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He stood with his back to the window, beyond which an endless expanse of darkness reigned. A slender crescent moon offered the only illumination for the narrow roads below. But Johann knew the true danger wasn't lurking in the shadows – it was in the eyes of the Marquis. The Marquis de Sade.
They had been corresponding. It was no secret that de Sade had a passion for writing to esteemed gentlemen and philosophers, and young Goethe had once captured his attention. In his usual presumptuous manner, de Sade had taken to offering advice – but how artfully he did so, his prose flamboyant and indulgent. It was in his novels that the Marquis wrote sparingly - Goethe had read that fateful Justine, his face growing paler and more sallow with each turn of the page.
Goethe had always harbored a weakness within his ego, a constant yearning for greatness, often followed by regret. Yet, he consciously stripped himself of human qualities. De Sade, on the other hand, placed those very qualities at the forefront, expanding them to the point of becoming beastly, a monstrous figure who had lost everything, but remained utterly unrepentant. He was free in a way no liberal could ever dream of. He was master of his own life, rejecting everything this world held dear. And Goethe, despite his disdain, preserved their correspondence with meticulous care, perhaps intending to burn it before his own demise.
Yes, Goethe despised him. Donatien also disliked this "naïve agori," as he endlessly called him. And never without reason. Good God, de Sade always defended his positions with a torrent of words. He was the only person, besides his father, who made Goethe feel insignificant. And perhaps that was why Goethe had become so fixated on him.
Goethe had everything—and it caused him pain. De Sade had nothing, having been sentenced to the flames four times over, yet he was so undeniably happy, so self-assured. Now, he strode directly towards the writing desk where Johann sat, futilely drawing lines with his quill. This rarely happened to him; the last time had been before his journey to Italy.
“My friend, amantis,” de Sade began, “are you facing a creative crisis once more? Has the spirit of Italy and the passion for your meager muses abandoned you?”
“What makes you say that, Marquis?”
“Usually, you are more observant. You haven’t even inquired as to how I escaped the clutches of the revolution and the tribunal.”
“You escaped, as you usually do, I presume.”
“Yes, naïve agori, I escaped. I escaped to you, emerged entirely from an envelope – a fitting image for your fondness for legends and folklore. Your mysticism in our letters could be so tedious.”
“And what was the reason for your latest imprisonment?”
“Ah, don’t ask about that. It holds no significance for me anymore. To think I’ve only experienced a quarter of my life in freedom...” De Sade perched on the edge of the desk, displacing stacks of letters and casually gathering artistic albums into his hands. Goethe drew; he even sketched the Marquis once, but that drawing was lost somewhere in the abyss of time.
No, the Marquis wasn’t handsome enough to warrant being drawn more than once. He possessed just enough beauty to make the portrait haunt your dreams. Clear blue eyes, a plump lower lip, a straight posture deliberately marred by a vulgar gesture.
Johann never romanticized beauty, never subscribed to that Greek foolishness, despite his passionate love for antiquity.
“Is it that long-winded play of yours again?”
Goethe gazed into the Marquis’ dilated pupils, anticipating any action but direct questions. The ability to surprise was a great quality. To lose oneself amidst coquettishness and a torrent of words was a tribute to reason.
“Yes, it is. I confess, I find myself rewriting certain passages of the first act repeatedly, even though I should have moved on to the second long ago.”
“And what troubles you about the first act, naïve agori?”
“The Devil isn’t portrayed correctly. His image should speak differently. I don't want to mimic other depictions of the Devil, creating ‘pure evil’ or mere mockery. I want to add something...”
“There is no creature more wicked than man,” de Sade stated matter-of-factly. “Imbue him with more humanity, even more than the alchemist. Let the Enlightenment and the Renaissance sing about man’s virtues, but we see something else entirely. And there’s no point in these clear-cut divisions. Create contradictions; I assure you, the result will be enshrined in the world of art for centuries to come.”
“Do you think so?” Johann finally uttered, finding a sliver of agreeable conversation amidst the layers of subtext, each one unbearably unjust.
“You have already achieved fame. A man like you is easily understood by society. But if you wish to bring glory not only to yourself, but to your prose, introduce more secrecy into your text.”
“And this is coming from the man who writes so directly, about such direct things…”
“And my fame is ill-famed. Believe me, my personality will occupy far more space in history than my works. Although, of course, I am against fame, and I do not need it. It is alien to me.”
This man lacked ambition, egocentricity. He contained multitudes of truth and lies, so truthful that he was a liar, so honest that he appeared the face of deceit. He wore no masks, stood completely bare, yet remained perpetually unseen.
Johann's brown eyes fixated on the Marquis’s aquiline profile, resigning himself to the most dubious of sins, succumbing to the Marquis’s spell.
Goethe had always been loved. He always wore masks, and thus appeared incredibly honest, incredibly pleasant. So few knew his shortcomings; he had crowned himself a monument. Perhaps he hadn’t desired it, but the burden of recognition settled upon his shoulders too early, forcing him to shed sin, imperfections—at least the damning ones.
And Goethe found his small epiphany. Later, in the second part of his play, he would create something inexplicable, something far removed from the theatrical and unclear, dedicating it to the hundreds of other revelations of that night.
De Sade kissed meticulously, surprisingly languidly, already weary of passion. He was famed for his brutality and cruelty, writing about it in such horrific detail that every fiber of one’s being rebelled against the text, only the text. Yet, Donatien himself contradicted his text and the expectations of others. Perhaps he wasn’t in the mood, or perhaps he was precisely in the mood, or perhaps it was something else entirely. Everything about him was so straightforward and simple that nothing was clear. He skillfully, with one hand and lips alone, could map the night sky on another's body, kissing the moon, mischievously awaiting the dawn in their dark pupils.
De Sade was obvious and clear, yet it was impossible to convey the full depths of his base lust. He was an astonishing man, one whom anyone would desire to erase from memory. Johann too, if only from his written works...