She sought to depict the innate superior moral nature of women in all of her novels that often translated into an already acquired ‘‘savoir faire’’ in the social realm. In L’Abeille (1761–65), a compilation of various literary pieces modeled on the Spectator, Riccoboni writes, ‘‘Les hommes sont ˆmes’’ [men are raised, and ´leve ´s, et les femmes s’e ´le `vent elles-me e women raise themselves]. It is not merely a question of education, although she does protest the social prejudice that restricts women’s access to any knowledge of substance. For the French writer, women are able to ‘‘raise’’ themselves because of their innate sense of social justice. What concerned Riccoboni most was the recognition of the inequity between a woman’s and man’s social condition. Her heroines protested society’s double standard in regard to men’s and women’s behavior. The superior female sense of social justice is based on women’s sensitive sympathetic identification with others and more sensitive sense of justice. These innate gender attributes allow her characters to navigate, if not overcome, the dif-

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ficulties of a gendered existence in a biased, unjust, and maleoriented society. Burney was not so sanguine about the ability of women to negotiate the restrictive and repressive social milieu successfully with or without the benefit of a strong social formation. If Riccoboni’s heroines do not always transcend the petty, difficult, and sometimes dangerous social situations, they at least hold their own. The French writer uses these confrontations between genders, between an individual woman and society, as a springboard to comment on the larger and more abstract social injustice underlying them. Burney’s heroines live in a far more complicated fictional world. They do not have the luxury of the critical distance Riccoboni affords hers. The Englishwoman’s heroines, less socially knowledgeable or not, are often overwhelmed, inextricably caught up by unreasoned social prejudice and dictates. The English writer demonstrates the difficulties inherent in any social encounter for experienced or inexperienced young women alike. The focus in Burney’s text is on the difficult process of any ‘‘self’’ education and on potential pitfalls only narrowly avoided. Where Riccoboni’s heroines were adept at manipulating social situations to their advantage, Burney’s were plunged deep into difficulties and embarrassing situations, the very messiness of life. Riccoboni’s more abstract protest against social injustice may seem ‘‘pale’’ beside the latter, but the difference does not mean a radical break between the two modes of representation. On the contrary, Burney’s more ‘‘realistic’’ mode builds upon Riccoboni’s more idealistic one, a connection that can clearly be seen in the textual relationship between Riccoboni’s and Burney’s texts. Burney both shares the Frenchwoman’s outrage at gendered social inequalities and questions her general and often idealized representation of women’s experience in a patriarchal world by drawing on inherent ambiguities and secondary plot lines embedded in Riccoboni’s novels that underscore her social criticism. The point where Riccoboni’s and Burney’s work overlaps and diverges reveals the dialogical aspect of their work. Reading Ricco` Mylady Henriette boni’s Lettres de Mylady Juliette Catesby a ` Sir Campley, son amie (1769) and Lettres de Mylord Rivers a Charles Cardigan, entremeˆle´es d’une partie de ses correspondances ` Londres pendant son se´jour en France (1777) with Burney’s Evela ina, or, The History of a Young Lady’s Entrance into the World (1778) opens up new perspectives of meaning for them all. The dy-

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namic created by such a reading is, in part, a palimpsestic one. The ` lu which the reader experiences at certain moelement of de´ja ments while reading Burney sharpens the bite of social criticism in both women’s novels at the same time as the parallel reading lends a greater poignancy to Burney’s. The shared and rewritten plot-related aspects of the novels in question function on two levels. The first is an exploration of the gendering of authority and authorial identity inside and outside of the novels. The second works at a deeper level where shared plot and theme suggest structural allegories of the problematic position of woman as author. The prise de position, publicity, and consequences of assuming authority of any kind is problematic for both author and character alike. Before turning to the texts themselves, a brief biographical overview of Riccoboni and Burney will prove useful in establishing the context in which these novels were written.

MARIE-JEANNE RICCOBONI Riccoboni holds an important, but usually unacknowledged, transitional place in the development of the novel. She is recognized by critics as one of two novelists who wrote analytical novels ´vost and between the end of the ‘‘golden age’’ of Marivaux and Pre Rousseau. She played a pivotal role in preparing the way for the vogue that followed in the wake of Rousseau’s sentimental Julie ou ´vost, Riccoboni is considered to La Nouvelle He´loı¨se. Along with Pre have started the wave of Anglomania that swept France for a period in the middle of the century.3 Widely read in England and other European countries, she was one of the best-selling authors in the eighteenth century, second in popularity only to Rousseau. Her works allowed for a mingling of English and French literature, theater, and philosophy. Riccoboni counted Diderot, Holbach, Hume, Gibbon, and Smith among her friends as well as Garrick and Walpole. Her peers, ´ron, and La Harpe, judged her work superior to most Grimm, Fre novels of the time and Grimm’s Correspondance Litte´raire even preferred Riccoboni’s continuation of Marivaux’s La Vie de Marianne to the original (6:276).4 Adam Smith thought highly of her work:

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The poets and romance writers, who best paint the refinements and delicacies of love and friendship, and of all other private and domestic affections, Racine and Voltaire, Richardson, Marivaux and Riccoboni, are, in such cases, much better instructors than Zeno, Chrysippus, or Epictetus.5 (emphasis added)

´tif de la Bretonne used Riccoboni’s style as a standard against Re which to measure his own work (Monsieur Nicholas), Madame du Deffand disdained the genre of the novel but made allowances for Lesage, Marivaux, and Riccoboni; and Madame de Genlis considered the latter part of the eighteenth century impoverished because Voltaire and Riccoboni were no longer writing. Riccoboni’s works were judged to be of such quality that one critic refused to believe that they were hers. Palissot, taking on Riccoboni in imitation of Pope’s ridicule of Eliza Haywood, denies Riccoboni’s claim to authorship in ‘‘La Dunciade.’’ She will be part of the Amazon battalion of women writers surrounding the goddess Stupidity: Elle y viendra cette Ricc-b-ni, Qui n’a point fait le Marquis de Cressy Qui n’a point fait les Lettres de Fanni, Qui n’a point fait Juliette Catesbi.6 [She will come, this Ricc-b-ni, Who did not write the Marquis de Cressy Who did not write the Letters of Fanni, Who did not write Juliette Catesbi.]

Palissot was of the opinion that the books were too well written to have been authored by a woman. He continues with an all too traditional moral attack on Riccoboni’s lifestyle, a particularly vulnerable point for women in general, but all the more so for a woman novelist and one that spent quite a few years on the stage. ´e de Heurlas de Laboras de Me ´zie `res Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni ne came into the world in Paris in 1713, the daughter of Christopher Nicolas de Heurlas and Marie-Marguerite Dujac.7 She was deprived of her birthright when it was discovered that her father had previously taken marriage vows. His second relationship was annulled by court order in 1714 when he was ordered to return to his first wife. Riccoboni lived with her mother until she was sent to be educated at a convent, which she left at fourteen to return

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home. The relationship between mother and daughter was far from happy. In a letter to her friend David Garrick, Riccoboni suggests that she saw her marriage in 1734 to Antoine-Franc¸ois Riccoboni, the son of the celebrated actor Luigi Riccoboni, as a way to escape her mother: ‘‘I listened to the first man who held out the hope of a more pleasant companionship.’’8 Perhaps in an attempt to escape her mother, she married. The marriage was not a happy one and, in 1755, after numerous separations, Marie-Jeanne left her hus`re with her friend band to move into lodgings on rue de la Poissionie ´re `se Biancolelli. Pooling their meager and fellow actress Marie-The ´ die Italienne, Biancolelli and Riccoboni pensions from La Come lived together in semi-seclusion until the death of Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni in 1783. Riccoboni was never entirely free of her obligations and, when her mother fell upon hard times, she moved in with her daughter, generally making her life miserable. Riccoboni was not only financially responsible for her mother but also, even though separated, for her profligate husband who ran up substantial debts. Although initially well received as an actress, her popularity declined soon afterwards. Still, she persevered in her profession until the income from her first three books allowed her to retire in 1761.9 Riccoboni’s first foray into literature began in 1751 with a deft turn of narrative transvestism. The Frenchwoman’s coming to writing involved imitating a man imitating a female voice when she wrote a sequel to Marivaux’s La Vie de Marianne. Riccoboni had heard the critic Poulain de Saint Foix declare in her presence Marivaux’s style inimitable, and she set out to prove him wrong. Writing as Marivaux, using his authority as a mask for her writing, the actress succeeded in not only imitating a master prose stylist, but significantly changed his characters. In effect, she ‘‘continued’’ Marivaux’s novel in such a manner as to encode her criticisms of it in the text; there is greater female solidarity in Riccoboni’s continuation, Marianne is less naive and a bit cruel, and Valville is less a sentimental figure than a feckless bounder.10 It was met with such public approval that Marivaux felt obliged to reveal the name of the real author. Finding confidence in public approbation of her pastiche of Marivaux, Riccoboni published her first novel in 1757, Lettres de Mis` Milord Charles Alfred, Comte d’Erford albeit triss Fanni Butlerd a anonymously.11 She quickly followed with two more best-sellers. In 1758 she brought out Histoire de Monsieur Marquis de Cressy, and

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the following year her third novel, Lettres de Milady Juliette ` Mylady Henriette Campley, son amie, appeared. In a reCatesby a view of Catesby in Correspondence litte´raire, her name was given as the author. All of her subsequent works were published under her own name, but she was always sensitive to her precarious position as a writer. Catesby proved to be the most popular of her novels, going through eleven editions in three years for a total of twenty-one in all, with a supplement of fifteen pirated editions. Catesby was second only to La Nouvelle He´loı¨se in reeditions. Riccoboni went on to publish two very long novels, Histoire de Miss ` Mylady, Comtesse de RoscoJenny, ´e crite et envoye´e par elle a ` la Cour de Dannemark in monde, Ambassadrice d’Angleterre a ` Louise-Hortense 1764, and Lettres d’Elisabeth-Sophie de Vallie`re a de Canteleu, son amie in 1771, the novella Histoire d’Ernestine in 1765, two shorter novels, Lettres d’ Ade´laı¨de de Dammartin, Com` Monsieur le Comte de Nance´, son ami in 1766, tesse de Sancerre, a ` Sir Charles Cardigan, entremeˆle´es and Lettres de Mylord Rivers a ` Londres pendant son se´jour d’une partie de ses correspondances a en France in 1777, a collection of miscellaneous pieces in 1772, a collection of plays translated from English with the help of Biancoˆtre Anglais in 1768–69, and lastly, four nolelli, Le Nouveau The´a vellas in 1779–80. Riccoboni was in her forties when she published her first novel, ´sir de quitter la the reason for doing so was, in her words, ‘‘Le de ´die, de vivre sans assujettissement m’a conduit `a e ´crire . . .’’ come [the desire to leave the stage, to live without subjection, led me to take up the pen . . .].12 Riccoboni achieved a limited financial independence when she was unexpectedly awarded an annuity of two thousand livres by Louis XV in June 1772 through the intervention of Madame Du Barry. This financial boon combined with her diminished financial responsibilities—the death of her mother in 1769, and that of her husband in 1772—allowed her to stop writing for the public, although she kept up her private correspondence and her translations. Writing was an anxious enterprise for Riccoboni, who took great care with her texts. She worked and reworked her prose until she felt it acceptable for publication. The public nature of both of Riccoboni’s professions caused her great anxiety, and the Frenchwoman was relieved when she no longer had to brave public comment on stage or on her literary production. In a letter to Robert Liston, Riccoboni conflates the two professions when she wrote

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‘‘my book is going to appear. I see it fall, spurned, booed, torn to pieces and dragged through the mud. These images torment me upon each work.’’13 Her fear of critical reception is couched in strangely physical terms and seems more appropriate to a performance than to a book. She was always conscious of the exposure writing gave her and the opportunities for public censure they entailed. As a woman author and actress, Riccoboni was particularly susceptible to criticism for indelicacy. Though one critic, Elie-Cather´ron, generally admired Riccoboni’s novels, he found certain ine Fre situations portrayed in Sancerre and Fanni Butlerd inappropriately ´ron was taken aback by the expression authored by a woman.14 Fre of female desire and offended by the independence of her heroines.15 The expression of a woman’s physical desire accompanying a spiritual one for love and a fierce independence point to the nature of her writing. The depiction of a woman’s desire combined with the representation of the female condition in society makes Riccoboni’s works an important part of the literary inheritance of Burney and Laclos. Her uniqueness lies not only in her portrayal of ‘‘private and domestic affection,’’ as well as in her exploration of the difficulty women had in maintaining boundaries between the private and the public, but also in her focus on the body. At first glance Riccoboni’s novels belong to a group of novels that can be termed ‘‘feminocentric.’’16 According to O. Cragg, ‘‘the novel by Mme Riccoboni does not stand out from many other like works which also have recourse to the same ideological issues of the period.’’17 Yet under the conventional mode of Riccoboni’s novels lie criticism of the very literary beliefs which makeup its composition. To use Nancy Miller’s term, the ‘‘emphasis’’ is displaced, and this displacement is what differentiates them from novels of seduction written by men.18 Riccoboni’s emphasis is on the agency of women, their active participation in the marriage plot, and the mixed nature of marriage as resolution. Riccoboni challenges the duality of a ‘‘weaker’’ and a ‘‘stronger’’ sex through the redistribution and reversal of these gendered adjectives.19 In addition, Riccoboni’s novels stress the importance of female friendship, a theme which—except for Richardson’s Clarissa and Anna Howe—is mainly neglected in men’s writing of women’s relationship with women, the stress being on the competition between women for men. Riccoboni’s emphasis on female solidarity, or the need for it, is apparent from her very first foray into writing. If the endings of Riccoboni’s novels often question the possibility of a successful

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conjugal love through their strangely open structure, the importance of female friendship is never in doubt. Although Riccoboni demonstrates little interest in changing the basic structures of society, she does aim for gender parity in society’s treatment of women and a modification of men’s behavior. Her subversive narrative techniques such as double plotting and the manipulation of graphics (typefaces), for example, are what made her important to Burney and Laclos. These two writers bring out, exaggerate, and explore themes and problems raised in Riccoboni’s work at the same time as they test the solutions she proposed.

FRANCES BURNEY: DIFFERENT GROUND Frances Burney was born in 1752 to Charles Burney, author and musician, and his first wife, who died when Frances Burney was ten. Charles Burney soon remarried although the stepmother was not well-liked by her new family. In 1768, Frances wrote a first novel never to be published, a prequel to Evelina that told the story of Evelina’s mother Caroline, which she later burnt, vowing to never write again. Her second novel, Evelina, written and published anonymously in 1778, met with great success to the delight of her father. However, the popularity of this first published novel impeded her writing. Ironically it was the very success of Evelina that made writing so difficult for Burney. Along with the pressure to repeat her success, Burney foundered under new social demands which left her little time for work. She wrote her second novel, Ce´cilia or Memoirs of an Heiress (1782), hastily in between social responsibilities. In 1786, Burney reluctantly accepted a position as Second Keeper of the Robes to Queen Charlotte at the urging of her father, who saw it as a way to social advancement. Unhappy, Burney stopped writing and suffered through five years of service during which her health declined. It was only after falling seriously ill that she was able to leave her position, which she likened to forced labor. In 1793, against her father’s wishes, Burney married ´, General d’Arblay. The money Burney a penniless French emigre earned from her third novel, Camilla (1796), gave the couple a small measure of financial independence. The Arblays had one son and moved to France after the Revolution, where Burney found herself trapped. Unable to leave France until 1812 because of the war, she worked on her final novel, The Wanderer, which she then

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published in 1814 upon her return to England. Once back, Frances Burney, in the manner of Riccoboni, semiretired from writing. Like Riccoboni, Burney turned from direct publication toward mediated or private forms of writing. She devoted herself to her diaries and letters as well as a work on a biography of her father. Burney outlived both her son and her husband to die in 1840. Most critical studies of Burney’s works have relied on her heavily self-censored diaries to shed light upon her novels. Often the association of a fictional text to the life of the author has had the unhappy effect of reducing the critical impact of the text in question. The result of this oversimplification can be seen in different ways. First, the social criticism evident in Burney’s (or likewise Laclos’s and Riccoboni’s for that matter) is weakened when solely linked to personal life experience. Second (for women writers particularly), writing from life diminishes the part intention played in the creation of a given work. The convention that women write from nature (the body), renders them vulnerable to gender bias. Fortunately the focus has shifted from Burney’s biography to a more complete examination of her fictional work. The rediscovery of Burney’s fiction by scholars has sparked a lively discussion reminiscent of those concerning Riccoboni and Laclos. Through the current studies of Burney’s fiction, the texts are revealed to be more complicated and sophisticated than the simple and rather poorly written domestic novels they had previously been taken to be. Yet critical consensus is far from unanimous. There are many diverse readings of Burney’s texts ranging from the vision of an overly conservative Frances Burney to one that is overtly feminist. A sampling of recent reevaluations of Burney by critics shows the concentration of deep-seated anger and fear underlying a surface text (Joanna Cutting-Gray, Judith Lowder Newton, Susan Staves, and Kristina Straub) while others (Martha G. Brown) attribute any feministic elements to the genre of romance. On the other hand, Katherine Rodgers sees Burney not as a rebel but as a convention-bound woman overly concerned with propriety. Julia Epstein, finding Burney consciously feminist, disagrees and argues that Burney explores sexual ideologies behind the propriety masking the internal rage apparent in the burlesque episodes. Conversely, Brown classifies Burney’s work as sentimental, dismissing as superfluous the element of farce so evident in Evelina. Margaret Doody, however, demonstrates how farce, an in-

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tegral element of Burney’s fiction, serves a subversive and liberating purpose. Frances Burney situates herself with respect to her predecessors and stakes out a place for herself in the preface to Evelina: Yet, while in the annals of those few of our predecessors [novelists] to whom this species of writing is indebted for being saved from contempt, and rescued from depravity, we can trace such names as Rousseau, Johnson, Marivaux, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollet [sic], no man need blush at starting from the same post though many, nay, most men, may sigh at finding themselves distanced. . . . In books . . . imitation cannot be shunned too sedulously; for the very perfection of a model which is frequently seen, serves but more forcibly to mark the inferiority of a copy . . . however zealous, therefore, my veneration of the great writers I have mentioned, however I may feel myself enlightened by the knowledge of Johnson, charmed with the eloquence of Rousseau, softened by the pathetic powers of Richardson, and exhilarated by the wit of Fielding, and humour of Smollet [sic]; I yet presume not to attempt pursuing the same ground which they have tracked; whence, though they may have cleared the weeds, they have also culled the flowers, and though they have rendered the path plain they have left it barren.20

While associating herself with the most celebrated male writers of her time, Burney distances herself from them and points to another source of novel writing, women’s novelistic tradition. Female modesty did not permit Burney to claim equality with male writers, nor to publicize herself and other women writers. The path she took is not that of Rousseau, Richardson, Marivaux, and Johnson, but another as yet unnamed. It is an alternate path. One that, like the name of the author, is silenced yet leaves a trace. Evelina is viewed by many critics as a text that owes either little to preceding writers or a great deal. One disputed literary source is believed to have been Haywood’s Miss Betsy Thoughtless (1751). Though there are a number of parallels in characters and plot, one notes striking differences in Betsy’s and Evelina’s development, not the least of which is the lack of humor in the Haywood novel, a mode highly developed in Burney.21 Until Evelina the usual path followed by a young heroine consisted of an early grievous error and a later repentance. ‘‘Heroines, as Margaret Doody points out, who are not paragons have a story because they commit errors.’’22 Evelina is no paragon, but the story of her coming-to-be does not rely on her mistakes as does Betsy’s. Rather, Burney takes her clue from

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Riccoboni when she uses the trials of her young heroine growing up to reflect the errors in society rather than any fault in the young woman’s character. Evelina’s letters show her increasingly acquiring maturity. Whereas Betsy knows the social rules, but often ignores them, Evelina is ignorant of such codes and amends her behavior only when they are made clear to her. Erickson remarks ‘‘Evelina . . . never questions the standards of society; not whether, but how to conform is her problem. . . . Evelina’s lust to conform is, to the modern reader, maddening.’’23 Evelina might not question the standards of society, but this does not mean Burney follows her pattern. In fact, one could say that Evelina’s first reaction to situations is from nature and her learned response is from life. For Evelina, motherless and unrecognized by her father, conformation to society’s strictures is hard-won knowledge and the only way to survive. Another important difference between Haywood’s novel and Burney’s is the emphasis on romance. The mode holds a much more important place in Haywood’s novel, while love takes up a relatively small portion of narrative in a novel where entire sections are devoted to other topics. ‘‘Like Smollett, but with more emphasis on the everyday, and less on the picaresque, Fanny Burney seeks to ‘mark the manners of her times.’ ’’24 Sharon B. Footerman writes: In fact there is little in common between Betsy, an impulsive, warm hearted coquette with an ideological scorn of the world’s opinion, and the prudish snobbery of Evelina. There is indeed no evidence whatever to show that Fanny Burney knew of Mrs. Haywood’s novel.25

In opposition to the Burney and Haywood connection, Footerman sees Burney’s closer tie to Riccoboni than to Haywood. Footerman rejects Miss Betsy Thoughtless as the primary source of inspiration for Evelina. It is, rather, Riccoboni’s Histoire de Miss Jenny (1764) according to Footerman that serves as a major source for Burney’s novel. Footerman argues that the influence is so strong as to ‘‘be little short of plagiarism.’’26 Although I agree with Footerman that Riccoboni’s works were important to the formation of Burney as a writer, I situate the ‘‘influence’’ at a deeper level than a shared plot device. As Burney herself states, ‘‘imitation cannot be shunned too sedulously; for the very perfection of a model which is frequently seen; serves but more forcibly to mark the inferiority of a copy’’ (preface to Evelina). If imitation of a model is

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shunned by Burney as being inferior, one can see by her work that the exploration and permutation of motifs found in another writer’s text is not. In other words, Riccoboni’s works served more as a point of departure for Burney than as a model. The fact that Footerman sees Miss Jenny as a source of the story of Evelina does not preclude Miss Bestsy Thoughtless as an influence. Miss Betsy Thoughtless was popular in France and was translated as L’Etourdie, ou Histoire de Miss Bestsy Tatless [sic] in 1754. The influence may not be as direct as critics such as Erickson or Foster claim, but by way of Riccoboni as a reader of Haywood. More important than plot device is the social cynicism and irony coloring Burney’s work that can be traced to the French mode of writing. The prevalence of comedy, cynicism, and sentiment in Burney’s novels reveal their affiliation with the French tradition. More important, another element integral to Burney’s aesthetic can be traced to Riccoboni. The comic as well as brutal violence that is so disturbing in Evelina is present to a lesser degree in two of Riccoboni’s texts in particular. ` Sir Charles Cardigan and Riccoboni’s Lettres de Mylord Rivers a Juliette Catesby represent multiple incidents of misogynist violence that threaten to break through social controls. The menace of violence is with one or two notable exceptions held in check by the wit and vision of the female protagonists. This mature vision is what Burney’s Evelina will develop and it will allow her to grow and adapt to the society in which she lives. The point at which violence is averted through female agency is the focus of Burney’s interest in Riccoboni’s work. And it is at these intersections that the textual exchange is the most interesting. Burney, an astute reader of Riccoboni, found more than a simple sentimental plot in these two French novels. She uses Riccoboni’s implicit criticism of society’s treatment and education of women and, at the same time, calls into question Riccoboni’s self-assured heroines. Through Burney’s unformed heroine, she is able to show at what price this social knowledge is bought. Current feminist literary criticism has taken up the previously neglected areas of the suppressed anger in Burney’s novels as well as their comic side. The source of violent comedy is usually attributed to Burney’s reading of Smollett and Fielding as well as to the conventions of Restoration comedies.27 In Evelina the violence is mostly the result of the heroine’s passivity. A situation with a potential for violence develops whenever the heroine chooses not to act but to defer to someone else. In order to extricate herself from a

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situation which could have been avoided earlier, Evelina is forced to react. The resulting social embarrassment is the consequence of her inappropriate and socially unacceptable behavior. The ludic and violent modes that undercut the conventional sentimental text that Evelina was previously considered to be (and which are so difficult to explain away) need to be read alongside Riccoboni’s text for a new perspective.28 ` Sir Charles Cardigan is, Riccoboni’s Lettres de Mylord Rivers a to use Versini’s term, a ‘‘polyphonic’’ epistolary novel. This philosophical novel in which the love story is relegated to second place is an anomaly in the body of her work. The text was translated into English by Scotsdale and published the same year as Evelina, 1778, but was available to Burney earlier in the French edition, 1776. David Garrick and Diderot were mutual friends of the Burneys and Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni. It is highly probable that novels and personal letters were circulated among them. The eldest Burney girls were educated in France (Frances being the sole exception) and might have very well met with Riccoboni, as one critic suggests. Another connection was through Frances Brooke, a friend of the Burneys, who translated into English the immensely popular Letters from Miss Juliette Catesby, and was actually recommended for the job by David Garrick. In Mylord Rivers the correspondence is carried out between four principal characters: Rivers, Adeline Rutland, Lady Mary, and Lady Orrery. Through their letters the reader learns that a young Englishman, Rivers, has gone on an extended stay in France as a way to avoid his ward, with whom he has fallen in love, Adeline Rutland, who, unbeknownst to him, shares his sentiments. Neither one will admit their feelings to the other. It is through the agency of Rivers’s female friends, Lady Mary and Lady Orrery, that the couple are finally united. One-third of the novel’s letters are addressed to Rivers’s friend, Cardigan (whose letters are not included). They contain the philosophic content of the novel. Although the number of letters exchanged by Rivers and Adeline is comparatively small (a total of nine letters), they drew Burney’s attention. Letter XIX from Adeline to Rivers in which she describes how she narrowly averts a potentially dangerous and embarrassing situation through her social adroitness is especially to be noted. Beyond superficial similarities, reading Burney alongside Riccoboni brings the intricate interplay between Evelina, Mylord Rivers, and Juliette Catesby to the surface. Drawing on Riccoboni’s social

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criticism, Burney pulls out key elements not in question in these two Riccoboni novels—social class, education, and economic issues—and makes them the center of her rewriting. In the French novels, the question of pedigree and finances are mentioned only briefly in order to situate Adeline and Juliette for the reader. Riccoboni’s focus is rather on her characters’ adept ability to manipulate people and social situations as a platform to discuss gender prejudice and social injustice. In other words, Riccoboni’s characters find empowerment in their innate knowledge of what is right in combination with their sophistication.29 Their privileged social position is a given. Burney, on the other hand, brings to the fore the importance of the background material in Riccoboni’s story: social position, experience, financial independence. The English author cynically examines a situation where the protagonist does not share Adeline’s or Juliette’s attributes and brings class consciousness into the mix. She rewrites the French author’s premise with two significant changes. Burney gives Evelina a precarious, unstable social ´. position along with a hefty dose of naivete

FEMALE AGENCY For Riccoboni, propriety is not only an oppressive force but one that also functions as a social check on the tension underlying any social gathering. Woman’s innate natural civilizing influence is demonstrated through her adroit social manipulations. Nonetheless, the reader perceives the pressure towards an eruption of violence, emotional or physical, that menaces the characters. Riccoboni’s protagonists avoid the breakdown of social controls through their actions. Yet, where a call for and defense of female agency, however difficult, is the center of the Frenchwoman’s novels, Burney’s lesson is one of women’s social impotence. For Burney, women are not simply the bone of contention between two men as they are in Riccoboni’s work, they are now the object, the target, of physical abuse. An illustration of the escalation of violence in the passage from Riccoboni’s to Burney’s representation of society can be found in a comparison of an episode in Riccoboni’s Mylord Rivers to one in Burney’s Evelina. In Riccoboni’s Mylord Rivers, Adeline Rutland is a guest at a dinner where the conversation turns to a discussion of a ball to be held the next evening. Present at the dinner are Sir Edmond and Sir

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`rent `a me deRichard: ‘‘tout de suite les deux baronets s’empresse mander l’honneur de danser avec moi’’ (Riccoboni’s italics) [right away the two baronets hurried to ask for the honor of the danse]. ´pondais point Adeline prefers not to reply: ‘‘Je me taisois, je ne re ´tendants’’ [I remained silent, aux instances mutuelles des deux pre I did not answer the suitors mutual demands]. Her silence offends Sir Edmond, who orders her to decide between them: ´ cider entr’eux; mais avec des expressions si exiIl me conjura de de ´rieur, un de ´dain si marque ´ pour Sir Richard, en geantes, un ton si supe laissant paroitre tant de surprise de me voir balancer, qu’en ce moment ´clarer en faveur de l’un ou l’autre, ce n’eut pas e ´te ´ faire un choix, me de ´ de Sir Edmond. mais conformer `a la volonte [He begged me to decide between them; but with such exigency, such a superior tone and with such marked disdain for Sir Richard, all while expressing so much surprise to see my hesitation, that at the moment to declare myself in favor of one or the other, I felt that it would not have been my choice to make, but rather to conform to Sir Edmond’s will.]

Taken aback by Sir Edmond’s attitude, Adeline’s response deftly defers a decision at the same time as it affirms her agency: ‘‘Si je ´glerai point le choix d’un partenaire sur de danse demain, je ne re ´tentions, mais sur ce qui sera de ´cent et convenable’’ hautaines pre [If I dance tomorrow, haughty pretension will not determine the choice of my partner, I will choose according to what will be decent and suitable]. Sir Edmond’s overbearing manner will be held in check by propriety. Riccoboni clearly shows the homosocial gamesmanship inherent in such social formalities with the young women herself as the object at stake.30 The ironic juxtaposition of her position as ‘‘besieged’’ with the formulaic language of a suitor cannot escape the reader as Riccoboni clearly marks it through her use of italics. The next evening Adeline arrives at the ball: ‘‘Je me vois as´ge ´e par une foule d’aspirans a` l’honneur d’eˆtre mon partenaire’’ sie [I see myself beseiged by a crowd of candidates for the honor of being my partner.] The two baronets run, jostle, and, like cowboys with cattle, cut her out of the crowd. Sir Richard approaches first ` saisir ma main’’]. He is disconcerted and tries to seize her hand [‘‘a at her polite refusal. Sir Edmond takes this as his triumph, ‘‘Le fier ´cossais jouit sans pitie ´ de la confusion de son rival, augmente ´ par e

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un souris malin’’ [With a nasty smile, the proud Scot pitilessly took advantage of his rivals confusion]. Her refusal to dance with either man is a refusal of an objectified position at the same time as it is an affirmation of her desire, which excludes both of them. For these male characters as well as for men in general, a woman’s words have meaning only in relation to a male referent and her desire has value in reference to a man; a woman remaining without a man and, by implication, without signification is not an option. Later on Adeline laments: ‘‘C’est donc ´missible devant les hommes de ne pas se marier?’’ [Is un crime irre it such an irremediable crime in the eyes of men for a woman to not marry?] (letter XXVII). Her enforced passivity is underlined by the contrast in the physical action implicit in the male role and is clearly demonstrated in her vocabulary: she is ‘‘besieged,’’ her hand is ‘‘seized,’’ the men run, push, and jostle, and so on. Adeline can only refuse and reclaim her hand from Sir Richard. The use of the words ‘‘s’efforcer’’ [to force oneself] and ‘‘adoucir mon refus’’ [soften my refusal] emphasize the constraining and aggressive nature of convention. These words provoke a disturbing physical reaction from the two men. Adeline is fully aware of her ability to unleash passion in the men in a social situation through her actions and yet she is unable to make her wishes heard. The quandary in which Adeline finds herself is reminiscent of a similar episode in a novella by Riccoboni, Histoire d’ Ernestine (1772). The advice and commentary given by an older, unmarried woman to a younger one who is caught in an untenable position applies equally well to Adeline.31 `re amie, vous ne les connoissez pas [les hommes], lui disoitO, ma che ´tendent forme ´s pour vous guide ´, soutenir, prote ´ger un elle; ils se pre sexe timide & faible: cependant eux seuls l’attaquent, entretiennent sa ´, & profitent de sa foiblesse: ils ont fait entr’eux d’injustes contimidite ventions pour asservir les femmes, les soumettre a` un dur empire; ils ´ des devoirs, ils leurs donnent des lois, & par une bileur ont impose ˆmes. (Ernestine, 40) ´voltante, ne ´e de l’amour d’eux-me zarrerie re [Oh, my dear friend, you do not know men, she told her: they pretend that they are here to guide, support, and protect the timid and weaker sex: however they are the only ones who attack it, encourage timidity, and benefit from the sex’s weakness: they fashioned amongst themselves these unjust conventions to subdue women, to subjugate them to

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a harsh regime; they imposed the duties, and they gave women laws born out of male egoism.]32

It is exactly the manipulation of these ‘‘unjust conventions to subdue women’’ that Adeline is so adept at, a manipulation she will turn against the two men. Sir Richard, disconcerted at Adeline’s refusal and provoked by the triumphant ‘‘mean smile’’ of Sir Edmond, lets the social mask ` re se peignent sur le front’’ [shame and slip: ‘‘la honte et la cole anger displayed themselves on his forehead]. Adeline’s choice becomes the pivotal moment in the episode, underlined by the series of verbs enclosed in independent clauses: ‘‘le bal s’interrompt, l’at´e est fixe ´e, mon choix en devient l’objet’’ tention de toute l’assemble [the ball was interrupted, the attention of the assembly was fixed on my choice]. The danger inherent in this seemingly innocuous social setting does not escape Adeline: ‘‘Je sens le danger d’acˆ tre funestes au ´ rence dont les suites peuvent e corder une pre´ fe deux rivaux . . .’’ [I feel the danger in declaring a preference when the consequences could be regrettable for the two rivals]. The possibility of a duel is suggested by the adjective ‘‘funestes’’ (a word that means fatal as well as deplorable or regrettable) yet left unarticulated, the sentence moving on to say: ‘‘elle va paraıˆtre a` tant de ´moins l’aveu d’un sentiment que Sir Edmond ne m’inspire pas’’ te [my choice will seem to many witnesses like a sentimental declaration that Sir Edmond does not inspire]. The two parts of the sentence (‘‘Je sens le danger d’accorder une ´fe ´rence dont les suites peuvent eˆtre funestes au deux rivaux; pre ´moins l’aveu d’un sentiment que Sir Edelle va paraıˆtre a` tant de te mond ne m’inspire pas’’ [I feel the danger in declaring a preference when the consequences could be regrettable for the two rivals; my choice will seem to many witnesses like a sentimental declaration that Sir Edmond does not inspire]) are separated by a semicolon, a mode meant to connote both a continuation and a stop. They can be seen as a figure of two worlds, masculine and feminine, which are contiguous yet separate. Both sides of the phrase affect the reading of the other. A first reading suggests an awkward situation which derives from Adeline’s choice. A false impression of a preference for one man over the other would be the result. The second reading underlines the implications and consequences of a false avowal of preference for a man. We as readers of the letters in this collection are privy to the fact that Adeline is under pressure to

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marry Sir Edmond and must continually fight to hold on to her autonomy in refusing him. An admission of preference would make resisting pressure to marry this man so much the more difficult. The young woman may even find herself forced into marriage. ‘‘Funeste’’ thus adds a private meaning to the awkward social consequence of a false preference. The manner in which Adeline narrates the episode underlines her physical separation from other women. Although she is a young woman of quality not permitted to go out in public alone, she is surrounded by men when she enters and must fend for herself. No mention is made of her companions until the end of the incident and she is forced to negotiate this social labyrinth by herself. In a brilliant move, Adeline effectively and creatively diffuses the situaˆvant, bailtion: ‘‘J’apperc¸ois `a un peu de distance mylord Stairs, re lant, dormant `a son ordinaire. Je l’appelle, je lui demande s’il veux danser avec moi?’’ [Not far away, I see mylord Stairs, dreaming, yawning, and sleepy as usual. I call him and ask him if he would like to dance with me]. To leave the circle of potential violence around the two young men, she calls upon someone nonthreatening, an old man no longer dangerous. Because ‘‘Le bon vieux fou’’ [the crazy old man] is no longer a viable player in the social game, a young woman may break the rules and ask him to dance: ‘‘On lui fait place, il me joint, me remercie, rec¸oit ma main `a genoux, & ´ tous ces jeunes pre ´tendans trompe ´s dans leur atregarde en pitie tente’’ [One makes room for him, he joins me, thanks me, on his knee, he receives my hand, and looks with pity upon all the young disappointed suitors]. She has avoided the threat and is rewarded ´clat de rire universel, suivi d’un long with social approbation: ‘‘Un e battement de mains, me fait connoıˆtre que ma bizarrerie apparente ´ ne ´ ralement approuve ´ e’’ [The shout of laughter that broke est ge out, followed by a round of applause, made known to me that my apparently strange behavior was met with general approval]. Her apparent ‘‘bizarrerie’’ mirrors the oddness of the patriarchal conventions in the first place and Adeline proves her mastery of them. Adeline’s control of the situation is reflected not only in the manner in which she narrates, but also in the very inscription of her account. After the tension subsides into acceptable laughter, Ade´tails, mylord line quotes Sir Edmond: ‘‘Je pense vous devoir ces de ´de ´ d’ offense pre´me´dite´, d’af[Rivers], Sir Edmond traite mon proce front public’’ [I think that I owe you these details, mylord, Sir Edmond takes my gesture as a premeditated public affront]. The value

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of italics as a sign of citation is twofold. For the first time Sir Edmond is quoted directly and he now enters her text. At the same time, though, Adeline distances her writing from his words. Ade` l’honneur d’eˆtre line’s repeated ironic use of italics, such as in ‘‘a mon partenaire,’’ underscores the split between conventional polite language that defers to the woman on the one hand, and the reality of practice on the other. The manner in which Adeline uses language to describe and diffuse the situation parallels her reaction to the coercion while she is in the actual situation. The reporting of Sir Edmond’s words also reminds the reader of the seriousness of the incident and underlines his humiliation. If Sir Edmond’s words were destined for a man, they would be cause for redress. However, Adeline is outside the male circuit of honor and in this instance she benefits from this. Burney will seize upon this incident, rewrite it more than once, and include all the disastrous missteps that Adeline avoided. Where the young woman diffuses the potential for violence through her adroit manipulation of social convention, Evelina will be tripped up by it. Adeline can be read as a socially sophisticated version of Evelina. Adeline’s social maturity is evidenced by her strong opinions on women’s condition in the world at the same time as she carefully negotiates the conventions that regulate it. She objects to the different standards of honor in force for men and women, and joins her voice to a long line of Riccoboni’s heroines who chafe against the treatment of women by men. ‘‘Il ne veut pas regarder ma con´cessaire de sa pre ´somption, de l’embarras ou ` duite comme l’effet ne ˆme me mettoit’’ [He does not want to see my behavior as the lui-me result of his presumption, of the difficult situation in which he placed me]. Adeline contends in a singular remark: ‘‘La fac¸on dont ´rente’’ [His opinion of me leaves me il l’envisage m’est bien indiffe indifferent]. She is indifferent to Sir Edmond’s reaction and interpretation of the event for three reasons: first, there is no love on her part for Sir Edmond, she is financially independent, and has the support of public opinion represented by Lady Ormond and Lady Mary. Riccoboni states her criticism most clearly in her first novel, Fanni Butlerd, where Fanni objects to men’s treatment of women: ` tirez-vous le droit de manquer avec ˆtes-vous, hommes? d’ou Eh, qui e ´gards que vous vous imposez entre vous? Quelle loi une femme aux e dans la nature, quelle convention dans un e´ tat vous autorisa jamais

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´ e, cette insolente distinction? Quoi, votre parole simplement donne ´ite ´re ´s vous engage avec le dernier de vos semblables, & vos sermens re ˆtes choisi! (Butlerd, CXVI) ne vous lient point a` l’amie que vous vous e [Eh, who exactly do you think you are, you men? Where do you get the right to treat women differently than you do men? What natural law, what convention of the state authorizes this insolent distinction? What, your word simply given, engages you to the most miserable of men, while your repeated promises do not bind you to the woman that you have chosen for yourself!]

This objection, made in reference to an intimate relationship between Fanni and her lover, applies in general to the relationship men forge with women. For Riccoboni, women are at the mercy of men’s goodwill, which is fickle at best as evidenced by the contrast between the inviolable ‘‘simple parole’’ exchanged between men as ´ite ´re ´s’’ made to women. She opposed to the worthless ‘‘sermens re calls for gender parity and proposes a network of feminine support that would compensate in part for men’s bad faith with regard to women. Confrontations between men and women in Riccoboni’s novels are for the most part private and often are carried out in retrospect. In fact, Adeline’s confrontation with Sir Edmond is unique in Riccoboni’s novels due to its public and contemporaneous nature. The result of the event’s public nature is twofold: it constrains Sir Edmond to follow rules governing propriety, thus limiting his recourse for the insult. It also empowers Adeline through the support of the other women present. There can be no doubt as to the importance of this, as Adeline says as much in her letter to Rivers. Yet the words chosen to convey the information reveal her ambivalent attitude toward the two kinds of support available to her: female solidarity and male authority. ‘‘L’approbation de mylady Ormond and de lady Mary, de toutes mes amies me suffiroit, si la crainte de ne pas ob´tude’’ [Mylady Ormond ˆtre ne me causoit un peu d’inquie tenir la vo and lady Mary’s approval, of all my women friends, would suffice, if the fear of not getting yours did not worry me]. The use of the conditional, ‘‘suffiroit,’’ and the ‘‘if’’ clause, ‘‘si,’’ underscores Adeline’s deference to patriarchal authority, present here in the form of Rivers. However, as we will see in Evelina, the guardian’s authority is put into the proper perspective when one remembers that he is absent. She is without his protection, and has managed on her

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own. This apparent deference to Rivers’s opinion reveals itself to ´tude,’’ qualified by the be little more than lip service; her ‘‘inquie adjective ‘‘un peu,’’ undercuts the emotional force of ‘‘crainte.’’ Like most of Riccoboni’s heroines, Adeline proves herself to be a strong and intelligent women who is more adept at operating in the world than most. Riccoboni’s heroines are, for the most part, superior moral beings enmeshed in the conventions of a society which defines and situates female virtue in the body of the woman. Her heroines are exemplars of virtue in the sense of strength, morality, and reason. They are often, but not always, virtuous in the conventional sense. Riccoboni seeks to demonstrate that sentimentality and reason are not mutually exclusive categories. Nor are they necessarily tied to a woman’s body. Riccoboni’s heroines fall for the most part into two categories: women who continually fail to understand man’s capacity for treachery, and women who can manipulate conventions to their advantage (or at least arrange things so they are not caught short). Heroines in the former group include Fanni Butlerd, the two heroines of Marquis de Cressy, and Jenny for example, and those of the latter are Adeline and Juliette. The two categories often overlap in Riccoboni’s novels. Fanni Butlerd, for example, is betrayed by Lord Alfred, but she regains her self-esteem by publishing their private letters and it is Lord Alfred who is exposed to society for the ambitious, greedy, and pragmatic man that he is. Adeline belongs to the latter group. What is striking about this episode of Adeline at the ball is an unrealized potential for disaster, narrowly averted because of her deft manipulation. Recognizing this potentiality, Frances Burney rewrote the episode in such a manner as to underscore the injustice and cruelty of women’s position in society. All Burney had to do was ask the question: what would have happened and what would have been the consequences if Adeline had not been so adept? The answer is Evelina.

SOCIAL IMPOTENCE Evelina is an inexperienced Adeline. Although both women are orphans and write to their respective guardians, their social status could not be more different. In brief, Evelina is the offspring of a secret marriage (subsequently repudiated) between Lady Caroline Evelyn and Sir John Belmont. Lady Caroline herself is the product

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´salliance of a nobleman and barmaid. Lady Caroline, with of a me child, takes refuge at the home of her former tutor, where she dies after having given birth to a daughter, Evelina. She has lived with her guardian for seventeen years and, at the outset of the novel, is going to London for the first time at the invitation of friends. There she meets her maternal grandmother, Madame Duval, who has come to England from France to attempt to force Belmont to recognize his daughter. The difference in the level of the heroine’s social experience is noticeable from the outset, signaled by Evelina’s exuberance as opposed to Adeline’s poised account of her behavior. Rewriting Adeline’s experience, Burney exaggerates the episode, expands it into two incidents, compresses Evelina’s reaction time, and turns what had been supporting social laughter for Adeline against Evelina herself. It is no longer through the character’s commentary that the reader partakes of the author’s social criticism. The reader is anxious from the outset as he or she comprehends Evelina’s inappropriate reactions to social situations and anticipates the shame and embarrassment which are the consequences of natural and untutored reactions. What is an intellectual experience in Riccoboni becomes a more visceral one as the reader painfully learns or relearns how society works alongside Evelina. Burney’s first version begins when Evelina arrives at the private ball with her friend Maria and her mother, Mrs. Mirvan, under whose protection she is during her stay in London. As in Adeline’s narrative, the area is divided into those who participate in the dancing (the young) and those who must play at other games, the old or married. In Evelina’s narrative, however, the card room is specifically gendered female and separation of older women is characteristic of their treatment throughout the text. Mrs. Mirvan intends to remain with the young girls until they are ‘‘provided with partners.’’ The passive voice used by Mrs. Mirvan should signal to Evelina the accepted role of a young woman, but Evelina seems blind to women’s socially accepted passivity: ‘‘The gentleman, as they passed and repassed, looked as if they thought we were quite at their disposal, and only waiting for the honour of their commands; and they sauntered about, in a careless indolent manner, as if in view to keep us in suspense’’ (I, xi). Objecting to the men’s attitude and in a show of solidarity to her sex, she determines ‘‘rather not to dance at all, than with any one who should seem to think [her] ready to accept the first partner who would condescend

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to take [her]’’ (I, xi). In response to a request to dance by one rather foppish Mr. Lovel, Evelina, finding him ridiculous and barely hiding her laughter replies: ‘‘. . . I should not dance at all’’ (I, xi). Adeline is careful in her refusal of Sir Richard not only because he is someone with whom she is familiar, but because of the consequences of rudeness. Unlike Adeline’s Sir Richard, Sir Lovel is ridiculous and ‘‘ugly.’’ And while readers understand Evelina’s laughter, they see her rudeness and cruelty, which are not permitted a young woman with Evelina’s precarious social status. Sir Lovel retreats ‘‘uttering some ridiculous speeches of sorrow and disappointment, though his face still wore the same invariable smile’’ (I, xi). Evelina, on one level, does not yet understand the gap between words, appearance, and deed. She gives offense and commits a faux pas by accepting a dance with another after having refused Sir Lovel. One notes a significant difference in the temporality underlying Burney’s version of the episode. Riccoboni leaves Adeline an interval between the initial clash of gentlemen, her offended sensibilities, and moment of actual decision. She has had twenty-four hours to control her emotions, reflect, and moderate her behavior. Time, however, is compressed for Evelina, who is thrust into this setting with little knowledge as to proper behavior and without time for reflection. It is after the fact and through her letters that Evelina organizes her experience. For Evelina the temporal distance gained through writing is crucial. It is only through these letters that she finds the distance she needs to reflect and acquire the polish that she so desperately lacks. Throughout Burney’s novel, diegetic time affords little opportunity for reflection, and not unlike the author herself, it is in the private act of writing—narrative time—that Evelina finds and develops her public, restrained voice Evelina’s status described in the preface as ‘‘an off-spring of nature, and nature in her simplest attire’’ is singled out by her open ridicule of social practice. Her laughter criticizes conventions regulating the ball at the same time as it marks her lack of social education. The threatened laughter will burst out at Evelina’s second meeting with Lovel; and it is cruelty or clarity of Evelina’s vision more than the social ignorance that is the cause of Lovel’s inimicality. Evelina’s education will consist of an exercise in self-suppression. She will learn to curb her independent judgments and reason, and bow to propriety which is at once an oppressive and protective system regulating society.

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If we look again at Adeline’s situation we can see that the two women share the same passive-aggressive behavior that so angers Sir Edmond. Adeline could have refused to dance at all, and not given preference to one of the two men. Instead she choose to insult them both and diffuse the situation by choosing the old man, a figure out of pantomime. In fact, Sir Edmond’s interpretation of the dance incident was the correct one. She did insult him publicly. The difference between Evelina and Adeline is the type of insult proffered. Evelina’s singular laughter transgresses decorum, in contrast with Adeline’s situation where the community expressed approval in their laughter. Evelina will in time acquire the polish of Adeline and become adept at manipulating the rules of polite society: ‘‘Unused to the situation in which I find myself, and embarrassed by the slightest difficulties, I seldom, till too late, discover how I ought to act’’ (II, v). In a very real way, Riccoboni’s novel is the guidebook that Evelina wishes she had. We can see the lesson Evelina learned from the first ball in a later second version of it that is almost a mirror image of her initial sortie but with roles and genders reversed, Madame Duval taking Lovel’s place and Mr. Smith, Evelina’s. The events at the Hampstead Ball hark back to Riccoboni’s text and Adeline. Evelina finds herself obliged to attend another ball with her grandmother Madame Duval and Mr. Smith. Evelina has learned much since volume one and realizes how carefully she must tread. Madame Duval takes the first dance with Mr. Smith who, in fact, would rather partner Evelina, who refuses to dance at all. He is ‘‘caught’’ by Mrs. Duval, a figure of ridicule betrayed by her age and her lower-class affiliations. Evelina, in the manner of Adeline, fobs off the unwelcome suitor on Madame Duval who functions as the pendant of Mylord Stairs in Riccoboni’s text. In this scene, Evelina is, at one and the same time, participant and spectator, involved and removed, an effect that replicates her position as the narrator. During this minuet, how much did I rejoice in being surrounded only with strangers! She [Duval] danced in a style so uncommon; her age, her showy dress, and an unusual quantity of rouge, drew upon her the eyes, and I fear, the derision of the whole company. Who she danced with, I know not; but Mr. Smith was so ill-bred as to laugh at her very openly, and to speak of her with as much ridicule as was in his power. (II, xix)

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Evelina’s difficulties are multiplied and she is ‘‘accosted by another [man], who begged the favour of hopping a dance with me. I told him that I should not dance at all; but he thought proper to importune me, very freely, not to be so cruel; and I was obliged to assume no little haughtiness ere I could satisfy him I was serious.’’ The expression, ‘‘hopping a dance,’’ not only echoes and parodies Lovel’s request for the honor of dancing with Evelina, but also brings to mind Adeline’s quotation in Riccoboni’s novel and underscores the play between various levels inside her own text and with others outside of the text. Evelina’s reaction to pressure to marry Mr. Smith mirrors Adeline’s protests at her sister and brother-inlaw’s attempts to pressure her to marry Lord Edmond: ‘‘Your opinion of either the married or the single life, can be of no manner of consequence to me, and therefore I would by no means trouble you to discuss their different merits’’ (II, xix). Evelina, who seeks protection from Madame Duval, does not yet have Adeline’s refinement, but she has learned that she can to some extent protect herself by using the conventions of propriety to solicit the support of the community. The second ball scene which so closely resembles the young woman’s first foray into society underscores Evelina’s growing social awareness and linguistic mastery in sharp contrast to her previous experience. The young woman’s practice of writing a critique of events allows her to come to terms with what is expected of her, and it gives her the social awareness she so desperately needs. Evelina’s authority, her ability to reason out through her writing and growing narrative sophistication, mirrors her growing social competence. The evolution in Evelina’s writing and social behavior is also marked by her greater linguistic command at this second Hampstead Ball and contrasts sharply with her problematic speech earlier in the novel. At Evelina’s first ball, after Sir Lovel had been made fun of for the first time, Lord Orville asks for the honor of the dance. Where Adeline revealed her understanding of the falseness of polite formulas through ironic citation, Evelina, more direct in behavior as well as in writing, boldly states: ‘‘Though I am sure I know not what honour he could receive from me; but these sort of expressions, I find, are used as words of course, without any distinction of persons, or study of propriety’’ (I, xi). Burney indicates Evelina’s growing sophistication and social awareness textually. In the Hampstead Ball narration, Evelina no longer needs to make overt statements. She uses the same narrative technique as Adeline,

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marking her irony and distance through the use of italics. This kind of narrative sophistication was beyond the early Evelina. She accepts Orville but is ‘‘seized with a panic’’ while dancing (I, xi), terrified by convention rather than the man. Evelina, compounding one error after the other, eventually abandons Orville on the dance floor and attempts to join Mrs. Mirvan in the ‘‘old ladies’’ card room. Tardily, Evelina looks for but fails to find support in the female community. At the Hampstead Ball, Evelina has only Duval as a chaperon, but she now uses her to full advantage. The early Evelina, not knowing how to protect herself, is confused, embarrassed, ashamed, and alone. Noticing Evelina’s discomfiture, Orville takes the young woman to her seat and carries on a conversation singlehandedly. Evelina sits as a cipher because she does not understand the social codes in service. The fact that events are indecipherable units to the young woman is reflected in the breakdown in her language: ‘‘I was unable to go further than a monosyllable, and not even so far, when I possibly could avoid it’’ (I, xi). Orville carries the conversation for both of them. At Sir Lovel’s interruption of the couple’s one-sided conversation, Evelina laughs in his face. The complex relationship between words (which create meaning) and convention are underscored by this outburst. The freedom of the laughter she permitted herself at the expense of Lovel will be turned against her. Adeline used communal laughter to put an importunate suitor in his place in an acceptable way. Evelina, who assumes an unseemly authority, does not. The ‘‘natural’’ empowerment of women through social manipulation is demystified in Burney’s text. Writing a generation later than Riccoboni, Burney clearly shows social ability to be a learned behavior as opposed to a natural one. Its presence underscores a major difference in the two writers’ works.

PRIVATE SPACES Evelina’s fear of Lovel indicates a generalized fear of imposition by men. As Julia Epstein has pointed out, Burney satirize[s] the cruelty of social and behavioral strictures, especially for women, and pillor[ies] the sentimental conventions of eighteenth-cen-

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tury fiction. . . . Burney showcased moments of endured violence and violation, both overtly physical and covertly psychological.33

Epstein describes how Burney’s novels encode the struggle for autonomy in ‘‘apparently benign settings’’ which actually lead to violence. The potential for outbreaks of overt or covert violence in benign settings is a concern in Riccoboni’s work. In Riccoboni’s ` Milady Henriette Campley Lettres de Milady Juliette Catesby a (1759), one sees a mixture of violence and wit that make Burney’s novels at once problematic and striking. Catesby, Riccoboni’s most popular work, recounts the story of a young, independent widow, Juliette Catesby, who falls in love with Lord Ossery. The plot is simple, yet not as flimsy as it might appear when one considers the multiple story lines which nuance the primary conventional marriage plot. The novel opens in medias res after a serious misunderstanding between the lovers, and the main action of the novel centers around her friends’ efforts to reunite them. In letters to her friends, Juliette Catesby unsuccessfully tries to explain her intransigence. She insists on the right to follow her principles in resisting any reconciliation with Lord Ossery. Ossery and Catesby had a private engagement to be married. He left one day to attend the wedding of Lord Portland and fell in with rowdy friends on the way. The result of a night of drinking is the rape/seduction of Miss Jenny Montfort, the younger sister of his friend. In horror at his deed, Ossery flees only to return and marry Miss Jenny upon news of her pregnancy. In order to do his duty by the young Miss Jenny he must break his engagement to Catesby, but he will not tell her why. Two years later, upon the death of his wife, Ossery decides to return to Catesby with his little girl. The novel begins at this point. Catesby, ignorant of the story behind Ossery’s marriage, is outraged. When Ossery’s secret is finally revealed to Catesby, she forgives him and their marriage is announced in the final letter. There are several suggestive things about this novel, one of which is what seems at first glance a minor parallel story of Sir Henry’s love for Catesby. Upon consideration, however, this charmingly amusing secondary plot line reveals its sinister side and serves to reinforce Catesby’s ongoing struggle for autonomy. As he is brother of one of Catesby’s friends at whose house she is staying, Catesby cannot escape the ubiquitous Sir Henry and his unwelcome attentions. The tender letters that Catesby writes to her friend Henriette are literally disrupted by this secondary plot line,

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which serves to unite the struggle for authority and autonomy. The Sir Henry episodes also serve to intertwine two modes of writing, the sentimental and the comic, under which flow an undercurrent of violence. Catesby feels persecuted by Sir Henry and although many incidents are quite amusing, there is a dark undertone that is in fact brought out to a greater extent in Evelina through the comparable character of Sir Clement Willoughby. Because of this mixing of sentimental and comic tone, literary critics have been unable to classify Riccoboni’s and Burney’s novels into tight subgenres. Both women authors have been relegated into an arbitrary category of ‘‘the novel of sentiment.’’ Dolores Jimenez explains the consequences of such a categorization: ‘‘Whoever says novel and sentiment says sentimental novel. Coulet arbitrarily categorizes it under the rubric ‘Sentimental Novel’ which depicts and analyses feelings rather than analyses and describes mores and society.’’34 Sometimes, as with the case of Burney’s Evelina, they are put into a new classification, the novel of manners. The problem in classification seems to stem from the presence of irony; wit and humor in texts implies a distance inimical to the sympathetic identification required by the sentimental. Because distance is the antithesis of sentiment, in order to classify these novels as sentimental, the irony and humor must be either ignored or attributed to either to poor writing skills or faulty construction ‘‘inherent’’ to women’s writing. Humor is a masculine domain and has no place in a sentimental text.35 Burney’s great innovation is use of the ‘‘masculine’’ comedic mode inset in the feminine epistolary form. And, although there is no doubt that Frances Burney carries her comic scenes to heights unknown to Riccoboni, Riccoboni’s ironic vision of the world coexists with the conventional sentimental topoi found in her novels. Both women turned to the epistolary, a form able to express the immediacy needed by the sentimental discourse and the distance required by the comic element, to resolve problems in the uneasy pairing of sentiment and irony. For female authors it was also a type of writing allowed women and therefore to a certain extent ‘‘authorized’’ in the eyes of the public, a not inconsiderate concern for women writers vulnerable to criticism not only of the material produced, but of the very fact of their writing at all. Public, private, and feminine all intersect in the epistolary novel and their conjunction is exploited by Riccoboni. Writing about Riccoboni’s first novel, Fanni Butlerd (1757), Elizabeth Cook shows how Riccoboni plays with the notion of private letters and public

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reading of them. Riccoboni reverses the literary practice and convention of male editors/lovers publishing the private letters of women; it is she who offers the public voyeuristic pleasure of following the trajectory of a romance to further her own ends. In this first novel, Fanni reclaims her love letters from a man who abandoned her to marry for money and ambition. She promptly turns around and publishes them. The action allows her to reappropriate her own voice by publishing her letters and thereby show the world his unworthiness. In Juliette Catesby, however, Riccoboni’s heroine has trouble keeping the privacy of her letters inviolate. It is not unauthorized publication that is in question here, but rather the physical and autonomous act of writing that proves so difficult for Juliette. Riccoboni plays with the notion that letters ‘‘kept people at a safe remove, and that in a letter a woman could hold her place.’’36 Riccoboni demonstrates in a very literal way the difficulties Juliette encounters in not only making herself heard, but even in keeping control of her writing. The reader sees an incursion into Juliette’s narrative space as the body of her letter is penetrated by someone who has no independent voice in the novel and yet is very present: Sir Henry. Ludicrous yet threatening, he is the locus of one type of aggression and comedy in the novel that mirrors the violence acted out in the story of Ossery and the young girl: Miss Jenny whose body is violated by Lord Ossery. Issues of authority, autonomy, and control are at stake as Riccoboni explores the coercive side of social decorum as well as its protective functions.

PUBLIC DECORUM, PRIVATE PROSECUTION From the moment Catesby introduces Sir Henry, they are in physical as well as verbal conflict. Catesby’s letters are at their most amusing when she describes her encounters with Sir Henry. She sketches out their relationship in her portrait of him: ´venant pour Lady Elisabeth; j’ai vu peu de fre `res, Sir Henry est fort pre si j’excepte le mien, aussi obligeant que lui. Mais comme les vertus tien´rament, en examinant le sien, j’ai de ´couvert que nent assez au tempe ˆtre attentif, officieux me ˆme; il aime `a se me ˆler de son naturel est d’ e ´cessaire. Nous avons de ´ja` pris querelle deux ou trois tout, `a se rendre ne ´ touffer dans mon carrosse, de peur que je ne m’enfois. Il veut m’e rhume; je baisse la glace, il la le`ve et moi je la rabaisse; il me fait grave-

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´sentations, je lui explique soucieusement ma volonte ´; il ment ses repre `de avec chagrin et quand je l’ai mis de bien insiste, je m’obstine, il ce mauvaise humeur il boude et je respire. (II) [Sir Henry is very attentive to Lady Elizabeth; I have seen few brothers, except mine, as obliging as he. But as virtues conform to character, in examining his, I have discovered that his natural bent is to be attentive, officious even; he loves to be in the middle of everything, to make himself necessary. We have already quarreled two or three times. He was to suffocate me in my carriage, for fear of my catching cold, I lower the carriage window, he raises it and I lower it again; he gravely makes his case, I carefully explain my wishes; he insists, I persevere, he concedes with chagrin and when I’ve put him in a horrible mood, he pouts and I breathe.]

Under the lightness of tone, the overbearing presence of Sir Henry is felt in the enclosed carriage. Oppressed by his attentions, Catesby can breathe literally and metaphorically only when Sir Henry is silent. The coach incident provides narrative representation of Sir Henry under the authorial control of Juliette Catesby. He soon becomes more than the subject of her narration as he disrupts her writing and interrupts her communication. The invasive presence of Sir Henry is figured in a structural violence to her letters. In the same letter to Henriette, Catesby writes of Ossery: Je ne veux jamais lui parler, je ne veux jamais le voir. . . . Voila` Sir ´Henry, il me presse, il ne saurait attendre: c’est encore un de ses de fauts, pas la moindre patience. . . . Adieu, aimez-moi, aimez-moi comme je vous aime. (LII) [I don’t ever want to speak to him, I never want to see him. . . . Here is Sir Henry, he is pressuring me, he does not know how to wait: this is another of his faults, not the least bit of patience. . . . Adieu, love me, love me the way I love you.]

This interruption in the letter has been thought to be the result of faulty technique. One critic for example takes it to be an absurd example of ‘‘writing to the moment’’ and believes Juliette’s obstinate persistence to write in the face of interruption to be an ‘‘annoying’’ habit.37 And so it is, but it can also be looked at in a different way. This awkward writing ‘‘to the moment’’ signifies more than just faulty technique. What it illustrates is the problem of epistolarity as a

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‘‘feminine’’ mode of writing along with the appropriation, or attempted appropriation, of the feminine space by the masculine. In a physical way, it shows the struggle of women to keep this locus for her voice inviolate or even to have access to a private space where she can express her thoughts. Juliette’s fight to keep her independence is repeated in different forms; she struggles against the pressure of her friends to marry, she fights against a reunion with Ossery, and she wages battles with Sir Henry to keep writing. A darker mise en abyme of this struggle for autonomy is to be found in the inset story of the rape of Miss Jenny. Sir Henry may serve as comic relief but he is also an emblematic stand-in for these other confrontations which are all of a piece. The connection between male coercion and women’s psychological and, at times, even physical suffering is introduced early in the novel. Riccoboni sets up the triangular relationship of mimetic desire with Juliette as the object. The problem stems from her refusal to occupy this position. In letter V, for example, Sir Henry takes exception to a bouquet of flowers given to Catesby by one Sir James. Catesby reports to her friend: depuis que je l’ai, Sir Henry ne respire pas; il m’apporte vingt exemples ´s par l’odeur trop forte des jonquilles, il m’assure des malheurs cause ˆte. Moi, qui vois son insolente jalousie, qu’elle est dangereuse pour la te ˆ t-il me donner la migraine. je garde le bouquet; je le garderai, du [ever since I received the bouquet, Sir Henry does not breathe; he brings me twenty examples of problems caused by the jonquils’ strong odor, he assures me that it is dangerous for my head. As for me, who sees his insolent jealousy, I will keep the bouquet even if it should give me a migraine.]

The threat of a rival takes Sir Henry’s breath away, something that Catesby sees very clearly. Sir Henry cannot breathe when Catesby becomes the object of someone else’s rhetoric of love (expressed through the flowers). Underlying this situational comedy is the dark fact that the only way for a woman to mark her displeasure is indirectly at the potential cost of physical pain to herself. In letter III, Catesby writes to Henriette of Sir Henry’s attempt to bribe her personal maid, who remained loyal to Catesby. He is suspicious of the regular correspondence between Henriette and Catesby. Catesby gets this information secondhand from Betty:

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´ de longs soupirs qui m’e´chappent; il se doute qu’il y a un Il a remarque ´es pour s’en assurer. [She ` une de mes bottes; il a offert dix guine secret a `-t-il pas? . . . Oh quel mine il fait! . . . continues] ‘‘Eh bien ne le voila ´ment il devine que je parle de lui. C’est ma lettre qui lui donne Assure ´crirai tous les jours; cet humeur . . . Je vous promets, Sir Henry, que j’e ´ de vous y accoutumer. vous aurez la bonte [He noticed my long involuntary sighs; he is sure that there is a secret hidden in my boots; and he offered 10 guineas to find it out. Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sir Henry himself? Oh what a face he makes! He surely guesses I am speaking of him. It is my letter that puts him in such a foul mood. I promise you, Sir Henry, that I’ll write every day: please have the goodness to get used to this.]

Juliette, for all her ostensible outspokenness, can only write to a friend of her resolution to persist in the face of Sir Henry’s displeasure, but she can do no more than write of it. As it is impossible to speak her mind to Sir Henry directly, she is reduced to addressing him in a letter to her female friend, Henriette, who bears a feminized version of his name.38 A feminized space allows free expression and it is only in letters to this feminized ‘‘Henry’’ that Catesby feels free to express herself. The struggle that is carried out in the body of the letter repeats the one waged over Catesby’s person. As Sir Henry increasingly imposes himself upon the young woman, he takes up more space in Juliette’s letters. One half of the content of letter VIII is devoted to Sir Henry: . . . Mais on entre . . . qui est-ce. . . . Eh qui pourrait-ce eˆtre que Sir ´s de Sir Henry? Henry? . . . Mais qui m’assujettit donc aux importunite Pourquoi faut-il que je le rec¸oive? Quel droit a-t-il de m’ennuyer? Ah `re Henriette! Quel ennemi du genre humain inventa cette fausma che ´ qui, sous le nom de politesse, nous arrache des e ´gards, nous force sete ´tabli dans mon caa` nous contraindre? Voila` le maussade personnage e `s tout pre `s de moi binet; insensiblement il gagne du terrain; il est pre ˆ t pour lui appren´cris . . . je voudrais qu’il le lu . . . il lit presque ce que j’e `s. Milord, pardon, vous permettez . . . . Il s’indre . . . Je continue expre ` je suis, je ´rite ´ il reste. Dans l’humeur ou cline, soupire et reste; en ve voudrais qu’il me parlaˆt, qu’il me dit qu’il m’aime. . . . je lui donnerais ´es pour me faire cet aveu . . . Puisque mon mauvais sort le mille guinne fixe la`, il faut que je vous laisse. [But someone is coming in . . . who is it? Oh, who else could it be but Sir Henry? But who subjects me to Sir Henry’s importunities? Why do

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I have to receive him? What right does he have to annoy me? Ah my dear Henriette! What enemy of the human race invented the falseness, which, under the name of politeness, tears from us this consideration, forces us to constrain ourselves? Here is the sullen person established in my drawing room, imperceptibly, he is gaining ground; he is right next to me . . . he is almost reading what I write. I want him to read it, so that he learns . . . I continue deliberately. . . . Milord, pardon, if you please. . . . He bows, sighs and remains, in truth, he remains. In the mood that I’m in, I’d like him to speak, to tell me that he loves me . . . I’d give a thousand guineas to have him make this avowal. Since my destiny makes him stay, I have to take leave of you.]

For the first time Juliette’s public voice disrupts her private one in this letter, a disruption that is underscored by italics usually reserved for quotation of other peoples words. Juliette marks the difference between her private words to Henriette in regular type and the phrase directed at the interloper, Sir Henry, by the use of italics. When Sir Henry encroaches on her text, Juliette takes leave of Henriette and her personal voice is silenced. In letter X, Catesby rails against Sir Henry and in a long sequence of verbs describes `de, me fatigue, je ne vois her reaction to his behavior: ‘‘Il m’obse que lui, il me cherche, me trouve, me suit, me rencontre partout’’ [He obsesses me, fatigues me, I see nothing but him, he seeks me out, finds me, follows me, and meets me everywhere]. The paratactic construction reinforces the impression of Sir Henry’s inescapable presence. Catesby is the object of the clauses with one exception ‘‘je ne vois que lui’’ and in this case, she cannot help but see him. ‘‘Il va, vient, retourne, s’agite, arrache des mains de Betty tout ce qu’elle veut’’ [He comes, goes, returns, gesticulates, tears out of Betty’s hand anything that he wants] and so on. She is surrounded by his action. There is but one third person masculine pronoun for all his action and it is masculine. In letter XIX, in a heightening of the pressure exerted by the unwanted suitor, Sir Henry’s words as well as his presence appear in the text: ‘‘. . . Milady ´ecrit . . .’’ [Milady is writing . . .]. Contrary to Catesby’s usual practice in which she incorporates the citation in her sentence and draws attention to it by italicizing, thereby retaining control over her text, his words stand alone. He has successfully penetrated the body of her letter. This seemingly innocent, if annoying, incident takes on greater significance if one considers Ruth Perry’s argument: ‘‘If the most regularly used symbol for the

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penetration of an individual’s consciousness is sexual violation, and if it is the adamant protection of that individuality which stands symbolically at the heart of most sexual refusals in epistolary fiction, it is this that gives the reader a still clearer view of why these novels are structured as they are.’’39 Riccoboni represents masculine penetration of feminine space on two different levels through Catesby and Juliette’s stories. The experience of this penetration is no longer simply symbolic, but strangely literalized in a mise en abyme structure through incursions into the physical body of Juliette’s letter as well as herself, and then again into the young woman, Jenny. Catesby’s difficulties arise from restrictions placed on female speech. She wanted to rebuff Sir Henry’s suit but could not until he had stated his interest. Catesby writes to Henriette in letter XXVII, ‘‘Vous mourriez d’envie que Sir Henry parlaˆ t; eh bien, le ´clare ´, propose ´ et refuse ´!’’ [You were dying to have Sir Henry voila` de speak, well here he is declared, proposed, and refused.] Catesby falsely believed that Sir Henry would curtail his attentions when she was able to refuse his proposal. This proved not to be the case as her refusal is discounted. By letter XXX, the takeover of space and voice once restricted to the epistolary is now physical: ‘‘On m’a ´e malgre ´ moi. Sir Henry n’a pas voulu perdre cette occasion saigne ´clater son ze `le officieux; il s’est empare ´ de ma chambre, de faire e en a fait les honneurs . . .’’ [I was bled despite my wishes. Sir Henry did not want to miss a chance to demonstrate his officious zeal, he took over my room, did the honors]. Although it is not specifically Sir Henry who had Catesby bled, the use of the indefinite pronoun ‘‘on’’ juxtaposed with the unwanted medical treatments and the takeover of Catesby’s room by Sir Henry make the connection between them too obvious to be ignored. What had started as a mere annoyance was now a full occupation of space and control over her person. This ironic distance and playful tone that often pervades Catesby’s letters is missing in this account as she comes under Sir Henry’s control. When what was amusing turns menacing, Catesby’s ironic voice gives way to reveal her powerlessness. Catesby fights to maintain her autonomy through her verbal skills and in her writing. When these means of communication fail and she can no longer express herself in writing or orally, her means of expression is transferred to the body in a type of corporeal writing through tears, or fainting. Social impotence is manifested by the body.

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The mixture of violence and comedy is also found in Evelina, where the ‘‘hunt’’ takes on a darker tone bordering on oppression as Burney exaggerates the comic and heightens the menace. Sir Willoughby is Evelina’s Sir Henry. Evelina is continually observed and pursued by Willoughby from her first public appearance at a ball, which functions as a microcosm of society in Evelina. For Burney, balls represent the patriarchal space par excellence where conventions regulating social relations between genders are particularly open to scrutiny. Intrigued by her beauty and inexperience, Willoughby seizes every occasion to press his suit. Just after the first meeting of Evelina and Orville, she is persuaded to attend another assembly, a ridotto, where she runs into Willoughby. Upon this occasion Mrs. Mirvan has given a bit more instruction to Evelina on what is expected at an assembly, when she tells the young women that ‘‘it was highly improper for a young woman to dance with strangers, at any public assembly’’ (I, xiii). When approached by Willoughby, a gentleman as yet unknown to her, she is in a quandary. Burney shows through Evelina’s predicament that knowledge of society’s ways requires more than mere knowledge of a few rules. One must avoid pitfalls by ruse, but just like Sir Henry, Willoughby is tenacious. Evelina has no idea how to rid herself of so importunate a creature but tries Adeline’s trick of saying she is engaged to dance, and by trying to avoid one mistake she commits another. Evelina is not yet the wholly socialized young woman she yearns to be and will become. At moments she cannot but find Willoughby entertaining, and her attitude toward Willoughby alternates between frustration, amusement, and fear. In what one can consider a characteristic of her writing, Burney ups the stakes of the Catesby-Sir Henry relationship by adding the element of fear to the mix. Burney joins Riccoboni in criticizing both men’s use of vapid gallantries toward women and male disregard for the conventions when it suits them. Willoughby in an amusing manner presses Evelina for a description of her pretended partner. Evelina’s amusement soon gives way to apprehension when the stranger decides he wants to ‘‘kick’’ the missing dancing partner around the room. She cannot complain to Mrs. Mirvan (who is as ineffectual as Villars in protecting Evelina from almost anything) because the older woman herself dreads the reaction of her husband, a violent and outspoken man. In the same manner as Catesby, Evelina ineffectually tries to separate herself from Willoughby, whose proximity

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is now oppressive: ‘‘would you believe it? this man had the assurance to rise too, and walk close by my side, as if of my party!’’ (I, xiii). Burney harks back to Riccoboni’s Adeline in a parody of the young woman’s choice of an old man as dancing partner. Willoughby toys with Evelina and cries: ‘‘ ‘Now . . . I hope we shall see this ingrate. Is that he?’ pointing to an old man, who was lame, ‘or that?’ And in this manner he asked me of whoever was old or ugly in the room’’ (I, xiii). The implied threat of violence in Adeline’s situation is made explicit here when Willoughby exclaims: ‘‘O that I could but meet him!—I would soon—But I grow angry; pardon me, Madam, my passions are violent, and your injuries affect me!’’ (I, xiii). The pretended offense in this case is not against Willoughby, but against her, and therefore amusing. The disparity between the situation and the call for revenge is ludicrous, but painful for Evelina. Like Sir Henry, Willoughby refuses to respect the wishes of Evelina while making a show of obedience. To Evelina’s request that he leave, Willoughby replies: ‘‘I am gone, Madame, I am gone! with a most tragical air; and he marched away, a quick pace, out of sight in a moment; but before I had time to congratulate myself, he was again at my elbow’’ (I, xiii). Evelina is exasperated and speaks freely: You have tormented me to death; you have forced me from my friends, and intruded yourself upon me, against my will, for a partner. [Willoughby responds] Surely, my dear madam, we ought to be better friends, since there seems to be something of sympathy in the frankness of our dispositions—And yet, were you not an angel—how do you think I could brook such contempt? (I, xiii)

Despite what she writes to Henriette, Catesby knows quite well the boundaries of female speech and respects them. Evelina shows her ignorance of polite society by her outspokenness, which leaves her open to criticism. Willoughby’s retort is an open criticism of Evelina’s masculine or natural freedom of speech. If she were not a woman, a young beautiful woman at that, what would the consequences be? If the treatment of Madame Duval at the hands of Willoughby and the Captain and the old women during the race are any indication (and they are) of the outcome, it is not at all promising. As Evelina’s education continues and the novel progresses, this freedom of speech is more and more confined to her letters and less to her public discourse. She must learn what Catesby and Ade-

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line already know, female self-expression must be kept within boundaries recognized by society. The only relatively free form of authorized communication for women was in the letter, and even this was circumscribed by convention. The retrenchment of Evelina’s speech is accompanied by numerous instances of male and, in a few cases female, coercion. Fear is often linked to laughter in Burney’s novel. Julia Epstein notes the connection of female aggression and laughter in Burney’s Evelina: these moments [of violence] serve as frameworks for her analyses of the varieties of female fear and of the forced loss of control that constantly lurk beneath societies’ polite forms and coerce women into self-suppression. Whether as medical catastrophe, social embarrassment, or criminal brutality, violence and violation fracture the surface of polite and acceptable social engagement and raise the specter of exposure from within as well as from without. This threat, the dread of public and publicized nakedness, informs each of Burney’s novels.40

Epstein is right to bring out this fear of public exposure, but I would like to look at these scenes in a slightly different way. Both Riccoboni and Burney are concerned with the collapse of the boundaries between public and private. Where Riccoboni shows public intrusion into the private space of a woman’s letters, thereby constraining the one place where she should be able to speak her mind, Burney depicts men trying to take public situations and turn them into private encounters which are outside the prescribed social parameters and therefore less accountable to these. In each instance the woman loses her place, her social leverage and indeed her voice by the infiltration of one domain into the other.41

THE COLLAPSE OF PUBLIC AND PRIVATE The ridotto was the first of many occasions where Willoughby devoted himself to Evelina in a clear demonstration of his use of convention to constrain others as he wished. Shortly after the ridotto, Evelina, the Mirvans, Willoughby, Madame Duval, and Monsieur Du Bois meet with a coach accident. Willoughby successfully separates Evelina from her party and what was formerly wordplay escalates into bodily appropriation:

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The night was dark and wet; but I had scarce touched the ground, when I was lifted suddenly from it, by Sir Clement Willoughby, who begged permission to assist me, though he did not wait to have it granted, but carried me in his arms back to Ranelagh. (I, xvi)

Evelina is for all intents and purposes sequestered by Willoughby. Despite how ‘‘joyfully’’ Willoughby proclaims to carry out her commands to find the rest of the coach party, he does as he pleases. Although the others finally arrive, Willoughby still has charge of her person. The stakes are higher for Evelina and her grandmother both as Willoughby’s attraction and the Captain’s resentment take on physical expression. The incident is important in that it sets up a comparison in the treatment of a young and old woman carried out in other episodes. Here Evelina is carefully guarded while Madame Duval, subjected to rough treatment as she is manhandled by the Captain, is discarded. The older woman offends the Captain’s sensibilities in so many ways. In her person she unites problems of age and gender as well as issues of class and nationality. However, it is Duval’s refusal to accept her obsolescence in face of her age that particularly irks the Captain and makes her body the target of his ire and resentment. While Evelina is carried (albeit against her wishes), Madame Duval is dashed into the mud to the great amusement of the Captain. Pushed beyond endurance, Madame Duval lashes out and spits in the Captain’s face. Admittedly this is very antisocial behavior, but understandable given that ‘‘the Captain held a candle to Madame Duval, that he might have a more complete view of her disaster, declaring repeatedly, that he had never been more pleased in his life.’’ It is the manner in which she lashes out that is significant: The rage of poor madame Duval was unspeakable; she dashed the candle out of his hand, stamped upon the floor, and, at last, spat in his face. This action seemed immediately to calm them both, as the joy of the Captain was converted into resentment, and the wrath of Madame Duval into fear; for he put his hands upon her shoulders, and gave her so violent a shake, that she screamed out for help; assuring her, at the same time, that if she had been one ounce less old, or less ugly, she should have had it all returned on her own face. (I, xvi)

The reader knows that the reason the Captain gives Duval for not spitting at her (she being ‘‘too old and too ugly’’) is not the true one. Evelina has already described her grandmother:

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She must have been married very early in life; what her age is I do not know, but she really looks to be less than fifty. She dresses very gaily, paints very high, and the traces of former beauty are still very visible in her face. (I, xiv)

The Captain’s attack on her physical appearance would be the one to cause her the most pain. The whole episode was threatened the very first time the Captain met Madame Duval, who incorporates and conflates so many redbutton issues for the Captain and which seem to be subsumed in her Frenchness.42 Of course the reader knows that Duval is not French, only passing as such to hide any mistakes she may make in her lower-class English. The Captain targets her foreignness to stand in for the other issues in question. At their first confrontation, Duval calls him a dirty fellow. The Captain responds: ‘‘Dirty fellow!’’ (exclaimed the Captain, seizing both her wrists) ‘‘hark you, Mrs. Frog, you’d best hold your tongue, for I must make bold to tell you, if you don’t, that I shall make no ceremony of tripping you out of the window; and there you may lie in the mud till some of your Monsieurs come to help you out of it.’’ (I, xiv)

This passage sets up the tone and suggests the issues underlying Duval’s and the Captain’s animosity. He not only exhorts that she restrain her speech, but the consequence of her outspoken resistance will be violence. By calling Duval ‘‘Mrs. Frog,’’ the Captain reveals what is really at stake. In addition to using a standard epithet for the French, the Captain genders it with the title of ‘‘Mrs.’’ The nationality issue masks a gendered one that reoccurs throughout the novel in various guises. It is significant that biologically frogs are amphibians, many of which are ambisexual and neither male or female. This is precisely the category reserved for old women and the one that Madame Duval so vigorously refuses. She will not renounce her sexuality considered ‘‘unseemly’’ in one no longer nubile. The Captain and Madame Duval are both outspoken in their dislike of foreigners, which as we have seen masks issues of gender. It also is allied to class differences and seems to represent social alienation in various guises. Burney has shown us how the Branghton’s and Mr. Smith’s behavior is on par with that of a stranger in their own country. They are as unfamiliar with the mores and customs of the gentry as Monsieur Du Bois, a native Frenchmen,

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is with the English language. The Branghton’s ‘‘foreignness’’ is tellingly brought out when the Branghtons decide to go to the opera. Mr. Branghton cannot understand the pricing of the seats. He runs to different entrances trying to find a price of which he can make sense. His daughters are ignorant of the dress code of the opera, a detail encoded in their misunderstanding of the importance of the pit in the economy of the opera. For in many theaters the pit represented a communal space reserved for merchants, clerks, and professional men. The ‘‘beau monde’’ found their places in the front and side boxes while the middleclass was divided between the pit and the first gallery. The Branghtons were familiar with theater practices, but not with the opera.43 I was extremely disconcerted at this forward and ignorant behavior, and yet their rudeness very much lessened my concern at refusing them. Indeed, their dress was such as would have rendered their scheme of accompanying our party impracticable, even if I had desired it: and this, as they did not themselves find out, I was obliged, in terms the least mortifying I could think of, to tell them. They were very much chagrined, and asked where I should sit? ‘‘In the pit,’’ answered I. ‘‘In the pit!’’ repeated Miss Branghton, ‘‘well, really, I must own I should never have supposed that my gown was not good enough for the pit: but come, Polly, let’s go; if Miss does not think us fine enough for her, why to be sure she may chuse.’’ Surprised at this ignorance, I would have explained to them that the pit at the opera required the same dress as the boxes; but they were so much affronted, they would not hear me, and, in great displeasure, left the room, saying they would not have troubled me, only they thought I should not be so proud with my own relations, and that they had at least as good a right to my company as strangers. (I, xxi)

The strangers in this social setting are the Branghtons and not the Mirvans. The Branghton family’s incompetence in this ‘‘language’’ mirrors that of Monsieur Du Bois’s in English and Evelina’s incompetence at her first ball. In response to an insult of the Captain’s directed at the Frenchman, Evelina writes ‘‘Monsieur Du Bois made a profound bow. He speaks no English, and understands it so imperfectly, that he might, possibly, imagine he had received a compliment’’ (I, xvi). Madame Duval and the Captain, embodying the gender and class conflict as they do so, occupy an important position in the economy

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of the novel. The Captain, although lacking in the social graces necessary in polite society, is above reproach as Lady Howard’s sonin-law and of acceptable birth. While Madame Duval is associated with the feminized French, the Captain’s title connects him to the very masculine world of the military. As Margaret Doody notes, the ‘‘super ‘feminine’ ’’ of Duval is paired and confronted with the ‘‘ultra masculine’’ of the Captain.44 Reprehensible as the actions of these two characters are, Evelina finds herself both criticizing their actions and sympathizing with them. The women are strangely complicitous in efforts to keep up Duval’s youthful pretense. It is only the Captain who insists in removing the mask of youth. While the Captain is able to show the resentment that Evelina feels and cannot wholly articulate (certainly not act out), Duval’s persecution is, to a different degree, reminiscent of her own. As Doody points out, Duval also represents her maternal inheritance and, however conflicted Evelina may feel about its worth, it is the image of every woman’s fate. Evelina’s ambivalent attitude, vacillating as it does between condemnation or compassion toward the Captain’s and Madame Duval’s behavior, has proved problematic to literary critics. Evelina at certain moments admires her grandmother’s very resistance to the Captain’s disdain for which she tries to give as good as she gets, just as at other times Evelina is ashamed of her. Evelina is caught between her natural feelings of her presocial self as evidenced by her uninhibited behavior at her first ball, and her learned response. She knows that Duval will have to pay for her unconventional actions. She, like the reader, knows that just as the muddying of Duval had been prefigured in their very first meeting, Madame Duval’s self-indulgent gesture of spitting in the face of the Captain will be returned in kind. For Evelina, overt resistance seems futile. The Captain takes his revenge on Duval at the Cox Museum, where Duval goes into rapture over the music. Seeing this, the Captain calls for smelling salts and pretends to take her pleasure for a fit: He suddenly called for salts, which a lady, apprehending some distress, politely handed to him, and which instantly applying to the nostrils of poor Madame Duval, she involuntarily snuffed up such a quantity, that the pain and surprise made her scream aloud. (I, xxii)

This incident is all the more disturbing to Evelina because she sees her own love of music reflected in that of her grandmother,

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forming a strong bond with the older woman. This scene is a reversed image of the incident where Catesby hides her aggressive act behind a helpful gesture directed towards Sir Henry when he indulges in a fit of the ‘‘vapors.’’ The episode forms an important link between the two incidents in the Burney text and sheds light on the characters of the Captain and Duval.

COMIC VIOLENCE The use of situational comedy and slapstick is common to both Riccoboni and Burney. However, the significant difference between the two woman writers resides in the shift of power from women targeting men as the butt of the joke to one where women are the objects of the comic violence. Catesby seizes on physical gestures to communicate what cannot be expressed in speech permitted women. There are elements of slapstick in Sir Henry’s and Catesby’s relationship where a farcical scene mirrors Catesby’s inability to speak her mind openly. In letter XXIV, Sir Henry is reported to have had a fit of the vapors. And Catesby, in the guise of helping, takes out a good deal of her suppressed aggression. ´vanouir Ne voila`-t-il pas Sir Henry qui s’est mis a` avoir des vapeurs. a` s’e ´tait chez moi; ses vertiges lui ont pris: comme une femme? Ce matin il e ´ qu’un flacon je ne savais avec quoi ranimer ses esprits. Je n’ai trouve ´e; je lui ai tout re ´pandu sur le visage. Sa sœur m’a rempli d’eau ambre ´ que je l’empoisonnais . . . j’espe `re qu’il n’en reviendra pas. crie [Doesn’t it just happen that Sir Henry had himself a fit of the vapors, and begin to faint just like a woman? This morning he was with me; he was taken by vertigo; I didn’t have anything to bring him to himself. I had nothing but a flagon filled with ambered water; I threw it all over his face. His sister cried that I was poisoning him. . . . I hope he won’t recover.]

The passage is worthy of Burney. The portrait of Sir Henry as a sentimental man, subject to vapors, is belied by his insensitivity to Catesby’s desires. As a woman, Catesby is limited to a small number of responses to resist Sir Henry. When the occasion arises where she can behave properly and at the same time express her aggressivity, she seizes it. Although at the boundaries of acceptable behavior, Catesby cannot be faulted for trying to ‘‘help’’ Sir Henry. Duval,

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on the other hand, provoked beyond reason and beyond speech, does not dissimulate her anger when she spits on the Captain. In one more instance of parodic reversals, it is the Captain who emulates Catesby and disguises his animosity as succor. This is a graphic example of Evelina’s (and Burney’s) conflicted attitude toward Duval and the Captain. The carriage accident which results in the Duval’s tumble in the mud is harmless, but there is an escalation in the danger to which Evelina and Madame Duval are subjected in volume II. One critic protests that Burney only titillates the reader through situations threatening imminent disaster for Evelina’s virtue. Although nothing ever happens to Evelina’s virtue in the many situations in which she finds herself, the threatening episodes are nonetheless effective in showing the constraints under which women live. I also think it important to note that it was not her decision to keep or lose her ‘‘virtue.’’ A good example of a situation that could have resulted in disastrous consequences is the Branghton trip to the opera. Evelina has to attend the opera with her shopkeeper cousins and her grandmother, Madame Duval. At the first chance to separate herself from them she does so, with the aid of Willoughby who had come to seek her out. Evelina writes, ‘‘And really I had already been so much chagrined that Sir Clement had been a witness of Madame Duval’s power over me, that I could not bear to be exposed to any further mortification’’ (I, xxiii). Evelina has not yet learned, as she will by volume III, that in thinking of herself first she causes pain and humiliation to others as well as herself. The situations in which she finds herself are the direct result of her lack of self-suppression. She is guilty, to a certain degree, of the same misconduct as Willoughby. Her aim had been to meet up with the Mirvan party and return home with them. In the rush of people leaving the opera her plan proved impossible and she is obliged to take Sir Willoughby’s coach. She sees her error and tries to return to the Branghton party, but it is too late. Evelina had thought to use Willoughby and in fact he turns this to his advantage. She removed herself from the protection of the group and put herself into the hands of Willoughby. He forces her to enter his coach and, there, regales her with many fine speeches and seizes her hand, which he will not give up. ‘‘Though I would fain have withdrawn my hand, and made most continual attempts; but in vain, for he actually grasped it between both his, without any regard to my resistance’’ (I, xxi). The

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handgrabbing seems to function like the letter in Catesby. It is the acceptable, but limited, point of contact between the sexes and the means by which a woman can express herself in writing. Evelina, like Catesby, is always trying to control her letter, her hand, and her voice. The coach was misdirected by Willoughby, and Evelina realizes this. She comments on the duplicity of Willoughby’s thoughts that belie his words, just as his actions belie his words. ‘‘Indeed, cried I, if you did not talk in one language, and think in another, you would never suppose that I could give credit to praise so very much above my desert.’’ The fact that Willoughby does not harm Evelina in the coach ride home from the opera except give her a good scare, has little to do with her. He decides to take no further liberties and, if it this had not been the case, she could have done nothing. As it happens she opens the window and tries to jump out into the street. It is here that the window motif intervenes once again. Besides being an obvious escape route, it also signifies a separation between the young women and the old women which we saw in Riccoboni’s work. Evelina is first ‘‘frightened dreadfully,’’ then ‘‘terrified.’’ ‘‘If you do not intend to murder me, cried I, for mercy’s, for pity’s sake let me get out!’’ At her hysterical reaction, Willoughby decides to take her home after coercing her into silence about the incident. He begs for her forgiveness and her silence, which she grants almost against her will. At his appeal to her generosity, Evelina writes: This rather softened me; which advantage he no sooner perceived, than he determined to avail himself of, for he flung himself on his knees, and pleaded with so much submission, that I was really obliged to forgive him, because his humiliation made me quite ashamed: and, after that, he would not let me rest till I gave him my word that I could not complain of him to Mrs. Mirvan. (I, xxi)

The theme of a woman’s generosity and her subsequent resentment of its exploitation is found in Riccoboni’s work as well. Catesby writes, ‘‘Et quel droit un sexe a-t-il de se jouer de la dou´ de l’autre?’’ [And by what right does one sex ceur et de la bonte have to exploit the tenderness and goodness of the other?]. Sir Wil´’’ of Evelina to cover his transgresloughby counts upon ‘‘la bonte sions and more than once coerces her into forgiving him. The escalation of abuse in Burney’s novel emphasizes the hap-

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hazard outcome in each incident. It is not the action undertaken by the victim involved in the incident that circumvents a tragic outcome, but chance or the actions of a third party. The increasing mastery of social customs that we see Evelina acquire is mostly confined to the dance hall or assembly. When she is separated from her public support, she founders. We have repeatedly seen in the works of these two authors that it is in a woman’s practical interest to support and maintain conventional separations between the private and public domains, event though these conventions may themselves be criticized. The collapse of the two dimensions, public and private, as seen in the works of Riccoboni as well as in Burney’s, is always to the detriment of the woman. In the second volume of Evelina, the encounters in the open air gardens of Vauxhall (II, xv) and Marybone (II, xxi) are increasingly dangerous and embarrassing. Evelina is assaulted at every turn. The first episode at Vauxhall concerns Willoughby. Here again he demands that she pardon him. Evelina is separated from the larger group and is walking with the Misses Branghton when they decide to take a turn in the ‘‘dark walks.’’ Teased into compliance by the young women, Evelina follows. The women find themselves encircled. Their screams were echoed in the men’s laughter ‘‘and for some minutes, we were kept prisoners, till, at last, one of them, rudely, seizing hold of me, said I was a pretty little creature.’’ Evelina, ‘‘terrified to death,’’ breaks away only to fall into the hands of another group. This time she is separated from the Misses Branghton. ‘‘In a moment, both my hands, by different persons, were caught hold of; and one of them, in a most familiar manner, desired to accompany me in a race, when I ran next: while the rest of the party stood still and laughed.’’ The incident foreshadows the infamous bet between Willoughby and Lord Merton in volume III, in which old women were procured to run against each other. The whole image of a bet placed on a race run by women is an appropriate one and could stand in for Evelina’s experience of social life in this novel; women are the medium by which men win over other men and women gamble that the husband they chose will turn out well. What is more, the cruelty in making the old women figures of fun and having them run the race is echoed in the treatment of Madame Duval. Here, Evelina’s race takes place in the context of the erotic, whereas the old women are figures of contempt because they no longer belong to this realm. It so happens that Willoughby is a

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member of this party of gentlemen accosting Evelina. He ‘‘taking my [this time] willing hand’’ led her off ‘‘amidst the loud acclamations, laughter, and gross merriment of his impertinent companions.’’ Once again Willoughby benefits from Evelina’s irregular situation and instead of bringing her back to join her party, leads her deeper into the dark walks. When he requests an explanation for her behavior she is silent and bursts into tears. Once again he beseeches her forgiveness: . . . snatching my hand, which he grasped with violence, besought me to forgive him, with such earnestness of supplication, that, merely to escape his importunites, I was forced to speak, and, in some measure, to grant the pardon he requested: thought it was accorded with a very ill grace; but, indeed, I knew not how to resist the humility of his entreaties: yet never shall I recollect the occasion he have me of displeasure, without feeling it renewed. (II, xv)

One must doubt any ‘‘supplication’’ when it is coupled with ‘‘snatching’’ and ‘‘violence.’’ Like Adeline, she was ‘‘forced to speak,’’ an action which undercuts any force given to the bestowing of pardon. This sentence is a good example of female doublespeak which indirectly conveys the resentment harbored by the women imposed upon. A pattern of coercive behavior becomes apparent in this second volume. Willoughby’s persecution of Evelina takes her from public to private intercourse in increasingly compromising episodes and in so doing he terrifies her. Madame Duval’s persecution, although on a public stage, is carried out anonymously but it too allows for an escalation of violence. The seduction of Evelina requires privacy just as the condition for the violence inflicted upon Duval must remain anonymous in order to be tolerated by society. Epistolarity as a space for private communication, vulnerable to abuse, is continually breached, as is the personal freedom of women. Burney expands the theme of social cruelty to women and subjects men to a similar treatment. Lovel, a feminized man, is a victim of practical jokes and the Captain’s ill will, while Sir Willoughby is the butt of social laughter. When Willoughby comes to visit Madame Duval, the Branghtons openly laugh at him and he is helpless to stop their mockery. Madame Duval reveals his part in the highway robbery which he denies. The group laughs and Willoughby loses his poise:

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The ha, ha, ha’s, and he, he, he’s, grew more and more uncontrollable, as if the restraint from which they had burst, had added to their violence. Sir Clement could no longer endure being the object who excited them, and, having no answer ready for Madame Duval, he hastily stalked towards Mr. Smith and young Branghton, and sternly demanded what they laughed at. (II, xvi)

When Madame Duval rightly asks him: ‘‘I suppose, next, nobody must laugh but yourself!’’ Willoughby answers, ‘‘With me Madam . . . a lady may do any thing, and, consequently, there is no liberty in which I shall not be happy to indulge you;—but it has never been my custom to give the same licence to gentlemen.’’ He nonetheless decides to leave ‘‘so awkward and disagreeable’’ a situation passing ‘‘hastily by the men.’’ Willoughby has had the tables turned on him. It is he who now occupies the position of the foreigner. Here Duval has found her sort of power, not physical, but the leveling force of laughter. Madame Duval had just been the subject of the group’s mirth directly preceding Willoughby’s entrance, and this underscores the similarity of their positions and the shift in power. At the end of the novel, Burney makes Lovel the figure of fun and target of the practical joke which draws blood in a twist on the transgression of conventions and violent behavior toward women. Lovel has been called effeminate by the Captain on numerous occasions. He calls men like Lovel ‘‘no better than monkeys’’ (I, xxiii) and the things that interest them ‘‘jem cracks. It is only fit, in my mind, for monkeys,—though, for aught I know, they too might turn up their noses at it’’ (I, xxi). It is not surprising therefore to find the Captain dressing up a monkey ‘‘a` la mode’’ and introducing him into Lovel’s presence, as the monkey was a common figure used to represent a Frenchman or a fop. Lovel, ‘‘too much intimidated to stand his ground, yet too much enraged to submit, turned hastily round, and, forgetful of consequences, vented his passion by giving a furious blow to the monkey’’ (III, xxi). After being struck, the monkey bites Lovel’s ear, drawing blood: ‘‘Mr. Lovel was now a dreadful object; his face was besmeared with tears, the blood from his ear ran trickling down his cloaths, and he sunk upon the floor. . . .’’ When Lovel complains of being disfigured by the wound, the Captain tells him to wear a wig, a direct reminder to the reader of the curls that were torn from Madame Duval’s head during the abduction.

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FEMALE COMPLICITY These practical jokes allow Burney to point out the part played by women’s complicitous silence in the oppression of other women. In volume II, Evelina herself, through her silence, unwittingly abets the Captain in his persecution of Duval. The Captain and Willoughby concoct a story of Du Bois’s arrest and feed it to Madame Duval, who is convinced she must plead with a magistrate on Du Bois’s behalf and obliges Evelina to accompany her. The Captain and Willoughby dress as highwaymen and attack the carriage. Once again the treatment of Duval and Evelina follows the pattern established by the earlier coach incident. Evelina is constrained by the arms of Sir Willoughby while Duval is roughly pulled out of the carriage, insulted, thrown in a ditch, and tied up: ‘‘one of them held me fast, while the other tore poor Madame Duval out of the carriage, in spite of her cries, threats and resistance’’ (II, ii). Evelina describes her appearance: Her headdress had fallen off; her linen was torn; her negligee had not a pin left in it; her petticoats she was obliged to hold on; and her shoes were perpetually slipping off. She was covered with dirt, weeds, and filth, and her face was really horrible, for the pomatum and powder from her head, and the dust from the road, were quite pasted on her skin by tears which, with her rouge, made so frightful a mixture, that she hardly looked human. (II, ii)

When Madame Duval returns to the carriage, she realizes that her hairpiece is missing; ‘‘My God! what is become of my hair?—why the villain has stole all my curls!’’ The Captain has effectively deprived Duval of her gendered attributes, she is no longer a sexual being. He ties her up as an animal and even refers to her as an ‘‘old Buck.’’ In relating this humiliation of her grandmother to Villars, Evelina does not exonerate herself from blame. Her failure to protect and warn her grandmother is evident. The lack of support by women towards members of their own sex is a theme common to Burney and Riccoboni. Where the Frenchwoman calls out for gender solidarity, the English writer holds no such illusion. Evelina’s trouble in gaining her father’s recognition is due to a nurse replacing her child with the true one, Evelina, and presenting the substituted babe to Sir Belmont as his own. This act deprives his rightful

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child of her birthright. Evelina’s mother, Lady Caroline, is forced to run away with Belmont due to the lack of support from her mother when faced with the will of her second, tyrannical husband. Evelina is guilty of the same lack of solidarity toward another woman when she does nothing to warn her grandmother. This incident can be seen as a retribution for Duval’s behavior to her daughter Caroline. Though the ages are reversed, this situation replays the abuse of one woman through the passivity and complicity of another. Lady Howard, Mrs. Mirvan, and especially Evelina do little to stop or hinder the Captain. Evelina is continually surprised at her grandmother’s lack of discernment, yet says nothing and fails to prevent the abuse out of her own fear: Her uneasiness gave me much concern, and it was with the utmost difficulty I forbore to acquaint her that she was imposed upon: but the mutual fear of the Captain’s resentment to me, and of her own to him, neither of which would have any moderation, deterred me. (II, ii)

She excuses herself by laying partial blame upon the aggressor. This statement follows Duval’s own treatment of her daughter Caroline and neglect of Evelina, her granddaughter. The news of Evelina’s birth ‘‘did not reach her ears till I must have been twelve years of age: but Monsieur Duval, who, she declared, was the worst husband in the world, would not permit her to do any thing she wished’’ (I, xiv). Writing about the events to Villars allows Evelina time to reflect upon her actions. She confesses, ‘‘I could not forgive myself for having passively suffered the deception.’’ Madame Duval is not as much of a dupe as she would seem: ‘‘I [Evelina] assisted her to rise. But what was my astonishment, when, the moment she was up, she hit me a violent slap on the face’’ (II, ii). The reason attributed for the chastisement was that Duval thought that Evelina had abandoned her, when, in fact, Evelina had been held captive. The accusation is undeserved. Yet the reader knows just how well Evelina deserved that slap. Evelina has learned a very important lesson through this attack on Duval. She decides she must no longer tolerate abuse of her grandmother: ‘‘ . . . should he [the Captain] make any new efforts to molest her, I can by no means consent to be passive. Had I imagined he would have been so violent, I would have risked his anger in her defense much sooner’’ (II, ii).

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Warnings pertaining to the dangers resulting from female independence along with the cruelty of ‘‘good society’’ are common themes in Riccoboni’s novels, and their treatment in Lettres de Miss Juliette Catesby is particularly relevant to Evelina. Jenny Montfort, a young woman of a respectable family just out of school, and the sister of Lord d’Ossery’s friend, seems to Orville ‘‘qu’une ´sirs, a` cette passion grossie `re qu’allume le femme offerte a` mes de seul instinct’’ (XXXV) [just a women available for my pleasure, for that earthy passion that touches instinct]. Ossery explains this in a letter to Juliette Catesby, a text as self-serving and exculpatory as Evelina’s account of the highwaymen’s attack on her grandmother to Villars. Ossery explains that the rape was not really his fault. The incident was caused by wine, lateness, and the unusual situation in combination with Jenny’s unconventional reaction. After being called to meet her brother’s guests, Jenny retires to another part of the house to read. She is surprised there by Ossery, knocks over her candle and they find themselves in the dark. As they grope around in the dark trying to find a way out, they bump into each other and fall down. She finds this funny and her laughter, so out of place in a situation such as this, provokes his lapse in judgment. For him, her unconventional reaction ‘‘authorizes’’ his appropriation of her body: he gives way to passion and rapes her. ‘‘Un mouve´ tueux m’emporta; j’osai tout, j’abusai cruellement du ment impe ´sordre et de la simplicite ´ d’une jeune imprudente, dont l’innode ´faite’’ [An impetuous gesture carried me away; I cence causa la de dared everything, I cruelly abused the simplicity and trouble of an imprudent young woman whose innocence caused her downfall]. Is it innocence or ignorance of social customs is a question one must ask. Beyond a critique of Ossery’s brutish behavior, Riccoboni clearly indicts not the young woman herself, but rather her lack of a proper social education. A complicating factor for modern readers’ reception of both Riccoboni and Burney has been their seemingly contradictory stance towards female independence. On the one hand, these two woman writers seem to critique society for their unjust treatment and infantilization of women. On the other, nonconforming or independent women come in for harsh treatment under their pen. For Riccoboni, independent women must always act from a morally superior position which justifies their behavior. This does not mean, however, that the women will not pay for their non-conformity with some form of marginalization. As for Burney, nonconformist

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women invariably become targets of persecution or physical abuse. Both authors demonstrate the usefulness and necessity of propriety and punctilio as a means to restrain resentment directed at women at the same time as they criticize them as a constraint on women’s behavior. The account of Jenny’s downfall written by Ossery and enclosed in Catesby’s letter to Henriette is the occasion for a general critique of men’s behavior and the education offered to young women. It demonstrates the purpose of social controls. In this letter, Catesby reinterprets a male reading of events. What Ossery sees as innocence on the part of Jenny is actually social ignorance. What is under attack here is the idea that a natural education is superior to a cultural one. The danger of a natural innocence in a socially determined world is the point of this inset story. How would Ossery have behaved if Jenny had shown the ‘‘proper’’ behavior and screamed? Ossery writes: [Jenny] s’avanc¸ a et je la suivais. Malheureusement elle s’embarrassa ´e et tomba rudement. Sa chute endans la table qu’elle avait renverse ´clats de rire me prouve `rent qu’elle ˆt de grands e traıˆna la mienne; biento ´tait point blesse ´e. L’exce `s de son enjouement me fit une impresne s’e ´garement de ma raison passa jussion extraordinaire; il m’enhardit: l’e qu’a` mon cœur. . . . Une fille respectable ne me parut dans cet instant ´sirs, `a cette passion grossie `re qu’allume qu’une femme offerte a` mes de le seul instinct. (ellipses added, XXXV) [Jenny advanced and I followed. Unfortunately she stumbled against a table, tipped over, and fell down. Her fall caused mine; her gales of laughter soon convinced me that she was not hurt. The excess of her enjoyment has a strange effect on me; it encouraged me: the loss of my wits soon affected even my heart. . . . A respectable young girl appeared to my senses only a woman offered up to my desire, to this earthy passion that only touches instinct.]

Ossery’s account is of value when one takes into account the conversation of the party of gentlemen directly preceding this incident. In a discussion on the merits of women, Jenny’s brother avers that the ‘‘natural’’ woman is superior to one schooled in the feminine arts. It is to prove his point that he asks Jenny to come down and meet the men. ‘‘Montfort tout seul soutint que l’esprit naturel et ´ nuite ´ surpassaient le savoir et les talents qu’on faisait acl’inge ´ rir aux femmes et que la plus simple e ´ tait la plus aimable’’ que

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[Only Montfort insisted that natural wit and ingenuity surpassed knowledge and therefore the simpler the skills that one taught to women the better]. However, this ‘‘natural’’ young woman with her unschooled laughter provoked a ‘‘natural’’ response from Ossery; he raped her. In his narration of the event it is Jenny who causes all the action. She takes his hand, she leads him, and Ossery’s explanation that ‘‘her fall caused mine’’ takes on a double meaning. Her fall, like the biblical Eve’s, is the cause of man’s as they both lose their innocence to ignorance.45 Juliette, however, questions this rather self-serving interpretation of events. In the beginning, Evelina is as ignorant of appropriate social behavior as is Jenny. Burney joins Riccoboni in her critique of the ‘‘natural’’ upbringing of young women and takes this critique much further. Even though ‘‘natural’’ education is criticized by Riccoboni, it is not the main focus of the novel. Burney, by contrast, makes it an integral part of her plot as well as a structural element. The deficient education, carried across more than one generation, is mirrored in the principal characters. The sentimental education received by Evelina’s grandfather, who married the tavern maid, and Evelina’s mother Caroline, from Villars at Berry Hill, does not seem adequate to coping in the social world. Evelina could have gone the way of Jenny if she had not been more astute and much more lucky. Evelina’s unschooled reactions caused her no end of trouble until she learned when, where, and under what circumstances laughter was permitted women. In fact, Burney associates women’s unbridled laughter with the prostitutes in Vauxhall Gardens, who helped Evelina return to her party. The prostitute’s reaction discomforts Evelina and signals that something is amiss. Juliette Catesby’s reaction to Jenny’s story is unusual and distinguishes Riccoboni’s texts from so many others written at the time as she refuses to participate in the competition for men. Instead, Juliette shows unusual empathy for Jenny and complains of Ossery’s lack of imagination: ´tait Eh, que ne l’aimait-il! que ne la rendait-il heureuse! elle [Jenny] e digne de son attachement. Pourquoi la fuir, l’affliger? n’avait-elle pas ´ de l’en priver! La durete ´ de des droits a` sa tendresse? quelle cruaute ´volte. Je suis bien e ´loigner d’approuver ce chagrin cette conduite me re farouche dont il l’a rendue la victime . . . je me reproche de l’avoir haı¨e. ´tais bien injuste, bien humaine de la haı¨r. (XXXV) J’e [Why did he not love her! Why did he not make her happy! She was worthy of his affection. Why run from her, afflict her? Did she not have

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any right to his tenderness? What cruelty to deprive her of it! The harshness of his conduct revolts me. I am far from approving this grief which he caused her . . . I reproach myself for having hated her. I was unjust, very human to hate her.]

Instead of the conventional solution taken by Ossery, a cold marriage of convenience, Catesby writes of an alternate one that could have been taken. One in which she and Jenny would have befriended each other. ˆt e ´ a` Erford, que de peines il nous eu ´pargne ´es `a Ah, s’ il m’avait parle ˆt e ˆte ´e a` sa situation; il n’eu ´te ´ moins l’un et a` l’autre! Je me serais pre ´der que de m’en voir abandonne ´e; je me serais console ´e par dur de le ce ´de ´ . . . j’aurai aime ´ sa la part que j’aurais eue `a la noblesse de son proce femme. Quel sujet avais-je de m’en plaindre? pourquoi n’aurait-elle pas ˆtre encore. (XXXV) ´te ´ ma compagne, mon amie? elle vivrait peut-e e [If he had just spoken to me at Erford, what suffering we would have spared one another! I would have understood his situation; it would not have been more difficult to accept it than it was to have him abandon me; I would have been consoled by the role I would have played in his noble gesture . . . I would have loved his wife. Why would I have complained? Why would she have not been my companion, my friend? Perhaps she would still be alive.]

Ossery’s fault of not speaking to Catesby, of not having the imagination to do something different, is similar to Villars’s. He does not want to face Sir Belmont and has never taken a step to contact him. Evelina has been deprived of her birthright because of the perfidy of a woman, but also by the inaction of her guardian. Social complicity, male and female, in the silence surrounding male transgressions of moral strictures is questioned in Riccoboni’s novels as well as Burney’s. The death of Jenny Montfort could have been avoided if Ossery had spoken to Juliette Catesby, just as the emotional pain of not being recognized by her father could have been prevented if Villars had contacted him sooner and presented him with his true daughter. Whatever their faults, the women in Evelina are the agents by which Evelina regains her rightful place in the social world. The novel furnishes a model of women helping women and transgressing the silence (complicitous or imposed) to be retained when all is done. It seems as if the characters and their relative functions in the Riccoboni novel were either collapsed in Evelina

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(who has the attributes and faults of Jenny and Juliette) or expanded: Ossery with his good qualities into Orville and his faults into a Willoughby and Villars. Juliette Catesby’s tight and confined social world has been expanded to encompass much more of society, as is indicated in Evelina’s title: Evelina or the History of a Young Lady’s Entrance into the World.

PRIVATE VOICE AND EPISTOLARY BOUNDARIES The material that attracted Burney to Riccoboni—the journallike narration, the ironic voice, the mixture of sentiment and comedy, and the social criticism—can be clearly seen in her work. Burney has incorporated these elements, transforming them to conform to her own vision of the world. Burney’s vision is broader and captures, as we have seen, many diverse social types. Her younger heroine, much less assured, is not as inclined to the broad moral statements as are Riccoboni’s characters. Although just as trenchant, Burney’s irony is often more subtle and less overt while comic episodes are exaggerated and less ‘‘refined’’ than in Riccoboni’s. Burney’s use of irony needs to be examined a little more closely. As we have seen, Evelina comes to understand in the first two volumes exactly what is permitted female speech. She learns to suppress her natural reactions and to defer to others. Through letter writing, Evelina develops self-expression. John Richetti comments on Evelina’s voice, ‘‘Burney fashions a unique narrative voice out of the requirements and restrictions of female speaking, making her heroine assertive without assertion, silent and demure but thereby eloquent and critical.’’46 Novels in the eighteenth century, according to Richetti, ‘‘tend to dichotomize the possibilities for women’s voices as either virtuously silent or comically, viciously or sublimely voluble.’’47 He views Burney as breaking away from her predecessors and in so doing she represents the specific problems of female speech better than anyone. Through Evelina, Burney widens the narrative space allowed a female voice. Juxtaposing narrative strength and sentimental susceptibility, Burney marks out the limits of a feminized empowered space.48 While I agree with Richetti’s assessment of Burney’s achievements in narration, I should like to stress the similarities in Riccoboni’s Catesby and Evelina’s particular epistolary practices. Burney exploits, through her choice of let-

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ter addressees and the corresponding style, what was implicit and left suggested in Catesby, but present nonetheless. Richetti points out that Evelina occupies the position of the observer in her letters. She reports what she sees and hears. In so doing she distances herself from the reported material and is ‘‘allowed to claim moral immunity from often brutal comedy she witnesses.’’49 Yet, Evelina does come in for the same judgment as the others when she is involved in the reported situation, and this is a significant part of her growth; take for example her remorse at her complicity at the Captain’s kidnapping of her grandmother discussed above. Personal morality put into practice as opposed to a more general and abstract morality is an important component in both Riccoboni’s and Burney’s writing. Departing from traditional Burney criticism, Richetti finds this faithful reproduction of conversational speech and idiom not merely automatic transcriptions of overheard dialogue. He writes: As a fairly original kind of participant-narrator, she redefines female volubility. She speaks without speaking in reproducing and classifying a wide rage of social and moral discourse and thereby exercising a power over language and the social order it represents.50

This retelling of events and conversations delivers a look at the underlying meanings of words. Putting ‘‘reported’’ language in context, she reveals its semantic field. ´e’s An example of this would be Lord Merton’s reply to his fiance remark that she was out of sorts: ‘‘ ‘You have been, as you always are,’ said he, twisting his whip with his fingers, ‘all sweetness’ ’’ (III, ii). Without explicitly saying Lord Merton is a hypocrite, the way in which Burney recounts the episode (the contrast between words and action) makes the reader understand this. The organization of the reported scene and the choice of narrative details speaks in Evelina’s stead. Juliette Catesby is more candid, but she is writing to her best friend. The whole of the Catesby novel is a personal correspondence to Henriette and gives a forum for this feminine view of the world. Evelina’s personal letters to Maria are reduced to six letters out of eighty-two. The occasion for unfettered speech for Evelina is thus reduced to a small percentage of the novel. The reader perceives a distinct difference between women’s speech to other women and the more conventional, rhetoric-bound (the more public) letters to authority figures.

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One must take into consideration the recipient of the letter and the corresponding narrative style. The indirect commentaries of Evelina’s occur mainly in the letters to Villars, her guardian. Evelina must carefully choose techniques of narration depending on what she wants from him or if she is just telling him what happened to her. As one critic points out, her letters are more like journals. They do not require the approval or disapproval of Villars, who is apprised of events after the fact. When his advice is given, it is misguided. As recipient and participant, he is almost a superfluous character, a simple pretext for the narration (although she still wants his approbation of her actions even after the fact). Her journal letters differ greatly from the letter in which she asks permission to go to London. The letters are masterpieces of manipulation. She flatters him, requests to go to town but defers to his judgment, ‘‘what a happy party! Yet I am not very eager to accompany them: at least, I shall be very well contented to remain where I am, if you desire that I should’’ (I, viii). The use of the negative and italics to express an eagerness to go, combined with a qualification ‘‘at least, I shall’’ are at once submissive and demonstrations of desire. She concludes with ‘‘you will not, I am sure, send a refusal without reasons unanswerable, and therefore I shall cheerfully acquiesce. Yet I hope—I hope you will be able to permit me to go.’’ She has made it almost impossible for Villars to refuse without offending Mrs. Mirvan and Lady Howard. Evelina is very much in command of the writing and it has a reflective tone. She is close enough to the event narrated to be exasperated and yet far enough removed to judge it. For the most part in letters written to Villars, the personal is confined to a tag-on ending. ‘‘Adieu, dear Sir. What a long letter have I written! I could almost fancy I sent it you from London,’’ or ‘‘Adieu, my dear Sir, till to-morrow’’ (I, xvi). In Evelina’s letters to Maria Mirvan a different tone is employed. Here Evelina shows her feelings, and a more sentimental discourse appears. The six letters to Maria are all in volume II. The first of these falls between an account of Madame Duval unsuccessfully applying to the law to seek redress after her kidnapping and another in which we get a glimpse of the young poet McCartney. Evelina’s use of direct address effectively evokes her friend’s presence. This letter and others to Maria are the locus for sentiment which is signaled at the outset. ‘‘I have no words, my sweet friend . . . ,’’ ‘‘O Maria, London now seems a desart [sic] . . . ,’’ ‘‘Tell me, my dear

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Maria, do you ever re-trace in your memory. . . ’’ (II, ix). In the letters to Maria, Evelina reveals her disappointment in Lord Orville and there is a reflection of this sentiment in her syntax. ‘‘—That I should ever have been known to Lord Orville,—that I should have spoken to—have danced with him,—seems now a romantic illusion. . . ’’ (II, x). This breakup of syntax to show emotion is not as frequently used by Burney in Evelina as it is in her later works. The difficulty represented in Evelina’s letters lies not in the writing, but in speech. Her writing reproduced her disrupted oral syntax, where in Riccoboni’s text it is the writing itself that is halting. The interruption of Catesby’s letter is symptomatic of the problem of female expression, written or oral. One must remember that Riccoboni began her writing career twenty-four years before Burney, when the techniques of sentimental expression were still fresh. In the second letter to Maria, Evelina writes, ‘‘O Miss Mirvan, to be so beloved by the best of men,—should I not be happy?—Should I have one wish save that of meriting his goodness?—Yet think me not ungrateful; indeed I am not. . . .’’ She continues, ‘‘I cannot journalise; cannot arrange my ideas into order’’ (II, xxvi). The loss of control is not something she would write about to Villars, for whom she must keep up a fairly well-regulated front. The empowerment that Evelina and Catesby found in writing, however tenuous and difficult to maintain, will be compromised at the end of each heroine’s story. The affection and melancholy displayed in Evelina’s letters to Maria can be found in Catesby’s text and seem to speak in tandem, `re; je m’y ennuie beaucoup. Que j’ai de ´ja` ‘‘je m’ennuie ici, ma che ´ votre cabinet, le mien, la douceur de ces entretiens que la regrette confiance rend si vifs, ces amusement simples, ces lectures utiles!’’ [I am bored here, my dear; I am very bored. How I miss your room, mine too, as well as the sweet conversations and simple pleasures that trust renders so lively] (XII). In many ways this letter parallels Evelina’s first missive to her friend, in which she expresses her disappointment in London. The subject matter indicates the range of the two novels: Evelina: ‘‘Indeed, to me, London now seems a desart [sic]; that gay and busy appearance it so lately wore, is now succeeded by a look of gloom, fatigue, and lassitude; the air seems stagnant, the heat is intense, the dust intolerable, and the inhabitants illiterate and under-bred’’ (II, ix). Catesby: ‘‘Il semble que l’on ´e sous cette liberte ´ apparente. soit libre ici et la contrainte est cache On y fait ce que l’on veut mais on n’y dit point ce que l’on pense.

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´te ´ brillante, appele ´e la bonne Que le grand monde, que cette socie compagnie, donne peu de satisfaction a` ceux qui l’examinent!’’ [It seems as if one were free here, but hidden constraints underlie that liberty. One does what one pleases, but one does not say what one thinks. How this brilliant company, called the great society, gives so little satisfaction to those who examine it] (XII). Burney’s novel is turned outward while Riccoboni’s takes place in a restrained circle of acquaintances. Evident in both texts is a combination of sentimental weakness and narrative power. In Catesby, individual letters move from ironic observation to impassioned outpourings of sentiment and back. In Evelina the mixing of discourse still appears but is more restrained. The letters to Maria are reserved for Evelina’s tender discourse and the letters to Villars contain her social observations with some bleeding of one into the other, but the movement has become stiffer. The separation of the two is more evident. Burney’s writing is at once an expansion and a correction of the more conservative aspects of Riccoboni’s narratives. Yet Burney was a very careful reader of Riccoboni’s novels. Burney’s rewriting of the Frenchwoman’s novels was accomplished by her reading of Riccoboni’s doubled plots undermining the very strong female characters presented in the Frenchwoman’s works. Burney called upon Riccoboni’s secondary exploration of the difficulties of women’s condition in society and made them the primary focus of her novels. In turn, Burney will be read and rewritten in a similar fashion by Choderlos de Laclos.

3 Moral Authority and Textual Indiscretions VERY LITTLE IS KNOWN ABOUT PIERRE-AMBROISE-FRANC¸OIS CHODERLOS de Laclos’s life before he published Les Liaisons dangereuses. He was the second son of a newly ennobled family, born in Amiens in 1741.1 Laclos began his military career in 1760 when he entered ` re, later renamed l’Ecole Polytechthe artillery school at La Fe nique. While there, his literary apprenticeship seems to have been self-directed and the question of whether Laclos was an autodidact or not has yet to be resolved.2 Laclos was an avid reader of novels and a writer of poetry. Like Riccoboni and Burney, he too suffered throughout his life from a lack of funds; but it was not for monetary purposes that he wrote his celebrated novel. He is reputed to have said, ‘‘. . . I resolved to compose a work so out of the ordinary that it would make a noise, one that would be heard long after I passed on.’’3 Laclos’s literary career matched the trajectory of his military one as he moved from obscurity to scandal and back again. To break the monotony of garrison life, Laclos attended the theater and wrote occasional verses which he had published in the Almanach des ´ pıˆtre `a Margot,’’ was thought to be Muses. One of his poems, ‘‘E about the king’s mistress, Madame du Barry, and created no small stir. It was originally written in 1774 and circulated anonymously in the ‘‘beau monde’’ (only being published under his name after the scandal had died down, in 1776). Although there was no official reprimand, critics wonder if there was not some sort of unofficial parallel military dossier to explain the apparently unexplainable opposition to advancement that Laclos faced throughout his career. In 1777, Laclos ventured into the theater when he wrote the libretto for a comic opera based on Riccoboni’s short novel Ernestine (1765) with Saint-Georges supplying the score. The opera was a resounding flop, closing after one performance. In 1779 he was sent to the island of Aix to oversee the building of new fortifications 110

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under the protection of the Marquis de Montalembert and he may have begun writing Les Liaisons dangereuses, published in April 1782. It was Montalembert who intervened when Laclos was censured by Gribeauval, inspector-general of the artillery and comte de ´gur [minister of war], for the ‘‘unauthorized’’ publication of Les Se Liaisons dangereuses. Laclos had, in fact, obtained permission tacite to publish his novel, but when the scandalous nature of the novel became apparent the permission was not sufficient. Laclos was singularly unlucky in his military career. The signing of the Treaty of Paris in 1763 which ended the Seven Years’ War ushered in a thirty-year period of relative peace, frustrating Laclos’s military ambitions. Promoted to lieutenant in 1762 and captain in 1777, Laclos remained at this rank until 1792 when, for a short time, he was named to the position of ge´ne´ral de camp. Laclos had the uncanny ability to provoke his superiors just when he would have seen advancement. In 1786 he published ‘‘Sur l’Eloge de Vauban,’’ a text in which he criticized Vauban’s system of fortifications as outdated. The ‘‘Eloge’’ was the third in a series of literary scandals that made Laclos the object of military censure. These scandals coupled with his lack of the four degrees of nobility required for an officer in a peacetime army kept him from any further promotion. In a strangely literal way, one can situate the root of Laclos’s problems in his authority, for its Latin root auctor indicates writer as well as progenitor. Both his lineage (family name) and his writing impeded his advancement. If it were not for his one novel—the second outrage—Laclos would be relegated to a footnote in the history of the Revolution, during which he was secretary to the duc d’Orleans, joined the Jacobins, was imprisoned twice, and very narrowly escaped the guillotine. It was the reputation earned as the author of Les Liaisons ´anists, and the fact that dangereuses, his connection with the Orle he was the author of articles and political pamphlets signed by Phil´ that made him suspect to authorities, who viewed him ippe-Egalite ´gime. It was not until Napoas a corrupt example of the ancien re ´on, a fellow artilleryman and admirer of Laclos’s invention of the le boulet creux, appointed him an artillery general in 1799 that Laclos received the recognition that he felt he deserved. It was during the Italian campaign that Laclos died of dysentery in 1803 at the age of sixty-one. The information posterity has about Laclos’s life comes from military archives. Seen only through these records, he remains an elu-

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sive and mysterious figure. Happily, we do have some of his letters, which date from the publication of Les Liaisons dangereuses. The letters sent to his wife and children portray a dedicated and sentimental family man quite at odds with Laclos’s image as a hard libertine. Among these sentimental letters and petitions to authorities and friends in high places is a series of four letters exchanged with Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni. They are, in fact, the oldest letters, as they date from April 1782, the month Les Liaisons dangereuses was published.

LACLOS-RICCOBONI CORRESPONDENCE Riccoboni’s first letter to Laclos4 is undated but her second one carries the heading April 14, just four days after the novel’s publication, which appeared in four volumes between the 7th and 10th of April. The fact that Riccoboni impulsively made Laclos aware of her criticism shows just how strong her reactions to the novel were. Laclos published the correspondence himself in the last authorially approved edition of Les Liaisons dangereuses in 1787. In light of the fact that these letters contain one of the few documents in which Laclos states his intention in writing this novel, they have often been commented upon by critics, who alternately use them to prove Laclos’s moral purpose behind his infamous novel or to demonstrate the hypocritical self-serving bent of his argument. Private correspondence of this kind rendered public served as a ‘‘reallife’’ meta-textual commentary. It absolved Laclos from being decried as an author of immoral texts. The fact that the exchange involved Marie Riccoboni, a celebrated author of works in the style of the school of moral sentiment, is not insignificant. However, her role in the exchange has all but been ignored. In writing to Riccoboni, he stresses the moral utility of his novel and indirectly draws upon her reputation. Beyond their obvious use as justification for Laclos’s novel, these letters are significant in what they reveal about the ties that bind both authors. The subtext of this exchange is a jockeying for power. The two writers reveal their ideological positions as they play a game of one-upmanship in their struggle for critical authority. Both of them take the high road: Laclos appeals to the classic (read masculine) tenets of art while Riccoboni bases her justifications on moral (read feminine) authority. The key to this exchange is Riccoboni’s curious choice of subject

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position; she writes from the position of a woman, explicitly denying her critical expertise as an experienced, best-selling author. An examination of her position in relation to Laclos’s reveals the underlying tensions perceived in the interstices of the writers’ rhetoric and argumentation.5 In letter III, Riccoboni writes that it is as woman that she objects: ´ de femme, Monsieur, de Franc¸aise, de patriote ze ´le ´e C’est en qualite ´ du caractpour l’honneur de ma nation, que j’ai senti mon cœur blesse `re de Madame de Merteuil.6 e [It is as a woman, Monsieur, a Frenchwoman, a zealous patriot for the honor of my nation, that I felt wounded in heart by the personality of Madame de Merteuil.]

What does it mean for Riccoboni to object as a woman? Why not as an author? Why does she choose to write with a woman’s pen and not with her authorial one? We need to look at this deliberate choice in light of Susan Lanser’s explanation that ‘‘female voice’’ is not an essence but a variable subject position whose ‘‘I’’ is grammatically feminine. The particular characteristics of any ‘‘female voice’’ then, are a function of the context in which the voice operates.7

What exactly are these characteristics of the feminine voice and why does Riccoboni call upon them in this specific context? Upon first glance the private correspondence rendered public served as a meta-textual commentary that absolved Laclos from accusations of immoral writing without his having to directly issue an apologie of his work. Riccoboni’s refusal to admit any moral purpose to Les Liaisons dangereuses must have been vexing to Laclos. Her denial that she addresses her criticisms as an author leads the two writers into circular argumentation that resembles a fencing match. Neither correspondent responds fully to the others’ objections but rather parries them. Complicating the ever elusive line of reasoning in the correspondence is the question of gender, which is as contradictory for Riccoboni as it is for Laclos. She writes as a woman but would redefine the term. He compliments Riccoboni as an author while treating her with coquetterie. Three aspects of these letters are of special importance: Riccoboni’s objection to the novel, her refusal to be considered as a

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femme-auteur, and Laclos’s defense of his methods of characterization. She harks back to classical arguments employed in defense of the novelistic genre as a whole: ´crivain distingue ´, comme M. de Laclos, doit avoir deux objets en Un e ˆtre utile. En remplir un, se faisant imprimer, celui de plaire, et celui d’e ˆte. On n’a pas besoin de se ce n’est pas assez pour un homme honne `res qui ne peuvent exister, et j’invite mettre en garde contre des caracte ˆte ´ments qu’il a pre ´s a` M. de Lalos `a ne jamais orner le vice des agre Mme de Merteuil.8 (I, 1) [A distinguished writer, such as M. de Laclos, should have two objectives in mind when he publishes, to please and to be useful. To fulfill one is not enough for a gentleman. One does not need to put up one’s guard against characters that cannot exist, and I invite M. de Laclos to never give vice the charms which he lent Mme de Merteuil.]

In response Laclos counters Riccoboni’s charge of invraisemblance: ´liciter Mme R. de ne pas croire a` l’existence M. de L. commence par fe ´chantes et de ´prave ´es. Pour lui, e ´claire ´ par une expe ´rides femmes me ´, ence plus malheureuse, il assure avec chagrin, mais avec since´ rite ´s dans la perqu’il ne pourrait effacer aucun des traits qu’il a rassemble sonne de Mme de Merteuil sans mentir a` sa conscience, sans taire, au moins, une partie de ce qu’il a vu. (response to I, 2) [M. de L. begins by congratulating Mme R. on her disbelief in the existence of evil and depraved women. For him, enlightened by unhappier experience, he assures her with chagrin, but in all sincerity, that he could not erase even one of the traits that he has gathered together in the character of Mme de Merteuil without betraying his conscience, without silencing at least part of what he has seen.]

Both authors are merely articulating opposing positions in a longrunning literary argument justifying novelistic practices current in the eighteenth century: exemplum as warning or as emulation.9 And, on the surface, this explanation would seem to sum up the contents of the Riccoboni-Laclos correspondence, until one considers the place (or the voice) from which Riccoboni addresses her criticism of Laclos’s Mme de Merteuil. A closer look at the woman writer’s equivocal position brings to light a subtext embedded in this seemingly superficial correspondence.

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Writing as a femme-auteur presented serious difficulties, as figured in the very compounding of a feminine word with a masculine one. A woman writing publicly straddled both worlds: masculine by dint of writing and feminine by her biological nature. Riccoboni denied that her comments derived from her status as an author: ´ritable en m’attribuant la partialite ´ d’un ‘‘Vous me feriez un tort ve auteur’’ [You would truly wrong me in attributing to me the partiality of an author] (II, 3). Writing, publishing texts, entailed a foray into the public eye and was therefore immodest. As an author of novels, a ‘‘feminine’’ genre outside the traditional literary realm, a woman author was somewhat acceptable. However, as a writer of literary criticism, she relinquished her prescribed ‘‘feminine’’ sphere and called upon masculine ‘‘reason.’’ ´tif de la Bretonne sums up the untenable position of a woman Re writer: ‘‘How I pity the woman author or scholar! Young people, she is really to be pitied. She has lost the charm of her sex: she is a man among women and yet is not a woman among men. . . .’’10 As a writer of novels she was not only unnatural but subversive to the state as well: Novels tend to not only disturb families’ peace, they also reverse the order so necessary for the preservation of society. The Almighty’s will, in forming woman, was to create a companion for man and an ornament for the universe. Novels, to the contrary, make [women] tyrants of men and [women] idols of the world.11

Riccoboni is aware that the most potent critical powers available to her gender are located in the heart and are of a moral nature, not ´’’ [I felt my heart an intellectual one (‘‘J’ai senti mon cœur blesse wounded’]). Thus her critical observations are not as strong in speaking from her position as a woman writer: a contradiction in terms.12 Riccoboni’s grounding of her objections in her stance as a woman is understandable enough, for neither of Riccoboni’s two ´die Italienne and then professions, first as an actress with the Come as a female author, provided her with any respectability or moral authority. Quite the contrary, they both were suspect. What sustained her instead was the eighteenth century’s cult of the virtuous woman popularized in Richardson’s Pamela and Rousseau’s Julie, ou la Nouvelle He´loı¨se. The cult was ‘‘not so much a new idea as a new response to an

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old problem, that of the dangerous sex.’’13 Women were, in the eighteenth century, to be taken as inspirational figures, exemplars of virtue, for they had access to the sentimental side of the human spirit denied men. In fact, scientific research had come to the conclusion that women were biologically more sentimental than men by virtue of their constitution. This susceptibility was evident in female tissues, which were more loosely constructed than men’s.14 Women, therefore, were ruled by their female nature and had to struggle against any indiscretion or immodesty. Although women were subordinate to men, the aggressive tendencies of the male were held in check by the civilizing qualities of women. They embodied traditional ‘‘pieties of religion, the family, and even the state.’’15 Women’s successful battle against their natural proclivities made them all the more exemplary and they were, in novels published in the wake of Pamela, portrayed as the guardians of collective morality. Calling upon her womanhood, Riccoboni seemingly assumed her ‘‘feminine’’ duty and defended her nation from the dangers of the immoral and unbridled sexual woman represented by Laclos’s Merteuil. When Riccoboni protests, however, that she was not criticizing Laclos’s novel from the equal position of a ‘‘fellow’’ author but from a woman’s, it is not without equivocation. Both Riccoboni and Laclos alternately undermine their respective arguments in their attempt to redefine their terms. Riccoboni responds with ridicule to Laclos’s statement that he will not deprive himself of her letters. His praise of her as an author in a gallant tone reserved for young women simultaneously acknowledges and undermines her authority as writer. Laclos writes C’est encore moi, Madame, et je crains bien que vous ne me trouviez ´pondre a` votre obligeante lettre! importun. Mais le moyen de ne pas re de ne pas vous remercier de vos remerciemens! Enfin, que vous diraiˆme je m’y attends: Je sens je? Cette correspondance peut cesser et me ´que vous avez le droit de vous taire, et que je n’aurai pas celui de re clamer contre votre silence: Mais sans doute vous ne vous attendez pas que ce soit moi qui en donne l’exemple: ce sera bien assez de m’y conformer. J’ai appris depuis long-temps a` supporter des privations, mais non pas a` m’en imposer’’ (response to II, 7). [Once again, it is I, Madame, and I fear that you will find me inopportune. But how could I not answer your obliging letter! How not to thank you for your thanks! Finally, what can I say? This correspondence can

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end and I even expect it to do so: I feel that you have the right to silence, and I do not have the right to protest against your silence: but without a doubt, you can not expect me to provide the example: it will be well enough for me to resign myself to it. I learned along time ago to bear with deprivations, but no to impose them upon myself.]

Riccoboni’s reply: ‘‘Un militaire, mettre au rang de ses privations ´gligence d’une femme dont il a pu entendre parler a` sa grandla ne `re! Cela ne vous fait-il pas rire, Monsieur?’’ [For a soldier, to me include among possible deprivations, the negligence of a woman of whom he could have heard his grandmother speak! Does that not make you laugh, Monsieur?] (III, 12) quickly puts him in his place. She indicates the seriousness of the discussion and that his attempt at coquetterie is at the very least misplaced, if not laughable. Laclos parries with a reference to his own age (response to III, 16). On the one hand Riccoboni discounts the part intellect played in her criticism by speaking as a ‘‘femme,’’ and on the other she claims the deference due an elder and, in so doing, grounds her authority in wisdom (la sagesse). This maneuver merits examination. The French woman refuses, in fact, the sexuality that comes with a biological female identification. Or rather, Riccoboni rejects the vulnerable position of the sexual woman as well as moral authority gained by overcoming the ‘‘female’’ body’s desires.16 She attempts to locate her authority elsewhere by calling upon her age. In so doing, Riccoboni brings in the idea of experience. But is it experience as a woman or as a writer? Is she an old woman who may be permitted to assume the authority to speak? Riccoboni attempts to use her age to place her beyond the dominant male and submissive female dyad and all the social constraints her female sex entails, but still to retain the special moral capacities of the female heart. Riccoboni nimbly calls upon the commonplace prejudices against old women (the no longer feminine guardians of morality) and turns them to her own design. This is not the first time Riccoboni would try to manipulate gendered authority to her advantage or attempt to call upon an authority beyond gender definitions. Riccoboni employed the strategy of not revealing her gender in other writings. In L’Abeille (1761), a collection of narratives modeled after Addison’s Spectator, Riccoboni writes: ‘‘Je tais mon sexe’’ [I keep my sex to myself]. With her gender thus concealed, she identifies herself as an author: ‘‘Quel ´te ´ tirera du caprice qui me fait auteur?’’ [What avantage la socie

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advantage will society draw from the caprice that makes me an author?] (Œuvres comple`ttes, 2–3). However, the title of the collection, L’Abeille, or ‘‘bee,’’ as Susan Lanser points out, carries both a masculine and feminine charge. It is a feminine gendered word, une abeille, and also a common masculine literary trope that served writers ‘‘at least as far back as Montaigne.’’17 In these collected texts, Riccoboni ‘‘spins out a crisis of authority that is both coy defense and aggressive attack.’’18 The combination of coyness and aggression (masculine and feminine) once again appears in the letters to Laclos. While proclaiming her right to speak as a woman, Riccoboni makes it almost insultingly clear to Laclos that it is not the biological determination of gender that supports her arguments, but rather a ‘‘feminine’’ moral position emptied of its gender specificity. In addressing Laclos as ‘‘un militaire.’’ Riccoboni reintroduces the notion of profession. It is a ‘‘militaire’’ who writes to an unavowed and unsexed ‘‘auteur.’’ Riccoboni’s rhetorical strategy profoundly affects the content of this correspondence. The arguments and objections set forth in these letters between Riccoboni and Laclos are strangely difficult to follow as both writers abandon one line of argumentation only to jump quickly to another point of contention or to employ another line of defense. Each has their own agenda and they never completely coincide; one has the impression that Laclos and Riccoboni ‘‘tournent autour du pot.’’ The fencing match, carried out by foil and stinger, displays their repertoire of moves but lacks a frank engagement of weapons whose very nature reflects the authors respective positions: the ‘‘natural’’ (and feminine) stinger as opposed to the artifactual (and masculine) foil. It is Riccoboni’s refusal to articulate the cause underlying her anger that allows Laclos to ignore the issue. But the reader is uncomfortably aware that something else, intimated yet left unsaid, fuels Riccoboni’s indignation. She couched her criticism in terms of moral strength based in gender, then emptied the term of its specificity. The strategy, which allowed Riccoboni to write her criticism, did not obviate the anger that sprang from her position as an author. After all, Riccoboni published after at least three best-selling novels, one of which was second only to Rousseau’s Julie, ou la Nouvelle He´loı¨se in popularity. In her denial of authority grounded in her position as a writer in favor of one based on gender, Riccoboni hints at the veritable cause of her anger:

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Je le suis de si peu de choses [author] qu’en lisant un livre nouveau je me trouverais bien injuste et bien sotte, si je le comparais aux bagatelles ` guider celles des ausorties de ma plume et croyais mes ide´es propres a tres. (III, 12, emphasis added) [I am so little an author that in reading a new book, I would find myself unjust and silly if I compared it to the nonsense produced by my pen and considered my ideas proper to guide those of others.]

One must read through this conventional denial of Laclos’s compliment for the grain of truth. This self-effacement is typical of Riccoboni’s double-sided rhetoric. Patricia Meyer Spacks explains: ‘‘For eighteenth-century women as letter writers, the notion of direct self-revelation and self-assertion would conflict with ideas about femininity deeply inscribed in the culture.’’19 Riccoboni favored the private role of ‘‘femme’’ over her public ´crivain’’ in this correspondence.20 It is exactly as an auone as ‘‘e thor that she objects to Laclos’s work, but will not recognize (nor admit) the source of her displeasure. The cause of her anger must be inferred from her argumentation. A master of indirection himself, Laclos responds to Riccoboni’s surface criticisms, but as Riccoboni’s argumentation was not completely forthright, sliding from one topic to another, Laclos was able to avoid addressing her hidden objections. Writing in her own name, Riccoboni was circumspect; in many ways her writing resembles that of some of her fictional heroines. Two different discourses are present; often they are visible in tandem. In Catesby, Riccoboni portrays a woman who divides her speech into two parts depending on the interlocutor. One type of discourse is conventional (used with men) while the other is reserved for her correspondence with Henriette protesting society’s unjust treatment of women. Riccoboni, too, has a double rhetoric. She has one voice for her correspondence, that of a conventional ‘‘woman,’’ which is visible in these letters with Laclos, and another for her published works where she employs the outspoken voice of an auteur-femme. Like Juliette, Riccoboni takes on a woman’s voice to write to Laclos. She cannot speak directly. It is only through reading her novels that Riccoboni’s true objections to Merteuil take on a significance beyond that of conventional arguments on morality. This correspondence is between two writers, not just between a writer and a woman, however much Riccoboni denied it.

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When Laclos intimated that Riccoboni had the right to end the ´clamer exchange and that ‘‘[il] n’aurai[t] pas celui [le droit] de re contre votre silence . . .’’ [he would not have the right to protest her silence] (response to II, 7), she tartly pointed out his little ruse, ´e de vous re ´pondre, Monsieur, et me donner ‘‘Me croire dispense votre adresse, c’est au moins une petite contradiction’’ [To believe me excused from answering you, Monsieur, and, at the same time, give me your address is at the very least a bit contradictory] (III, 5). She had no patience for this duplicity even as she herself participated in it. She did not answer Laclos’s response to her third letter in which he stated that he had only written one part of what he wished to discuss. Laclos continued that if she feared receiving the ˆme dit encore second portion she should contact him: ‘‘je n’ai me ´. Si vous qu’une partie de mes raisons sur les objets dont j’ai parle ´cessaire que vous me fassiez craignez un second volume, il sera ne savoir’’ [I told you only a part of my reasons on the subject of which I spoke. If you fear a second volume of letters, you need to let me know] (response to III, 19). Laclos put Riccoboni in the strange position of writing to him if she did not want to correspond with him. Either way forced Riccoboni to keep the epistolary connection open. Laclos began the follow-up letter, ‘‘Il me semble que votre silence me donne le droit de ´claircir les objets qui me restent a` poursuivre, et j’en profite pour e traiter avec vous.’’ [It seems to me that your silence gives me the right to continue and I am taking advantage of it to clarify the topics remaining to be discussed with you] (second response to III, 20). It is her silence as a ‘‘private’’ writer of letters that allows him to continue his justification, but it is her silence as an author that allows him to circumvent her hidden objections: the use of characters in her ‘‘moral’’ novels to create the terrible Merteuil. When Riccoboni writes: ‘‘Je ne suis pas surprise qu’un fils de M. ´crive bien’’ [I am not surprised that a son of M. de de Choderlos e ˆ tes bien ge ´ ne ´ reux, Choderlos writes so well] (I, 1), and ‘‘Vous e ´pondre par des compliments si polis, si flatteurs, si Monsieur, de re ´s, `a la liberte ´ que j’ai ose ´ prendre d’attaspirituellement exprime ´tails me ´ritent tant quer le fond d’un ouvrage dont le style et les de de louanges’’ [You are very generous, Monsieur, to answer with compliments so polite, so flattering, so spiritually expressed, the liberty that I dared take in attacking the content of a work whose style and details merit so much praise] (II, 5), we see that it is neither the subject matter nor the literary quality of his work that offended

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Riccoboni. But it is, rather, the portrayal of the immoral Madame de Merteuil and specifically her outspokenness on the subject of women and society that so disturbs her. The noun ‘‘silence’’ and the verb ‘‘taire’’ come up in fact in Laclos’s and Riccoboni’s correspondence. The importance of ‘‘taire’’ (to quiet, to silence) can be seen in the development of their respective arguments. Laclos uses the technique of literary synthesis as a justification for his portrayal of Merteuil. Laclos explains to Riccoboni how he combines traits found in different people to create his character. This is the key. It is just this synthetic technique that so offends Riccoboni. The voice and ideas with which she makes her characters speak are the ones that are assembled piecemeal to create Madame de Merteuil and she intuitively, if not consciously, recognizes this fact. Laclos brushes aside Riccoboni’s first contention that a woman like Merteuil does not exist with an analogy drawn from Cervantes: . . . de telles femmes n’existent point: supposons-le, j’y consens. Alors pourquoi tant de rumeur? Quand Don Quichotte s’arma pour combat´fense? tre les moulins a` vent, quelqu’un s’avisa-t-il d’en prendre la de ´rite ´. (response to On le plaignit, on ne l’accusa point. Revenons a` la ve II, 8) [Suppose that such women do not exist: I will accord you that. So then why so much rumor? When Don Quixote armed himself to fight windmills, did someone come to their defense? One pitied him, one did not blame him. Let us return to the truth.]

He then places her works in the realm of idealism that corresponds to her sex. It is as an author of a more ‘‘idealist’’ tradition that she protests Laclos’s ‘‘realistic’’ work. To write openly in an authorial voice would have been to implicate herself in a questionable project, that is, the genesis of Les Liaisons dangereuses. It was much safer to object as a woman, but this position, as we have seen, was a weaker one. As a woman writing in the idealist mode she could be silenced. He, on the other hand, writes in the realm of reality. She invokes ‘‘la nature embel´s `a un lie’’ [an embellished nature], while ‘‘les hommes condamne ´ ` travail plus severe, ont toujours suffisamment bien fait quand ils ´lite ´’’ [Men, condemned ont rendu la nature avec exactitude et fide to harder work, always did well enough when they depicted nature `re as an with exactitude and fidelity] (response to I, 4). Using Molie example, he states that Tartuffe may not have existed but ‘‘non sans

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doute, cet homme n’existait pas; mais vingt, mais cent hypocrites ´ pare ´ ment de semblables horreurs; Molie ` re les avaient commis se ´unit sur un seul d’entre eux, et le livra a` l’indignation publique’’ re [without a doubt, this man did not exist, but twenty, no one hun`re dred hypocrites have committed separately similar horrors: Molie assembled them in one of them, and gave him up to public indignation] (response to II, 9). His work follows a similar strategy. By aligning himself with great masculine writers Laclos puts himself beyond reproach: an option not available to Riccoboni. Riccoboni refuses to concede the point. To counter Laclos’s liter´raary justification for Merteuil, she calls upon a moral one: ‘‘L’exage ´ cepte la force propre `a corriger’’ [Exaggeration ˆ te au pre tion o deprives a principle of the necessary force to correct] (III, 14). Exaggeration is a key word, for it, along with literary synthesis, is the technique Laclos used to create the larger-than-life Merteuil. Riccoboni implies that while her texts are correctives, Laclos’s are sim´dicateur emporte ´, fanatique, en ply dangerous to morals: ‘‘Un pre ´flexion salutaire. damnant son auditoire, n’excite pas la moindre re Il en a trop dit, on ne le croit pas’’ [A fanatic and carried away preacher, in damning his audience, does not incite the least salutary thought. He has said too much to be believed] (III, 14). The theme of speaking too much (trop dire) will reappear significantly when we come upon this strange phrase in Riccoboni’s ´ tendez aimer les femmes? Faites-les donc taire, text. ‘‘Vous pre `re’’ [You claim to love women? apaisez leurs cris et calmez leur cole Silence them, then: Soothe their cries and calm their anger] (III, 14, emphasis added). Here is the crux of her text and an implicit recognition that Laclos gives women a voice for the anger that should be suppressed. The pretext that such a woman as Merteuil could not exist is forgotten. Riccoboni has moved beyond this argument to the proposition that women should not speak overtly, which is at the heart of her objections to Laclos’s Merteuil. In ‘‘Female Rhetorics,’’ Patricia Meyer Spacks comments on eighteenth-century women’s desire for ‘‘self-assertion and the need for self-suppression’’ which entails the use of ‘‘strategies of deflection.’’21 Riccoboni intuitively recognizes the fact that Laclos exaggerates indictments against society voiced by a certain number of heroines found in Riccoboni’s works (Fanni Butlerd, Juliette Catesby, Hortense de Berneil, Madame d’Elmont). The forthright (and public) display of subversive elements hidden but nonetheless perceptible in Riccoboni’s own texts was unacceptable to her.

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Laclos carries these ideas too far, he is too ‘‘harsh.’’ Where Riccoboni’s heroines advocate reform, Laclos’s Merteuil is uninterested in the social order. Laclos responds ironically. He incorporates Riccoboni’s text into his own, using the technique of italicized citation for which she is known: ‘‘Vous voyez, Madame, combien je suis loin encore de faire taire les femmes, d’apaiser leurs cris et de calmer leur cole`re ’’ [You see, Madame, just how far I am from silencing women, soothing their cries and calming their anger] (response to III, 19). This sentence subsumes her voice, her text into his. It serves as a model for their textual relationship, which Riccoboni recognized in reading Les Liaisons dangereuses but refuses to address openly. When Laclos responds in his first letter to Riccoboni’s claim that his work pleases (plaire) but is not useful (utile) in its presentation of vice, he writes that it is because he wishes to be useful that he ˆtre portrayed evil and that he realizes that ‘‘les regards peuvent e ´s de quelques-uns des tableaux qu’il n’a pas craint de pre ´blesse senter’’ [the sight of some could be hurt by a few of the scenes that he does not fear to present] (response to I, 3). He recommends the reading of Riccoboni’s novels in a manner which valorizes his own vision of the world: ´s de ces images attristantes, voudront se reQuand ses lecteurs, fatigue poser sur des sentiments plus doux; quand ils rechercheront la nature ˆces embellie; quand ils voudront connaıˆtre tout ce que l’esprit et les gra peuvent ajouter de charmes a` la tendresse, `a la vertu, M. de Laclos les invitera `a relire Ernestine, Fanni, Catesby, etc. etc. etc. (response to I, 4) [When his readers, tired of these sad images, want to repose themselves on sweeter sentiments; when they yearn for an embellished nature; when they want to know all that the mind and graces can add by way of charm, tenderness, and virtue, M. de Laclos invites them to reread Ernestine, Fanni, Catesby, etc.

Laclos clearly indicates that women’s writing is idealistic, while his reflects a more accurate image of the world. His representation of immoral, sexually rapacious women or virtuous weak-willed ones supersedes Riccoboni’s sensitive characters. Riccoboni puts an end to the correspondence with a short missive which mirrors the first one she wrote. Although neither as curt nor as formal, it is nonetheless not very flattering:

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´loquence et de l’obstination, on a souvent raison, Avec de l’esprit, de l’e Monsieur, du moins on re´duit au silence les personnes qui n’aiment ni a` disserter, ni `a soutenir leur opinion avec trop de chaleur. Permettezmoi donc de terminer une dispute dont nos derniers neveux ne ver`s de votre livre doit roient pas la fin si elle continuoit. Le brillant succe ´ge `re censure. . . . (IV, 23, emphasis added) vous faire oublier ma le [With wit, eloquence, and obstinacy, one is often right, Monsieur, at least one reduces to silence those people that do not like to hold forth, nor insist on their ideas too warmly. Permit me, then, to put an end to an argument of which our youngest nephews would not see the end if we continued. The brilliant success of your book ought to make you forget my little censure.]

Because Riccoboni would not openly confront the reason for her hostility, the inclusion of her work in Laclos’s literary synthesis that produced Les Liaisons dangereuses, she and Laclos wrote at crosspurposes. Riccoboni recognized that the correspondence was almost a comedy piece: a futile dialogue de sourds. Calling on gender to ground her criticism of Les Liaisons dangereuses allowed Riccoboni to voice her literary criticisms at the same time as it placed constraints on that speech. The boundary that Riccoboni erected between writing as a woman and as an author prevented her from speaking openly and permitted Laclos to avoid addressing her literary objections directly. The Laclos-Riccoboni exchange serves as a paradigm for the problematic (and paradoxical) position of a femme-auteur who, in the very act of writing, reinscribed (and represented) herself through the gender construction that restricted her speech, forcing her into circular argumentation. Recognizing this, Riccoboni terminated the correspondence with these words: ‘‘Ainsi, Monsieur, `s un volume de lettres, nous nous retrouverions toujours au apre ` nous sommes partis’’ [So, Monsieur, after a volume of point d’ou letters, we find ourselves still at the point were we started] (IV, 23). In ending this correspondence, and in refusing to speak in an authorial voice, Riccoboni is complicitous in the general silencing of women. Women who are now subsumed in the impersonal ‘‘personnes,’’ a feminine gendered noun, after all. Used in its negative adverbial construction, ‘‘personne’’ is also the negation: ‘‘no one.’’ Riccoboni’s fictional texts are for the most part constructed in the same manner as her private personal correspondence. Two different discourses are present; sometimes openly visible (as in Julie-

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tte Catesby), but often one is hidden behind the other. Laclos takes this dual rhetoric of anger and ‘‘femininity’’ (often collapsed and superimposed onto itself ) and makes it an integral part of his novel.

‘‘UNE INTELLIGENCE COMBINATRICE’’ ´ Pomeau attempted to define a In Laclos ou le paradoxe, Rene working method or model for Laclos’s creative endeavors. 22 He emphasized a letter Laclos wrote to his wife telling of his desire to ´ qu’il compose a novel that would ‘‘rendre populaire cette ve´ rite n’existe de bonheur que dans la famille’’ [popularize the truth that happiness is only to be found in the family], (8 avril 1801). Reading this letter, Pomeau posits the first step in Laclos’s creative process as the formulation of an abstract moral principle which would then be elaborated. Pomeau also examines Laclos’s penchant for literary analysis and the role it played in the writing of Les Liaisons dangereuses. Pomeau contends that parts of Laclos’s essay on his friend Lacretelle’s Le Fils naturel refer to the proposed sentimental novel. Laclos pays particular attention to Gourville, one of the secondary characters who could well have served as a starting point for the proposed work. Pomeau’s conclusion is as follows: This is how, then, the author of Liaisons dangereuses operates in preparing his second novel. From an abstract idea, he gives it form through contact with a work that he will recreate through attentive thought. Does one have the reason to believe he composed Liaisons dangereuses according to the same method? One could object that an extrapolation based on a reference more than twenty years in the past could not be valid. We respond that one attributes not intention, or ideas which assuredly change . . . but rather the elaborative techniques of the writer will not have changed.23

Pomeau assigns Riccoboni’s novel Ernestine to this model role in ´ Pothe creation of Les Liaisons dangereuses. I agree with Rene meau’s assessment. I would add that it is not only Riccoboni’s Ernestine that played a part in Les Liaisons dangereuses, but several of her other novels as well. If Pomeau is correct in the supposition that Laclos started from an abstract idea that took shape in contact with a specific work, then one needs to examine the ‘‘abstract ideas’’ that are common to both Laclos and Riccoboni, then pro-

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ceed to the novels in question: Ernestine, Histoire du Marquis de Cressy, and Fanni Butlerd. Both Riccoboni’s works and Laclos’s are controversial, and one of the most debated issues is whether they were ‘‘feminist’’ or not. It is misleading to refer to the two authors under the sign of a common ‘‘they,’’ as Riccoboni and Laclos in this context are hardly ever mentioned together.24 Yet considerable light is shed on Laclos’s problematic ‘‘feminist’’ stance when read through the prism of Riccoboni. Both writers can be classified as ‘‘Rousseauist’’ although not without qualification. The point at which Riccoboni’s and Laclos’s thought diverges from Rousseau’s is on the subject of women. Along with Rousseau, Riccoboni recognizes and prizes the inherent differences in men and women. For her, the subjection of women is due to a patriarchal society, not to nature. Her brand of feminism can be described as ‘‘equality in difference.’’ She does not claim that women should be able to act like men, but that men should be more equitable in their dealings with women. In the unjust society depicted by Riccoboni, women are not equal to men. They are in fact superior because of male behavior. Instead of urging a social revolution, a point on which she differs from Rousseau, she would have social controls already in place apply to both sexes equally. ´e Demay states the outlook well: ‘‘Her feminism aims to modAndre ify women’s behavior rather than change social structures.’’25 Women had to change in order to compensate for the vagaries of men’s behavior compounded by the blind eye which society turned toward masculine transgressions. The target of her pen is the hypocrisy and double standard she sees in society’s treatment of women. As Cazenobe remarks, Riccoboni wants men to be subject to the same discipline. They too ought to practice virtue. It is the inherent injustice of this disparate treatment that is a central theme in all of her work. Riccoboni’s originality lies in this socialization of morality. Instead of looking to a ‘‘higher power’’ for justification, she turns toward her fellow human as witness and guarantor of justice. Her novels belong to a group of writings classified by Joan Landes as ‘‘oppositional fiction within a masculinist public sphere.’’26 In a century which produced a large number of feminocentric texts written by men, Riccoboni reclaims the female voice. Women, unschooled in the rhetorical arts, were seen to be privileged in the use of this ‘‘authentic’’ voice. They were the writers of a transpar-

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ent ‘‘natural’’ language free from artifice. Riccoboni exploits this fiction of the ‘‘feminine voice’’ current in the eighteenth century only to contrast it with the more artificial speech of men represented in her novels. Yet she also artfully combines this feminine ‘‘authentic’’ (sentimental) voice with one of reason. In so doing, Riccoboni fully participates in the eighteenth-century penchant for critical rewriting. When Riccoboni began her career with a pastiche of Marivaux’s La Vie de Marianne, she transformed the fictional voice of a woman portrayed by a male writer. Viewed by Riccoboni, Marianne advocates the nobility of the heart over issues of class. She assumes her destiny and affirms her autonomy through her rejection of the conventional literary fates for women, the veil or marriage. This is a first indication of Riccoboni’s egalitarian and feminist spirit. Riccoboni’s continuation accentuates certain aspects of Marivaux’s text such as a heightened aggressivity, cruelty, pessimism, and female solidarity. Through the pastiche, Riccoboni adds an ironic dimension missing in the original text. Even so, Riccoboni’s feminism has been seen by some critics to be vitiated by her ‘‘Rousseauism.’’ Many critics have reservations about Riccoboni’s status as a femi´rnist. Joachim Merlant describes her characters as evincing a ‘‘he oı¨sme du silence’’ in that they accept their suffering and do not choose to revolt.27 However, although this is true, it is necessary to point out that the women who do not choose to revolt in Riccoboni’s novels do so out of solidarity with their female friends. Riccoboni’s women see themselves in a community of women and do not subscribe to the individualism that was to be found in Rousseau’s doctrine. Laclos’s status as a ‘‘feminist’’ writer is even more problematic. The fortunes of Laclos as a feminist have undergone a significant change in the past twenty years. The trend started by Dominique ´volte de Madame de Merteuil,’’ Aury in 1951 with her article ‘‘La re which situated Laclos firmly in the feminist camp, is now outmoded. He is considered by some critics to be an advocate of ‘‘the kind of writing that poses as feminocentric but whose ideological subscript is really that of a female vulnerability and the re-establishment and ratification of the male order.’’28 Suellen Diaconoff situates the difficulty critics have in classifying Laclos as a feminist: Laclos delivers to women a mixed message of resistance and retreat. . . . Thus, though he will bear accurate testimony to woman’s condition and

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deplore her lack of freedom in the social contract with its patriarchal assumptions, he will not genuinely seek to free or empower her.29

Laclos invalidated to a certain extent this sort of criticism when he calls upon the ‘‘realist’’ argument in his letters to Riccoboni and explains that he does not propose a solution, just describes the ‘‘images attristantes’’ that he sees around him. In fact, what he does do is restage women’s contradictory position in society found in women’s works since Madame de Lafayette and the Marquise de Lambert through to Riccoboni. It is interesting to note that both Riccoboni and Laclos are criticized for not having enough imagination. The abrupt, artificially imposed ending in Les Liaisons dangereuses contributes to the movement from resistance to retreat in the novel. A similar ambivalence toward reform has been noticed by feminist critics in Riccoboni’s works. Although Laclos engages in a critical rewriting of Riccoboni, he, too, can be said to stop well short of prescribing an alternative to society’s oppression of women. The lack of an alternative would seem to preclude any unqualified consideration of Riccoboni or Laclos as ‘‘feminist.’’ It seems difficult, however, to criticize authors of an earlier century for thinking in the mode of that century. Both Laclos and Riccoboni were firmly of their time. Can we impose an anachronistic post-eighteenth-century feminist standard on these writers? What Laclos does is extend and exaggerate Riccoboni’s ideas. The revision implies improvement, for rewriting is a dialectical relationship which incorporates and transforms material into another text. For example, the stylistic work required to create a ‘‘natural’’ woman’s voice such as Fanni Butlerd’s is explored in Laclos’s text. Through a complex blending and reworking of motifs, the masculine fiction of woman as ‘‘natural’’ writer of a transparent voice is unmasked with his representation of women as ‘‘authors,’’ while, at the same time, the illusory power of the ‘‘author’’ is exposed. The manipulation of language and gender roles implicit in Catesby, Ernestine, and Cressy are explicit in Les Liaisons dangereuses. Laclos is a good reader of Riccoboni’s view of women. He raises the stakes and takes them to the breaking point. This escalation is what so angered Riccoboni in her letters. In his first preface, Laclos claims to have written a book that illustrates a moral lesson. In fact, he has followed Riccoboni’s lead and written a social one. Laclos

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demonstrated the harm that comes from reason disassociated from sensibility in the character of Merteuil, and from sensibility without ´cile. In Tourvel, Laclos showed the untenable position reason in Ce of reason tempered by sensibility in such a society. He differs from Riccoboni in his pessimism, but it is only a difference in degree. Looked at closely, Riccoboni’s optimism is thin indeed, a veering back and forth between a cynical representation of women’s condition and the search for an inaccessible ideal characteristic of all of her work.

HISTOIRE D’ERNESTINE Les Vrais caracte`res du sentiment ou histoire d’Ernestine (1765) is the story of a young Teutonic emigrant who is taken in by a kindly neighbor when the child’s mother dies soon after arriving in Paris. Ernestine, of an indeterminate class with no resources to call her own, is taught a trade and becomes a miniaturist. In the studio of ´mengis who is soon enher teacher, she meets the Marquis de Cle amored of her. However, he knows their love cannot flourish as he must marry someone of his class. When her protector dies, leaving ´mengis steps in. He arranges for ErnesErnestine on her own, Cle tine to be kept comfortably. He does this without the young girl’s knowledge and without designs on her virtue. Finding out the truth, Ernestine realizes that she cannot remain under the Marquis’s protection without damage to her reputation. In the end, after scandal and malady, the Marquis acknowledges Ernestine’s worth and sacrifices his ambition to his love. ´ Pomeau In ‘‘D’Ernestine aux Liaisons dangereuses,’’ Rene broadly situates the point of contact between these two works at the level of the plot device and locales. The three locations in which Laclos’s novel takes place, Paris, the nearby chateau and the convent in the suburbs where Madame de Tourvel takes refuge, were, he says, suggested by the earlier novella. Pomeau also advises that Laclos found the inspiration for Madame de Tourvel’s sudden unplanned flight from the country to Paris in similar circumstances ´mengis. She actually flees from him in which Ernestine flees Cle twice (as does Madame de Tourvel from Valmont). That Laclos remembered these details from his adaptation of Ernestine for the comic opera and incorporated them into his plot seems plausible; but I cannot wholly agree with Pomeau when he states, ‘‘Like Val-

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´ mengis threatens to kill himself if Ernestine does not mont, Cle consent to his desires. Like Mme de Tourvel, Ernestine will yield.’’30 The threat of suicide in Ernestine is ambiguous. Just be´ mengis declares: ‘‘Je ne fore Ernestine flees to the convent, Cle ˆt plus . . .’’ [I will soon no longer bother vous importunerai biento you] (63). His statement does not refer to an imminent suicide, but ´mengis’s impending marriage of convenience of which Erto Cle nestine knows nothing. She misunderstands him and declares, ‘‘Si, ´prisable, renoncer a` mes pour sauver vos jours, il faut me rendre me ˆtre `a la votre! je ne balance principes, `a ma propre estime, peut-e ˆt si cher et mon seul inte ˆt’’ [If, to save your ´re ´re point entre un inte life, I must become despicable, renounce my principles, my own esteem, and perhaps yours, I do not hesitate between an interest so dear and my personal interest] (66). Laclos saw the potential in this misunderstanding and transformed it into a deliberate strategy of seduction for Valmont. It may be correct to say Madame de Tourvel ´mengis, but it is neither and Ernestine ‘‘give in’’ to Valmont and Cle in the same manner nor context. Valmont deliberately threatens ´mengis did suicide in order to seduce Tourvel and misleads her. Cle not lead Ernestine astray, she simply misunderstood him. The transformation Laclos makes in depicting the gift of the self takes on significance. This gift incorporates a revision not only of Riccoboni, but of Rousseau and Richardson as well. Here the critical rewriting diverges from simple imitation of plot or convention. Riccoboni depicts a normally generous man who, in a moment of selfishness, wanted more from Ernestine than her situation (and society) would allow. It is through the sensibility of Ernestine that ´mengis comes to realize the extent of the sacrifice she would Cle have to make. He refuses this sacrifice, recognizing the superficiality of his ambitions over the nobility of the heart. Although Valmont does spare Tourvel at a time when she is physically unable to defend herself, the reason given is that he wants her to surrender herself. Valmont’s refusal to make Tourvel a ‘‘nouvelle Clarisse’’ is ironically exactly what happens. Later in the novel Valmont ends up seizing the occasion when Tourvel loses consciousness. She does not succumb or give herself willingly and, despite his inten´sidente is, in fact, tions, Valmont is obliged to use force.31 La Pre inconsolable and Valmont fears for her life. He stumbles on the ˆtes dans le de ´sespoir parce que vous avez happy platitude ‘‘Vous e fait mon bonheur?’’ [You despair because you have made me happy?] (CXXV).32 The desperate woman seizes upon these words

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which seem to invest her submission (after the fact) with meaning. One sees here the conjunction of Ernestine, Julie, ou La Nouvelle He´loı¨se, and Clarissa. Laclos the ‘‘realist,’’ as he presented himself in his letters to Riccoboni, rewrites this important moment found in the three texts by using Riccoboni’s plot. Laclos endows his own ‘‘Clarissa’’ with a sensibility that Richardson’s heroine lacked; Laclos’s ‘‘Julie’’ does not repent and reform. On the contrary, she gives herself over to the sentimental ideal of Valmont’s happiness and lives through her love for another. He also rewrites Riccoboni’s buoyant scenario in ´mengis did not take advantage of Ernestine. It must be which Cle remembered that Ernestine was written in the 1760s at the height of the popularity of sentimentality, and Les Liaisons dangereuses was written in the 1780s when this vogue was being challenged. Laclos brings Riccoboni’s characters and situations out of an idealized nature and into a more exact one, as he so aptly writes in his letters to the older writer. Although it has been suggested that ‘‘Laclos absolutely refuses sentimental optimism,’’ it is not, in fact, sentimentality that Laclos refuses, but optimism.33 Critics have seen the sentimental Ernestine as a vague character ´cile and Madame de Tourvel. I agree from whom Laclos created Ce ´cile that Laclos drew on Ernestine to create Tourvel, but for his Ce one might argue for a parody of Burney’s Evelina and Riccoboni’s Adelaı¨de de Bugei in Histoire du Marquis de Cressy. Similarities in the speech and outlook of Madame de Tourvel can, however, be found in Ernestine. Both embody the sentimental ethos, and it is essential to see the differences in the relation of this ethos and the depiction of society by the two authors. Riccoboni was a writer of the school of moral sentiment that differs from the sentimentality of the late 1770s, which had dissipated into pure sensation. The Frenchwoman’s conception of sentiment was a combination of sensation and the spiritual that formed the common bond for humanity. An example can be seen in the different outcome of a conventional episode common to both works in which both Madame de Tourvel and Ernestine take refuge in a convent. There they receive a letter from the man from whom they fled. The similarity in the reaction of the two women and the disparity in the outcome of both episodes is worth noting. Ernestine: ‘‘. . . Elle la prit [la lettre] en tremblant, la tint longtems sans oser l’ouvrir; une paˆleur mortelle ´pandit sur son visage’’ [. . . She took the letter with trembling se re

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hand, and held it for a long time without daring to open it; a deathly pallor spread across her face] (68). Tourvel also avoids reading the ´pondit d’abord n’en letter ‘‘Quand on voulut la lui remettre, elle re vouloir recevoir aucune, et personne n’insista. Mais de ce moment, ´e’’ [When they tried to give [the letter] to her, elle parut plus agite she first said that she would receive none, and no one insisted. But from that moment, she appeared more agitated] (CXLIX). Yet, like Ernestine, she opens it. The information in Ernestine’s missive, while announcing a seemingly insurmountable barrier between the two lovers, ultimately brings them together. The content of the letter Tourvel receives, however, remains a mystery for the reader. From this moment the privileged access to information the reader has enjoyed up until now is curtailed. Aiming for a transparency of sentiment, Riccoboni explains all motivation and actions through the use of a third-person omniscient narrator. In Les Liaisons dangereuses the different viewpoints of the correspondents fulfill this function at the same time as the multiple points of view fragment the fictional reality in the text. With the suppression of the letter’s contents, Laclos’s fictional world loses transparency. The reader knows that Madame de Tourvel’s understanding of events is flawed through lack of information, but the reader is now in a similar position. The sympathetic identification between the reader and character based on transparency is now literal as the reader is in the same position as Tourvel. Obfuscation of this kind plays an important part in the pessimism of the novel. The reactions of the two women after opening the letters illustrate the fundamental difference in the two works’ orientation: Ernestine ‘‘rompit enfin le cachet, et portant des regards ` res che ´ ris, des larmes de joie inonde ` rent timides sur ces caracte ˆt cette lettre consolante, elle la pressa contre son cœur, la biento baissa mille fois’’ [Ernestine finally broke the seal, and as she lifted her timid eyes on that dear hand, tears of joy soon flooded that consoling letter; she pressed it to her heart, kissed it a thousand times] `s qu’elle eut (68). Tourvel’s experience could not differ more: ‘‘De ´ les yeux dessus, elle s’e ´cria: ‘De lui! grand Dieu!’ et puis d’une jete ´e; ‘Reprenez-la, reprenez-la’. . . . Le transvoix forte, mais oppresse ´tait joint des convulport avoit repris plus violent que jamais, et s’y e ´ de la sions vraiment effrayantes. Ces accidents n’ont pas cesse ´e . . .’’ [As soon as she looked at it, she exclaimed: ‘‘From him! soire Great Heaven!’’ And then in a weaker voice: ‘‘Take it away, take it away’’. The delirium had returned with more violence than ever

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and it was accompanied by truly violent convulsions. These symptoms did not cease all evening . . .] (CXLIX). Like Riccoboni, Laclos portrays the hyperreactive body typically found in a sentimental work. But Ernestine’s reactions are redeemed by another body like ´mengis-Ernestine couple), while Tourvel is isolated, itself (the Cle death proves to be her only solace. ´mengis. He is the abyss into Valmont can be taken as an anti-Cle which Tourvel falls. Valmont’s behavior after his seduction of Ma´mengis’s words: dame de Tourvel contrasts with Cle ´cria le marquis en finissant de lire, ‘‘ai-je pu porter ‘‘Ah, grand dieu!’’ s’e ´crire ainsi? quelle e ´trange proposition! mais cette charmante fille a` m’e ´, de tendresse, de ge ´ne ´rosite ´ dans cet abandon de ses prinque de bonte ˆme! Aimable Ernestine! qui, moi, je t’avilirois? j’abusercipes, d’elle-me ais de ton amour, de ta noble confiance . . . ah! tu n’as rien a` craindre ´risse l’homme de ton amant, de ton ami, de ton reconnoissant ami. Pe injuste et cruel, qui ose fonder son bonheur sur la condescendance ˆme, ´ature, capable de s’oublier elle-me d’une douce, d’une sensible cre pour le rendre heureux.’’ (67) [‘‘Good God!’’ exclaimed the marquis as he finished reading, ‘‘I have driven this charming girl to write such things to me? What a strange proposal! But what goodness, what affection, what generosity in this abandonment of her principles, of her very self! Would I—I—defile thee? Would I abuse thy love, thy noble confidence . . .? Oh! Thou hast nothing to fear from thy lover, thy friend, thy grateful friend. May he perish, the unjust cruel man who would presume to found his happiness on the submission of a sweet, affectionate creature, capable of effacing herself to make him happy.’’]

´mengis wonders, ‘‘Est-ce ErnesAgain, at the end of the book, Cle tine, est-ce l’aimable fille que je sacrifiois a` l’avide ambition, au fol orgueil, qui conserve pour moi des sentiments si tendres? [Is it Ernestine, is it that amiable girl whom I sacrificed to avid ambition, to mad pride, who preserves for me the tenderest sentiments?] (84). ´ mengis’s actions coincide with his words, Valmont’s do not. Cle Laclos’s reader is confronted with two different discourses: one, sentimental in nature addressed to Tourvel, the other, a more libertine tone addressed to Merteuil. It falls to the reader to discern which discourse represents Valmont’s true position. Valmont’s character has always puzzled critics. Readings of Valmont can be used as a kind of litmus test to classify two major

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camps into which most of them fall: Rousseauist or anti-Rousseauist. Is he or is he not truly in love with Madame de Tourvel at the end of the novel? This question is ultimately unanswerable due to the suppression of Valmont’s last letter to Tourvel in the convent. This ambiguity is, I believe, exactly the point. The sentimental belief in the transparency of feeling, that all can be known, is proved false just as the libertine fiction of control is demystified: both positions are untenable. The fact that Valmont did or did not love Tour´mengis does not change the outcome of vel in the manner of Cle the novel. The reader in the Rousseauistic mode, wants to believe ´sidente, which is a reading that falls that Valmont did care for la Pre into an idealized view of the world that Riccoboni offered. The reader in the anti-Rousseauist mode wants to believe that he did not. For both kinds of readers the ending of the novel is unsatisfactory. The idea that he loved Tourvel and still sacrificed her to his vanity is troubling, almost impossible to believe. He did and did not love her. This lack of resolution that so disturbs the reader is compounded by Laclos’s use of marked and unmarked irony. One wants clear and definite answers. When there are none, the reader reads them into their interpretation of the novel. With Merteuil, the separation in the tone of her letters depends on the addressee. It is unambiguous. Valmont does not prove to be so adept at keeping the rhetorical boundaries separate and his letters are not so clearcut. One discourse bleeds into the other: the sentimental ethos slips into and corrupts libertine language. This contamination of the libertine by the sentimental leaves the possibility of a authentic emotional connection to Tourvel open. It is as if Laclos devised Valmont to dispel the fantasy of a Cle´men´mengis’s language is authentic; he knows his heart and recgis. Cle ognizes his social obligations. The conflict is not with his vision of himself in the world, but rather in prioritizing his heart or society. ´mengis, Valmont’s problem is the abandonment of his Unlike Cle true ‘‘self’’ over to his heart, which makes him dependent on an´mengis’s desire that a man other person. As the reader knows, Cle so unjust and cruel should perish is exactly what happens to Valmont. He falls victim to the duel, that quintessential socialization of violence, where he is punished by a fellow sinner, Danceny. Les Liaisons dangereuses thus portrays a corrective or counterwriting as well as a continuation of motifs and themes found in Ernestine. If Pomeau is correct in stating that Laclos parodies Riccoboni rather than Rousseau, then I would add that one tactic does

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not preclude the other. Les Liaisons dangereuses is a parody in the modern sense of the word; a mechanization of something known and recognizable in order to create something else and, at the same ´mentime, a sign of respect.34 If Valmont can be seen as an anti-Cle gis, Riccoboni has created a character who is just as ambivalent. This character is the Marquis de Cressy.

HISTOIRE DE MONSIEUR LE MARQUIS DE CRESSY The Marquis de Cressy is an ambitious man. Coming back from wartime service to the king, he looks to advance himself through marriage. He becomes involved with three women: a nubile ingenue just out of the convent (Adelaı¨de de Bugei), a wealthy, virtuous young widow named Madame de Raisel, and Madame d’Elmont, another widow given to coquetterie. The Marquis is taken with the ingenue, Adelaı¨de, even though he knows she has neither the money nor the connections to serve his ambitions. He decides to marry her in a moment of weakness, as he is flattered by her attention. Concurrently, Madame de Raisel hopes to attract the marquis, who, if he knew of her interest, would not have preferred Adelaı¨de to her. But Madame de Raisel is as circumspect and timid as she is well connected, and she writes to him anonymously. The Marquis mistakes the letters for the work of Madame d’Elmont with whom he had an affair and who no longer interests him. After a foiled attempt to seduce Adelaı¨de, the Marquis turns to Madame de Raisel, who becomes his wife. The couple is content for a year, when the Marquis begins an affair with a young woman: Hortense de Berneil. This young woman had taken up residence with Cressy and his wife at the death of her mother. When the Marquise de Cressy (the former Madame de Raisel) finds out about the true character of her husband and the extent of his betrayal, she commits suicide. Pomeau limits the study of Laclos and Riccoboni to Laclos’s reuse of locales and plot device found in Ernestine to structure Les Liaisons dangereuses, yet one also needs to consider the relationships between the major characters in Histoire de Monsieur le Marquis de Cressy where similarities are evident. The interplay of characters combined with the pivotal figure of the Marquis is reminiscent of Les Liaisons dangereuses. Adelaı¨de is a friend of Madame de Raisel. They are unaware of each other’s interest in the Marquis who, at one moment in the

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text, is courting them simultaneously. The twenty-six-year-old Madame de Raisel and the younger Adelaı¨de ´toient allie ´es, et l’amitie ´ les unissoit; mais la diffe ´rence d’aˆge n’admete ´ qui bannit toute re ´serve. La comtesse toit point entr’elles cette intimite gardoit son secret par prudence, et mademoiselle du Bugei ignoroit ˆ t un `a confier. (4) qu’elle en eu [were attached to each other, and friendship united them; but because of their difference in age, a certain reserve remained. The countess kept her secret out of prudence, and mademoiselle du Bugei did not realize that she had one to confide.]

At once Riccoboni shows the danger of naı¨vete´ (ignorance) and the risk of secrets for both women which, by the end of the story, will lead to the cloister of Adelaı¨de and to the death of Madame de Raisel. The connection between Madame de Tourvel and Ce´cile, their age difference, the fact that they are both seduced by the same man, and their respective fates are uncannily close to those of Riccoboni’s creation. The unusual plot line of the double seduction did not pass unnoticed by critics. Laclos even put the two women in the same chateau during the seduction attempts by Valmont. As seen in Ernestine, the changes made by Laclos are both ones of compression and exaggeration. Madame de Tourvel is not a widow, therefore her interest in a man not her husband is all the more ´ cile is even more unsophisticated than Adelaı¨de. problematic. Ce Adelaı¨de almost succumbs to the advances of Cressy because she is surprised by her senses. But Adelaı¨de loves Cressy and there is some reason for her to feel the way she does. Il prit Adelaı¨de dans ses bras; et la serrant tendrement, il imprima sur `vres un de ces baiser de feu, dont le murmure aimable e ´veille l’ases le ´. Adelaı¨de surprise, ce ´da pour un instant a` l’attrait mour et la volupte `re atteinte de cette sensation d’un plaisir inconnu; elle sentit la premie ` la nature, par l’oubli de ´garement, ou flatteuse, qui conduit a` ce doux e tout ce qui contraint ses mouvemens, semble nous ramener a` son heur´. (emphasis added, 37) euse simplicite [He took Adelaı¨de in his arms and, hugging her tenderly, he pressed upon her lips one of those passionate kisses whose agreeable murmur woke both love and voluptuousness. Adelaı¨de yielded to the unknown

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pleasure for an instant; she felt the first effects of this flattering sensation which leads to sweet distraction; where nature, by the obliteration of all constraints to its movements, seems to bring us to a happy simplicity.]

´cile is also given to sensuality. Laclos remarks through MerCe ´cile is easily overwhelmed by passion. teuil again and again how Ce ´La petite assure pourtant qu’il voulait davantage, mais qu’elle su se de fendre. Je parierais bien qu’elle se vante, et qu’elle s’excuse; je m’en ˆme presque assure ´e. En effet, il m’a pris fantaisie de savoir a` suis me ´fense dont elle e ´tait capable; et moi, simple quoi m’en tenir sur la de ˆte en pointe. . . . Enfin ´ sa te femme, de propos en propos, j’ai monte vous pouvez m’en croire, jamais personne ne fut plus susceptible d’une surprise des sens. (LIV) [However, the little girl asserts that he wanted more, but that she was able to defend herself. I would wager that she is boasting and making excuses; I practically made sure of it. In fact, the fancy came to me to find out what kind of a defense she was capable of. And I, a mere woman, from one remark to another, excited her to a degree. In short, you may believe me, never was a person so liable to an attack on the senses.]

´cile’s sensuality is explored are always The situations in which Ce detached from love. Laclos shows this in the manner Valmont se´tait seule; mais elle e ´tait la`, toujours ofduces her. ‘‘L’occasion e ´sente, et l’amour e ´tait absent’’ [Opportunity was ferte, toujours pre alone [divested of all other aide]; but it was there, all was offered, all was present, and love was absent] (XCVI). The difference between ´cile is that Adelaı¨de is sincerely repentant. Ce ´cile Adelaı¨de and Ce merely goes along. Once again we see a ‘‘realistic’’ correction of an ‘‘ideal’’ situation with Laclos’s rewriting. When the connection between the two texts is made, the remark in the ‘‘avertissement de ´diteur’’ of Les Liaisons dangereuses (‘‘nous ne voyons point aul’e jourd’hui de demoiselle, avec soixante mille livres de rente, se faire religieuse . . .’’) takes on an added dimension of irony. It is a barb well aimed at society but also at Riccoboni. The creation of Merteuil has always been considered as Laclos’s masterstroke. Pomeau, for example, can find no evidence of Merteuil in Ernestine:

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Laclos’s genius was to invent this terrible woman and tie her to Valmont. Merteuil is perhaps the only character of his own invention. ´nil would suggest by opHowever, even the insufficiency of Mme Dume position the idea of such a woman as that of Merteuil.35

Pomeau is surely correct in his appraisal that Ernestine does not anticipate Merteuil. However, we are looking to the wrong text for the prototype of this terrible woman; it is not to be found in Ernestine but rather in l’Histoire de Monsieur le Marquis de Cressy. Jacques Vier describes wicked females in novels written by women as sharing the common trait of taking the organizing princi´te ´.’’36 ple of normal women’s lives and making it into a ‘‘jeu de socie The idea of transforming the social relations that structure life into a game is clear in Valmont’s and Merteuil’s behavior. The combining of Madame d’Elmont’s character with that of Hortense de Berneil results in a woman who is a master game player and a model for Merteuil. Madame d’Elmont’s role in Riccoboni’s novel is slight but significant. She functions as an observer of the action and reveals the information that gives Madame de Raisel the key to Cressy’s true nature. Her actions are not motivated by the deliberate malicious intent that Merteuil’s are. But, if one combines her with the character Hortense de Berneil, we are much closer to Merteuil than one would think. Madame d’Elmont finds out that Adelaı¨de is in love with Cressy and decides to rid herself of the rival by sending a letter to Monsieur de Bugei, Adelaı¨de’s father. She does so in guise of false friendship: ˆme, et l’orgeuil La haute opinion que madame d’Elmont avoit d’elle me ´toit remplie, lui persuade `rent qu’un homme capable de re ´dont elle e ´toit moins garde ´ par l’indiffe ´rence, que lie ´ par un sister `a ses avances, e ´e a` certes ide ´e, et guide ´e par le de ´pit amour secret et heureux. Attache ´, elle observa les de ´marches du marquis, fit e ´pier ses pas et la curiosite ´couvrir que mademoiselle du Bugei e ´toit l’objet de ses et tarda peu a` de ˆ t a` empressemens, ainsi la regardant comme le seul obstacle qu’elle eu ´ussir dans ses projets, elle re ´solut de troubler une invaincre pour re ´ a` ses de ´ sirs, et priver Adelaı¨de d’un bien dont elletrigue si oppose ˆme souhaitoit vivement la possession. (10) me [The high opinion that madame d’Elmont had of herself and the pride with which she was filled, persuaded her that a man capable of resisting

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her advances was less motivated by indifference than tied to a secret happy love. Attached to this idea, and guided by spite and curiosity, she observed the marquis’s behavior, had his movements spied upon and soon discovered that the object of his affections was mademoiselle du Brugei. Seeing her as the sole obstacle to her plan, she resolved to disrupt an intrigue inimitable to her desires and to deprive Adelaı¨de of something that she herself wanted so badly].

The description seems to fit Madame de Merteuil very well. The extent of Elmont’s perfidy as a false friend is exaggerated in Madame de Merteuil’s behavior to Madame de Volanges and Ce´cile. Merteuil also sent a letter to Madame de Volanges to warn her about her daughter’s relationship for Danceny. Merteuil is as deliberately calculating as Madame d’Elmont, but she is far more clever and ambitious. Where Elmont’s actions are the petty ones of a coquette, Merteuil’s are masterstrokes of guile. For example, the outcome of Madame d’Elmont’s letter was the near seduction of Adelaı¨de (something she did not foresee). The letter was the cause for a secret relationship between Adelaı¨de and Cressy; Madame d’Elmont actually outsmarted herself. This was not the case for Madame de Merteuil. Of course, Merteuil does eventually outsmart herself when, at the end of Les Liaisons dangereuses, all her carefully engineered machinations escape her control. ´However, the intense relationship between the young lovers, Ce cile and Danceny, was exactly what Merteuil was aiming for. She learned from Elmont’s mistake by refocusing the purpose of the letter. Riccoboni has discussed, in fact, this crucial distinction between Elmont and Merteuil: ‘‘C’est ainsi que cachant sa basse ´ qu’elle avoit pour monsieur de jalousie sous l’apparence de l’amitie Bugei, elle porta dans l’aˆme d’Adelaı¨de le premier mouvement de la douleur’’ [By hiding her base jealousy under the guise of friendship, she brought the first pain to Adelaı¨de’s soul] (11). Madame d’Elmont’s actions are directed by her passions, Madame de Merteuil’s are not. Merteuil’s actions are not directed by passions arising from the senses, her passion is ambition to dominate and demonstrate her superiority. Hortense de Berneil, who adds an element of libertinism to the blend of motives, most resembles Merteuil: ‘‘Madame de Berneil, `re de madame de Cressy, vivoit retire ´e au ancienne amie de la me Val-de-Graˆce, avec une fille, seul fruit d’un mariage. . . .’’ [Madame de Berneil, an old friend of madame de Cressy’s mother, lived in

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retirement at Val-de-Graˆce, with her daughter, the only offspring of her marriage] (68–69). Like Hortense, Merteuil was an only child who made use of her solitude. She was observant and intelligent, impassive to the feelings of others, and incapable of tenderness. Hortense’s character is described as cold and calculating: ´ sir de plaire l’avoit toujours occupe ´ e quoique long-temps sans Le de objet; elle avoit de l’esprit, peu de brillant, beaucoup de re´ flexion. Il ´toit difficile de la connoıˆtre; un air froid et le silence qu’elle gardoit e ˆ ts, la faisoient paroıˆtre d’une extre ˆme indiffe ´rence. L’ennui sur ses gou ´e avoit mis de la durete ´ dans son caracte `re et de d’une retraite force ´fauts sous l’apparence inte ´rl’aigreur dans son esprit; elle cachoit ces de ´ foible et de ´licate, alte ´re ´e par la plus le ´ge `re e ´motion. essante d’une sante Capricieuse, haute, jalouse, susceptible de passion, incapable de ten´ , Hortense ne pouvoit ni appre´ cier ni reconnoıˆtre la dresse, d’amitie ´ne ´reuse de madame de Cressy. (70) conduite ge [The desire to please always occupied her even if it went a long while without an object. She had wit, not much polish, lots of thought. It was difficult to know her; her cold air and her discretion as to her tastes made her appear extremely indifferent. The boredom of an enforced retirement hardened her character and embittered her spirit; she hid her faults under an intriguing appearance of a delicate and weak constitution affected by the slightest emotion.]

This description of Hortense de Berneil is a preliminary sketch of letter LXXXI in which Merteuil recounts her ‘‘education.’’ The description of Merteuil is given in her own words and not in those of a narrator. Laclos fleshes out the story, and what Riccoboni presented as Hortense’s flaws are transformed into Merteuil’s attributes. Merteuil is an older and more polished Hortense. Laclos can be seen as having compressed the two characters of madame d’Elmont and Hortense into one. Hortense and Merteuil share similar ˆ tre pas du ´ licita de n’e views, for example, ‘‘Elle [Hortense] se fe nombre de celles qui ne savoient pas resister `a l’amour’’ [she congratulated herself on not numbering among those who could not resist love] (75). This attitude can be seen in Madame de Merteuil’s in letter LXXXI: ‘‘Mais moi, qu’ai-je de commun avec ces femmes ´re ´es—celles, qui, dans leur amant actuel, ne savent pas inconside voir leur ennemi futur?’’ [What have I in common with these

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women? Those who, in their present lover do not know how to see their future enemy]. Like Hortense, Merteuil also prides herself on her ability to dissimulate and appear other than what she is. By combining the character of Madame d’Elmont with that of Hortense, Laclos gave Merteuil the experience, polish, and independence that the younger woman lacked. The relationship between Hortense de Berneil and Cressy merits further study. The rivalry between Valmont and Merteuil is similar to Hortense’s and Cressy’s, although it is more far-reaching. ˆme. ´e ´toit extre Cette raillerie piqua le marquis [de Cressy] dont la vanite ˆ t si facile de re ´sister `a mes Pensez-vous, lui dit-il en riant, qu’il vous fu ´rite ´, je le pense, reprit masoins, si je vous en rendois d’assidus? En ve demoiselle de Berneil, et quoique vous soyez tre`s aimable, je crois et ´prouve qu’il est possible de vous voir et de conserver beaucoup d’inj’e ´rence. (76) diffe [This mockery disturbed the marquis, whose vanity was extreme. Do you think, he told her, laughing, that you could resist if I was assiduous about pursuing my attentions? Truthfully, I think so, replied mademoiselle de Berneil, and although you may be very amiable, I think that it is possible to see you and still remain indifferent.]

Cressy, like Valmont, could not abide the young woman’s contempt; especially one who, in his esteem, was not worthy. His vanity leads him to simulate a passion for her that he did not feel (76). This reaction to frustrated vanity is a character trait of Valmont’s that will be the cause of his and Merteuil’s downfall. Both Hortense and Cressy let vanity dictate their behavior. When faced with Hortense’s refusal of his advances, Cressy is determined to prove her wrong: ` s qu’il fit au commencement, ne ralentit point ses Le peu de progre ´; et perdant de vue ce premier poursuites: il devint ardent, empresse ´ a` parler le langage de l’amour a` madeobjet, il oublia ce qui l’avoit porte moiselle de Berneil. (78) [The lack of progress that he made at the beginning did not slow down his pursuit; he came ardent, pressing, and losing sight of his original design, he forgot what brought him to speak the language of love to mademoiselle de Berneil.]

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Hortense, on the other hand, was affected by Madame de Cressy’s (Raisel’s) desire for her husband: ´toit aime ´, l’embellissoit a` ses yeux. L’amour de l’ardeur avec lequel il e madame de Cressy passa dans le cœur de sa rivale. . . . [Hortense] se ´ , et lui faisoit revoyoit maıˆtresse de le lui enlever, excitoit sa vanite garder comme un avantage brillant, le pouvoir de l’emporter sur une ´rieure a` tous e ´gards. (79) femme a` laquelle elle se sentoit si infe [The ardor with which he was loved, embellished him in her eyes. Madame de Cressy’s love passed into her rival’s heart. . . . [Hortense] saw it in her power to take Cressy from her, adding to her vanity, the power to triumph over a woman to whom she always felt so inferior was a brilliant advantage.]

Hortense allowed herself be seduced in the same way Merteuil ´van seduce her. She made Cressy believe that he was the let Pre agent of her fall, when, in fact, she managed the whole affair. While ´prouver si cette passion procuroit tout le bonshe was curious to ‘‘e ´e qu’elle e ´toit la source’’ [find out if this heur dont on l’avoit assure passion would procure the happiness that everyone assured her was the source]. To the contrary, she found that it the happiness was to be found in the domination and subjection of her lover to her caprices (80). Like Merteuil, Cressy, and Valmont, Hortense, too, was locked into a game of domination. Elle [Hortense] abusa du pouvoir que le marquis lui avoit donne´ sur lui; elle prit un empire absolu sur ses volonte´s, le maıˆtrisa, devint son tyran, et l’accabla de ces chaıˆnes pesantes qu’on porte avec douleur, dont on sent tout le poids, qu’on voudroit rompre, et qu’on n’a pas la force de briser. (80) [She abused the power granted her by the marquis; she assumed absolute control over his will, mastered him, became his tyrant, and weighted him with those heavy chains that one painfully carries, feeling the full weight, that one would want to break, but is unable to find the strength to render them.]

Instead of leading to their downfall (the theme, of course, of Les Liaisons dangereuses), Cressy and Hortense escape unscathed. They even benefit from their treachery by inheriting the Marquise de Cressy’s wealth when, no longer able to live in this world, she

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takes her own life. Unlike Valmont, Cressy openly chafes under Hortense’s ‘‘empire.’’ He is conscious of what he has let her take and what he has given up, although he is incapable of extricating himself from her hold. Even while under Merteuil’s direction, Valmont still believes he is in control. When he realizes the extent of Merteuil’s dupery (and his own folly), he takes his revenge by using a conventional (literary as well as real) masculine maneuver; he publishes Merteuil’s letters. In so doing he redefines her in the ‘‘feminine,’’ and Merteuil finds herself in a position she so wholeheartedly despises; a woman ‘‘comme les autres femmes.’’ Laclos in his critical rewriting changes the dynamics of the relationship between characters. He displaces the temporal sequence of events in Riccoboni’s novel. Hortense and Cressy have their affair after the first year of Cressy’s and Raisel’s marriage. Laclos situates Valmont’s and Merteuil’s liaison in the past and has the Valmont seduction of Tourvel happen after this is over. The emphasis in Riccoboni’s work is on Cressy’s betrayal of his marriage vows, where Valmont violates his stated principles. Hortense’s desire to possess Cressy, as we have seen, is engendered by Madame de Raisel’s love for her husband. This triangular desire is replayed in Laclos’s text, but the dynamics are once again displaced. Merteuil does not want Valmont because of Tourvel’s desire for Valmont. She demands Valmont’s submission because of his desire, or love, of Madame de Tourvel. Adelaı¨de de Bugei also has a young suitor who would correspond to Danceny. In Riccoboni’s novel this young man has a very small role. Laclos has given him a larger one in Danceny and complicated the intrigue by making him Merteuil’s lover. Adelaı¨de falls ill from disillusion and sadness. She decides to enter the convent and take the veil after the incident with Cressy. Laclos in a very cynical turn of events, while copying Adelaı¨de’s illness, transforms the reason ´cile’s malady into a miscarriage. Other transformations are for Ce ´cile’s mother. apparent. Adelaı¨de’s father has been replaced by Ce The seduction of Tourvel is by necessity illicit by dint of replacing Raisel’s defunct husband with Tourvel’s live, but absent, mate. In so doing, Laclos criticizes the dominant social structures. The male hegemony which ostensibly protects, or at least oversees, women is absent and lacking. Riccoboni’s criticism here is directed at Cressy, whose behavior stands in for the generalized practice of economic exploitation of women in the name of male ambition. Laclos, by reorganizing certain elements and exaggerating situations found in

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Riccoboni’s text broadens his critique to include education, empty domesticity and the rigid divisions between rational and sentimental modes of perception. Cressy is an odd character. He feels ambivalently about love and ambition. He is weaker than Valmont and easily persuaded to pass from one project to another. Despite vague pretensions to sensibility, Cressy’s ambition dominates his character. Although he ostensibly repents at the death of his wife, one may question how deep this emotion really is given his lack of constancy in his emotional relationships with women. It is in this indecisiveness that he most resembles Valmont. Valmont’s motives are hidden behind his words and actions. If we look to Cressy as a model for the libertine, we come to see that Valmont can be sincere and guileful at the same time. Like Cressy, he alternates between his need for glory and sentimentality. Also like Cressy, Valmont is wrong in believing he could move between the two modes of perception with impunity. Cressy’s suspension between sentiment and self-interest is unintentional and even unconscious. By contrast, it is a deliberate strategy for Valmont. Riccoboni’s novel ends with the comment: ‘‘Il fut grand [Cressy], ´; il obtint tous les titres, tous les honneurs qu’il avoit il fut distingue ´sire ´s; il fut riche, il fut e ´le ´ve ´: mais il ne fut point heureux’’ [He de was great, he was distinguished; he garnered all the titles, all the honors that he had so desired; he was rich, he rose in stature: but he was not happy] (116). Unconvinced, the reader may well wonder if Cressy noticed that he was not ‘‘happy.’’ What constituted happiness for Cressy was exactly what he attained. The moralized ending of Riccoboni’s novel seems tacked on. The ending of Les Liaisons dangereuses suffers from the same critique. Riccoboni’s novel is written in the third person and gives readers access to the feelings, motivations, and thoughts of all her characters. The narrator explains and organizes the story, making moral judgments in the form of maxims along the way. In Riccoboni’s text, the narrator speaks on behalf of women. Hers is the voice of the feminine collective ‘‘nous.’’37 Laclos’s text is an epistolary novel with no one organizing narrative voice (although Merteuil’s letters come close to fulfilling this function). The later epistolary novel seems like a Histoire de Monsieur le Marquis de Cressy with the maxims omitted. Or rather, they are written in the voice of the characters, a strategy which relativizes them, subjects their truth to doubt. The role of the maxim is to underline an evident collective

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verity. Putting them in the voice of Merteuil, a model of inauthenticity, nullifies this moral authority. The maxims are further undercut in two ways. As the embodiment of egotism, Merteuil claims to speak for the feminine ‘‘nous’’ [we/us] against the masculine ‘‘vous les autres’’ [you others] (LXXXI). As the novel progresses, the reader realizes that this ‘‘you others’’ turns out to be everyone else, female and male alike. Merteuil contends that she speaks for her sex, but her actions reveal that she represents only herself. The narrator in Riccoboni’s text, who speaks for all women and called on ‘‘nous’’ as a moral witness to events, is reduced to a mouthpiece that speaks for the one. The maxims imbedded in Merteuil’s text are simply rhetorical strategies in a social game between the sexes. Merteuil calls upon collective wisdom to reinforce a highly individualistic vision of the world. Her worst betrayals have women as their target. At the end of the novel Merteuil is censured by the social establishment. Her voice is silenced. The truths she called upon to lend her authority, in the end, silenced her. Ironically it is the same authority that had been shown by her to be morally bankrupt. It is not accidental that the woman’s voice that has corrupted common truths through the use of maxims is reduced to silence and exile at the end of Les Liaisons dangereuses. But before this end, it is in letter number LXXXI, Merteuil’s education letter, that the voice claiming to speak for all women is defined with greatest clarity. This letter merits a closer look in connection with the feminine voice portrayed in Riccoboni’s first novel Lettres de Mistriss Fanni ` Milord Charles Alfred, Comte d’Erford (1757). Butlerd a

LETTRES DE MISTRISS FANNI BUTLERD A` MILORD CHARLES ALFRED, COMTE D’ERFORD The work cited above, Riccoboni’s first and most overtly subversive work, is an epistolary novel. It purports to contain authentic letters of a young woman to her lover. Fanni’s letters trace the growth of her passion from first denial to full admission. A period of happiness marred only by a separation of the lovers due to Lord Alfred’s military duty is followed by disappointment when Fanni finds out about Lord Alfred’s impending marriage. Only Fanni’s letters are presented, but Lord Alfred’s voice is heard through the typical Riccobonian technique of italicized quotation. His cliche´-

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bound rhetoric contrasts with Fanni’s ‘‘natural’’ style. Riccoboni’s technique of writing in the ‘‘feminine’’ was so effective that, until very recently, it was believed to be an autobiographical novel.38 The letters are not published by an editor, but, more unusually, by the writer herself (Fanni Butlerd). The device runs counter to the literary convention of a woman’s amorous correspondence presented by a male authority: the editor.39 Fanni’s goal in making public this private correspondence is not a desire for fame but ‘‘celui d’immortaliser, s’il est possible, une passion qui fit son bonheur’’ [to immortalize, if it were possible, a passion that made me happy] (preface). This extraordinary novel combines a frank representation of a woman’s passion with a strident critique of social hypocrisy. In publishing her letters, Fanni reveals her transgression of ‘‘proper behavior,’’ which she justifies by the depth and sincerity of her emotions. Her love for Lord Alfred proves to be a social lapse, not a moral one. Laclos draws not only on both discourses present in Riccoboni’s text (the sentimental and that of reason) in this novel, but he includes a critique of the pretext for this correspondence as well. The inclusion of the critique of gender roles can be found in Merteuil’s famous autobiographical letter LXXXI. The text seems disruptive of a story line otherwise tightly structured and has usually puzzled critics. However, its importance lies in Merteuil’s revealing her enmity toward men and her jaundiced opinion of women. The letter also functions as the point where Laclos links elements from Fanni Butlerd with those from Cressy. Merteuil’s position with respect to men shows the resemblance most clearly. She reverses the gendered conceptions of weak female and strong male.40 This redefinition of roles can be found in Fanni Butlerd, as well as the invective and utter disdain with which Merteuil speaks of the opposite sex. Still, the difference between the two characters lies in the fact that Fanni Butlerd would redefine the masculine position and have men practice a feminine morality. Merteuil, on the other hand, redefines her role as a woman by adopting the male model. M. Barguillet sees Merteuil as a masculine phantasm.41 Rather, Merteuil and the fiction of female power figures a female phantasm that we find in Riccoboni’s writings. The element stemming from masculine phantasm is found in the manner in which Merteuil’s power is deployed. Merteuil begins letter LXXXI by vaunting her superiority to Valmont: ‘‘Non, tout l’orgeuil de votre sexe ne suffirait pas pour rem-

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´pare’’ [No, not all the pride of your sex plir l’intervalle qui nous se would suffice to fill up the interval which separates us]. She then challenges Valmont’s claim to superiority by pointing out the vulnerability of his prey and the meager results of all his efforts. For Merteuil, Valmont’s libertine conquests are but an illusion and she goes on to describe the consequences a liaison has for women. She emphasizes the subtlety a woman must employ and contrasts it with a man’s overt and simplistic techniques. Fanni Butlerd, in letter XV to Lord Alfred, displays a similar impatience with men’s claim to superior lovemaking. She prefaces her remarks with a comment often repeated by Madame de Merteuil and Madame de Tourvel: ‘‘Ne me jugez point sur le commun `re, sur mes principes, sur des femmes; jugez-moi sur mon caracte ´es’’ [Do not judge me according to what is comla suite de mes ide mon to women; judge me according to my character, principles, and ordering of my thoughts]. Fanni dismisses Lord Alfred’s comment that he risks as much as she does: ‘‘Eh quels dangers, quels ´rils votre sexe peut-il redouter en se livrant a` ses de ´sirs? Le ridipe cule pre´juge´ qui vous permet tout, vous affranchit de la peine la ´e aux foiblesses de l’amour’’ [What danplus vive qui soit attache gers, what perils has your sex to fear in giving in to your desires? The ridiculous prejudice that authorizes everything frees you from the most intense pain that comes with the weaknesses of love.] She proceeds to contrast this masculine behavior with a woman’s experience, which compounds the pain of losing a lover with the shame of social ostracism: ´prise ´es, de `s que nous cessons de nous Mais nous, qui nous croyons me ´es; nous, qui joignons au regret de perdre notre bonheur, la croire aime ˆ te ´; nous, dont le front se couvre de rougeur, quand honte de l’avoir gou nous nous rappelons les momens les plus doux de notre vie, pouvons´mir, e ´couter un sentiment aimable, se ´duisant, il est vrai, nous sans fre ˆtre si cruelle? Risquer, vous? ah, Mylord, mais dont les suites peuvent e Mylord je ne suis point contente de vous, je ne le suis point de moi . . . je ne le suis de personne. [But we, who believe ourselves despised as soon as we cease to believe we are loved, we who combine the regret of the loss of our happiness with the shame of having experienced it: we, whose forehead blushes at the memory of the most sweet moments of our life, can we, without trembling, listen to an amiable sentiment, seductive, to be sure, but whose consequences can be so cruel? Risk, you? Ah, Mylord, Mylord, I

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am not happy with you, I am not with myself . . . I am happy with no one.]

Merteuil draws on Fanni’s arguments in her analysis of amorous relations in letter LXXXI, in which she comments on the unequal nature of a love relationship where even if the bonds of love are equally given and received, men hold all the power. There is a striking similarity in content and tone between the two passages despite Merteuil’s more cynical position. Merteuil competes on the same ground as men, using the same rules with a few adaptations. Merteuil is superior to men in their vaunted domain of reason; she beards the bear in his den. In contrast, Riccoboni’s Fanni outdoes men through feeling and loyalty to her kind. The two women’s motives are the same even if their means differ. Fanni believes that women as a group are exploited and subjected to men. Only in female solidarity can they combat inequality in treatment between the sexes. Merteuil has only contempt for other women. Her blindness to her female condition (a consequence of her extreme individualism) will prove to be her most serious transgression and one that goes against the sentimental ethos which demands an identification with the other. After Lord Alfred has told Fanni of his impending marriage, he suggests that they continue their affair. Fanni is outraged at his cynical attitude. In letter CXVI she rails against his bad faith with regard to his treatment of both his future wife and mistress. The social opposition between wife and mistress is effaced in favor of their gender, which elicits the same ignoble treatment from Lord Alfred. At one point in her letter Merteuil is as sarcastic as Fanni. ´ van, she After taking Valmont up on his challenge to seduce Pre takes umbrage at his warning her off. She writes in anger, like Fanni, but separates herself from other women described as ´ lire, et qui se disent `a sentiment’’ [unbalanced ‘‘femmes a` de women who rave of their ‘‘sentiment’’]. As this statement against a ´lire’’ is a direct commentary on women like Fanni But‘‘femme `a de lerd, it is no wonder that Riccoboni felt so strongly repelled (and criticized) by Laclos’s Merteuil. Fanni is a ‘‘femme `a sentiment’’ [a woman of feeling] as well as a strong, intelligent woman. She confuses love with the lover, at least at first. The contemptuous words Merteuil employs refer to a woman like the still naı¨ve Butlerd who, before Lord Alfred’s defection, uses terms of religious worship to describe her love. ‘‘Votre

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´ qui rec¸oit mes sermens’’ [Your heart is the cœur est l’autel sacre altar which receives my vows] (XXXII). In another letter, a self-deluded Fanni states: Quand mon cher Alfred ne m’aimera plus, disois-je, je me ferai catholique, et j’irai habiter cette maison paisible. J’aurai bien du plaisir du plaisir a` me confesser, car je parlerai que de mon amant; tous les saints et toutes les saintes qui pareront mon oratoire, auront cette aimable ´ dans le lieu le physionomie. Le portrait que je tiens de sa main, place ´ minent, sera le patron re ´ ve ´ re ´ , le plus re ´ ve ´ re ´ dans mon simple plus e ´ de fleurs, et couvert d’un voile le ´ger, il ne fera vu hermitage: couronne que de moi; il sera toujours le dieu de mon cœur. Je lui adresserai des voeux qui ne le toucheront plus. . . .’’(LI) [When my dear Alfred will no longer love me, I used to say, I will become Catholic, and I will go live in that peaceful house. I will find pleasure in confession, because I will speak only of my lover; all the saints who will ornament my oratory, will have that amiable physiognomy. The portrait that I have from him, placed in a position of eminence, will be the most revered patron of my simple hermitage; crowned in flowers and covered with a light veil, he will be seen only by me: he will always be the god of my heart. I will address him vows that will no longer affect him.]

Two points are central to this passage. First, Laclos has Valmont use a similar imagery when he describes the relationship he wants from Tourvel. Second, this passage contrasts sharply with Fanni’s actual feelings after Lord Alfred’s deception. Her imagined reaction to the defection of Lord Alfred is not at all how she really feels when it happens. Fanni may be a ‘‘femme a` sentiment’’ but she does not fade away, nor does she confuse the lover with the emotion for very long. It is in fact the separation between the two that causes Fanni to publish her correspondence. It is interesting to note the language used in this description. The portrait will be covered by a ‘‘voile,’’ which echoes Tourvel’s phrase to Madame Rosemonde, ´chire ´’’ [the veil is torn] This torn veil also is the act ‘‘Le voile est de of making public what had formerly been private: kept between women friends and the end of love. Fanni, despite her intentions, rips the veil of silence herself and publishes the story of her passion. She thus becomes more than a ‘‘femme `a sentiments.’’ She is also an author. Fanni realizes that it is she who has created her love for Lord

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Erford through writing. Fanni writes to Alfred: ‘‘Mais ne va pas croire que tu es beau comme le soleil; c’est mon amour qui t’embel´duis; tu les dois a` lit, il te sonne les graˆces avec lesquelles tu me se ma tendresse. Oui, mon cher Alfred, c’est elle qui te pare!’’ [But do not think you are as beautiful as the sun: it is my love that gives you beauty, it lends you the graces with which you seduced me: you owe them to my tenderness. Yes, my dear Alfred, it is my love that embellishes you] (LXXXI). Laclos borrows this mood of self-delusion. Fanni is instrumental in the creation of the image of Lord Erford and it is just this image that she loves. When Lord Erford is shown for what he truly is and Fanni can no longer maintain the illusion, she reclaims control by publishing her letters. Merteuil goes one step farther and would create Valmont by writing his memoirs. In so doing, she would become public by writing in a masculine voice. Yet, Merteuil will prove to be as vulnerable to publicity as the rest of her sex. Publicity is something denied her as a woman, and will prove her downfall as it comes about not through the fictional memoirs of Valmont, but her own exposure in her private letters. The theme of letter-writing combined with revenge is common to both texts. Like Merteuil, Fanni will also take revenge. But it will be through the publication of her letters to Lord Alfred. Riccoboni, however, does not place the publication of Fanni’s letters in the context of revenge. Rather, she calls this public admission an act of self-justification. Fanni denies the base motivation of revenge when she writes: ‘‘Pensez-vous que nos mains se refusassent a` laver dans le ´ de notre cœur n’e ´tsang les outrages que nous recevons, si la bonte ´ ouffoit en nous le desir de la vengeance’’ [Do you think that our hands would refuse to wash the outrages to which we are subject in blood if the goodness of our hearts did not suffocate the desire for revenge?] (CXVI). Her actions, however, belie her words. Laclos clearly saw this act for what it was; revenge on Lord Alfred for his behavior. Laclos draws upon revenge to furnish the starting and ending point of his novel. His criticism of the manner in which Fanni takes her revenge ends Les Liaisons dangereuses and creates yet another link between these two texts. By having Merteuil’s downfall caused by the publication of her secret letters to Valmont, Laclos demonstrates the illusionary nature of a woman’s power to call upon the public to find justification for her social transgressions and redefine her position in society. Merteuil is ironically re-

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placed in the ‘‘feminine’’ and thus rejoins the ranks of the ´prise ´es,’’ subject to the same strictures and social laws. ‘‘me Other passages that link Merteuil with Fanni are found in letter X, for example, in which Merteuil recounts her seduction of the Chevalier Belleroche and echoes Fanni’s letters LXVII and XXV. Like Fanni, Merteuil refers to and quotes from poems and theatrical pieces. Merteuil alludes to Le Sopha, La Nouvelle He´loı¨se, and La Fontaine’s Fables in the letter in which she prepares Belle´vroche’s seduction. Fanni quotes Pope (LXVII) and Madame de Se ´ (XLVI). In letter LXVII, Fanni describes her desire to igne transform herself into anything that would please her lover: Je crois vous voir dans votre lit, avancer la main, choisir ma lettre entre ´ sente, de´chirer vite cette enveloppe trop toutes celles qu’on vous pre ` vient que j’aime ton lit? c’est que bien faite. . . . Dans ton lit? Mais d’ou ˆtre tout ce qui j’aime tout ce qui t’approche, t’appartient; je voudrois e ´sires; tu l’aurois d’abord . . . te plaıˆt, me transformer en tout ce que tu de ´e, tanto ˆt fe ˆt sylphide, toujours ta maıˆmoi, je me fais des contes. Tanto tresse, je forme un nouvel univers; je le soumets a` tes lois; je te cache ˆtre sublime, mon immense pouvoir, non pour e ´prouver ton cœur, mon e ´licatesse. Je suis ta sujette, quelquefois mais par un mouvement de de ton esclave; tu me distingues dans mon abaissement; tu me choisis, tu ´le `ves jusqu’a` toi. Je veux te devoir tout; je me plais a` de ´pendre de m’e ˆme, mon e ´ne ´reux. Revenue `a moi-me ´clat mon amant, de ses soins ge ´croule, mais le disparoıˆt; la partie la plus brillant de mon chaˆteau s’e fondement subsiste; je retrouve mon bonheur, et ce bonheur est ton ouvrage. [I imagine you in your bed, holding out your hand, choosing my letter among all those that are given to you, quickly tearing open this too well sealed envelop. . . . In your bed? But where does this predilection for your bed come from? It is that I love all that touches you, belongs to you; I would like to be all that pleases you, to transform myself into all that you desire, you would have it first. . . . Me, I tell myself tales. Now a fairy, then a sylph, always your mistress, I create a new universe; I submit it to your rule; I hide my sublime being from you, my immense power, not to test your heart, but rather out of delicacy. I am your subject, sometimes your slave; you single me out in my abasement, you choose me, you raise me up to you. I want to owe you everything, I am pleased to depend on my lover, on his generous attentions. Coming to myself, my brilliance disappears, the most shining part of my castle collapses, but the foundations subsist; I find my happiness again and this happiness is your doing.]

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There are many echoes of this letter in Merteuil’s text. Like Fanni, ´e, tanˆt fe she tells herself stories. Fanni describes herself as ‘‘tanto ˆt sylphide’’ which are ephemeral and fictive women. Merteuil, on to the other hand, calls upon fictions of women to ‘‘create’’ her voice but they are not fantastic creatures, rather models of virtue and sentiment. Merteuil goes further when she puts into practice Fanni’s dreams. Merteuil writes stories for herself and others as well as plays out roles for Belleroche, her lover.42 But where Fanni is honest in her desire to please her lover, Merteuil is self-deluding. While Fanni’s desire springs from her lovers (‘‘mon bonheur est ton ouvrage’’), Merteuil still believes she is in control, orchestrating the encounter. Valmont, on the other hand, sees through her self-deception and points out the inescapability of Merteuil’s position as a woman. Even when she takes control, she is working against herself : Vous vous donnez de la peine de le tromper, et il est plus heureux que ˆtes dans les vous. Vous le croyez dans vos chaıˆnes! C’est bien vous qui e siennes. Il dort tranquillement, tandis que vous veillez pour ses plaisirs. Que ferait de plus son esclave? (XV) [You take the pains to deceive him and he is happier than you are. You think he is in your chains! It is you that are in his. He sleeps calmly while you watch over his pleasures. What more would a slave do?]

A slave? One might add, any ‘‘femme a` sentiment.’’ For all her preparation she finds her joy, like Fanni and Madame de Tourvel, through her lover’s pleasure. Fanni writes: ´sirs qui naissent des vo ˆtres. Je ne rougis point de vous laisser voir des de Ce n’est pas dans mes sens que j’en trouve la source; c’est dans mon ´e flatteuse de vous rendre heucœur, c’est dans le votre; c’est dans l’ide reux. (XXX) [I do not blush to let you see my desires that are born from yours. They do not find their source in my senses; it is in my heart, it is in yours; it is in the flattering idea of making you happy.]

Or again in in Fanni’s letter XXVI, ‘‘J’ai rempli les desirs de mon amant, je les ai revus naıˆtre, il est heureux’’ [I fulfilled my lover’s desires, I say them reborn, he is happy]. Merteuil’s refusal to situate pleasure or desire in the other is symptomatic of her desire to cre-

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ate her own image, master her destiny, and affirm her autonomy: ‘‘je suis mon ouvrage’’ [I am my doing] (LXXXI). Merteuil’s mastery proves to be just as illusory as the image Fanni creates of her lover. Laclos shows us that for all Merteuil may refuse sentiment, she still has the same behavior and the same reaction as other women. For Riccoboni, sensibility did not preclude rationality. Both moods were complementary, twin aspects of man’s (woman’s) happiness.43 In a stringent critique of the separation of these two modes of perception, Laclos demonstrated the need to combine the two. While he condemned the utopian vision of Riccoboni’s social morality, he demonstrated the illusory power of rationalist thinking. The denial of sentiment over esprit leads to disaster. We have seen how Laclos was able to compress literary models (Madame d’Elmont, Hortense de Berneil) to create others (Merteuil). Fanni’s attitude toward men and society has contributed to form Merteuil’s ideology of superiority. Laclos eliminated the ‘‘sentiment’’ from Fanni’s discourse, leaving only her bitterness and intelligence. Sentiment has gone, however, into the creation of Madame de Tourvel. Here Laclos has divided one woman (Fanni) into two: Merteuil and Tourvel. As stated earlier, Fanni’s love springs from giving pleasure to others. Mme de Tourvel was also able to reconcile the loss of her virtue to Valmont’s happiness. Tourvel’s path to love retraces Fanni’s footsteps. She progresses from efforts to channel her nascent emotions into benign friendship to submission to her passion. Like Fanni, Tourvel resists by asking why she had been singled out. The esteem in which Fanni holds herself resembles that of Tourvel. But it is in the rewriting of these affinities that will determine the two heroines’ reactions to the betrayal of their love. When she tries to substitute friendship for the more dangerous state of passion, Mme de Tourvel is surely deceiving herself. Fanni, on the other hand, questions her own motives and wonders if she means what she says. Merteuil is able to read between the lines of Tourvel’s letters, to see through the subterfuge. This is not to say that Mme de Tourvel is consciously dissimulating her feelings for Valmont, she does not recognize them for what they are. Once again Laclos divides Fanni in two: the clarity with which Fanni divines her feelings has been taken from Tourvel and given to Merteuil. Ironically the ‘‘femme a` sentiment’’ is unable to read herself. Fanni, Merteuil, and Tourvel are all women of principle. Each has a coherent philosophy that they will transgress. We have seen

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what Merteuil owes to Fanni for her beliefs of superiority and also how she differs from her. Fanni situates her guiding principle in ‘‘bienfaisance’’: ` ce de philosophie que j’ai adopte ´ n’a rien de stoı¨que; elle me L’espe guide dans ma conduite; mais elle n’a jamais pu vaincre l’extreˆme sen´ de mon cœur; elle l’emporte souvent sur mes principes Eh poursibilite quoi ne souffrirois-je point? ne suis-je pas dans cette chaıˆne invisible ˆtres? le bien doit-il se se´parer du mal pour moi seule? qui unit tous les e (LXXXIII, emphasis added) [The sort of philosophy that I have adopted has nothing stoic about it; it guides my conduct; but it can never vanquish my heart’s extreme sensibility; which often holds sway over my principles. And why would it not? Am I not part of the invisible chain that unites all being? Must good separate from evil on my account?]

Fanni’s principles are secular; she respects the social conventions that protect her reputation. It is the breakdown in loyalty, the hypocrisy of Lord Alfred, that causes her to justify her transgressive behavior in public. Although she is as firmly entrenched in the ‘‘liens’’ that define her, Tourvel’s beliefs are religious. She rallies to the saving power of grace, where Fanni situates salvation in love. Tourvel’s downfall is all the more ironic as it is arranged through the intermediary of Father Anselme. The latter prevails upon Tourvel to meet Valmont in order that he may return her letters, the instrument of her seduction. Father Anselme gives weight to Valmont’s pretense of a lost sheep returning to the fold which he used to interest Tourvel. Fanni hates her lover, but does not despise love. For Fanni ‘‘the path of feeling becomes the path of virtue.’’44 Tourvel has been betrayed by not only love, but by that for which it substituted, religion. She has no belief to fall back on. Critics have often discussed the differences between Rousseau’s Julie and Madame de Tourvel. Some situate the difference in Tourvel’s sexuality, which distinguishes her from the essentially nonsexual Julie. The acceptance or refutation of their sexuality after their seduction affects the women’s self-image: Julie’s view of the self is negative, whereas Tourvel’s is positive.45 Others see Julie’s renunciation of St. Preux as a sacrifice to order, while Tourvel sacrifices order to Valmont. Julie connects love and virtue while Tourvel speaks of love and ‘‘bonheur.’’ ‘‘Happiness found in devoted love, `re accepted calmly and serenely, beyond morality, is novel (a lumie

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nouvelle).’’46 This new conception of love finds its source in Fanni’s amorous discourse, which combines the celebration of physical desire with the spirituality of love. And in large part this combination of frank sensuality with the spirituality of love makes this text extraordinary, setting it apart. The physical side of Tourvel’s love for Valmont and the expression of her passion is found in Fanni Butlerd and not in Clarissa or in Julie, ou La Nouvelle He´loı¨se. Fanni not only does not hide her passion, she expresses her physical desire directly to Lord Erford in her letters. Laclos, however, puts the description of Tourvel’s passion in Valmont’s missives to Merteuil. Fanni gave voice to the woman of sentiment, Laclos silenced her. It is Valmont who is surprised by the shared qualities of a passion that he can not hide from Merteuil: ` te et re ´ ciproque; et, pour la premie ` re fois, la L’ivresse fut comple ´cut au plaisir. Je ne sortis de ses bras que pour tomber a` mienne surve ´ternel; et, il faut tout avouer, je ses genoux, pour lui jurer un amour e pensais ce que je disais. (CXXV) [The ecstasy was complete and mutual; and for the first time, my own outlasted the pleasure. I only left her arms to fall at her knees, to swear an eternal love to her; and, I must admit, I believed what I said.]

But even in this tender moment his ambivalence breaks through. ‘‘Ce fut avec cette candeur naı¨ve ou sublime, qu’elle me livra sa personne et ses charmes, et qu’elle augmenta mon bonheur en le partageant’’ [It was with this naı¨ve or sublime candor that she surrendered to me her person and her charms, and she increased my happiness by sharing it] (emphasis added, CXXV). The conjunction ‘‘ou,’’ a portent of future events, tellingly underscores this ambivalence. ‘‘Naı¨ve’’ is contemptible and ‘‘sublime’’ will prove to be unacceptable. The sentimental ideal of happiness will be the cause of Valmont’s betrayal. Fanni and Tourvel find the justification for their love in the very sentiment that Valmont finds humiliating: ´ris cette fac¸on de voir, qui me sauve l’humiliation de penser que Je che ˆme que je me ´pendre en quelque manie `re de l’esclave me je puisse de ´nitude de mon bonserais asservie; que je n’aie pas en moi seul la ple ´ de m’en faire jouir dans toute son e ´nergie soit heur: et que la faculte ´serve ´e a` telle ou telle femme, exclusivement a` toute autre. (CXXV) re

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[I cling to this view, which saves me from the humiliation of thinking I might depend in any way upon the very slave I have enslaved myself; that I do not contain the plenitude of my happiness in myself: and that the faculty of enjoying it in all its energy should be reserved to a particular woman, exclusive of all others.]

This solipsistic recovery of pleasure brought about by the self is consistent with Valmont’s image as a libertine. The undercurrent runs through Les Liaisons dangereuses. The epistolarity of Fanni Butlerd and Les Liaisons dangereuses requires an exploration of the theme of self-portrayal, a theme intrinsic to the form of the novel. With no narrator to guarantee truth, the reader, like the recipient of the letter, has to rely on the good faith of the writer. In both Fanni Butlerd and Liaisons dangereuses there is a discrepancy between words and deeds. Riccoboni’s Fanni tells us directly of his treachery, and Lord Erford’s hackneyed language reproduced in Fanni’s letters supports this view. There is no one to contradict Fanni’s representation of events. Laclos is more subtle. He demonstrates the inherent duplicity of self-representation by the sheer number of correspondents giving multiple versions of the same situations. Riccoboni’s use of the topoi of letters and portraits adds depth to her analysis of Lord Erford’s duplicity. Though Fanni cannot be with Lord Alfred, she has his letters and portraits. These relics keep the erotic connection alive. She carries the letters next to her body (as does Tourvel). She sleeps with his portrait and surrounds herself with objets whose status is that of talismans. Near the middle of the novel, Fanni understands that the portrait no longer resem´ rent de vous!’’ bles its subject: ‘‘Le voila` , ce portrait, qu’est diffe [Here it is, this portrait that is so unlike you!] (XLV). Later, she receives two letters on the same day from Lord Erford and is struck ´crit pour tout le monde; l’autre by their differences in tone: ‘‘L’un e ne parle qu’a moi’’ [One writes for everyone; the other only speaks to me] (LXXXV). The letters and her lover’s language are beginning to raise doubts about his sincerity. Fanni contends that her language is that of the heart. She has no style but that of transparency: ‘‘mais mon style est toujours assujetti aux impressions que mon ˆame rec¸oit’’ [But my style is always subject to the impressions of my soul] (LXV). After Lord Erford reveals his marriage plans, Fanni remarks: ‘‘le style dont je me servois avec ˆme’’ [the ´toit pas dans ma plume; le votre est encore le me vous, n’e

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style in which I wrote you was not in my pen; yours is still the same] (CVI). Again she comments: ‘‘L’esprit ne parle pas au cœur, il ne parle pas comme le cœur’’ [Wit does not speak to the heart, it does not speak like the heart] (LXXIII). Fanni is amazed at a letter whose style so jars with the subject matter (CII). She writes in a natural language that corresponds to her sex and imbues her with a sentimental power. But when the sentimental connection breaks down, Fanni’s discourse is replaced by indignation. Not so Tourvel’s. She will write very little after her break with Valmont. In her penultimate letter she takes leave of Madame Rosemonde and writes an incoherent farewell letter on her deathbed. There is no other frame to organize Tourvel’s world, a condition reflected in her syntax. Tourvel, and not Fanni, writes in the closed-off language of the heart.47 Madame de Merteuil’s letters are masterpieces of calculated deceit. Her letters resemble Fanni’s in their keen analyses of woman’s condition. Both draw on literary allusion. By putting one side of Fanni’s voice in Merteuil, Laclos shows the mechanics behind this fiction of ‘‘femininity.’’ It is Merteuil and Valmont who hold a discussion on the techniques of ‘‘writing from the heart.’’ Merteuil ad´cile to formulate her letters with the addressee in mind, vises Ce adapting her style to the intended effect. Merteuil, on the other hand, adopts the opposite position when she advises Danceny, to whom she wishes to appear ‘‘sentimental.’’ Tourvel and Fanni accustom themselves to love through the act of writing of it, as is apparent in Tourvel’s extensive use of clauses in the conditional mode. The act of writing to protest the impossibility of the epistolary connection keeps the prohibited relationship present in the mind of the writer. Once again, it is Merteuil who is aware of the paradox. Besides the fact that letters make up the novel, they are also the vehicle by which the characters’ fates are determined. Ironically, Merteuil is as much a victim of her epistles as Tourvel, despite her rhetoric of control. Critics, taking Laclos at his word, have been convinced that the key to Laclos’s characters must lie in his own experience. They have long searched for, speculated upon, and debated the identity of the real personalities behind Laclos’s infamous characters. However, I argue that even if Les Liaisons dangereuses does read like the roman a` clef for which it has been taken for so many years, it is a roman a` clef in a parodic mode whose references are not to be found in the real world but rather in the world of fiction. Laclos

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deftly weaves his text out of hackneyed convention and recognizable characters taken from popular novels. Although Laclos is not an original writer according to the modern definition of the word, he is slyly inventive in the use of elements, plots, locations, and characters drawn from other writers, Riccoboni in particular. Building on and against her work, Laclos explores the subjects of privacy, self-delusion, gender, and the role of writing. Laclos’s art lies in the manner in which he borrows plot, characters, and even discourse from Riccoboni. Through the use of juxtaposition, compression, and exaggeration, he manipulates them just enough so as to cast them in new light, leaving the old visible through the new. The reader’s pleasure stems in large part from this play between recognition and defamiliarization. His novel, in effect, reads like a parody in the modern sense, at once an homage and critique.

4 Subversions of Meaning IN 1784 A REVIEW OF A RECENT FRENCH TRANSLATION OF AN ENGLISH novel appeared in the Mercure de France. The novel was Cecilia or Memoirs of an Heiress, written by Frances Burney in 1782. The author of the review was Choderlos de Laclos and the piece contains many of Laclos’s tenets on technique and genre. Although this is one of the few places where Laclos has recorded his theories of the novel, the review has, for the most part, not received the attention it deserves. This neglect is due without a doubt to the fact that Laclos chose to review a novel by a woman, and an Englishwoman at that. Laclos’s choice of a woman’s novel to illustrate his conception of the genre was not accidental. The tactic not only demonstrated Laclos’s respect for women’s participation in the novelistic tradition, but also his understanding of that tradition, which serves as a foil for his own novel. This connection between women and the novel in Laclos’s limited body of work would seem to beg for exploration. Two factors contributed to the dismissal of Laclos’s remarks with regard to Burney’s work. The first is the general dismissal of Burney’s sentimental and domestic novel as significant in the scheme of literary history. The second is the fact that Laclos chose an English text with its widely divergent aesthetic. For critics it is almost unimaginable for such a classically oriented author as Laclos to show such poor taste. Critics that have written on Laclos’s review feel obliged not only to excuse his lapse of taste, but explain ´ Pomeau has called a ‘‘mediocre Laclos’s interest in what Rene work’’ and Laurent Versini, a ‘‘forgotten novel without merit.’’1 Versini, in effect, imputes the French author’s admiration for this ‘‘mediocre novel’’ to Laclos’s own difficulties in arranging his mar´ with similar difficulties found riage with Marie-Soulange Duperre in the plot of the English novel. The analogy is as tenuous as it is reductive and does justice neither to Burney’s novel nor Laclos’s 159

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literary acumen. A problematic marriage is common to both situations, to be sure, however Burney focused on class and economic differences while the French novelist’s real-life problems stemmed ` scandale. Laclos’s from his notoriety as the author of a roman a review has been read as another self-serving justification of his novel along the lines of his correspondence with Riccoboni. The fact that critics felt the need to excuse Laclos’s interest in Burney’s novel is not so very surprising. For a very long time critical evaluation of Burney was confined to an appreciation of her diaries and her influence on Jane Austen. The reevaluation of Burney’s fiction undertaken by feminist literary critics forces one in Laclosian studies, which has been limited to the study of intertextualities of solely male-authored texts. The limitation has constrained the import of his text as well as imposed an artificial boundary between male- and female-authored texts that was not present in Laclos’s mind. One hears only half of the dialogue Les Liaisons dangereuses held with other contemporary writings. Laclos’s interest in Burney’s first two novels, Evelina and Cecilia, is evident in the makeup of Les Liaisons dangereuses. Evelina, which Laclos read either in the original English language version (1778) or the first French translation (1779), serves as a starting point for Les Liaisons dangereuses. I argue that the critical rethinking already discussed comes to its point of greatest intensity in Les Liaisons dangereuses where Burney’s rewriting of Riccoboni is incorporated with Laclos’s reading of Burney. A parallel reading of Les Liaisons dangereuses and Cecilia in conjunction with Evelina reveals the common concerns of the two authors. By reading in parallel, I mean to read ‘‘in pairs’’ and ‘‘intersextually,’’ to use Nancy Miller’s and Naomi Schor’s respective terminology.2 Although I have chosen to discuss Evelina, Les Liaisons dangereuses, and Cecilia concurrently, it must be remembered that Les Liaisons dangereuses and Cecilia were, for all intents and purposes, contemporaneous. Cecilia was published three months after the French novel. The contact between Laclos and Burney is established through their joint reading of Riccoboni and, then again, Laclos’s acquaintance with Burney’s Evelina. When the three authors’ works are read together, a progression or pattern emerges. Burney draws on Riccoboni’s characters and rewrites her plots in order to correct Riccoboni’s ‘‘optimistic’’ outlook. Burney questions Riccoboni’s representation of woman’s innate social knowledge by showing the suffering and humiliation the acquisition of knowledge

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entails. Laclos, in turn, underscores the real danger only threatened in Burney’s Evelina and creates his characters from composites drawn to a great extent from Riccoboni’s and Burney’s novels. The three texts meet at a common point where each novel explores different functions and constraints of society through the symbolic role of the name in its many forms.

LACLOS’S CRITICAL ASSESSMENT OF BURNEY Two items in Laclos’s book review caught the attention of scholars: one was his conception of the novel as an aesthetic object, the other was an articulation of the rules underpinning its aesthetic: ‘‘observer, sentir, peindre’’ [to observe, to feel, to depict].3 Laclos agreed that the novel fell outside the rules of composition for ‘‘nobler’’ genres. This did not mean, however, that novel writing was easy. The very absence of restraints, in fact, made novel writing more difficult. A novel, according to Laclos, should be a work of art, well constructed and beautifully made. Given the general favorable assessment of Laclos’s astute critical faculties, one may well ask why, in Versini’s words, Laclos ‘‘made use of Cecilia as a springboard to deliver his art of the novel’’?4 Is it plausible to attribute this review to an apparent lapse in taste? This was not the first or last ‘‘lapse in taste’’ attributed to Laclos. He also wrote an article on Lacretelle’s Le Fils naturel that received the same treatment from critics trying to explain Laclos’s interest in a work ‘‘weak and unstructured.’’5 The common denominator between Burney’s novels and Lacretelle’s Le Fils naturel is a combination of the dramatic with the analytical that Laclos found in Burney’s work.6 Laclos’s interest cannot be reduced to any desire to use a relatively newly published novel to promote his own work. Nor can it be viewed as a corrective to a poor translation. Laclos could have chosen any number of novels to review, but he chose the ostensibly ‘‘mediocre’’ Cecilia. Beyond the fact that he wished to share his pleasure in reading Burney’s work and recommend her to his countrymen, there are four major subjects treated in Laclos’s review that all converge in the English novel. First, Laclos used Burney’s novel as the pivot around which to explore the genre of the novel in general. For Laclos, the novel as a genre was particularly useful for exploring social structures and practices. Laclos found history a weak vehicle for the study of soci-

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ety because historical works concentrate on exemplary figures who are represented from the outside and not from within. The lack of psychology underlying the behavior of such exemplary figures creates a barrier between the reader and the character, making a sympathetic identification difficult. Reality interfered with the truth of fiction. His concern was with the meeting of the public and the private, a task for which the novel was eminently suitable. Theater came closer to an accurate portrayal of society, but it was limited by physical constraints. Laclos points to the constraints of represented action compared to described action, which leaves a novelist a `re `a parcourir’’ [vast quarry to cover].7 ‘‘vaste carrie Second, Laclos used the review to emphasize what he took to be women’s special aptitude for novel writing. Laclos not only thought highly of Burney’s novel, he also considered Burney deserving of merit, placing her work among the best the genre had to offer: ˆtre place ´es `a co ´ ˆte ‘‘Parmi les femmes que l’on pourrait citer pour s’e ´es et de nos meilleurs romanciers, il en serait peu de plus distingue ´tonnants que l’Auteur de l’ouvrage dont nous allons rende plus e dre compte’’ [Among women that one could cite alongside our best novelists, there would be few more distinguished and more astonishing than the author of the work in question] (450). It should be noted that Laclos does not qualify ‘‘auteur’’ with a feminine version (auteur-femme) as was common usage. Men and women, for Laclos, were on equal footing, albeit on a linguistically masculine terrain.8 He places her alongside Fielding, Rousseau, and Richardson, and in so doing clearly indicates that his taste included the sentimental and the burlesque. ´licaQualities of ‘‘finesse, de la profondeur, du tact et de la de ´rite ´’’ [finesse, depth, tact and delicacy tesse, de la graˆce et de la ve along with grace and truth] were particularly evident in women. These talents were not due to ‘‘natural writing.’’ They were the result of women’s education, their existence in society, all of their good qualities as well as their bad (which he does not specify). Women’s dependency on others for much of their existence, for their social legitimization, contributed to the development of psychological analytical skill; it made them sensitive to others’ states of mind. Many of the flaws criticized in Cecilia were due to the relative inexperience of the author. Laclos criticized the emphasis on portraits in Burney’s novel. He attributed this to the difference between French and English novelistic technique: the English

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familiarize themselves with characters before any action takes place; the French prefer to be moved by characters and situation. However, Laclos remarked that one could hardly reproach Burney for adopting the English mode. Richardson, supreme among English authors, is subject to a similar judgment: ‘‘. . . et, meˆme en ´ de laisser lisant Richardson, presque tout lecteur Franc¸ais est tente la` les personnages pour aller s’informer de leurs aventures’’ [and even when reading Richardson, almost every French reader is tempted to skip over the characters’ descriptions to find out how their adventures unfold] (452). Laclos pointed out that, in Cecilia, even the characters that did not add to the action are ‘‘presque tous ´s de main de maıˆtre, et nous croyons devoir les indiquer a` nos trace lecteurs’’ [almost all traced by the hand of a master and we think we must point them out to our readers] (453). Although he draws a distinction between the English reader’s expectations and those of French readers, Laclos does not distinguish between nations in his list of exceptional works. This leads to the third point of the review: Laclos’s own preference for the English novel. There is nary a French author among them, and, although Mme de Lafayette is mentioned earlier in the review, only Richardson, Fielding, and Rousseau are listed as the ‘‘meilleurs romanciers’’ [the best novelists]. Erroneously believing Frances Burney to be only twenty-one, Laclos suggests that it is only a matter of more experience and some judicious editing until Burney assumes her full position alongside the masters. Throughout the review, all of Laclos’s critical comments are mitigated by the difference in nationalities and the relative inexperience of the author; any negative comments are always counterbalanced by high praise. Laclos’s criticism of Burney must be read with the fact in mind that Laclos was writing for a French audience. He wrote a review of an English novel for the French reading public. His comments take into account the reading public’s taste and point of view as he examines Burney’s novel. The last element that attracted Laclos to Burney’s novel is its dramatic quality—her ability to combine vivid ‘‘tableaux’’ with psychological analysis. Four scenes caught Laclos’s attention and became the subject of his critical remarks: Harrel’s suicide, the storm episode (the one in which Mortimer reveals his sentiments), Cecilia’s first return to London, and Cecilia’s delirium. Harrel’s suicide is of special interest as it combines both the dramatic and the psychological. Laclos comments on Burney’s techni-

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cal skill in the handling of this scene. He particularly notes how Burney deftly draws the reader’s attention back from the dramatic suicide to the heroine’s sentiments, which are explored in the rest of the novel. Burney’s extensive use of burlesque was as important to Laclos as her sense of drama. Laclos wrote that Cecilia’s return to London, where she meets up with many of Harrel’s crowd on the `re (463). Laclos road, for example, would not be disavowed by Molie read Cecilia with the eye of a master practitioner of the genre. Though muted in the French manner, the predilection for burlesque evident in Evelina reappears in Laclos’s novel. The themes treated in Burney’s Evelina and throughout Riccoboni’s work are developed and exaggerated in Cecilia and condensed in Les Liaisons dangereuses. This exaggeration is not parodic in the traditional sense of the word, but rather a respectful and, at the same time, playful continuation and reworking of shared common concerns.9

SOCIAL DEFINITIONS AND PATRONYMIC SUBVERSIONS Evelina, Cecilia, and Les Liaisons dangereuses explore the social mechanisms that control and question sexuality as well as study how women function as the medium of transfer of social values. The novels are oriented around the type of value chosen, which varies according to the author; Laclos’s primary concern is with social notions of virtue, while for Burney it is money. The distinction, however, is not absolute, as they are often related in some manner. Money is of some concern in Les Liaisons dangereuses and, for Burney, virtue is an important element in Cecilia. Whichever value is in question, it is their connection to women’s insistence or resistance to a particular value that impedes the smooth functioning of a masculinist economy. In whatever form this desire takes, sexual (Les Liaisons dangereuses), the need for self-determination (Cecilia), or recognition (Evelina), Burney and Laclos demonstrate its disruptive power, its suppression, and the price women pay.

CECILIA Despite the fact that Cecilia is a beautiful, unmarried young woman of acceptable, if not distinguished, birth endowed with a

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very large inheritance, she is faced with all but insurmountable difficulties in marrying the man of her choice. Her inheritance is from two different sources united under one name. Bequeathed ten thousand pounds by her father, Cecilia is remanded into the care of her paternal uncle, who is her guardian until his death four years later. Upon his death he likewise bequeathed his niece three thousand pounds per annum with the additional restriction that the man who marries her take her family name, a practice not unheard-of for an heiress. All things considered, Cecilia would be considered a very good catch. The fly in the ointment will be the entailment of the money to her patronyme. This will cause all sorts of trouble to the eventual marriage of Cecilia to Delvile. Frances Burney has taken the word inheritance and given it its full weight to include natural as well as economic qualities. The Oxford English Dictionary for example lists these alternate definitions: first, the passing down of property; second, genetic qualities from parent to off spring; third, the acquisition of a possession, condition, or trait from past generations; and fourth, a valuable possession that is a common heritage from nature or a tradition. The themes of this novel, which can be traced through the word inheritance as Burney plays on its full semantic range, include the study of traditional social order, the set roles men and women occupy within that order, and the impossibility of reconciling desire to those roles. Both protagonists, Cecilia and Mortimer, are endowed and, at the same time, encumbered with inheritances distributed according to their gender and position in society. They both possess property: he, the castle and she, the money. It is evident from the start that his are enduring values indicated by the solidity of the castle, while hers are mobile (money) and appropriate for a woman who changes estates with her name. Genetic inheritance, albeit of unequal value, comes into play in the opposing qualities of nobility (his) and beauty (hers). For Mortimer’s family, the inheritance of name and bloodline take precedence over Cecilia’s beauty, virtue, and money. As a woman Cecilia’s behavior is severely circumscribed, however, the money she inherited should provide her with a considerable degree of independence. To even out the playing field, both Cecilia and Mortimer are endowed with natural grace. But though thus largely indebted to fortune, to nature she had yet greater obligations: her form was elegant, her heart was liberal; her countenance announced the intelligence of her mind, her complexion

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varied with every emotion of her soul [not such an attribute when in society], and her eyes, the heralds of her speech, now beamed with understanding and now glistened with sensibility. (I, 4)10

Burney endows Cecilia with each of the semantic fields of inheritance: monetary, genetic, and a natural nobility. Playing on the signs of nobility, Cecilia’s eyes are heralds of her speech, while Delvile’s herald is the family coat of arms. This symbol of patriarchal rule dictates his social behavior in the same way that Cecilia’s gender influences hers. The two codes regulating the behavior of the young couple is reflected in their language, which proves as problematic for one as for the other throughout the novel. Speech allowed to a woman is as restrictive and binding as the code of behavior represented by the family coat of arms is for Delvile. Burney uses blood imagery to literalize the problems of patronymic, social order, and inheritance that are compounded for both Cecilia and Mortimer. If we look at Cecilia’s inheritance we see that she has her father’s money and the family name, which in due course she would give up when she took on that of her husband’s family. However, the death of her guardian doubled both her endowment and her name. His testament obliges her future husband to renounce his own patronymic, be feminized, and lose class status at the same time as it promotes Cecilia’s family in the social hierarchy. In the course of an argument between Mortimer and his mother, she invokes the supreme insult to his masculinity by underscoring the marriage’s subversive potential: How the blood of your wronged ancestors will rise into your guilty cheeks, and how will your heart throb with secret shame and reproach, when wished joy upon your marriage by the name of Mr. Beverley! Delvile, stung to the soul, attempted not any answer, but walked about the room in the utmost disorder of mind. (IV, 263)

As a physical manifestation of his passion and the breach of social order that his parents fear, he has lost use of his words. His passions, socially disruptive and in opposition to his duty, cannot be expressed. Delvile is the last of his family’s line, the only young male, which means that he carries the weight of the family as a full value and not something to be discarded. The symbolism implicit in Mortimer’s given name Mort/death reflects the social responsibilities

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owed to the bloodline and encodes its threatened end (timer). The fact that his mother’s maiden name is also Delvile reinforces its value. The blood of Delvile runs doubly strong in Mortimer’s veins. The opposing inheritances of Mortimer and Cecilia are thus: Beverley/Beverley vs. Delvile/Delvile. At Mortimer’s renunciation of marriage with Cecilia due to the idea of being addressed as Mr. Beverley (an emasculation), his mother restores his filial title: ‘‘Then you are my son! I now know again my Mortimer! Now I see the fair promise of his upright youth, and the flattering completion of my maternal expectations!’’ (IV, 263). Mrs. Delvile seems to have displaced her loyalty from her husband, to whom she was given in an arranged marriage, to the family lineage. Her maternal expectations can be seen as an internalization of the paternal order.11 For this woman, her son’s public image takes precedence over his private desires and has displaced them. When confronted with the reality of Cecilia’s pain, represented by physical weakness and disordered speech, Mortimer relents. Delvile says, ‘‘O suffer me to support you. You are not able to stand— whither is it you would go? Anywhere,—I don’t know—answered she, in faltering accents, but if you leave me, I should be well’’ (IV, 266). Cecilia can no longer bear the sight of the man who has disrupted her life. Later in the novel she pleads with him to leave her alone. She may not be happy but she will make peace with her place just as Mrs. Delvile did when she married her husband. Mrs. Delvile, here the symbol of social order, loses control at the realization that her son has changed his mind. When she leaves the room in a fury, she suffers a fit, bursting a vessel. Her son follows her, only to find her ‘‘extended upon the floor, her face, hands, and neck all covered in blood!’’ (IV, 269). The image of the family blood (used to call Mortimer to reason) is concretized. The sight of all that Delvile blood recklessly squandered changes Mortimer’s mind. As Roland Barthes remarked in Sur Racine: ‘‘Blood is therefore literally a Law, that which signifies a tie and a legality,’’ and ‘‘God, ´riorite ´) blood, the father, the law, in short, essentially History (Ante becomes accusatory.’’12 The social fragmentation threatened by the disregard for tradition is reflected in the passionate actions and speeches of this scene. The will of Delvile’s parents (which replicates the testament of Cecilia’s father and uncle) encloses his desire and forces him to choose between ‘‘public obedience and personal happiness, between private desire and [in Cecilia’ case] public wealth.’’13

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This opposition between public and private is a thread that runs throughout the novel. As in Les Liaisons dangereuses (a surprisingly apt title for Cecilia) public image is at odds with private. From the very beginning Cecilia has been unable to impose recognition of her opinions and deeds. Men continually ascribe different motives for her actions; they present her with altered images of self. They either do not listen to what Cecilia says or they discount it. The difference between Cecilia’s intentions and their interpretation has important implications for the plot. One such misunderstanding arises at the opera. Here Cecilia lets her emotions run away with her when two men confront each other over her. At the outbreak of violence she expresses her fear and concern. What Cecilia considers common humanity the general public takes as an expression of love, and this misapprehension underscores the gap between Cecilia’s notion of moral behavior and society’s expectations of a young woman. Either as an expression of love or as compassion for one’s fellow man, Cecilia’s behavior is scandalous. As Juliet McMaster notes, in the eighteenth century, middle-class women were not allowed to express love or even think of feeling for a man until he chose them.14 Women are objects of desire and not desiring agents. Another continuing misunderstanding that Cecilia finds impossible to correct is her connection with Belfield. Delvile’s father misconstrues her friendship with Belfield as a love affair between the two young people. Cecilia finds herself caught up in the stereotype of a woman in love. It is ironic to see the proud Mr. Delvile (father) and the coarse Mrs. Belfield share the same illusion that Cecilia loves Belfield. It is impossible for Cecilia to clear her name. She is confronted with an image of herself that she does not recognize and it is one to which she cannot reconcile herself. The carnival scene best illustrates the reflected image topos. Burney uses the topos of the masquerade to expose the hidden character of the people around Cecilia. It is during this masquerade at the Harrels’ that she first meets Delvile, noting his ‘‘understanding and humanity.’’ Delvile is not accompanied by all his baggage (his lineage). He is known to her only as the white domino, the costume he wears, and she can see him for what he is. Not wanting to stand out, Cecilia is not masked. Her name, which in Latin means lily of the sky (pure) as well as dim-sighted (naive), indicates her state of being.15 All the other characters are in costumes that reveal their psychology.16 Monckton as a black devil

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shows his real self where, outside of carnival time, he is a family friend and kindly adviser. Belfield, the idealistic but flighty young man, is disguised as Don Quixote. The mischievous Morrice comes as Harlequin. To each tentative identification that Cecilia makes comes the disavowal: ‘‘I thought I had known with certainty . . . but now I find I was mistaken’’ (I, 198). The masquerade scene stands as a metaphor for the young woman’s plight as she struggles to reconcile appearance and reality. Cecilia finds herself as oppressed by these people at this party as she does in normal society. ‘‘My mind,’’ she remarks, ‘‘seems almost as little at liberty as my person’’ (I, 190). She is in fact chased and sequestered by the black devil as well as Briggs throughout the evening. It is significant that Cecilia is portrayed as a spinster in the first three-quarters of the novel, then as a married woman in the last. Her fight for acceptance of her image of herself does not end with the assumption of her married persona. The continuation of the novel after the nuptials (the usual ending) casts doubts on the commonplace of a happy-ever-after romantic ending and carries Cecilia beyond the genre of the courtship novel. The continuation of Cecilia’s troubles demystifies the courtship process. The marriage is presented in a dreamlike atmosphere: The amazement of Cecilia was still unconquerable. To be actually united with Delvile! to be his wife with the full consent of his mother,—to have him hers, beyond the power of his father,—she could not reconcile it with possibility; she fancied it a dream, but a dream from which she wished not to awake. (V, 208)

This paragraph is ironic in light of subsequent events. Delvile’s mother’s consent will not take her beyond the power of the father. In fact, Cecilia’s marriage, consented to by Delvile’s mother, splits the Delvile household into two factions. The division in the house of Delvile was already inherent in the structure of the marriage but made manifest by the mother’s open disaffection from the unifying patriarchal will. Delvile must leave Cecilia after a secret marriage and flee the country as the result of a duel with Monckton. While waiting for Delvile’s return from abroad, Cecilia returns to her house in the country, now empty of a patriarchal figure. A problem arises from the fact that the day she married Delvile she forfeited all rights to her inheritance as he refused to take her name. The rightful heirs now demand that she

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leave her family’s house and relinquish any claim. She is not yet publicly a Delvile, yet she is no longer a Beverley. In a disturbing scene, a solicitor comes to verify her name. ‘‘Cecilia’s distress and confusion were unspeakable’’ (V, 246). Unspeakable because she has lost her place and is therefore outside social representation in language. Cecilia, quite confounded, made no answer; to disavow her marriage, when thus formally called upon, was every way unjustifiable; to acknowledge it, in her present situation, would involve difficulties innumerable. (V, 246)

A secret marriage, as Peggy Kamuf points out, is a highly antisocial and antipatriarchal act.17 A secret marriage implies action outside the enclosure of parental desire and is therefore subversive to social order. From this point until the end of the novel, Cecilia is continually misunderstood, rejected, and shut out. Refused recognition and entrance to the Delvile family residence, she wanders about London looking for her husband, ending up at a pawnbroker. This was not lost on Laclos, and he particularly makes note in his review of the novel that she was not taken in out of sentiment by the pawnbrokers, but with the idea of pecuniary rewards (468). She has neither status nor value because the name Delvile that she claims is unrecognized, an empty signifier. Julia Epstein attributes Cecilia’s alienation to ‘‘the inability of characters trapped in this social system to forge stable identities for themselves.’’18 Cecilia looks for Delvile (meaning) in London and is confounded. At the Belfields she is trapped by a false image of herself. She is heard, only to be discounted. Trying to prevent a duel between Belfield and her husband, now returned from the continent, she pleads, ‘‘he will die if I do not see him, he will bleed to death!’’ and ‘‘I will yet heal his wound, even at the hazard of my life!’’ (V, 320). With her death, the split in the house of Delvile would be healed and the last of the Delvile bloodline would not be spent. ‘‘She scarced touched the ground . . . gliding from place to place . . . with no consciousness of any plan’’ (V, 321). Empty as the name she wears, she ironically collapses in the pawnshop: a place for cast-off former valuables that must be redeemed by their owners. Cecilia has effectively ceased to function as a subject. The shopkeepers place an advertisement in the daily journal announc-

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ing a lost woman, and in so doing, render her shame public. Delvile finds her and she tells him, ‘‘If you do not mean to mangle and destroy me, begone this instant’’ (V, 337). But it is too late, the damage has been done. When Cecilia fails to recognize Mortimer, he asks, ‘‘Is it me or my name you thus disown?’’ (V, 338). She answers that she loved his name and recited it as if it were a talisman. ‘‘When I was abandoned and left alone, I repeated and sung to it’’ (V, 338). She implores them not to bury her alive: she has lost her ‘‘self.’’ With the constant attendance of Mortimer Delvile, Cecilia recuperates physically and regains herself mentally. The pawnbroker’s shop underscores the role of money in this novel. Economies of exchange are studied in different forms: through dowries and inheritance, the importance and dangers of credit seen in the Harrel domestic situation, and the corresponding economy of reputation, which is worth more or less according to the public opinion circulated by social construct of language.19 Cecilia’s reputation is damaged in the same way Harrel’s credit is hurt: through the deliberate circulation of rumors in the former case and the word being spread among creditors in the latter. The two parallel systems come into contact and the mechanism is exposed with the note that Cecilia signs with the moneylenders. She loses money and reputation.

LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES A concern with money and exchange is no less present in Liaisons dangereuses. In her article ‘‘The Political Economy of the Body in the Liaisons Dangereuses of Choderlos de Laclos,’’ Anne Deneys explores the different systems of exchange used in the novel. The libertine method, for Deneys, is a ‘‘metaphor for the bourgeois economy of exchange.’’20 She explains the mechanism of the seduction in terms of accumulated work and women’s reintegration into the open system of exchange. The value of the seducer’s tale resides in its public diffusion, circulation, which increases the man’s reputation. Valmont lives on the credit of his reputation in the same manner as Harrel. When Harrel is saved from his creditors by Cecilia, he demands that she show herself in public at the Pantheon in order to stop rumors. In a scene that could be a travesty of the Valmont ´ cile, Harrel compels Cecilia to give him money: seduction of Ce

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‘‘without any security . . . her gift was compelled, and its receiver was all but detested’’ (II, 177). The ‘‘gift’’ is money in the English novel and virtue in the French, but both values were tied to the body of the woman. Cecilia, aware that she is compromising her worth, decides to refuse any other attempts to deplete her value, as ´cile after her seduction, but they both will be compelled by does Ce emotional blackmail to repeat the actions. The letters between Valmont and Merteuil make use of a language of contract (of women being bought, sold, and leased). In response to Valmont’s request for a repetition of their previously terminated affair, Merteuil writes that her current lover ‘‘. . . serait homme `a ne pas approuver notre renouvellement de bail . . .’’ [would not approve the renewal of our lease . . .] (Letter XX). The metaphor ‘‘lease,’’ used to refer to the sexual union, is a contractual one and as such requires mutual consent. Moreover, a finite period is specified in this type of contract, at the end of which the property is returned to the owner. Merteuil will not lease her body to Valmont. Her attitude is in stark contrast to the abandon of Tourvel. For the latter there is no reversion of property, only a permanent change in the state of being. Valmont merits Tourvel’s esteem and makes his first incursion into her heart by an act of charity. The scene was staged for her benefit and Valmont writes of having paid ´e d’afor her in advance: ‘‘. . . l’ayant, en quelque sorte, ainsi paye vance, j’aurai le droit d’en disposer a` ma fantaisie, sans avoir de reproche a` me faire’’ [and having, as it were, thus paid for her beforehand, I shall have the right to dispose of her as I fancy, without reproaching myself] (XXI). In a similar position as Cecilia when Harrel sells the right to court her to Sir Robert, Tourvel has now been ‘‘bought.’’ Like Sir Robert, Valmont feels he has the right to use and dispose of her as he pleases. At the end of both novels, Cecilia and Mme de Tourvel are separated from what society accepts as their worth (for the former her virtue, for the latter, her money). Seen in this light, the next to last line in Cecilia; or Memoires of an Heiress can be read ironically: ‘‘. . . The whole family must murmur at her loss of fortune, and at times she murmured herself to be thus portionless, though an HEIRESS’’ (V, 398). The sentence expresses, if not an acceptance of Cecilia’s lot in life, then at least a stoic attitude toward society.

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LIAISONS DANGEREUSES AND EVELINA Where in Cecilia Fanny Burney portrays a single woman before and after her marriage, Laclos splits the experience into two parts: ´ cile and Madame de Tourvel. Margaret Doody points out that Ce ´cile’s story could well have been informed by the model of EvelCe ina in Burney’s first novel.21 Evelina is a young ‘‘country’’ woman, well raised but naive. Introduced into society, she betrays her igno´cile in the rance in many embarrassing and comical situations. Ce French novel seems to repeat Evelina’s solecisms. One has come a long way from Riccoboni’s socially adept Adeline by way of the less experienced but nevertheless intelligent Evelina, only to arrive at ´cile. The Evelina-like errors are comthe immature and gauche Ce pressed into the first two letters of the novel. Here Laclos reversed Burney’s expansion of Riccoboni’s episodes into a sketch of a few ´cile only knows that her mother sent for her from the conlines. Ce vent. She thinks she is to be married, but this is just supposition as ´cile has her mother has not thought fit to inform her. Because Ce only a vague idea of what is intended for her, she mistakes a cobbler for her intended husband, to the great amusement of her mother. ´cile confesses to having fallen asleep at In her second letter Ce the table during a dinner party. She awoke to general laughter and overheard remarks she felt were about her, but she was unsure. ´cile throughout Uncertainty is the mental state of Evelina and Ce most of their story. These comments echo those overheard by Evel´ cile is ina, who is referred to as a rustic at her first evening. Ce ˆ rir cela, nous verrons cet ‘‘jolie,’’ ‘‘gauche’’: ‘‘Il faut laisser mu hiver’’ [We must let this ripen, we shall see, come winter] (III). This comment is the first indication of her status as an object to be pos´cile is sent off to bed and sposessed or discarded. In this letter Ce ken of as an indefinite, reified ‘‘cela.’’ In another inserted between ´cile’s first two, Merteuil refers to her as a ‘‘bel objet’’ [lovely obCe ject] (II). The tone of Burney’s whole novel is one of anxiety and ´cile and, to some extent, of Mme de fear; in Laclos’s depiction of Ce ´ cile never knew Tourvel, the tone is that of obliviousness. Ce enough to be afraid. Evelina’s ignorance puts her in situations that contain a threat of physical danger. These events only pose a menace, and the violence is not carried out, but their sheer number is alarming. Just as

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Burney rewrote Riccoboni’s scenario of the self-assured and socially able woman, so did Laclos revise Burney. In Les Liaisons dangereuses the potential danger is realized and there is no one to ´ cile. The book of codes that Evelina wants to give ‘‘all succor Ce young people, upon their first introduction into public company’’ will ironically, in the French novel, be written by Valmont for the ´cile. Ce ´cile’s story is the stuff of Evelina’s nighteducation of Ce mares. When one considers that Evelina learns to negotiate the social labyrinth and assume her proper place within it—under the tutelage of Orville—by her apprenticeship of an aesthetic vocabulary which serves as ‘‘a metonymy for the more general rules of social ´ cile’s training under Valmont becomes even conduct,’’ then Ce ´more pointed. 22 There is an irony at once internal to the work (Ce ´ in accepting such a tutelage, etc.) and external to the cile’s naı¨vete ´cile’s situation is juxtaposed with that of Evelitext itself when Ce na’s in the mind of the reader. While Evelina’s letters ‘‘become more explicitly painterly as she learns to order the material of experience as significant configurations,’’ Ce´ cile’s are progressively more hypocritical as she learns how to manipulate language.23 ´cile developed guile. Where Evelina gained insight, Ce The plot of Evelina turns on patrimony. The problem of a family name is also the catalyst and generator of the plot in Liaisons dangereuses. In very different ways, both texts deal with the subversion of familial lineage through substitution. In the second letter of the novel, Madame de Merteuil explains the duping of Gercourt that furnishes the pretext for the correspondence that will follow. Both Valmont and Merteuil bear grudges. Gercourt left Merteuil by seducing a lover of Valmont. Gercourt offended them by showing them the fissures in the images they have created for themselves and he must be diminished in kind. Both libertines intend to se´cile, Gercourt’s young fiance ´e, who has just completed her duce Ce education at a convent and has ‘‘soixante mille livres de rente’’ ´[sixty thousand livres]. Yet Gercourt never would have chosen Ce cile if she had not conformed to his image of a wife. As Merteuil ´ventions pour writes to Valmont, ‘‘Vous connaissez ses ridicules pre ´ ´ ´ ´ ˆtre les educations cloı es, et son prejuge plus ridicule encore en faveur de la retenue des blondes’’ [You know his ridiculous prejudices in favor of a cloistered education, and his still more ridiculous preconception of the modesty of fair-haired women] (II). Gercourt desires a young woman who knows nothing of the world and has

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been in a convent atmosphere; the quintessential female domain under the authority of the church. But Gercourt is delayed on mili´e. Ce ´cile is under tary maneuvers and cannot watch over his fiance the feeble protection of her mother, as the father is absent, and all arrangements are between Gercourt and Madame de Volanges. The substitution of one woman for another is mirrored in Valmont’s attempt to occupy the vacated place of authority. In letter CXV, Valmont writes to Merteuil of his success in replacing Gercourt not only in his husbandly duties but has engendered the new family line of Gercourt. The head (chef ) of the house of Gercourt will be a little (cadet) Valmont. With the public circulation of the deed, they will have emasculated Gercourt in the same way Valmont ´sident de Tourvel. The emasculates Tourvel’s absent spouse, the pre symbol of the polluted bloodline will be figured in the miscarriage ´ cile’s pregnancy, which is an outward sign of Valmont and of Ce Merteuil’s plans going awry. Valmont writes that ‘‘Mme de Volanges ´ e de ne ´ gligence impardonnable’’ [Mme de Volanges sera entache will be stained with an unpardonable negligence] (LXVI). This ‘‘entachement’’ is figured in the hymeneal blood of her daughter, how´ ’’ when their ever Valmont and Merteuil will also be ‘‘entache machinations are rendered public. ´cile is the attempt Concurrent with the seduction of the young Ce ´sidente de Tourvel. We can see these on the virtue of Madame la Pre characters as two parts of a complete feminine experience defined ´cile is on the brink of her adult soas before and after marriage: Ce cial definition to be determined by her upcoming marriage, Tourvel has already assumed hers. In letter IV, Valmont describes his ´sidente de hoped-for conquest to Merteuil ‘‘Vous connaissez la pre ´votion, son amour conjugal, ses principes auste `res. Tourvel, sa de ` Voila` ce que j’attaque; voila` l’ennemi digne de moi; voila` le but ou ´tends atteindre’’ [You know Mme de Tourvel, her religious deje pre votion, her austere principles, that is what I am attacking, that is an enemy worthy of me, that is the end I mean to reach]. The portrait of the woman is rendered in terms of her social function. Valmont accords her the rightful title of ‘‘Pre´sidente’’: the other half of her husband’s position, the virtuous wife of another. Valmont ´sident est en Bourgogne, continues: ‘‘Vous saurez donc que le pre `s (j’espe `re lui en faire perdre un plus a` la suite d’un grand proce important)’’ [You must know that her husband is in Burgundy on account of some big lawsuit (I hope to make him lose a still more important one)]. Who is the actual target of this aggression? A hus-

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band is robbed of his wife. This husband is also a representative of ´sident in the bed of the law, a judge. Valmont will supplant the pre Madame de Tourvel and, in doing so, arrogate his conjugal rights. At the same time as Valmont has been able to establish his superiority over the husband, he has also created a bond with him (a motive to be repeated in the duel and reconciliation with Danceny at the end of the novel). Speaking of Madame de Tourvel, Valmont ´ glerai son sort’’ [I will decide her fate] avers: ‘‘C’est moi qui re (XXIII). Men, as Anne Deneys has duly noted, rewrite the social contract in the erotic mode in the exercise of their virility.24 Valmont subverts the contract of marriage in the same way he disrupts the mail, the social system of correspondence. He establishes relations with other men through their women, indeed the letter is considered a feminine mode of discourse. Valmont sends a letter ´sident de Tourvel is postmarked from Dijon, which is where le pre working. In the absence of the law (husband or father), social systems risk being converted to an erotic mode. After Madame de Tourvel leaves and refuses to see Valmont, he imbricates another social institution in his seduction attempts, the church. Valmont asks the father confessor of Madame de Tourvel to intervene for him, an act which leads to her seduction and subsequent death. Like Cecilia at its most secret level, Les Liaisons dangereuses is about the subversion of the husband’s right to legitimacy. The most stable of social indicators—the patronymic—is shown to be an empty signifier, a receptacle for shifting signification. This novel is to be read as an attack on the infrastructure of French property and economics: if not indeed, as Kamuf has suggested, on the social contract itself.25 In the earlier Evelina it is the reestablishment of the proper social order that concerns Burney. Evelina’s absent father was a libertine who married then abandoned his wife. Evelina’s search is for her rightful name. Although ultimately recognized, the name of Belmont is hers for only a few hours. She marries and takes her husband’s name. What makes the resolution ambiguous is the fact that her place as a daughter has been filled by another for sixteen years. Belmont unknowingly recognized a nurse’s offspring as his own and had taken them to Europe where he had been living for the past sixteen years. When the truth comes out, the father hurriedly arranges wedding dates. The point is to suppress any curiosity about the affair while the true daughter and the impostor are shown to be interchangeable. To their father and society as a whole,

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only their function as a daughter and their patronymic are important. The notion of an abstract, immutable justice is brushed aside in the name of social expediency. Evelina wished to retain her name, Belmont, for awhile, but this would have publicized the father’s ignominious actions, as well as his stupidity. The whole episode of the lying nurse and the recognition of her baby in place of Belmont’s rightful daughter calls the father’s competency into question. It also points out the power and danger of a woman’s mendacious speech. The search for meaning and recognition in Evelina, Cecilia, and Les Liaisons dangereuses prove to be equally futile. Like Delvile, Valmont gets caught up in his own self-image. The dichotomy between his private desires and his public self leads to his downfall. Merteuil warns Valmont not to confuse her with others, as does Madame de Tourvel. Merteuil tells Valmont of her extraordinary self-education in letter LXXXI (the exact center of the novel). She reproaches Valmont for underestimating her and confusing her with other women. The process by which Madame de Merteuil created herself began before her marriage. She did not attend a convent school and was under the vigilant care of her mother.26 The latter schooled her in moral and social graces. Merteuil implies that it was her domestic education that allowed her to develop her critical faculties. This is not to say that her mother approved or in any way encouraged her daughter in the libertine path Merteuil chose. However, it does imply that this maternal attention enabled her intellectually to make choices. Merteuil does not speak of her father and, as she is widowed very soon after her marriage, the family name is now her own. She refuses to enter into a convent under the supervision of the church, a practice that was expected for a young widow. Not content with her lot as a woman, Merteuil trained herself in dissembling her emotions so as to better manipulate those of others. She is the only character in the novel who is not reported on by the others and therefore is in a position of power. She represents herself in her own voice and is not an object of description or analysis until the end of the novel, where her public humiliation is recounted. ´ne ´trer’’ [let peoMadame de Merteuil, refusing to ‘‘[se] laisser pe ple see through her], demonstrates a mastery over her emotions and her body that the other characters of this novel do not. She has adapted the attitude and method of the libertine to her measure. However, unlike her male counterpart, she cannot heighten her

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reputation by her conquests or be accepted into society. As her gender precludes her full participation in the libertine economy, her satisfactions must be private. The only time she participates in this libertine economy is through her correspondence with Valmont, an act that, ironically, ultimately leads to her social ostracism. Merteuil also refuses the submissive role of the woman. She does not allow herself to be penetrated in either sense of the word: neither her image nor her body are subject to another. Madame de Merteuil has in fact now usurped the position of the male. She is a desiring subject and not a vehicle for the transmission of some societal value. It is for this very reason she will be humiliated, stripped of her fortune, and ejected from society. The loss of fortune and subsequent bankruptcy is, Doody avers, a social death that deprives one of independence and power.27 Merteuil’s letter uses the phrase ‘‘j’y gagnai ce coup d’œil ´ne ´trant . . .’’ [I obtained a penetrating glance]. Her double vision pe is a result of her self study, which enables her to see from both sides ´rience m’a of the gender fence. She continues: ‘‘. . . auquel l’expe pourtant appris a` ne pas me fier entie`rement; mais qui, en tout, ´e’’ [which experience however has taught me m’a rarement trompe not to rely upon entirely, but which, in general, has rarely deceived ´ne ´trant’’ is not sufficient unto itme]. Still, the masculine ‘‘œil pe self. Coupled with her feminine vision, however, it proves to be more than adequate. For the combination of feminine and masculine is a powerful one. It gives her insight into the motivations of both sexes. This is, in fact, why she must be punished. The imagery of the penetrating eye that she loses at the end of this novel is a symbolic castration and a conventional image of the period.28 Madame de Merteuil’s name reveals both the masculine and feminine properties of her power. Her name includes the sea (mer) metaphor for passion, used by Madame de Tourvel in her letter to Val`re (mother). Merteuil occupies a mont (LVI) and the homonym me position of power with respect to her ‘‘children’’ that slips into the ´cile and to a certain exerotic. Her ‘‘children’’ are Danceny and Ce ˆtes bien comme les en´rite ´ Vicomte, vous e tent Valmont: ‘‘En ve fants, devant qui il ne faut rien dire, et `a qui on ne peut rien ˆt’’ [Really, Viscount, montrer qu’ils ne veuillent s’emparer aussito you are like children, in whose presence one must never say anything and to whom one can never show anything without their wanting to get hold of it at once!] (CXXXIV). The masculine power is evident in the homonym œil/euil.

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Madame de Tourvel’s confidence in her virtue causes her downfall just as Cecilia’s pride in her financial independence was responsible for many of her problems. Like Merteuil, Tourvel believes herself to be different from other women. She repeatedly asks Val´e re ´voltante de me voir mont not to confuse her with them: ‘‘l’ide ´prisez’’ [the revolting idea confondue avec ces femmes que vous me of seeing myself confounded with women you despised] (XXVI); ˆme combattu leur avis tant que votre con´glige ´, j’ai me ‘‘. . . J’ai ne ´ gard avait pu me faire croire que vous aviez bien duite a` mon e voulu me pas me confondre avec cette foule de femmes qui toutes ont eu `a se plaindre de vous’’ [I neglected, I even opposed their advice as long as your conduct towards me led me to believe that you did not wish to confound me with that crowd of women who all have reason to complain of you] (XLI). But she resembles her sisters in both her dependence on others for her sense of self and social legitimization. It is clear that she grounds her identity on her ´rie et estime ´e d’un mari que j’aime et respecte, mes situation: ‘‘Che ˆme objet. Je suis devoirs et mes plaisirs se ressemblent dans le me heureuse, je dois l’eˆ tre’’ [Cherished and respected by a husband whom I love and respect, my duty and my pleasure meet in the same person. I am happy, I ought to be so] (LVI). There is no split between her private impulses and her public status just as there is no conjunction in the previous sentence.29 ´ris les liens qui m’y Madame de Tourvel needs social ties: ‘‘Je che attachent. Je pourrais les rompre, que je ne voudrais pas; si je ne les avais, je me haˆterais de les prendre’’ [I cherish the bonds which attach me. Even if I could break them, I should not wish to do so; if I did not possess them, I should hasten to acquire them] (LVI). As one critic has suggested, even her name encodes these qualities.30 If a tower (tour) is a symbol of stability, it is also an enclosure that Valmont must breach. One of the ways he breaches her defenses is through his letters, which portray his vision (or version) of her. His letters act as a textual mirror in which she does not recognize her own image. In letter LVI, Tourvel complains that this altered image is more troubling to her than Valmont’s physical presence. Valmont’s letters may present Tourvel with a new image of herself (an unrecognizable one), but Tourvel’s objectification comes across in Merteuil’s letter (V) to Valmont in which the `ce’’ [a species or type]. Madame de woman is reduced to ‘‘une espe Tourvel tries to recuperate her self-image by sublimating love into ´, Monsieur, je vous donne friendship. ‘‘En vous offrant mon amitie

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tout ce qui est `a moi, tout ce dont je puis disposer’’ [In offering you my friendship, monsieur, I give you all that I can bestow] (LXVII). Her wish is to remove sexuality from the realm of exchange, for her sexuality belongs to the man whose name she wears. As the correspondence develops, we come into contact with a woman who gradually loses command of her language and finds herself caught in a sentimental bind where body and language are transparent to the gaze. The loss of control is apparent in the first letter she writes to Valmont, where ‘‘larmes et paroles’’ [tears and words] escape her (XXVI). Madame de Tourvel continually asks for silence. In the confrontational scenes with Valmont, she loses power over her body (just as Cecilia does when recognition of her status is withheld after her marriage). The loss of a recognizable self causes her physical collapse. Madame de Tourvel’s situation from her first letter to her last illustrates the dangerous nature of the sentimental correlation between mind and body in an escalating cycle. Language, Margaret Doody reminds us, is linked with the alienating process of self’s identification before the self is formed. ‘‘Women are indeed defined by the Other, for the other sex creates all the laws, economic relations and social connections which give or withhold status.’’31 Tourvel’s conscience, faced with conflicting images and desires cannot withstand these transgressions. Madame de Tourvel is barely conscious when Valmont consummates their relationship. He literally carries her over the chosen field of glory as an object. Laclos marks the dramatic moment when Tourvel, though violated, accepts her new self through a rare direct quotation (CXXV). Yet Tourvel does not submit to her new role ´daient aussito ˆt la terwithout pain: ‘‘a` cette apparent apathie succe reur, la suffocation, les convulsions, les sanglots et quelques cris par intervalle, mais sans un mot articule´’’ [there succeeded to this apparent apathy, terror, suffocation, convulsions, sobs and at intervals a cry, but all without one word articulated] (CXXV, emphasis added). Her condition is one of pure fragmentation as the breakdown of identity is written on the feminine body.32 Unlike Cecilia, an unmarried woman who was in the position to accept another ´siderole and the definition of wife, Mme de Tourvel’s role, la Pre nte, was static and already defined. Madame de Tourvel is betrayed by her body and her sensibility. However, she recovers her voice and assumes a new role with the idea that she is the cause of Valmont’s pleasure and happiness. She explains in a letter to Madame de Rosemonde: ‘‘Il est devenu le

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´es, de mes sentiments, de mes actions’’ centre unique de mes pense [He has become the sole center of my thoughts, of my feelings, of my actions] (CXXVIII). In letter CXXVII she baldly states to Rosemonde that Valmont has replaced her husband and her existence is linked to his. When Valmont sends her the letter announcing the break-off, Madame de Tourvel once again finds herself at a loss; she returns to her girlish premarriage and preadulteress identity at the convent. In her last moments her language represents her fragmented and multiple identities. Writing as a manifestation of an integrated social skill is beyond her, and she must dictate her thoughts. The letter, however, cannot be sent because it lacks an address, and the content is confused. In a cruel parody of how private letters have been circulated in the novel, Tourvel addresses a multiplicity of recipients indicated by personal pronoun. These pronouns mix the second person singular with the formal, her missing husband, her absent lover, her friends (CLXI). Tourvel’s condition is analogous to that of Cecilia at the pawnbrokers. Just as Madame de Tourvel ran the risk of losing her identity, so too did Valmont. Valmont has created a persona who is detached and controlling. But in his letters relating his experience with Madame de Tourvel, the reader sees that he is surprised by his sentiments. He who has always separated love from the physical act of intercourse, finds himself experiencing love for the first time. And in an ironic reversal on the stock libertine phrase ‘‘surprise des sens,’’ Valmont is taken by Tourvel’s ‘‘surprise des sentiments’’ (CXXV). Valmont’s susceptibility does not pass unnoticed by Madame de Merteuil. She manipulates his view of himself as a libertine to destroy Madame de Tourvel. In letter CXXIV, Merteuil accuses Valmont of being blind to his feelings. Rigidly conforming to his image of himself, he destroys Madame de Tourvel at Merteuil’s request. Valmont does not have Madame de Tourvel’s strength. She changed, adapted, and accepted a new social construct, but not so Valmont. Valmont, out of a sense of misguided self-preservation, demonstrates that Tourvel is like all other women in her vulnerability. In a letter that he recopies from a model furnished by Merteuil, he strikes at Tourvel in a mirror image of the manner in which Mer´ cile teuil used Valmont in her revenge on Gercourt through Ce ´cile and Tourvel, is an object to be used (CXLI). Valmont, like Ce here. Valmont’s failure to perceive that Tourvel is not like other

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women blinds him to the effect the letter will have on her. It is implied that he lets himself be killed in a duel with Danceny out of regret. However in reconciling with Danceny before dying, he realigns himself with the dominant order. And if he is ultimately destroyed by Merteuil’s manipulation of his dependence on a stable libertine identity, he ruins her through her inescapable gendered one. Madame de Merteuil is brought down, subject to the same vulnerabilities as other women, through the circulation of her private letters. He has made her intimate life public. She now occupies the ´cile (and Cecilia) and all the other same sphere as Tourvel and Ce women: she is, at one and the same time, the represented and the observed.

EPISTOLARITY It is a commonplace that Les Liaisons dangereuses is the most technically perfect epistolary novel ever written. The exchange of letters in Les Liaisons dangereuses has been thoroughly studied and need not be repeated here.33 Yet there are similarities in technique in Laclos and Burney that should be pointed out. In studies of the French epistolary novel it is customary to cite Montesquieu (Les Lettres Persanes, 1721) as the novelist who came closest to demonstrating a mastery of the genre. I suggest that there is another example of this skill in Burney’s Evelina. The technical manipulation of letters as a narrative device in Evelina would not have escaped Laclos’s notice. Burney restricted her novel to a tightly knit group of correspondents, unlike the most prominent model of epistolarity, Clarissa.34 Redundancy in content is minimal in Burney’s novel and she was careful to delineate the motives of each letter. Although most of the letters were written by Evelina, and the novel often reads like a journal, Burney took into account the time it took to write and mail the letters. She heightened the suspense and irony through delays in the post delivery system. An example of this is Villars’s letter III, vi, written on 28 September, warning Evelina of how dangerous her feelings toward Orville were to her peace of mind. The letter was inserted according to the date it was written, not the date Evelina received it. The positioning of the letter creates two effects. The reader has knowledge that Evelina does not yet possess, and reads Evelina’s letters ironically with the knowledge of how unhappy she will be when she does receive

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Villars’s letter. It also permits the effect of what Altman calls ‘‘antiphony’’ through the contrast between Evelina’s lighthearted tone and the very somber voice of Villars.35 Evelina writes: ‘‘I have been, all day, the happiest of human beings!—to be thus reconciled to Lord Orville, and yet adhere to my resolution,—what could I wish for more?’’ (III, v). The next letter is from Villars: ‘‘Dead to the world and equally insensible to its pleasure or its pains, I have long since bad [sic] adieu to all joy, and defiance to all sorrow . . .’’ (III, vi). The two letters cross in the mail when, on the same day of 28 September, Evelina writes to Villars, ‘‘Sweetly, most sweetly, have two days more passed since I wrote . . .’’ (III, vii). Evelina writes three more letters before receiving Villars’ on 1 October. The incident can be compared to the disposition of letters from Madame de Tourvel and Madame Rosemonde. Tourvel writes to Rosemonde of Valmont’s religious conversion on 25 October (CXXIV). Ill health delays Rosemonde’s response (CXXVI) until 30 October. Inserted between the two letters is Valmont’s missive written on 29 October announcing Tourvel’s seduction. The placement of the letters ironically colors the reading of Rosemonde’s advice to Tourvel: ‘‘Con´rez `a pre ´sent, ma che `re Belle, qu’au lieu de tant de dangers side que vous auriez eu a` courir, vous aurez, outre le repos de votre con´ te ´ la science et votre propre tranquillite´ , la satisfaction d’avoir e principale cause de l’heureux retour de Valmont’’ [Think now, my dear beauty, that instead of all the dangers you would encounter, you will have the quiet of your own conscience, your own tranquility, as well as the satisfaction of having been the principal cause of Valmont’s conversion] (CXXVI). The timing of the comments renders the situation all the more bitter for Tourvel. Burney also employed farce and satire to demonstrate the inequities of life and the absurdities of convents. Elements of farce are not absent from Laclos’s work. One has only to think of the scene ´cile and the footman, Merteuil’s disguise as the servant, or with Ce Tourvel’s valet following Valmont on his ‘‘hunt.’’ An important technical innovation by Burney is the fact that she wrote the letters in the style corresponding to the character.36 Evelina wrote in the manner of a 17-year-old girl, with spurts of youthful innocence and often in incomplete sentences. Laclos’s letters are also conceived ´cile’s unin a style and language appropriate to their characters. Ce tutored idiom stands in contrast to the more tempered Tourvel and the self-contained Merteuil; the valet Azolan mimics Valmont. Although Cecilia is narrated in the third person, Burney’s juxta-

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position of multiple points of view achieves an ironic turn reminiscent of Les Liaisons dangereuses. The reader is asked to see events from two different angles leading to multiple interpretations of events such as Laclos achieved through the arrangement of the letters. If Laclos wrote the definitive epistolary novel, then Burney points the way to attain similar effects with greater creative potential. Riccoboni’s second novel was also written in the third person, which allowed her a more authoritative voice and room for commentary on events that she could not achieve in the epistolary form.37 The three novels also share an interest in the letter as an object that links motifs in the three texts as well as a structuring device. The letter in these three novels, Evelina, Cecilia, and Les Liaisons dangereuses, is doubled by the body of the woman as object of exchange. To be sure, Evelina and Liaisons dangereuses are epistolary novels and take their form from the letter, but a written text as a plot device in Cecilia also plays a strategic role (the will and the note of usury). In whatever form it appears, judicial, linguistic, or as a rhetorical device, the written word is subverted. In libertine and sentimental discourse the primary means of communication is through the body of women. The communication that takes place between men is encoded on her body. Laclos and Burney present women as mediums of communication in the same way that the letter stands as an intermediary between sender and receiver. Ce´cile are all ‘‘encoded’’ with cilia, Evelina, Mme de Tourvel, and Ce messages destined for a third person. The privacy of letters in Liaisons dangereuses is breached. Their contents are circulated beyond the addressed party just as the message inscribed on the women is ultimately open to public reading.38 This is a physical variation of the epistolary communication written on the body—a hemographia or blood writing—that ties in with themes found in all three novels.39 Revenge, the reason behind the correspondence in Liaisons dangereuses, is encoded in a message to Gercourt. The first reception ´cile and Gerof the communication will be the wedding night of Ce ´cile’s body is not simple, but was ‘‘encourt. The inscription of Ce coded’’ over a period of time. The message was to be read, in a like ´cile has been ‘‘written’’ on manner, through a delayed reading. Ce by Valmont. She is thus no longer a pure page for Gercourt to inscribe his family narrative. The ink of this additional message can be taken as the ‘‘hymeneal blood’’ so important to Gercourt; its

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symbolic nature can be translated into bodily metaphor. Physical manifestations of symbolic actions are thus brought into play. To assure a correct reading of his text, Valmont has taken care to in´ cile in anatomic nomenclature. In a parody of learning struct Ce techniques, he writes to Merteuil: Je m’amuse a` n’y rien nommer que par le nom technique; et je ris d’a´ressant conversation que cela doit fournir entre elle et vance de l’inte `re nuit de leur mariage. (CX) Gercourt la premie [I amuse myself by naming everything by a technical word; and I laugh in advance at the interesting conversation this will furnish between her and Gercourt on the first night of their marriage.]

´ cile is one of the few occasions in the Valmont’s tutelage of Ce course of the novel where sign, signification, and appropriate referent are united. ´cile’s pregThe postscript to the message takes the form of Ce nancy. The designated recipient is not only Gercourt but future generations. The outcome of these additional messages is death. ´ cile miscarries and the reading of these prematurely decoded Ce messages by Danceny leads to a duel and the spilling of Valmont’s ´ cile’s text to exact revenge on Valmont, blood. Merteuil uses Ce while Valmont gives Danceny Merteuil’s text to circulate after his death, thereby causing her downfall. With the loss of her eye at the end of the novel, Merteuil is branded with signs of her perfidy. The writing of the body is visible to all, and the mad circulation of letters in no small way mirrors the farcical circulation of bed partners exchanged amongst the characters in Laclos’s novel. In Evelina, the young woman is the carrier of her mother’s posthumous message to her father. Evelina’s mother composed a letter on her deathbed to be held for newborn’s father. He had repudiated their marriage and refused to recognize his daughter as legitimate. The letter is intended to break down the resistance of the father and enable Evelina to assume her rightful name. Her mother may have written one of the most significant letters in Evelina’s life, but it is her body, not words, that convinces him. In the crucial recognition scene, Belmont will realize that he sent a message to himself. But the ink he used was the blood of his wife, Evelina’s ‘‘murdered mother’’ (III, xix). In an emotionally charged moment, the father takes Evelina for her mother. Genealogy is written on her face and

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the letter is not needed, nor is it even opened. Belmont cries out to the dead woman: Acknowledge thee, Caroline! —yes, with my heart’s best blood would I acknowledge thee! —Oh that thou could’st witness the agony of my soul! Ten thousand daggers could not have wounded me like this letter! (III, xix)

One woman’s word is displaced by another’s female body as the receptacle of truth. During the course of a second meeting the unsealed letter is presented to be read. The metaphor of the dagger for the pen is appropriate, as Belmont had rejected many written supplications to recognize his daughter. But the body is the catalyst for Belmont’s change of heart. The maternal letter exhorts Evelina to ‘‘[l]ook not like thy unfortunate mother!’’ and Belmont proceeds to address Evelina as the representative of his departed wife, to ‘‘speak to [him] in her name, and say that the remorse which tears my soul is not in vain!’’ Evelina takes the place of her mother. Although there is a ‘‘happy’’ ending, does not this substitution of one woman for another (the tragic Caroline for the daughter and the interchangeable sisters) testify to the reduction of women to their social functions? The tropes of writing and reading woven into these novels reveal and manipulate the contradiction inherent in the form of epistolary novel—that which is ostensibly private is published for others to read. The letter was a personal form of discourse and a ‘‘claim to authorship and an authoritative voice.’’40 It also allowed for direct access to the soul, a space for passionate discourse where Burney and Laclos (and Riccoboni) could ‘‘play on sincerity and narrative truth’’ while hiding behind a variety of voices.41 As Epstein has noted: ‘‘Letter writing in Evelina is a synecdochic gesture; it stands in miniature, for the tenuous and danger fraught communication process between authority and its charge, between the empowered and the powerless.’’42 This gesture is exaggerated in the French novel. The act of reading also serves as a figure for the problematic interpretation of discourse. Reading is in Evelina the standard by which Evelina’s social knowledge can be measured. In Les Liaisons dangereuses, the possibility of a ‘‘true’’ interpretation of external reality proves impossible for the characters in the novel (as well as for readers of the novel). If we look at two episodes where interpre-

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tation is a key element, we can note a progression from the enabling power of social knowledge (Evelina) to anarchy (Liaisons dangereuses). Ashamed that the Branghtons made use of her name to take advantage of Lord Orville’s generosity, Evelina impulsively, and improperly, wrote him a letter of apology (II, xxiii). She received an answer and was, at first, pleased by its affectionate tone (II, xxvii). Upon reflection, Evelina reread the letter and realized that the writer (ostensibly Orville) had behaved improperly toward her. Her first flush of pleasure turned to shame. By having Evelina reinterpret the letter, Burney shows how much the young woman has progressed in her social apprenticeship. Her acquired knowledge has enabled her to interpret correctly the meaning of the missive. Evelina’s evaluation of Orville accordingly altered (with the advice of her guardian). But this acquired knowledge is opposed to sentiment. Despite all the evidence, Evelina feels that Orville is a good man. She is correct in her judgment when the real author of the letter (Sir Clement) is made known to her. Her intuition is thus shown to be as valid as her interpretation. The corresponding letter in Liaisons dangereuses is number XLVIII. The document was written on the back of Emilie, a courtesan, while Valmont and Emilie were still in bed. Valmont addresses the letter to Tourvel but first sends it to Merteuil. She skillfully interprets the message and then relays the letter to Tourvel. The language used in the letter is one of feeling, but as the signified belongs to the libertine paradigm, meaning is displaced into another register. Tourvel and Merteuil are to be viewed as figures of their own discourse in the reading of the letter. The letter is written in such a manner as to be ‘‘correctly’’ interpreted by two opposing discourses, the sentimental and the other libertine. Because Valmont sends it first to Merteuil, the libertine reading is to be favored. If one did not have access to the key given in the amusing and cruel letter XLVII, would one have read the letter differently than Tourvel? Critical consensus has not questioned giving the libertine reading precedence over the sentimental. The external reader has a mode of interpretation imposed upon his reading by following the route the letter takes to arrive at Tourvel. I argue that the valorization of the libertine interpretation over the sentimental is questionable, given the ambiguous state of Valmont’s feelings for Tourvel. They both have equal weight when reconsidered in the light of the indeterminacy of the novel’s end. Could not

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Valmont have been fending off possible criticism by Merteuil? If we did not have access to the key given in letter XLVII, would we have read the letter differently than Tourvel? The letter needed to be set in context for Merteuil in order for her to interpret it. Laclos’s point is surely that there is no single or stable meaning to discourse. Letter XLVIII provides an illustration of the interpretive choices the reader is offered in the two prefaces to Les Liaisons dangereuses. Unlike Evelina, Madame de Tourvel had no choice. She could only interpret them in the sentimental mode. Tourvel’s capacity for feeling causes her downfall, at the same time, however, it is her saving grace. Olga Cragg comments in reference to Riccoboni’s long-suffering Catesby that psychic pain arising from passion not only prohibits censure, but ennobles the sufferer.43 Merteuil can read events because of her access to knowledge; however she is disgraced despite her understanding and manipulation of sentimental discourse. She does not ‘‘feel’’ its power. Merteuil is cursed because she turns her insight to her own benefit and ignores other women. Like the reader, she too is deprived of any certainty. While Evelina becomes competent in negotiating in society, the powerful and the weak in Les Liaisons dangereuses are reduced to a common level of bewilderment. In Les Liaisons dangereuses, social intercourse, symbolized by the exchange of letters, is a system out of control.

PROBLEMATIC ENDINGS Critics and readers alike have inevitably found the ending of Les Liaisons dangereuses and Cecilia problematic. The English novel was taken to task for not ending happily or tragically enough, while the fact that the French novel’s unusually abrupt denouement detracted from its ostensible moral purpose was not without irony. The mixed nature of the conclusions has most troubled readers. Yet Frances Burney was pleased with the way Cecilia ended: I think the book, in its present conclusion, somewhat original, for the hero and the heroine are neither plunged into the depths of misery, nor exalted to inhuman happiness. Is not such a middle state more natural, more according to real life, and less resembling every other book of fiction?44

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The woman writer takes a middle of the road stance as the more realistic way to end her novel. While Burney called upon realism in defense of her unusual ending, Laclos, on the other hand, ignored it. Didier Masseau mentions that Laclos’s contemporaries felt that the punishment meted out to Merteuil was too feeble to be exemplary but too ‘‘rich in meaning’’ to be considered faulty.45 It seemed to undermine Laclos’s stated moral intention for the novel. What Peter Brooks says of Les Liaisons dangereuses applies to Cecilia equally well: ‘‘What Laclos has brilliantly done in the last pages of the novel, with the brusque obscuration of his protagonists, is to redirect our critical attention to the society in which they lived. The question has of course been implicit throughout.’’46 Laclos and Burney not only call attention to ‘‘the society in which they lived’’ but also to the genre in which they wrote. They have compromised the conventional ending expected by the reader. In so doing, these two authors question cultural assumptions implicit in fictional constructs. In sum, then, it is through their use of burlesque and dark humor, through the ironic manipulation of sentimental and libertine convention, through the intricate and parodic play of intertext, through the literalization of the figurative as well as the obfuscation of ‘‘transparent’’ language for both sentimental and libertine characters alike that Laclos and Burney subvert meanings and call into question not only social practices, but narrative ones as well. Both Laclos and Burney expose contradictions in the dominant ideologies of the time by pushing common expectations to their outermost limits. Neither author dots all the i’s; it is the reader who must draw a personal conclusion. The contradictions of Les Liaisons dangereuses and Cecilia are at once their most fascinating and readable parts. The eighteenth-century novel took shape through many forms: epistolary, memoirs, histories, chronicles. Each had its own conventions with respect to endings. In memoir novels and the seriesnovel, for example, Armine Kotin Mortimer comments on the arbitrary nature of denouements: . . . and to write a good novel, a novel that will please, one has to arrange things so that the adventure seems to continue infinitely; one has to approach the ending in such a manner as to make it a beginning of new adventures; one has to let it feel like an end without it being one; one has to appear to tire of it and impose a hasty conventional and arbitrary conclusion.47

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The epistolary novel also resists closure. Those who wrote letters could continue or take up writing at any given moment. In this way the epistolary novel could be classified a type of serial so very popular in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.48 Other typical ways to end an eighteenth-century novel were for the end to refer to the beginning in a circular movement, as in de Mouhy’s Me´moires d’une fille de qualite´ qui ne s’est point retire´e du monde, or Diderot’s Les Bijoux indiscrets.49 Or the novel could end in what Mortimer calls a coda or epigram; a single phrase at the end of a text which is directed toward the past and the future.50 Taking the eighteenth-century construction of the novel into consideration, one realizes that Laclos’s novel does not call into question any of these narrative conventions. Why then is its ending so problematical? The answer can be found by looking to the type of novel to which Les Liaisons dangereuses belongs.

5 Conclusion: Genre, Gender, and Intertexts THE POPULARITY OF LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES IS DUE IN LARGE PART to the varied types of stories it contains. An attempt to take into account all of the text’s attributes would produce a description along the lines of ‘‘a comic tragic didactic epistolary sentimental libertine memoir’’ novel. One could say, in fact, that Laclos wrote a compound novel where each reader finds his or her type of story interwoven with others in this text. One which includes the story of young love, of adultery, of conspiracy and revenge, of education betrayal.1 In writing a novel of compounded types, Laclos included the conventional denouement that went with each particular story. However, each type of story’s conventional ending has its ironic double in its opposing story type. The role of Laclos’s characters as authors, as writers in control of other characters, has been well studied.2 With varying degrees of success, Merteuil and Valmont each attempt to write a ‘‘script’’ for other characters, calling upon literary models often cited in their letters. Merteuil orchestrates the lives of other characters to construct ‘‘a tragic novel of heroic proportions’’ while Valmont invents an adventure.3 Each character fashions himself through letterwriting; each writes a plot for another character. The premise works less well, however, when one considers the ending of the novel in which the ostensible ‘‘authors,’’ Merteuil and Valmont, are subject to their own fabulations. What happens if one looks at the topos of writing in a perspective that would take into account the type of ending used by Laclos for a particular character? From this perspective, the characters are no longer successful authors of each other’s plots. They are anchored in their own narrative of a particular subgenre of the novel. Leaving aside the vexed question of intentionality and literary selfconsciousness for the moment, Laclos has, in effect, written a novel out of interweaving conventions belonging to various and op191

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posing subgenres where each character’s fate reveals the type of novel to which he belongs: the libertine (Valmont), the scandal or adventure novel (Merteuil), the novel of sentiment (Tourvel), and ´cile). Admittedly, these endings are not used the didactic novel (Ce unchanged. It is through an art of subtle and ironic transformation that Laclos indicated his adherence to the female tradition of novel writing. The transformations disrupt the straightforward interpretation of the novel as a moral one or one that is ‘‘technically’’ perfect. If eighteenth-century male novelists explored myths that imparted ideals about manhood, their research was often accomplished through use of female characters. Male-authored novels were constructed in such a manner that women were, according to Mary Anne Schofield, ‘‘to remain virtuously immobile and undefined while men [sought] active self-definition, justification, and tangentially provid[ed] the female with a self.’’4 Schofield of course is referring here to the eighteenth-century male romance, but I feel this is applicable to almost all types of novels at the time, and one ´vost and Cre ´billon fils for examples. need look no further than Pre The novel written by women represented expectations as well as definitions of what it meant to be female in the eighteenth century.5 Female-authored novels had two assumptions. One was that female life was to be presented as valuable only in terms of a relationship with a man (romantic love and marriage). Another was that females were powerless and passive (failure and death): novels of romance dealt with this female experience distinct from male stories, but in an ambivalent and masked manner. Stories about women in the eighteenth century can be divided into two opposing categories. The first allows the heroine to integrate into society. The second represents woman’s alienation and death. Nancy Miller has labeled these euphoric and dysphoric types respectively.6 While male-authored texts retained the distinction between these two types, women’s novels tended to collapse them or hide one behind the other. Many women were in fact writing antiromance tales whose point was to reveal a woman’s real strength in an impossible situation and reject an either-or scenario. Double writing of this kind appears both in Riccoboni’s and Burney’s novels. We have seen how Burney ends her novel Cecilia in the manner of a traditional romance. But the value of such an ending is placed in doubt by Cecilia’s last statements about her status as a penniless heiress. She can only be integrated into the social

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order at the expense of financial independence. Evelina married Orville but was not allowed to keep the long-sought-after family name for more than a few hours. At the end of the novel, one would expect Evelina to reap the rewards of successfully learning the rules of society and speak for herself. Instead she has Villars speak for her. I am referring here, of course, to Evelina’s response to Orville’s marriage proposal. Instead of answering him directly, she hands him Villars’s letter, which speaks for her (III, xxi). The lesson she has learned is a negative one: how not to express her desire. Riccoboni’s Fanni Butlerd shows that abandonment does not have to end in death but rather in anger as she refuses the male plot. Juliette Catesby is duly married at the end of her story (type one), but Jenny’s plot ends in death (type two). The two women’s stories meet in the name of Ossery, which both women have taken.7 Further complicating the happy end is the communal letter in which Juliette loses her independent epistolary space when she shares it with Orville. One cannot help remembering Juliette’s defense of her privacy in the face of Sir Henry’s invasion. Juliette writes to Henriette in her last letter and states how happiness will be complete only upon her friend’s arrival. The marriage is bypassed in favor of female friendship. Rachel Du Ple´ssis has called this ‘‘writing beyond the ending.’’ Laclos also writes beyond traditional endings. Seen from this vantage point, the ending of Les Liaisons dangereuses is an affront and a challenge to the reader’s expectations. As many critics have pointed out, Merteuil’s punishment (smallpox and disfigurement) is horrible yet arbitrary. The reader cannot be sure of even this ´pand ici, ma che `re et punishment as it is based on hearsay: ‘‘Il se re digne amie, sur le compte de madame de Merteuil, des bruits bien ´tonnants et bien faˆcheux . . .’’ [Very surprising and annoying rue mors, my dear and exellent friend, are being spread here concerning madame de Merteuil] (CLXVIII) and ‘‘J’allais fermer ma lettre quand un homme de ma connaissance est venu me voir, et n’a ra´ la cruelle sce `ne que madame de Merteuil a essuye ´. . . .’’ [I conte was about to close this letter when a man of my acquaintance came to see me and told me of the cruel scene endured by Madame de Merteuil] (CLXXIII). The litigation over her husband’s estate and subsequent loss of all her money took place only after the fact. That it is possible to have lost the case solely due to the publication of correspondence with Valmont is a fact of society’s hypocrisy. By stealing the family jewels and escaping, Merteuil draws attention to

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her status as a fictional heroine in the mode of the scandal novel of the early part of the century. Merteuil’s decision to flee to Holland is not insignificant. When novels were banned in France in 1738, writers and booksellers were forced to turn to foreign countries to publish them. Many carried an imprint from Holland even if they were clandestinely published in France. Merteuil’s story reminds one of heroines like Sylvia in Behn’s Love Letters between a Nobleman and his Sister who also flees to Holland, or even one of Haywood’s characters like Fantomina and Villedieu’s Sylvie-Henriette `re. Holland, then, is a figure of literal and fictional refuge. de Molie Merteuil, like her sisters in the scandal novel, lives on to intrigue another day. Tourvel on the other hand is a heroine in a novel of sentiment. Her death is expected and conforms to type. She dies, however, on her own terms, as constrained by convention as they might be. It is she who makes the decision to cut off all communication with the man unworthy of her. Her death reflects an affirmation of her autonomy and she borrows the love rhetoric of Fanni Butlerd as well as her indignation and pride. It is necessary to look to Riccoboni to find a character who embodies a complex mixture of sentiment and reason like Tourvel. Laclos, like Riccoboni, suggests that society’s shallow definition of virtue and morality must be reconsidered even when conforming to the type-two plot, which requires the death of the woman. ´vost and Valmont, on the other hand, is suspended between Pre ´billon fils, and Richardson. Valmont takes part in two Rousseau, Cre versions of the male plot, which cancel each other out: the reformed rake who would be redeemed, and the successful libertine who publicizes his exploits at the expense of his victim. His indeterminacy functions as an allegory for the novel as a whole. Laclos created a character who lives by the libertine code, yet is seduced or at least tempted by the sentimental one. The manner of his death along with the suppression of certain letters which would have clarified his final position leave the reader in doubt as to where he stands and to what type of story he belongs. His vacillation between these two genres impedes any unified meaning to the novel.

GENDERED NARRATIVES In any paired reading of male and female authored texts the question of gender arises. Women had to ‘‘legitimize’’ their writing

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to conform to society’s construction of gender in a way that men writers did not. In order to conform and at the same time criticize, women wrote double plots that were not as openly presented as Laclos’s were. Because of his privileged position as a male, Laclos could mix his endings openly. The women wrote from the margins, from the outside looking in. Laclos, on the other hand, belonged by dint of his gender to the dominant—male—class. In his adaptation of women’s indirect techniques, the reader can see the difference gender made to the use of those same techniques. Although praised for their natural writing style, women were in a precarious position. The differences can be found partly in narration techniques (third person narrator or the epistolary form) and in the approach to language and writing. The epistolary novel suited their ‘‘ability’’ and afforded them a sufficient disguise for their thoughts. Often women presented themselves as merely translators of someone else’s work, therefore not overstepping the conventions of femininity by taking pen in hand. The wave of Anglomania in France and the Francomania in England can partially be accounted for if one considers that any exploration of socially questionable topics could be attributed to another culture.8 Through thinly disguised characters, women avoided criticism; they were able to explore themes and topics of concern to women, transgressing neither propriety nor aesthetic standards. Burney and Riccoboni both wrote their first epistolary novels anonymously. Their second stories (Ce´cilia, Le Marquis de Cressy) were conceived in a third-person voice. Considering that both early epistolary novels met with great success, one might well ask if the two women authors found themselves ‘‘authorized’’ by that favorable reception to write their second novels, to assume their authority.9 The use of a third-person narrator in Burney’s case coincides with the development of a writing style increasingly more convoluted with each subsequent novel. There are two reasons for the ‘‘decline’’ that can be attributed to her gender. Burney’s style is built on ‘‘Latinate nominalizations’’ meant to stop movement.10 To use a latinized English was to call upon a male intellectual tradition that functioned as a literary and stylistic authorization for her writing. Although to write like Johnson was to write like a man, Burney, nonetheless, inscribed her ‘‘femininity’’ in the syntax. Language is not only a collective force that, as Kim LeFevre reminds us, may influence how speakers perceive reality, but how speakers or writ-

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ers use that language reveals an inner speech, a product of their social experience.11 If so, it is not far-fetched to suppose that Burney, concerned by rules of propriety, transposed her anxiety to her writing. Burney did not write like a man, but rather as a woman in a man’s language. Drawing on Margaret Homans’ work, Susan Lanser contends that: ‘‘. . . [W]omen privileged enough to write literature are particularly susceptible to ‘a specific gender based alienation from language’ born of the ‘simultaneous participation in and exclusion from a hegemonic group.’ ’’12 Burney encoded this ‘‘alienation’’ in her language, forcing the reader into a similar position. In a real way, the path the reader takes in order to follow the sentence reproduces a woman’s path following society’s complicated strictures on women’s behavior. The complexities of conventions governing a woman’s life are openly stated, and the readers, male and female, must navigate them equally. The complication in syntax is first evident (although only occasionally) in Evelina: ‘‘If I did not fear to flatter myself, I should think it not impossible but that he had a suspicion of Sir Clement’s design, and was therefore concerned for my safety (I, xxi). By internalizing the complex social structures and at the same time refracting them in her syntax, Burney explores the way a woman can both write in the language of dominance and question it at the same time. From the modern perspective, Burney’s attempt to write in a deliberately masculine language shows the dangers inherent in the adoption of an ‘‘alien’’ system. Macauley commenting on Burney’s style explained; She could retain excellence only by achieving an almost miraculous victory over nature and over habit. She could cease to be Fanny Burney; it was not so easy to become Samuel Johnson . . . if she had only been content to go on writing in her mother tongue.13

Burney refused the masculinist fable of a ‘‘mother tongue’’ or ‘‘natural’’ female elegant voice in favor of forging her own style, a linguistic representation of women’s complex position in society. Riccoboni avoided the problems entailed by the assumption of authority. She usually wrote under the cover of another’s voice. As much as Burney, she used language as a mask in which to ground her authority. Behind Riccoboni’s seemingly ‘‘natural’’ style were many hours of revision. Writing as a woman was hard work. Ricco´re `se Biancolelli described the time and care she boni’s friend The

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took in the creation of this style: ‘‘very hard on herself, Mme Riccoboni spent much time perfecting her writing and was rarely satisfied.’’14 In her second novel, Le Marquis de Cressy, Riccoboni calls upon a collective voice of gender to lend her authority. Although the novel was anonymous, it bore the signature Mme de ***, which indicated her gender. The sense of a female community evident in all of her work is clearly present in the narration. The third person plural is used together with maxims. She calls upon the maxims to lend her authority and question it. What Burney accomplished through the ironic juxtaposition of events that forced the readers to pull back and judge the incongruity for themselves, Riccoboni did with the use of maxims. Olga Cragg explains that ‘‘[t]he maxim jolts, jars and stops the communication of events: we must step aside from the temporal scheme. Sententious statements become an invitation to move out of the text and examine them from the point of view of ideology.’’15 Using different techniques to the same purpose, Riccoboni and Burney explored gender construction through language and called for participation from the reader to form judgments about behavior. Both women experimented with the use of variable internal focalization to present conflicting viewpoints.16 The two women authors give one access to the ‘‘true’’ thoughts of their characters. They call upon the authority of the omniscient narrator as guarantor of the truth. Laclos, of course, does not wish to guarantee the truth of the characters thoughts’. His point is, in fact, to demonstrate the absence and instability of any truth through the lack of a privileged narrator: there is no ‘‘authorized’’ version of events. Laclos adopted the opposite tack to question narrative authority. He wrote in a clear, straightforward classical style (the level of the signifiers) while his use of irony (the level of the signified) undercut any pretentions to absolute meaning. Burney’s syntax (the arrangement of signifiers) is an obstacle to meaning in itself (the signified). A major difference can be found between Laclos’s novel and Riccoboni’s and Burney’s and it is attributable to gender. While Riccoboni and Burney sought to legitimize their writing, Laclos’s purpose was to demonstrate the precarious nature of any system of authorization, moral or secular. The challenging of authority (textual and social) is evident from the very first page. Critics have seen Les Liaisons dangereuses as the culmination of the epistolary genre. The assumption is that Laclos wrote the ultimate epistolary

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novel; he left no room for future development. Yet the impression of Les Liaisons dangereuses as the most successful epistolary novel is due to a good deal more than Laclos’s technical expertise. The fate of Laclos’s characters links his novel to those of women writers like Graffigny and Riccoboni (Tourvel), Villedieu, Behn and Hay´cile), and those of Cre ´billon fils and wood (Merteuil), Burney (Ce ´ van). Rather than ending the Rousseau (Danceny, Valmont, Pre genre, Liaisons dangereuses consolidates two traditions of writing while hiding in plain sight. Laclos’s novel looks to the past for its plots and signals the future in writers that follow him: Jane Austen and Henry James on one side of the channel and Stendhal, Flaubert, and Proust on the French side.

SIGNALING INTENTIONALITY Laclos signals his generic play right from the start. The reader need look no further than the title page for an indication of the intertextual, ironic, and parodic nature of Les Liaisons dangereuses. From before page 1, readers are given the key to the novel to follow as Laclos offers them a model of the various levels of textual relations in the form of inclusions, allusions, and citations. On the title page Laclos directs the reader to the multivalent meaning of the novel to follow and marks out its parameters, the Sentimental and the Libertine. Laclos’s title page juxtaposes Rousseau’s La Nouvelle He´loı¨se with Les Liaisons dangereuses. On first reading the procedure seems straightforward enough. It is only after having finished the novel that its truly ironic properties are appreciated.17 Just as the liaisons ultimately reveal themselves to be as dangerous to the libertines as the intended victims, the graphic arrangement of the primary title and the separation of the subtitle ‘‘lettres’’ indicates that it is the letters themselves that are the dangerous liaisons. The association of Rousseau with the initials replacing the name of the author of Les Liaisons dangereuses also contributes to the irony of the title page. The initials, which clearly mark the author as masculine, keep his anonymity. Yet these initials which reveal gender but mask the author’s name are not quite as anonymous as in Riccoboni’s use of this convention, for example. Here the initials serve a double function as semiological markers that link the text with libertine novels that use this convention as well mimic a strat-

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egy common to women authors to protect their reputations. They also ironically articulate the dangerous connection between the sentimental novel evoked in the citation from Rousseau’s La Nouvelle Helo¨ise and the libertine novel. The title page thus dramatizes the question of genre that is explored in the novel. The full importance of the beginning of Les Liaisons dangereuses is comprehensible only when the reader has reached the end, which refers back to the title page. The reader has come full circle. Laclos gave two illustrations of the intertextual nature of the novel. One was the inclusion of Rousseau in the title page of the 1782 edition of the novel. The other can be found in a 1787 edition which included Laclos’s correspondence with Riccoboni. This edition opens to a title page where the reader sees the juxtaposition of ‘‘Les Liaisons dangereuses ou Lettres’’ and ‘‘Nouvelle Edition, ´ e d’une Correspondance de l’Auteur avec Mde. Riccoaugmente `ces Fugitives.’’ Rousseau’s citation is missing altoboni, & de ses Pie gether and has been supplanted by Riccoboni. The reader then proceeds to the first of the two fictional prefaces: ‘‘Avertissement ´diteur’’ from the publisher. de l’e Once again this particular 1787 edition differs from previous editions. It not only includes the correspondence and a selection of poems by Laclos, but also adds a text. The ‘‘libraire’’ now joins both ´ diteur’’ and ‘‘re ´ dacteur.’’ Although the first two prefatory the ‘‘e texts are accepted as Laclos’s, the ‘‘Avertissement du Libraire’’ in this edition has been read as a document rather than fiction. Whether it is or is not real is rendered moot for, by its very inclusion, it is subject to the same ironic reading as the other two. This ‘‘avertissement’’ explains the need for a new edition of Les Liaisons dangereuses and the reason for the inclusion of Riccoboni’s correspondence: Cette Edition est non-seulement a` l’usage des personnes qui lisent les `tent; mais elle convient, plus particulie `rement enlivres qu’elles ache core, `a toutes celles qui sont bien aises de juger un ouvrage sans se donner la peine de le lire, & ce sont celles-la` que nous avons eues ` rement en vue dans notre entreprise. C’est pour elles que particulie ` on trouve rassemble ´, dans un nous publions une correspondance ou `s-petit espace, a`-peu-pre `s tout ce qui s’est dit & peut se dire, pour & tre ´imprimons: En sorte que chacun pourra contre le roman que nous re ˆtre oblige ´ de les chercher dans l’ouvrage; ce choisir le jugement, sans e ˆ r. (1–2) ´ment plus commode & plus su qui est assure

Title page of the 1782 edition of Les Liaisons dangereuses, Bibliothe`que Nationale de France, Paris.

Title page of the 1787 edition of Les Liaisons dangereuses, from the private collection of Stephen Werner, Los Angeles.

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[This edition is not only for the use of people who read the books they buy; but it is especially useful for those who are willing to pass judgment on a work without taking the trouble to read it, and it is with these people in view that we formulated our project. It is also for them that we publish a correspondence where one finds, in a concise format, almost all of what has been said and can be said for and against the novel that we are reprinting: Each person, therefore, can choose their position without actually having to read the work itself; this is something that is easier and safer.]

The ‘‘libraire’’ then assures the public that the correspondence really took place, continues on to praise the zeal of ‘‘le charmant Auteur de Catesby’’ [the charming author of Catesby], and insists that the reader can be assured of its veracity due to the lack of in´gligence nous sults exchanged between the two writers: ‘‘Cette ne ´ destine ´ es `a voir le fait croire que ces lettres n’avoient point ´e te jour’’ [This oversight leads us to believe that these letters were never destined to see the light of day] (93). Without a doubt, this text can be taken at face value. It was common practice for people in society to resort to anthologies to keep up with the latest literature. Given the popularity of this scandalous novel, it would have been difficult not to take a position for or against it. On the other hand, is it beyond the realm of possibility for Laclos to have added this ironic commentary on his novel’s `s de scandale’’ to this new edition of his text himself? At the ‘‘succe very least, he approved of it. Even if the placement of the correspondence between the two authors was left to the binders—all the paratextual material has independent pagination and its position could vary—the decision to publish the correspondence was most certainly Laclos’s and can be read as one more act of critical irony. This edition was, in fact, the last edition recommended by Laclos himself to his son. In a letter to him dated 19 July 1802, Laclos complains that copies of the novel from his first two editions were no longer available and none of the many pirated editions were any good. The best current edition available, however, was one containing his correspondence with Riccoboni and his poetry. Laclos’s long habit of indirection holds true to the last in his use of the passive ` l’on a mis une correspondance’’ [where one has placed voice (‘‘ou a correspondence or where a correspondence has been placed]) even in a letter to his son. Both he and Riccoboni undergo, then, the same ‘‘unintentional’’ publication as the characters in the novel to follow.

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Riccoboni’s name not only stands in for the Sentimental tradition on the title page, replacing Rousseau’s, her letters, coming in between the multiple prefaces and Cecile’s opening letter, occupy the position of a literal intermediary between the title page and the main text as well as a figurative one between the reader and the novel itself. The inclusion of the correspondence between Laclos and Riccoboni mirrors the role her fictional works occupy in the creation of Les Liaisons dangereuses. For Laclos, Riccoboni’s writing is meant to mediate between the sentimental and the libertine traditions of novelistic practice. More important though, by placing their authentic correspondence in a fictional framework, Laclos signals Riccoboni’s participation in his fictional text. He need not have included this odd exchange of letters. Yet it was fitting for Laclos to have included Riccoboni in his project for, in doing so, Laclos, in his habitually indirect way, demonstrated the importance of her work to the formation of his aesthetic. Recognition of different layers of intertextuality depends on the exposure of the reader to the background texts. The reintegration of woman writers in general, not only Riccoboni and Burney, will not only expand our knowledge of the historical context in which a particular canonical text was written but also enrich the reading of that text.18 The history of the novel in general needs to be looked at not as a linear progression but as an interwoven network crossing genre, gender, and national boundaries.19 Writers are readers. They consciously or not leave traces of those works they have read in their own. Any attempt at formulating a complete history of the novel must take into account the mixed or promiscuous nature of the genre. The intent of this study has been to offer a fresh reading of a central eighteenth-century text and demonstrate the part women authors played in its conception. It has shown that Laclos not only knew these women’s texts thoroughly, but he also drew upon the narrative strategies found in the female tradition of the novel to create his own. Through the linking of Riccoboni’s, Burney’s, and Laclos’s texts, the importance of cross-Channel as well as crossgender influences in the eighteenth century was brought out. This study is a small part of a larger continuum of male and female writers not circumscribed by national boundaries. They were reading and rewriting each other. The connections between genders as well as nations deserves to be explored in-depth from the

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late seventeenth to the nineteenth century. The limiting date of this study was 1782, but Jane Austen’s reading of Laclos’s novel and its presence in Lady Susan and Mansfield Park begs to be examined.20 A reading of the former text shows a Merteuil-like character that manipulates others, but she is not as singular an exception. If her powers of discernment are great, they are somewhat counterbalanced by the perspicacity of others, Mrs. Vernon in particular. If, like Merteuil, she is an independent widow, she is unlike the Frenchwoman in that she is encumbered with family relations; she has a daughter, a brother, and in-laws with whom she must contend. Some individuals may fall under the spell of Lady Susan and be duped, but not everyone by any means. The woman is kept in check, her ability to harm mitigated. One may ask what difference does it make to read Austen’s text with Les Liaisons dangereuses in mind. First, reading Lady Susan in light of the French text adds to the ludic aspect of the English rewriting. This short epistolary work can be seen as a lighthearted and more prosaic rewriting of the French one that contains an implicit criticism of the other’s ‘‘unrealistic’’ portrayal of a diabolical woman. Second, because the recognition of Merteuil in Lady Susan leads the reader to expect the worst, the sustained and continued frustration of Lady Susan’s plans is amusing and the reader takes pleasure in the interplay between the two texts. He or she becomes a participant in the intertextual dialogue. If one considers that Austen, like Laclos, is known for her technical brilliance and a body of work that lends itself to so many different ideological interpretations, one might well ask, how much did Austen learn from Laclos? A reading of the serious and darker Mansfield Park might be the place to begin. On the other hand the earlier textual dialogue between the ‘‘less’’ canonical Aphra Behn, ` re Manley, Eliza Haywood, Mme Gomez, and Mme de Delarivie ´billon fils, MariVilledieu deserves study in conjunction with Cre ´ vost. Traditionally the canonical status of male auvaux and Pre thors has obscured the contribution of woman writers. Reading these authors critically side by side (male and female) will not only add to our knowledge of the sociohistorical conditions in which texts were written, but will also give us a more complete vision of the aesthetics of the novel.

Notes PREFACE 1. P. G. W. Glare, ed., Oxford Latin Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982).

CHAPTER 1: CRITICAL REWRITING 1. Jean Ehrard, in L’Invention litte´raire au XVIIIe: fiction, ide´es, socie´te´ (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1997) explains: ‘‘A new novelistic practice which casts fiction [le romanesque] as an intellectual and moral experience develops in answer to the experimental but fragmentary nature of knowledge in the eighteenth century’’ (8). All translations of French citations are mine unless otherwise indicated. 2. This point is well argued by Leo Lowenthal: ‘‘Literature is the only dependable source for human consciousness and self consciousness, for the individual’s relationship to the world as experience. The process of socialization, that is, the social ambiance of the private, the intimate, and the individual, is raised to consciousness by the artist for his time as well as for our time.’’ Literature and Social Practice: The Sociology of Literature, ed. Philippe Desan, Priscilla Parkhurst Ferguson, and Wendy Griswold (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989),15. 3. Dena Goodman, The Republic of Letters: A Cultural History of the French Enlightenment (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994), 3. 4. Dena Goodman in Criticism in Action: Enlightenment Experiments in Political Writing (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989) emphasizes the importance of the historical content of the eighteenth-century novel: ‘‘If we are to make sense of eighteenth-century texts, they must be situated within the larger historical context of the Old Regime and in relation to one another as moments in the larger set of actions that are known collectively as the Enlightenment. The point of such contextualization is not to determine in retrospect the validity of particular critical acts but to understand them: how they work, what their purpose is, and how successful they are in achieving their goals. To understand texts as acts is to understand them historically, to situate them in the particular time and place in which they are meaningful as actions’’ (2). 5. For examples of this use of imitation, translation, and adaptation, see An´billon fils’ Les Heureux Orphelins and Haytoinette Sol, ‘‘Lost in Translation: Cre wood’s The Fortunate Foundlings,’’ in Altered Narratives, ed. Servanne Woodward et al., Eighteenth-Century French World Center (London: Mestengo Press, 1997),

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16–40, and ‘‘A French Reading and Critical Rewriting of Mary Hay’s Memoirs of Emma Courtney’’ in the forthcoming EMF: Strategic Rewriting 8 (2002). 6. Sarah Hanley, ‘‘Engendering the State: Family Formation and State Building in Early Modern France,’’ French Historical Studies 16, no. 1 (1989), 5. 7. Karen Burke LeFevre, Invention as a Social Act, Studies in Writing and Rhetoric (Carbondale and Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University Press, 1987), 93. 8. See Laurent Versini’s monumental study, Laclos et la tradition litte´raire: Essai sur les sources et la technique des Liaisons dangereurses (Paris: Klincksieck, 1968). 9. Judith Butler’s argument in ‘‘Performing genders’’ is particularly pertinent to this point. ‘‘Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory,’’ in Performing Feminisms: Feminist Critical Theory and Theatre (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins Press, 1990), 271. 10. For a discussion of the communal nature of salon writing see Joan DeJean, Tender Geographies: Women and the Origins of the Novel in France (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991). Connections between women epistolary writers is treated in April Alliston, Virtues Faults: Correspondences in Eighteenth-Century British and French Women’s Fiction (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996). 11. I use ‘‘sensationist’’ in the same manner as John C. O’Neal in The Authority of Experience: Sensationist Theory in the French Enlightenment (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1996) to ‘‘avoid confusion with the journalistic tendency to hyperbole known as sensationalism’’ (1). 12. David Denby in Sentimental Narrative and the Social Order in France (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994) points out that ‘‘the Revolution represents a turning point: the Terror represents a limit to the sentimental vision, and more than any one event signals a partial split between sentimental vision and the historical optimism of the Enlightenment. It is from this dislocation, and the concomitant realignment of elements of sentimentalism with an anti-revolutionary, anti utopian, organicist vision, that some of what we call Romanticism will emerge’’ (3). 13. O’Neal, Authority of Experience, 250. ´moire, l’oubli et l’art du roman: textes libertins, 14. Nancy K. Miller, ‘‘Le me textes sentimentaux,’’ in Femmes et Pouvoirs sous l’Ancien Regime (Paris: Rivages, 1991), 240; Naomi Schor has dealt with the problem of marginalization of nineteenth-century women’s texts through their categorization as idealistic as opposed to realistic in Georges Sand and Idealism (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993). ´moire,’’ 240. 15. Miller, ‘‘Le me ´ter Nagy, Libertinage et re´volution (Paris: Gallimard, 1975), 180. 16. Pe 17. Ibid.,19. 18. For an analysis of sensibility and its effect on the body as well as representations of it in eighteenth-century discourse, see Anne C. Vila, Enlightenment and Pathology: Sensibility in the Literature and Medicine of Eighteenth-Century France (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998), 5. 19. Janet Todd, Sensibility: An Introduction (London: Methuen, 1986), 7. 20. Vila, Enlightenment, 5. 21. Different aspects of the evolution of the Sentimental movement can be

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found in Louis I. Bredvold, The Natural History of Sensibility (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1962; John Mullen, Sentiment and Sociability: The Language of Feeling in the Eighteenth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988); Vila, Enlightenment and Pathology; Geoffroy Atkinson, The Sentimental Revolution: French Writers of 1690–1740, ed. Abraham C. Keller (Seattle: University Press of Washington, 1965); and G.J. Barker-Benfield, The Culture of Sensibility: Sex and Society in Eighteenth-Century Britain (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992). 22. Stephen D. Cox, ‘The Stranger Within Thee’: Concepts of the Self in Late Eighteenth-Century Literature (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1980), 52. 23. Laclos himself was far from considering his novel ‘‘non-realist,’’ in fact quite the contrary. See his discussion about this issue in his correspondence with Riccoboni in chapter 3 of this study; in Antoinette Sol, ‘‘Why Write as a Woman?: The Riccoboni-Laclos Correspondence,’’ Women in French 3 (Fall 1995): 34–44; ´e, ‘‘Dangerous Liaisons 2: The Riccoboni-Laclos Sequel,’’ Eighand Janie Vanpe teenth-Century Fiction 9, no. 1 (1996): 51–70. ´moire,’’ 240. 24. Miller, ‘‘Le me 25. For a discussion on gendered aesthetics and conditions of production, see DeJean, Tender Geographies; Judith Lowder Newton, Women, Power, and Subversion: Social Strategies in British Fiction 1778–1860 (New York: Methuen, 1985); Naomi Schor, Aesthetics and the Feminine (New York: Routledge, 1987); and Samia I. Spencer et al., eds., French Women and the Age of Enlightenment (Indiana: Indiana University Press, 1984); as well as Joan Hinde Stewart, Gynographes: French Novels by Women of the Late Eighteenth Century (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1993). 26. Denby, Sentimental Narrative, 3. 27. DeJean, Tender Geographies, 70. 28. For example, when Madame de Monpensier was exiled by Louis XIV, she retired to her estate at Saint Fargeau, where she established a literary community. ´ was, on the other hand, married to the niece of Mazarin Le prince de Conde within a year of the suppression of the uprising and thereby reintegrated into the system. See DeJean, Tender Geographies; and Domna Stanton, ‘‘The Fiction of ´ciosite ´ and the Fear of Women,’’ Yale French Studies 62 (1981): 107–33. Pre 29. Judith Kegan Gardiner in ‘‘The First English Novel: Aphra Behn’s Love Letters, the Canon, and Women’s Tastes’’ Tulsa Studies in Women’s Literature 8, no. 2 (1989): 201–22, cogently notes that ‘‘[F]or today’s post-Marxist and Foucauldian critics, it seems, as for the old Darwinian and Arnoldian ones, the novel is important chiefly insofar as it reflects important, male-defined, and philosophically serious issues . . .’’ (206). Historically based studies on the development of the novel or formalist studies (New Criticism, Structuralism, Russian Formalism) all equally neglect the role of women. In Seductive Forms: Women’s Amatory Fiction from 1684–1740 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), R. Ballaster writes, ‘‘[Ian] Watt might be characterized as the equivalent of the eighteenth-century ‘modern’ appropriating feminine sensibility as the model for a new relation between the masculine subject and social order while refusing women any active shaping role in culture beyond their role as literary objects and consumers. Within this model, women are no more than the embodiment of sensibility, and thus its victims, lack-

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ing the necessary distance from it to be capable of shaping it into a properly literary form without the example of masculine founding fathers before them’’ (10). 30. Ian Watt, in The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1957), states ‘‘[t]he majority of eighteenth-century novels were actually written by women, but this had long remained a purely quantitative assertion of dominance . . .’’ (339). 31. Ibid., 339. ´ry’s use of the novel for partisan politics was not lost on Aphra Behn, 32. Scude ´ry has significant consequences for and the connection between Behn and Scude the history of the English novel. For a discussion of the role of partisan politics and women writers, see DeJean, Tender Geographies; and also Ballaster, Seductive Forms. 33. DeJean, Tender Geographies,162. 34. For a discussion pertaining to the effect of critical discourse on the formation of the early French novel, see Georges May, Le Dilemme du roman au XVIIIe sie`cle: ´e tudes sur les rapports du roman et de la critique (1715–1761) (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1963). 35. Joan DeJean describes the origin and the importance of the dispute between conservative and liberal factions of the literary establishment in Ancients Against Moderns: Culture Wars and the Making of a Fin de Sie`cle (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997). 36. DeJean, Tender Geographies,14. 37. For example see Boileau’s Dialogue des He´ros, Satire X, written in the ´ry’s death in 1710. 1660’s but not published until after Scude 38. Katherine A. Jensen, ‘‘Male Models of Feminine Epistolarity; or, How to Write Like a Woman in Seventeenth-Century France,’’ in Writing the Female Voice: Essays on Epistolary Literature, ed. Elizabeth Goldsmith (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1989), 25–45. 39. Ibid., 36. 40. The necessity of reading differently is explored in Gardiner, ‘‘The First English Novel,’’ 201–22; and in Schor, Georges Sand. 41. For a counterargument to the realist model, see Peter Brooks, The Novel of Worldliness (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1969); and Elizabeth J. MacArthur, Extravagant Narratives: Closure and Dynamics in the Epislolary Form (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990). The substitution of nineteenthcentury aesthetics for an earlier model interestingly parallels a similar model proposed in the late seventeenth century to counteract the potency of female fiction. William Warner, ‘‘The Elevation of the Novel in England: Hegemony and Literary History,’’ ELH 59 (1992): 577–96, convincingly shows how the use of ‘‘realism’’ as a model to set literary standards is not merely a nineteenth- and twentiethcentury problem but began much earlier. ‘‘Realism’’ is the condition for being considered modern from the 1740s on in England and was well underway by 1760 in France, with the publication of Diderot’s Eloge de Richardson. 42. Warner, ‘‘The Elevation of the Novel,’’ 578. 43. See Margaret Ann Doody, The True Story of the Novel (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1996) who proposes a continuous history of the novel stretching from ancient times to the present. 44. Warner, ‘‘The Elevation of the Novel,’’ 581–82.

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45. For more on the linkage between ‘‘new’’ forms of the novel and the older forms, see Joan DeJean, ‘‘Lafayette’s Ellipses: The Privileges of Anonymity,’’ PMLA 99, no. 5 (1984): 884–902. 46. Gardiner, ‘‘The First English Novel,’’ 217. 47. Nancy K Miller, The Heroine’s Text: Reading in the French and English Novel (New York: Columbia University Press, 1980), 42. 48. Suellen Diaconoff, ‘‘Resistance and Retreat: A Laclosian Primer for Women,’’ University of Toronto Quarterly 58, no. 3 (Spring 1989): 405. 49. Versini, Laclos et la tradition litte´raire, 482. ´bil50. Versini notes in his work on Laclos et la tradition litte´raire that in Cre lon’s works ‘‘Women are able to escape neither the moment nor the tenderness which is part of her nature; the seducer is not free to escape his persona. Both are machines and only in its proud intentions can libertinage be considered a synonym of liberty’’ (438). ` la revolution (Paris: Armand Colin, 1967), 51. Henri Coulet, Le Roman jusqu’a 372. 52. Versini, Laclos et la tradition litte´raire, 461. 53. See Sol, ‘‘Lost in Translation,’’ 16–40. 54. Versini, Laclos et la tradition litte´raire, 481. 55. Cited in Michel Delon, Choderlos de Laclos, Les Liaisons dangereuses (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1986), 31. 56. Laurent Versini, Laclos et la tradition litte´raire, 493. 57. P.-A.-F. Choderlos de Laclos, Laclos: Œuvres comple`tes, ed. Laurent Versini, Ple´iade (Paris: Gallimard, 1979). All subsequent citations of the RiccoboniLaclos correspondence will refer to this edition unless otherwise indicated. 58. Versini, Laclos et la tradition litte´raire, 507. 59. Of course Laclos’s emphasis may not have been on depicting the speech and mores of a variety of social strata, but he did represent a variety of ideological positions which is communicated clearly to the reader through the subtle use of language, discourse, style and vocabulary. 60. Ibid., 613 61. Delon, Choderlos de Laclos, 41. 62. Versini, Laclos et la tradition litte´raire, 583. 63. Laurent Versini, ed., Laclos: Œuvres comple`tes, La Ple´iade (Paris: Gallimard, 1979), 1164. 64. Joan DeJean, Literary Fortification: Rousseau, Laclos, Sade (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 214. 65. Versini, as DeJean notes in Literary Fortification, is astonished that Laclos did not make more mention of Lafayette than he did: ‘‘His [Versini’s] astonishment seems ill-considered on two grounds. In the first place, Laclos’s comprehension of the Classical strategy of secrecy leads him to suppress the names of many who provided models for his (novelistic) system. More significant, however, is Versini’s misalignment of Lafayette’s importance for Laclos. In the Liaisons, Laclos uses a four-part structure and an enigmatic ending reminiscent of La Princesse de Cle`ves, for what is essential for him, and for Rousseau and Sade as well, is Lafayette’s domination of the form of the novel, rather than her exploration of what Diderot would term in his critique of Richardson, previously hidden recesses of the human heart’’ (10). I would add that even when Laclos did make reference to

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a woman author, Frances Burney or Riccoboni for example, literary critics showed little interest. 66. Versini, Laclos et la tradition litte´raire, 617. 67. For a discussion of women’s use of convention as a form of hidden resistance, see Janet Todd, The Sign of the Angellica: Women, Writing, and Fiction, 1660–1800 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1989); Susan Sniader Lanser, Fictions of Authority: Women Writers and Narrative Voice (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992); and Nancy Armstrong and Leonard Tennenhouse, eds. The Ideology of Conduct: Essays on Literature and the History of Sexuality (New York and London: Methuen, 1987). 68. Biographical information on Laclos has come from one of his earliest and from one of the most recent: Emile Dard, Le Ge´ne´ral Choderlos de Laclos: auteur des Liaisons dangereuses 1741–1803 d’apre`s des documents ine´dits (Paris: Perrin, 1905); and Georges Poisson, Choderlos de Laclos ou l’obstination (Paris: Grasset, 1985). 69. Poisson, Choderlos de Laclos, 68. 70. Ronald C. Rosbottom, Choderlos de Laclos (Boston: Twayne, 1978), 137. 71. Another way of looking at this identification is explained by Nancy Miller in ‘‘’I’s in Drag: The Sex of Recollection,’’ The Eighteenth Century 22, no. 1 (1981) where she observes that ‘‘. . . the founding contract of the novel as it functions in the phallocentric (heterosexual) economies of representation is homoerotic: ‘‘woman’’ is the legal fiction, the present absence that allows the bond of privilege and authority to constitute itself within the laws of proper circulation’’ (49). 72. DeJean examines Laclos’s writings in terms of indirection as well as his problematic stance towards different forms of authority in Literary Fortification. 73. Georges Daniel, Fatalite´ du Secret et Fatalite´ du bavardage au XVIIIe sie`cle: La Marquise de Merteuil-Jean-Franc¸ois Rameau (Paris: A.G. Nizet, 1966), and Irving Wohlfarth, ‘‘The Irony of Criticism and the Criticism of Irony: A Study of Laclos Criticism,’’ Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century, 120 (1974): 269–305.

CHAPTER 2: FROM NATURE TO LIFE 1. Annie Raine Ellis, The Early Diary of Frances Burney, 2 vols. (London: Bell, 1913), 237. Unless otherwise indicated, the italics are the work of the respective authors. ´ne `s Doudan, Me´langes et Lettres, 4 vols. (Paris: Ancienne Maison Mi2. Xime ´vy Freres, 1876),489. chel Le ´ Pre ´vost and the 3. For more on Anglomania, see James R. Foster, ‘‘The Abbe English Novel,’’ PMLA 47, no. 2 (June 1927): 121–32; and Josephine Grieder, An`veglomania in France, 1740–1789: Fact, Fiction and Political Discourse (Gene Paris: Droz, 1985). 4. Friedrich Melchior Grimm, et al. Correspondance litte´raire. 16 vols. (Paris: `res, 1877; Kraus Reprint, 1968). Garnier Fre 5. Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments (Indianapolis: Liberty, 1976), 242. 6. Charles Palissot de Montenoy, La Dunciade: poe`me en dix chants (1771)

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(http://humanities.uchicago.edu/ARTFL/ARTFL.html, 1996 [cited 12/01/1999]). Or the Dunciade can be found at the Gallica site http://catalognum.bnf.fr/notice.htm?O⳱N089250. Different editions give alternate versions of Riccoboni’s name: ‘‘Rubiconi,’’ or ‘‘Rni,’’ for example. The reference to Riccoboni can be found in chant 9. 7. Biographical information on Riccoboni is taken from Emily Crosby, Une Romancie`re Oublie´e (Geneva: Slatkine Reprints, 1970) and Joan Hinde Stewart, The Novels of Mme Riccoboni (Chapel Hill: North Carolina University Press, 1976). 8. James C. Nicholls, Mme Riccoboni’s Letters to David Hume, David Garrick, and sir Robert Liston, 1764–1783 (Oxford: The Voltaire Foundation, 1976), 227. 9. Stewart, The Novels of Mme Riccoboni, 21. 10. Both Annie Rivara, Les Soeurs de Mariannes: suites, imitations, variations, 1731–1761 (London: Voltaire Foundation, 1991), and Stewart, The Novels of Mme Riccoboni examine the differences in the two texts. 11. Unless otherwise stated, the work of Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni is quoted from Œuvres comple`ttes de Madame Riccoboni, nouvelle ´edition, 10 vols. (Paris: Chez Desray, 1790). 12. Nicholls, Mme Riccoboni’s Letters, 227. 13. Ibid., 329. ´ron, Anne´e litte´raire, 292 vols. (Paris and Amsterdam: 14. Elie-Catherine Fre Crapard, 1754–90), 302. `le Bissie `re, ‘‘Mme Riccoboni: Romancie `re, traductrice, critique’’ 15. See Miche (dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1989). 16. Pierre Fauchery, La destine´e feminine dans le roman europe´en du dix-huitie`me sie`cle, 1713–1807: essai de gynomythie romanesque (Paris: A. Colin, 1972) studies feminocentric novels in the eighteenth century. 17. Olga Cragg, ‘‘Histoire du Marquis de Cressy,’’ Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century 266 (1989): 8. 18. Nancy K. Miller discusses women’s unusual uses of maxims and the implications for women with regard to the canon in ‘‘Emphasis Added: Plots and Plausibilities in Women’s Fiction,’’ PMLA 96 (1981): 36–48. 19. For more on Riccoboni and feminism see Colette Cazenobe, ‘‘Le Feminisme paradoxal de Madame Riccoboni,’’ Revue d’Histoire Litte´raire de la France ´e Demay, Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni ou de la pen88, no. 1 (1988): 23–45 and Andre ´ e Universelle, se´e fe´ministe chez une romancie`re du XVIIIe sie` cle (Paris: Pense 1977). 20. Frances Burney, Evelina (London: Printed for T. Lowndes,1778), preface. Unless otherwise stated, all further citations from this text will be noted parenthetically. The uppercase roman numerals indicate the volume number while the lowercase numerals specify the letter. A notation of III, xxi, for example, indicates volume 3, letter 21. 21. James Erickson examines Burney’s use of Haywood’s text in ‘‘Evelina and Betsy Thoughtless,’’ Texas Studies in Literature and Language 6, no. 1 (Spring 1964): 96–103. 22. Margaret Ann Doody, Frances Burney: The Life in the Works (New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 1988), 45. 23. Erickson, ‘‘Evelina and Betsy Thoughtless,’’ 99. 24. Ibid.,101

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25. Sharon B. Footerman, ‘‘A Neglected Source for Fanny Burney’s Evelina,’’ Notes and Queries (May–June 1977): 274. 26. Ibid., 275. 27. Both Doody, Frances Burney: The Life in the Works ( New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 1988) and Katherine Rodgers, Frances Burney: the World of Female Difficulties (New York: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1990) discuss the role of comedy in Burney’s novels. 28. To read divergent interpretations of the ludic and violent episodes in Burney, see Michael E. Adelstein, Fanny Burney (New York: Twayne, 1968); D. D. Devlin, The Novels and Journals of Fanny Burney (London: Macmillan, 1987); B. G. MacCarthy, The Later Women Novelists, 1744–1818 (Oxford: Cork University Press, 1947); and Rodgers, Frances Burney. 29. Other novels by Riccoboni, however, deal with class and economic issues for women. See the novella Ernestine as well as her novels Fanni Butlerd and Mistress Jenni. 30. For a discussion of homosocial as well as mimetic desire, see Rene´ Girard, Mensonge Romantique, ve´rite´ romanesque (Paris: Editions Bernard Grasset, 1961), and Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985). 31. I do not mean to suggest that Ernestine’s life circumstances are similar to Adeline’s. They are not. It is the advice and counsel given to Ernestine that is applicable to Adeline’s situation. 32. The English translations of Ernestine are for the most part taken from The Story of Ernestine edited and translated by Joan H. Stewart and Philip Stewart (New York: MLA, 1998). Due to the exigencies of textual analysis, in a few instances I took the liberty of modifying a word or two when the need arose. 33. Julia Epstein, The Iron Pen: Frances Burney and the Politics of Writing (Madison, Wis.: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989), 86. 34. Dolores Jimenez, ‘‘L’autobiographie sentimentale selon Madame Riccoboni,’’ paper presented at the Trames, Le Roman Sentimental (Actes du colloque international, Limoges, 1990), 53–67. 35. I do not mean to imply that this is restricted to women’s texts. Classification difficulties resulting from the mixing of humor and sentiment holds true for novels written by men too, although it is not so widespread. Sterne’s Sentimental Journey, for example, is alternately taken at face value or is considered to be a parody. 36. Ruth Perry, Women, Letters, and the Novel (New York: AMS Press, 1980),70. 37. Stewart, The Novels of Mme Riccoboni (North Carolina: Chapel Hill, 1976), 50. 38. I am grateful to Sarah Davies Cordova, who pointed out to me the play on names. 39. Perry, Women, Letters, and the Novel. 40. Epstein, The Iron Pen, 131. 41. For a discussion of the division of society into public and private spheres, see Jurgen Habermas, Structural Transformation in the Public Sphere, trans. Thomas Bergen (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1991); Dena Goodman, ‘‘Public Sphere and Private Life: Toward a Synthesis of Current Historiographical Approaches to

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the Old Regime.’’ History and Theory (February 1992): 1–20; and Joan B. Landes, Women and the Public Sphere in the Age of the French Revolution (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1988) as well as Richard Sennett, The Fall of Public Man (New York: Knopf, 1977) to name a few of the many scholars working on this topic. 42. For a complete discussion of Duval’s Frenchness and what it meant for Burney, see Antoinette Sol, ‘‘Un Double Miroir: l’image des Franc¸ais dans les romans de Frances Burney’’ in Le Meˆme, l’autre: regards ´europe´ens (Clerment-Fer´ des lettres et sciences humaines rand: Association des publications de la faculte de Clerment-Ferrand, 1997): 211–32. 43. It is interesting to note that the seating bought by Mr. Branghton is in the upper gallery, a space usually frequented by sailors and prostitutes. For a discussion of seating, dress, and social practices related to the theater and the opera, see Charles Beecher Hogan, The London Stage 1776–1800: A Critical Introduction (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1968); James J Lynch, Box, Pit and Gallery: Stage and Society in Johnson’s London (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1953); and George Winchester Stone, The London Stage: A Critical Introduction 1747–1776 (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1960–68). 44. Doody, Frances Burney, 52. 45. Doody studies the varied meanings evoked by the name Evelina in ibid., 36–45. See also Amy J. Pawl, ‘‘ ‘And what other name may I claim?’: Names and their Owners in Frances Burney’s Evelina,’’ Eighteenth-Century Fiction 3, no. 4 (July 1991): 283–99. 46. John J. Richetti, ‘‘Voice and Gender in Eighteenth-Century Fiction: Haywood to Burney,’’ Studies in the Novel 19, no. 3 (Fall 1987): 271. 47. Ibid., 269. 48. Ibid., 270. 49. Ibid., 269. 50. Ibid., 271.

CHAPTER 3: MORAL AUTHORITY AND TEXTUAL INDISCRETIONS ´sorier de l’extraordinaire des Guerres, who 1. It was Thomas Choderlos, tre ´cretaire du Roi’’ in 1725 and took the important step bought the position of ‘‘se from bourgeois to noblesse de robe. As Georges Poisson writes in his recent biography of Laclos, ‘‘At the end of his life, he could call himself squire, secretary counsel of the King, honorary of the House and Crown of France in the Great Chancellery’’ Choderlos de Laclos (10). ´ Pomeau notes in Laclos ou le paradoxe (Paris: Hachette, 1993) that 2. Rene Laclos ‘‘did not attend college, Jesuite or otherwise, and is an autodidacte’’ (26). Georges Poisson does not seem as certain, he mentions simply that no trace of the Laclos children have been found in school archives (Choderlos de Laclos, 14). 3. Attributed to Laclos by Tilly and quoted by Georges Poisson in Choderlos de Laclos, 72. The translation is mine. 4. An earlier version of the discussion of Laclos and Riccoboni appeared in

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Sol, ‘‘Why Write as a Woman: The Riccoboni-Laclos Correspondence,’’ Women in French 3 (Fall 1995): 34–44. 5. For an analysis of this correspondence from the vantage point of gendered ´e, ‘‘Dangerous Liaisons 2,’’ 51–70. reading, see Vanpe 6. References to Riccoboni’s correspondence with Laclos in this chapter are taken from Choderlos de Laclos, Les Liaisons dangereuses (N.p.: n.p., 1787). All further references will be parenthetical. The Roman numerals indicate the letter while the arabic ones refer to the page. The translations of this correspondence are mine. All emphasis in quotations belong to the respective author unless otherwise indicated. 7. Lanser, Fictions of Authority,12. ˆte’’ is not the same thing as an ‘‘honneˆte homme,’’ and 8. An ‘‘homme honne Riccoboni makes a definite point here. By placing the adjective after the noun, she qualifies Laclos as a moral man instead of a ‘‘social’’ one. To fulfill one goal of the ˆte two, ‘‘plaire,’’ would suffice and be all that she would expect from an ‘‘honne homme.’’ For a discussion of the evolution of the terms of sociability, see Laurent Versini, Laclos et la tradition litte´raire. 9. May’s Le dilemme deals with the different arguments justifying the novel’s existence. 10. Cited in Stewart, The Novels of Mme Riccoboni, 17. 11. Armand-Pierre Jaquin, Ouvrage moral et critique, dans lequel on traite de ` l’esprit que l’origine des romans et de leurs differentes especes, tant par rapport a par rapport au cœur (Paris: Duchesne, 1755), 339. 12. Mary Trouille looks at the problematic position of the woman as author in ‘‘Failings of Rousseau’s Ideals of Domesticity and Sensibility,’’ Eighteenth-Century Studies 24, no. 4 (1991): 451–83. 13. Marlene LeGates, ‘‘The Cult of Womanhood in Eighteenth-Century Thought,’’ Eighteenth-Century Studies X, no. 1 (1976): 26. 14. See Vila, Enlightenment and Pathology. 15. LeGates, ‘‘The Cult of Womanhood,’’ 29. 16. It was Riccoboni’s contention that a woman’s sexuality sprang from the engagement of her heart. For Riccoboni, physical desire sprang from a spiritual one. If many writers of her century believed that women were divided in a continual battle between the spiritual and the physical, Riccoboni did not. Riccoboni saw women enmeshed in society’s hypocrisy and double standard in the treatment of women. Fanni Butlerd is an example of this position. 17. Lanser, Fictions of Authority, 51. 18. Ibid., 51 19. Patricia Spacks, ‘‘Female Rhetorics,’’ in The Private Self: Theory and Practice of Women’s Autobiographical Writing, ed. Shari Benstock (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1988), 178. 20. Riccoboni’s attitude with respect to her position as a woman writer is examined in Christine Gaudry-Hudson, ‘‘The Two Faces of a Woman Writer in the 18th Century,’’ The Language Quarterly 26, no. 3–4 (spring–summer 1988): 20–21, 24. 21. Spacks, ‘‘Female Rhetorics,’’ 178. 22. I have borrowed the expression, ‘‘Une intelligence combinatrice,’’ from ´ Pomeau, which he used to describe Laclos. Laclos ou le paradoxe, 129. Rene

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23. Ibid., 127. ´ mi24. One notable exception is Ju ¨ rgen von Stackelberg in his article ‘‘Le fe nisme de Laclos’’ in which he rejects Michael de Butor’s notion that Laclos’s novel is in the tradition of ‘‘Don Quixote’’ and situates Les Liaisons dangereuses firmly in the tradition of women’s writing. ‘‘It is sufficient to mention these three women [Merteuil, Tourvel, Rosemonde] to be able to affirm something that has not been said often enough, that is, Les Liaisons dangereuses is a feminine novel—‘ein Frauenroman’ . . . Seen from this perspective, Laclos’s novel belongs to a much more extensive tradition than that of the libertine novel, the feminine novel of the eighteenth century. . . . But how exactly did women defend their cause in the novels of the period? Two novels will serve as examples to sketch out an answer to this question and at the same time to bring us closer to Laclos: The Peruvien Let` Milord ters by Madame de Graffigny, et the Lettres de Mistriss Fanny Butlerd a Charles Alfred de Caitombridge by Madame Riccoboni’’ (277–79). Unfortunately the ‘‘rapprochement’’ is very brief and limited to two short paragraphs. Stackelberg continues with an analysis of Laclos’s three unfinished essays on women. ‘‘Le ´minisme de Laclos,’’ in Themes et figures du sie`cle des Lumie`res: Me´langes offe ` Roland Mortier, ed. Raymond Trousson (Geneva: Droz, 1980), 271–84. ferts a 25. Demay, Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni, 74. 26. Landes, Women and the Public Sphere, 10. ` Fromentin (Paris: 27. Joachim Merlant, Le Roman personnel de Rousseau a Hachette, 1905), 6. 28. Suellen Diaconoff, Eros and Power in Les Liaisons dangereuses: a Study in Evil (Geneva: Droz, 1979), 17. 29. Diaconoff, ‘‘Resistence and Retreat,’’ 393. ´ Pomeau, ‘‘D’Ernestine aux Liaisons dangereuses: le dessein de 30. Rene Laclos,’’ Revue d’Histoire Litte´raire de la France 68, no. 3–4 (Mai-Aout 1968): 628. 31. There is a discussion on the opportune quality to the heroine’s fainting just at the right moment. This way she is not culpable. There are psychological analyses of this phenomenon, but I think it has to be put into the perspective of the medical discourse current at the time. The senses were the mediator between the body and the intellect. They were highly reactive and easily overloaded and frequently needed release in tears, agitation of the limbs, convulsions, and in women, a period of ‘‘down time.’’ See R. F. Brissenden, Virtue in Distress (London: Macmillan, 1974); David Marshall, The Surprising Effects of Sympathy: Marivaux, Diderot, Rousseau (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1988); Nancy K Miller, ‘‘ ‘I’s in Drag,’’ 47–57; and Mullen, Sentiment and Sociability; as well as Todd, Sensibility: An Introduction. 32. The English translations of Laclos’s novel are taken from the English version of Les liaisons dangereuse translated by Richard Aldington (New York: Signet, 1962). Due to the exigencies of textual analysis, in a few instances I took the liberty of modifying a word or two when the need arose. 33. Pomeau, ‘‘D’Ernestine,’’ 628. 34. Linda Hutcheon in A Theory of Parody: the Teaching of Twentieth-Century Art Forms (New York: Methuen, 1985) defines parody as an exploration of the ‘‘essential conventionality of literary form’’, ‘‘a laying bare’’ of its conceits and ‘‘a form of imitation . . . characterized by ironic inversion, not always at the expense

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of the parodied text’’ (3–6). Parody’s target is always another work of art, another ‘‘form of coded discourse’’ (16). It relies on the ‘‘competence of the reader (viewer, listener) of the parody’’ and operates as ‘‘a method of inscribing continuity while permitting critical distance‘‘(20). This definition of parody is an accurate description of the textual relationship between Riccoboni, Burney, and Laclos (as ´billon fils, Richardson, and Rousseau). well Laclos and Cre 35. Pomeau, ‘‘D’Ernestine,’’ 629. 36. Jacques Vier, Histoire litte´raire franc¸aise XVIII, vol. 2 (Paris: Armand Colin, 1970), chapter 15. 37. Riccoboni’s narrator writes, ‘‘Love would never cause us pain if the men who inspired our love were worthy of our feelings’’ (21); ‘‘Men would save themselves from most of the trouble they take with us to cause us pain, if they could imagine how easy the nobility of our thoughts made it for them to deceive us. A woman would believe herself degraded by attributing base motives to the object of her affections; and once she loves, she attributes more virtues to the loved one than he would ever dare to feign’’ (50); ‘‘Men accuse us of an extreme credulity when it comes to things which flatter our ego; but what vanity can compare with their weakness?’’ (98). 38. See the work of two critics who noted that Fanni Butlerd was not an auto´ Demay, Marie-Jeanne Riccoboni and Aurora Wolfgang, biographical text, Andre ‘‘Fallacies of Literary History: the Myth,’’ Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century 304 (1992): 735–40. 39. For an insightful study of Riccoboni’s first novel, see Stewart, The Novels of Mme Riccoboni. Jensen, ‘‘Male Models,’’ 25–45, and DeJean, Tender Geographies analyze the common practice of men editing and writing women’s correspondence for publication. 40. See Roy Roussel, ‘‘The Project of Seduction and the Equality of the Sexes in Les Liaisons dangereuses,’’ MLN 96, no. 4 (May 1981): 728, for a discussion of gender role reversal in the novel. 41. M. Barguillet, ‘‘Les Liaisons dangereuses: commentaire de la lettre LXXXI,’’ Information Litte´raire 43, no. 5 (1991): 15. 42. See Jean Ehrard, Roseanne Runte, and Susan Dunn for treatment of Merteuil and Valmont as actors and writers. ´minine? A propos de Marie-Jeanne Ric43. See Catherine Piau, ‘‘L’Ecriture fe coboni,’’ Dix-Huitie`me Sie`cle 16 (1984): 385. 44. Stewart, The Novels of Mme Riccoboni, 131. 45. Miller, The Heroine’s Text, 129. 46. Versini, Laclos et la tradition litte´raire, 606. 47. Aurora Wolfgang, ‘‘Furiously Female: Constructing the Feminine Voice in Eighteenth-Century French Fiction’’ dissertation (New York University, 1993), examines the use and deployment of a female voice.

CHAPTER 4: SUBVERSIONS OF MEANING ´ Pomeau, ‘‘Le mariage de Laclos,’’ Revue d’histoire litte´raire de la 1. Rene France 64 (1964): 71; Versini, Laclos: Œuvres comple`tes, 1466. 2. See Nancy K. Miller, ‘‘Men’s Reading, Women’s Writing: Gender and the

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Rise of the Novel,’’ Yale French Studies 75 (1988): 40–55; and Naomi Schor, ‘‘La ´riodie: Superposition dans Lorenzaccio,’’ Michigan Romance Studies 1 (1982): Pe 73–86. 3. All references to Laclos’s review of Burney’s Cecilia will be taken from the ´ iade edition unless otherwise indicated and will be parenthetical. Laclos, Ple Laclos: Œuvres comple`tes. The translations are mine. 4. Versini, Laclos: Œuvres comple`tes, 1470. 5. Ibid., 1468. 6. Claude Pichois examines Laclos’s reading of ‘‘Le fils naturel’’ in ‘‘Un roman ´connu et inacheve ´ de Laclos, suivi des observations du Ge ´ne ´ral Laclos sur le me ´ aˆ tral de Monsieur Lacretelle aıˆne ´ ,’’ Saggi e Richerche di letteratura roman the francese 1 (1960): 87–148. See also Versini, Laclos: Œuvres comple`tes, 1468–9. 7. Laclos, Laclos: Œuvres comple`tes, 449. 8. See Erica Harth, Cartesian Women: Versions and Subversions of Rational Discourse in the Old Regime (Ithaca: Cornell, 1992), for a discussion on the feminine suffix attached to masculine nouns and how women felt about being separated from the larger masculine community by their use. 9. See Linda Hutcheon, A Theory of Parody. 10. Frances Burney, Cecilia, or Memoirs of an Heiress (London: T. Payne and son and T. Cadell, 1782). All subsequent citations will be taken from this edition and indicated parenthetically unless otherwise indicated. The Roman numeral refers to the volume number and the Arabic numeral indicates the page. 11. These maternal expectations are reflections of paternal order. Mrs. Delvile is an example of the ‘‘phallic mother’’ as one who internalizes the law of the Father. For a discussion of the phallic mother, see Jane Gallop, The Daughter’s Seduction: Feminism and Psychoanalysis (New York: Cornell University Press, 1982) and Madelon Sprengnether, The Spectral Mother: Freud, Feminisms, and Psychoanalysis (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1990). 12. Roland Barthes, Sur Racine (Paris: Seuil, 1963), 43–49. 13. Epstein, The Iron Pen, 156. 14. Juliet McMaster, ‘‘The Silent Angel: Impediments to Female Expression in Frances Burney’s Novels,’’ Studies in the Novel 3 (fall 1989): 239. 15. Saint Cecilia, the patron saint of musicians, is popular in France. A patrician daughter of Roman parents, she lived in the third century and is noted for her charity and purity. She rebelled against an arranged marriage and converted her spouse, Valerian, to Christianity, an act then considered a subversion of instituted authority. I don’t think it is farfetched to think that Frances Burney knew the story of Saint Cecilia given that her grandmother was French and Burney’s father was a musician. I feel it probable that both Laclos and Burney in different ways called upon the traces that are encoded in this name. For information on Saint Cecilia, consult Jacques de Voragine, La Legende dore´e, trans. J. B. Roze, 2 vols. (Paris: Garnier-Flammarion, 1967), 367. 16. Masquerade is treated in depth in Terry Castle’s, Masquerade and Civilization: The Carnivalesque in Eighteenth-Century English Culture and Fiction (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1986). 17. Peggy Kamuf, Fictions of Feminine Desire: Disclosures of Heloise (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1987), xvii. 18. Epstein, The Iron Pen,166.

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19. D. Grant Campbell, ‘‘Fashionable Suicide: Conspicuous Consumption and the Collapse of Credit in Frances Burney’s Cecilia,’’ Studies in Eighteenth-Century Culture 20 (1990): 131–45, studies Burney’s use of suicide in relation to financial matters. 20. Anne Deneys, ‘‘The Political Economy of the Body in Laclos,’’ in Eroticism and the Body Politic, ed. Lynn Hunt (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991), 49. 21. Doody, Frances Burney, 146. 22. Catherine Parke, ‘‘Vision and Revision: A Model for Reading the Eighteenth-Century Novel of Education,’’ Eighteenth-Century Studies 16, no. 2 (winter 1982–83): 168. 23. Ibid., 169. 24. Anne Deneys, ‘‘Political Economy,’’ 44. 25. Kamuf, Fictions of Feminine Desire, 162. 26. Peggy Kamuf in ibid. writes on the constructions which contain or enclose female desire: ‘‘Whether it is behind the solid walls of the nun’s cloister, at the unspoken limit of the hysteric’s language, or within the frame set by a parent’s desire, the passion that shapes these fictions can only discover itself in transgression of the law which encloses it’’ (xvii). 27. Doody, Frances Burney, 122. 28. See Nancy K. Miller, The Heroine’s Text. 29. Ibid., 124 30. Ibid., 118. 31. Doody, Frances Burney, 45. 32. See Susan Gubar, ‘‘The Blank Page’ and Issues of Female Creativity,’’ in Gender Studies: New Directions in Feminist Critcism, ed. Judith Spector (Bowling Greene, Ohio: Bowling Green State University Popular Press, 1986), 100–122, for a discussion on the link between the female body, writing, and madness. 33. See Tzvan Todorov, Litte´rature et signification (Paris: Larousse, 1967). 34. Burney is seen to be the unification of two major authors in the mid-eighteenth century: Richardson and Fielding. There are many elements that escape the sphere of influence of these two authors which can be explained when the French tradition is taken into consideration. The lack of external characterization, which is so often voiced by critics, is not due to an inept author, but rather to the French mode of writing. Among others, this can be seen in the works of Montes´vost, and Riccoboni. See also Peter Brooks, The Novel of Worldliness, quieu, Pre who discusses particularities of French style and its reception. 35. Janet Gurkin Altman, Epistolarity: Approaches to a Form (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1982), 181. 36. Harrison R. Steeves, Before Jane Austen: The Shaping of the English Novel in the Eighteenth Century (New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1965), 217. 37. For an extensive study of Burney’s style, see Tracy Edgar Daugherty, Narrative Techniques in the Novels of Fanny Burney, Studies in Romantic Age 1 (n.p.: Peter Lang, 1989). 38. Janet Gurkin Altman, ‘‘Addressed and Undressed Language in Les Liaisons dangereuses,’’ in Critical Approaches to Les Liaisons dangereuses, ed. Lloyd R. Free (Madrid: Studia Humanitatis, 1978), 223–57, and Peter V. Conroy, Intimate, Intrusive, and Triumphant: Readers in the Liaisons dangereuses, vol. 23, Purdue

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University Monograph in Romance Languages (Philadelphia: Benjamins, 1987), looks at the circulation and reading of letters in Les Liaisons dangereuses. 39. See Alexandre Leupin’s study on hagiographic texts, Barbarolexis: Middle Ages and Writing and Sexuality, trans. Kate Cooper (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1989). He explores how the evangelical Word is written on the body of the saints, how through the suffering the body is transformed into a rhetorical figure for the text itself. See also, Ernst Robert Curtius, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, trans. Willard R. Trask. Bolligen Series 36 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1953). 40. See Julia Epstein’s, ‘‘Fanny Burney’s Epistolary Voices,’’ The Eighteenth Century: Theory and Interpretation 27, no. 2 (spring 1986): 28, or her Iron Pen. 41. Epstein, The Iron Pen, 99. 42. Ibid., 99. 43. Cragg, introduction to ‘‘Histoire du Marquis de Cressy,’’ vi. 44. Burney cited in Doody, Frances Burney, 145. 45. Didier Masseau, ‘‘Le Narrataire des Liaisons dangereuses,’’ Laclos et le libertinage, 1782–1982; Actes du Colloque du bicentennaire des Liaisons dangereuses (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1983), 135. 46. Brooks, The Novel of Worldliness, 209. ´ Corti, 1985), 92. 47. Armine Kotin Mortimer, La Cloˆture Narrative (Paris: Jose 48. On endings in epistolary texts, see Altman, Epistolarity and MacArthur, ´ssis, WritExtravagant Narratives. On endings in general, see Rachel Blau Du Ple ing Beyond the Ending: Narrative Strategies of Twentieth-Century Women Writers (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985); as well as D. A. Miller, Narrative and Its Discontents: Problems of Closure in the Traditional Novel (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981) and Mortimer, La Cloˆture Narrative. 49. Mortimer, La Cloˆture Narrative, 80. 50. Ibid., 21. Riccoboni ends her second novel, Cressy, in this manner: ‘‘Il ´; il obtint tous les titres, tous les honneurs qu’il [Cressy] fut grand, il fut distingue ´sire ´s; il fut riche, il fut e ´leve ´: mais il ne fut point heureux’’ [He was great, avoit de he was distinguished: he obtained all the titles and honors that he had desired; he was rich, he was highly placed: but he was not happy] (116).

CHAPTER 5: CONCLUSION: GENRE, GENDER, AND INTERTEXTS 1. Dorothy R. Thelander, Laclos and the Epistolary Novel (Geneva: Droz, 1963). 2. Peter Brooks, Reading for the Plot: Design and Intention in Narrative (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1984); Roseann Runte, ‘‘Authors and Actors: The Characters in Les Liaisons dangereuses,’’ in Laclos: Critical Approaches to Les Liaisons dangereuses, ed. Lloyd R. Free (Madrid: Studia Humanitatis, 1978), 123–36. 3. Runte, ‘‘Authors and Actors,’’ 123–36. 4. Mary Anne Schofield, Masking and Unmasking the Female Mind: Disguising Romances in Feminine Fiction, 1713–1799 (Newark: Delaware University Press, 1990), 77. 5. Ibid., 76.

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6. Nancy K. Miller, The Heroine’s Text. 7. Lanser in the opening chapter of Fictions of Authority has convincingly pointed to the hidden equation that marriage equals death in this novel. 8. James R. Foster, History of the Pre-Romantic Novel in England. (New York: ´ Pre ´ vost’’ and Thomas Philip Haviland, The PMLA, 1949); idem, ‘‘The Abbe Roman de Longue Haleine on English Soil (Philadelphia: np, 1931). 9. It should be noted that Riccoboni returned to the epistolary mode for her subsequent novels, only her novellas are written in the third person. Both Riccoboni and Burney were anxious about the reception of their work. Riccoboni never got over this fear and wrote of it in her personal letters to Liston and Diderot. It was at Diderot’s urging that she attached her signature to her third novel, Catesby. Because a work was not signed did not mean that the author was not known; the lack of signature functioned as an effective screen that served a woman’s propriety. Although Burney had the backing of her father and Johnson to give her authority to sign her name, they were also a source of anxiety. They pushed her through the writing process to the point of illness, and many of the technical faults of Cecilia can be attributed to their pressure to rush to print. 10. Joanne Cutting-Gray, Woman as ‘Nobody’ and the Novels of Fanny Burney (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1992), 52. 11. Dale M. Bauer, Feminist Dialogics: A Theory of Failed Community (New York: State University of New York Press, 1988), 86 and Lefevre, Invention as a Social Act, 47. 12. Lanser, Fictions of Authority, 8. 13. Thomas Babington Macaulay, On Frances Burney (London: Macmillan, 1919). Macaulay attributes the change in Burney’s style to her years in service to the queen, which put a ‘‘blight’’ on her humor and style. 14. T. Biancolelli cited in Joan Stewart, The Novels of Mme Riccoboni, 28. 15. Cragg, ‘‘Histoire du Marquis de Cressy,’’ 28. 16. See Margaret Ann Doody, ‘‘George Eliot and the Eighteenth-Century Novel’’ Nineteenth-Century Fiction 35, no. 3 (1980), 260–91 17. An extensive analysis of the intertextual nature of the title page can be found in Rosbottom, Choderlos de Laclos. 18. In addition to the inclusion of Riccoboni and Rousseau through paratextual references, Laclos implicates many writers through Merteuil’s citations of writers most often left unidentified. Richardson and another heretofore unidentified writer are referenced through Madame de Tourvel’s reading matter. Valmont finds out through his valet that she reads Clarissa and another work, Les Pense´es Chre´tiennes. Although the latter work has remained unidentified, I believe it may be a ´nouville’s strange text entitled Les Pense´es errantes: avec reference to Mme de Be quelques lettres d’un indien par Madame de *** (1758). The first part consists of a preface 3 times the length of the epistolary story and is a collection of all sorts of moral reflections. One phrase in particular stands out in the memory of any reader of Laclos’s novel: ‘‘. . . aussi les femmes prudes, qui veulent avoir tout a` la fois les ´, et la gloire de la vertu, se bercent d’une chime`re . . .’’ (11). plaisirs de la volupte The common thread running through the Pense´es errantes is the unequal treatment of women in society reminiscent of Riccoboni’s discourse. Laclos’s intertex´tiennes’’ with ‘‘errantes’’ can be tual and ironic play in the substitution of ‘‘chre seen as a comment not only on Tourvel’s erratic state of mind, but also on Chris-

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tian dogma as well as to Rousseau’s La Nouvelle He´loı¨se that is given as the source in the text of Les Liaisons dangereuses itself. However, the editor is as unreliable as the characters in their citations. 19. Julia Kristeva, Le Texte du roman (Hague: Mouton, 1970). 20. Frank Bradbrook, Jane Austen and Her Predecessors (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1966), writes that ‘‘the influence of French literature is difficult to estimate, but it is probably greater than has usually been assumed. In 1786 Jane’s cousin, Eliza de Feuillide, arrived at Steventon (Austen’s home) bringing with her a command of the French language, knowledge of the French court, and a talent for theatricals.’’ It is highly likely that Jane’s cousin was familiar with Laclos’s novel (122–23).

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Index Numbers in boldface indicate illustrations Abeille, L’, (Riccoboni), 52, 117, 118 abeille, une, 118 Addison: Spectator, 52, 117 Almanach des Muses, 110 Apologie des femmes (Perrault), 31 Arblay, Alexandre-Jean-Baptiste Piochard d’, 59 ´ry), 30 Artame`re (Scude Art poe´tique, L’, (Boileau), 31 ´volte de MaAury, Dominique: ‘‘La re dame de Merteuil,’’ 127 Austen, Jane, 23, 160, 198; Lady Susan, 11, 204; Mansfield Park, 204 authority: and women, 54

110, 196–98, 203; biography, 59–65; Camilla, 59; Cecilia, 11, 24, 37, 59, 159–72, 176, 183–84, 188–89, 192, 195; compared to Riccoboni, 64–65, 74–75, 79; Evelina, 10, 24, 51, 53– 54, 59–65, 71–79, 86–94, 109, 160, 161, 164, 173–77, 182–86, 192, 196, on female independence, 101–5; and gender, 191–204; and irony, 105, and ‘‘masculine comedic mode,’’ 79; on men’s gallantries, 86; themes of, 99; views on, 60; The Wanderer, 59–60; on women, 53 Burney, Susan, 51

´ de, 20 Balzac, Honore Barthes, Roland: Sur Racine, 167 Baudelaire, 20 Bayle, Pierre, 31 ´dacier-Durand, Mme, 30 Be Behn, Aphra, 34, 198, 204; Love Letters, 35, 194 Bernard, Catherine, 30 ´re `se, 56, 57, 196 Biancolelli, Marie-The bienfaisance, 34 biense´ance, 44 Boileau, Nicholas, 32; L’Art poe´tique, 31; Contre les femmes, 31 boulet creux, 49, 111 ´tif de la, 115; Monsieur Bretonne, Re Nicholas, 55 Brooke, Frances, 23, 37, 64 Brooks, Peter, 189 Brown, Martha G., 60 Burney, Dr., 51 Burney, Frances, 7, 8, 10, 11, 19, 20– 23, 25, 26, 41, 47, 49, 50, 58, 70,

Camilla (Burney), 59 Catesby (Lettres de Milady Juliette ` Milady Henriette CamCatesby a pley) (Riccoboni), 10, 23–25, 57, 53– 54, 63, 64, 78–79, 80–85 Cazenobe, Colette, 23, 126 Cecilia or Memoirs of an Heiress (Burney), 11, 24, 37, 59, 159–72, 176, 183–84, 188–89, 192, 195 Centlivre, Susan, 34 Challes, Robert, 40 Clarissa (Richardson), 27, 41–43, 46, 131, 151, 182 Charlotte, Queen, 59 Charpentrat, Pierre, 37 Church, the: and women, 31 class division, 8 ´medie Italienne, 115 Co comedy, 63; Restoration, 63 comic violence, 93–98 Contre les femmes (Boileau), 31 conversation, 30–31

239

240

INDEX

Cook, Elizabeth, 79 Correspondance Litte´raire (Grimm), 54, 57 Coulet, Henri, 40 Coward, David, 20 Cragg, Olga, 58, 188, 197 ´billon fils (Claude Prosper), 8, 9, Cre 20, 39, 40–41, 42, 50, 192, 194, 198, 204; Egarements, 42; Les Fables de La Fontaine, 46; Le Sopha, 46, 151 ´lisenne de, 30 Crenne, He Cressy (Histoire de M. le Marquis de Cressy) (Riccoboni), 10, 24, 56, 126, 128, 131, 135–46, 195, 197 Cutting-Gray, Joanna, 60 danger de l’e´garement, le, 41 Daniel, Georges, 49 Dard, Emile, 47 Deffand, Mme du, 55 De Jean, Joan, 8, 28, 29, 32, 46, 47 Delon, Michel, 44 De l’usage des romans (Lenglet-Dufresnoy), 31 ´e, 23, 126 Demay, Andre Deneys, Anne, 176 ‘‘D’Ernestine aux Liaisons dangereuses,’’ (Pomeau), 129 Desfontaines, Pierre-Franc¸ois Guyot: Observations sur les ´ecrits modernes, 31 Diaconoff, Suellen, 37, 127–28 Diderot, Denis, 20, 23, 27, 38, 40, 54, 64 Doody, Margaret, 23, 60–61, 173, 180 ´me `s, 51 Doudan, Xime ´, Marie-Sulange, 159 Duperre DuBarry, Mme, 57, 110 ´ssis, Rachel, 193 Du Ple ´billon fils), 42 Egarements (Cre Encyclope´die, 17, 31 endings: problematic, 188–90 Enlightenment, the, 9, 18, 24; and women, 52 epistemology, 18, 19, 22 ´ pitre a` Margot’’ (Laclos), 110 ‘‘E Epstein, Julia, 23, 60, 77–78, 170, 186 Erickson, James, 62, 63

Ernestine (Les Vrais caracte`res ou histoire d’Ernestine) (Riccoboni), 10, 24, 36, 37, 57, 67, 110, 126, 128–38 esprit, l’, 40; vs. le coeur, 40 Etourdie, L’. See Miss Betsy Thoughtless Evelina (Evelina or The History of a Young Lady’s Entrance into the World) (Burney), 10, 24, 52, 53–54, 59–65, 71–80, 86–94, 109, 160, 161, 164, 173–77, 182–86, 193, 196 ´billon Fables de La Fontaine, Les (Cre fils), 46 Fanni Butlerd (Lettres de Mistriss ` Milord Charles AlFanni Butlerd a fred, Comte d’Erford) (Riccoboni), 10, 24, 56, 58, 70–71, 79–80, 126, 145–58, 193, 194 female agency, 65–72 female complicity, 99–105 ‘‘Female Rhetorics’’ (Spacks), 122 female victimization, 32–33 Fielding, Henry, 34, 35, 63, 162, 163 Fils naturel, La (Lacretelle), 125, 161 Flaubert, Gustave, 198 Flore, Jeanne de, 30 Flowers of Beautiful Speaking, The (Rues), 32 Footerman, Sharon B., 62 Fortunate Foundlings, The (Haywood), 41 Foster, James R., 63 France, Marie de, 30 French Revolution, 111 ´ron, Elie-Catherine, 54, 58 Fre Fronde, the, 29, 30 Gardiner, Judith K., 28, 35–36 Garrick, David, 54, 56, 64 Gavard, Mlle, 51 gender divide, 9 gendered narrative, 194–204 generosity: women’s 95 Genlis, Mme de, 55 Gomez, Mme de, 30, 204 Goodman, Dena, 18 Graffigny, Franc¸oise d’Issembourg d’Happoncourt, Madame de, 198

INDEX

Grenaille, Franc¸ois de: New Collection of Ladies’ Letters both Ancient and Modern, 32 Grimm, Friedrich: Correspondance Litte´raire, 54, 57 Gribeauval, Jean-Baptiste Vaquette de, 111 Haywood, Eliza, 34, 62, 194, 198, 204; The Fortunate Foundlings, 41; Miss Betsy Thoughtless, 61, 62, 63 ´tius, Claude-Adrien, 40 Helve Heroine’s Text, The (Miller), 37 Heureux Orphelins, Les, 41. See also The Fortunate Foundlings Histoire de Miss Jenny (Riccoboni), 57, 62, 63 Hoffman, E. T. A., 37 Holbach, Paul-Henri, 23, 54 Homans, Margaret, 196 humor, 61, 79 Huet, Pierre: Traite´ de l’origine de romans, 31 Hume, David, 23, 27, 54 intentionality, 198–204 irony, 22, 63, 66, 70, 77, 79, 80, 85, 105, 106, 109, 130, 134, 137, 145, 150, 153, 154, 169, 170, 172, 173, 174, 182, 183, 184, 189, 197, 198, 199 Jacobins, 111 James, Henry, 198 Jaucourt, Louis, 31 Jiminez, Dolores, 79 Johnson, Samuel, 61, 195 Julie or la Nouvelle He´loı¨se (Rousseau), 27, 45, 46, 54, 57, 115, 118, 131, 151, 155, 198, 199 Juliette Catesby (Letters from Miss Juliette Catesby) (Riccoboni), 63, 64, 78–79, 80–85, 93, 101–9, 119, 128, 191, 193 Kamuf, Peggy, 170, 176 Kristeva, Julia, 49

241

`re, Jean de, 40 La Bruye Laclos, Choderlos de, 7, 8, 10, 11, 19, 20–28, 41–43, 50; and authority, 46– 48, biography of, 110–12; on Burney, 159–63; ‘‘Epitre a` Margot,’’ 110; as feminist, 126–29; and gender, 191–98; Les Liaisons dangereuses, 7, 8, 10, 11, 22, 28, 37, 41–46, 48–50, 110–58, 160–204, 200, 201; military `re, career of, 47–48, on Molie 121–22; ‘‘Sur l’Eloge de Vauban,’’ 111; and Riccoboni, 112–58, 199; vs. Rousseau, 126, 127; and women’s texts, 50 Laclos ou le paradoxe (Pomeau), 125 Lacretelle, Jacques de: Le Fils naturel, 125, 161 Lady Susan (Austen), 11, 204 Lafayette, Mme de, 30, 40, 46–47, 128, 163; La Princesse de Cleves, 28, 35 La Harpe, Jean-Franc¸ois de, 42, 54 Lambert, Marquise de, 128 Landes, Joan, 126 Lanser, Susan, 118, 196 La Rochefoucauld, Duc, 40 Lefevre, Karen Burke, 20 Lenglet-Dufresnoy, Nicolas: De l’usage des romans, 31 Lesage, Alain, 55 Letters on all Sorts of Subjects with Advice on the Manner to Write Them `re), 33 (Vamorie ` Lettres d’Elisabeth-Sophie de Vallie`re a Louise-Hortense de Canteleu, son amie (Riccoboni), 57 ` Sir Charles Lettres de Mylord Rivers a Cardigan (Riccoboni), 10, 24, 57, 63–71 Lettres Persanes, Les (Montesquieu), 182 Liaisons dangereuses, Les (Laclos), 7, 8, 10, 11, 22, 28, 37, 41–46, 48–50, 110–58, 160–204, 200, 201 Libertinism, 8, 22, 24–29, 40–42, 46 Liston, Robert, 57 Louis XIV, 29–30, 48 Louis XV, 57 Love Letters (Behn), 35, 194

242

INDEX

Macauley, Thomas, 196 `re, 34, 204 Manley, Delarivie Mansfield Park (Austen), 204 Marivaux, Pierre, 20, 23, 27, 40, 54, 55, 61, 204; La Vie de Marianne, 27, 54, 56, 127 Masseau, Didier, 189 Maupertius, Pierre-Louis Moreau de, 40 maxims, 145 May, Georges, 37 Me´moires d’une fille de qualite´ (Mouhy), 190 Mercure de France, 159 Merlant, Joachim, 127 Miller, Nancy, 8, 25, 47, 58, 160, 192; The Heroine’s Text, 37 Miss Betsy Thoughtless (Haywood), 61, 62, 63 `re, 20, 121–22 Molie ´tonne), 55 Monsieur Nicholas (Bre Montaigne, 118 Montalembert, Marquis de, 48, 111 Montesquieu: Les Lettres Persanes, 182 Mortimer, Armine K., 189 Mouhy, Charles de Fieux, chevalier de: Me´moires d’une fille de qualite´, 190 ´ter, 26 Nagy, Pe Napoleon, 111 Navarre, Marguerite de, 30 New Collection of Ladies’ Letters (Grenaille), 32 Newton, Judith L., 60 ˆtre Anglais, Le (RiccoNouveau The´a boni), 57 nouvelle, the, 33 novels, 17–19; epistolary, 10, 32, 79, 105–9, 182–88, 195; ‘‘feminocentric,’’ 58; libertine, 199; of manners, 79; realistic, 32; sentimental, 10, 23, 32, 34, 36, 40, 79; women’s, 31–32 Observations sur les ´ecrits modernes (Desfontaines), 31 O’Neal, John, 24–25 Orleans duc d’, 111 Palissot, Charles, 55 Pamela (Richardson), 115, 116

parody, 158 Perrault, Charles: Apologie des femmes, 31; Sie`cle de Louis le Grand, 31 Perry, Ruth, 84–85 philosophes, 40 Pizan, Christine de, 30 Poisson, George, 47 ´, 135, 159; ‘‘D’Ernestine Pomeau, Rene aux Liaisons dangereuses,’’ 129; Laclos ou le paradoxe, 125 Pope, Alexander, 55 ´vost, Abbe ´, 20, 27, 38, 40, 54, 192, Pre 194, 204 Princesse de Cle`ves, La (Lafayette), 28, 35 Proust, Marcel, 198 Racine, Jean, 20 realism, 32–34, 44 ´volte de Madame de Merteuil, La’’ ‘‘re (Aury), 127 Riccoboni, Marie Jeanne, 7, 8, 10, 11, 19–27, 34, 38, 41, 47, 49, 50, 60, 62– 64, 110, 160, 164, 196–98, 202, 203; L’ Abeille, 52, 117, 118; biography, 55–59; and Burney, 64–65, 74–75, 79; Catesby, 10, 23–25, 57, 53–54, 63, 64, 78–79, 80–85, 93, 101–9, 119, 191, 193; Cressy, 10, 24, 56, 126, 128, 131, 135–46, 195, 197; Ernestine, 10, 24, 36, 37, 57, 67, 110, 126, 128–38; Fanni Butlerd, 10, 24, 56, 58, 70–71, 79–80, 126, 145–58, 193, 194; on female independence, 101–5; and gender, 191–98; Histoire de Miss Jenny, 57, 62, 63; and Laclos, 112–58, 199; Lettres d’Elis`re, 57; Lettres abeth-Sophie de Vallie de Mylord Rivers, 10, 24, 57, 63–71; ˆtre Anglais, 57; Le Nouveau The´a novels of, 51, 56–58; Sancerre, 10, 57, 58; theories of, 99; on women, 52, 53 Richardson, Samuel, 8, 9, 20, 28, 34, 35, 37–44, 50, 58, 61, 162, 163, 194; Clarissa, 27, 41–43, 46, 131, 155, 182; Pamela, 115, 116 Richelieu, Cardinal: Testament politique, 29

INDEX

Richetti, John, 105–6 Rodgers, Katherine, 60 ` scandal, 36. See also scandal roman a chronicle roman galant, 36 romance, 62 Rosbottom, Ronald, 48 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 8, 9, 20, 28, 37–39, 41, 46–47, 50, 61, 134, 162, 163, 198, 203; Julie or la Nouvelle He´loı¨se (Rousseau), 27, 45, 46, 54, 57, 115, 118, 131, 151, 155, 198, 199 Rues, Franc¸ois de: The Flowers of Beautiful Speaking, 32 Sade, Marquis de, 20 Saint Foix, Poulain de, 56 Saint-Georges, 110 Sancerre (Lettres d’Ade´laı¨de de Dam` martin, Comtesse de Sancerre, a Monsieur le Comte de Nance´, son amie (Riccoboni), 10, 57, 58 scandal chronicle, 33, 34. See also ` scandal roman a Schofield, Mary Anne, 192 Schor, Naomi, 28, 160 Scotsdale, X, 64 ´ry, Mme de, 32, 35; Artame`ne, Scude 30 ´gur, comte de, 111 Se Sensibility, 26–27, 36 Sentiment, 36, 79 Sentimentalism, 8, 22–29, 40, 41, 46 Seven Years’ War, 111 Seylaz, Jean Luc, 37 Sie`cle de Louis le Grand (Perrault), 31 Smith, Adam, 23, 54–55; Theory of Moral Sentiments, 27 Smollett, Tobias, 62, 63 ´billon fils), 46, 151 Sopha, Le (Cre Spacks, Patricia Meyer, 119; ‘‘Female Rhetorics,’’ 122 Spectator (Addison), 52, 117

243

Staves, Susan, 60 Stendhal, 20, 198 Stewart, Joan H., 8, 23, 36 Straub, Kristina, 23, 60 ‘‘Sur l’Eloge de Vauban’’ (Laclos), 111 Sur Racine (Barthes), 167 Surrealists, 20 Tencin, Mme de, 34 Testament politique (Richelieu), 29 Theory of Moral Sentiments (Smith), 27 Thrale, Mrs., 51, 52 Traite´ de l’origine des romans (Huet), 31 translations, 18 Vailland, Roger, 37 `re, Ortigues de: Letters on all Vamorie Sorts of Subjects, 33 ´bastien le Prestre, seigneur Vauban, Se de, 48, 111 Versini, Laurent, 37–38, 40, 42, 44, 64, 159, 161 Vie de Marianne, La (Marivaux), 27, 54, 56, 127 Vier, Jacques, 138 Vila Anne C., 26 Villedieu, Mme de, 30, 34, 194, 198, 204 Voltaire, 55 violence, 63 Walpole, Horace, 54 Wanderer, The (Burney), 59–60 Warner, William, 28, 34 Wohlfarth, Irving, 49 women: and the development of the novel, 30–32; in the eighteenth century, 116; repression of, 32; texts of 49–50; as theme in Laclos, 38–39 women’s fiction: in England, 33–34; in France, 33