page of them the traces of a mind to which the whole
movement of contemporary life was profoundly distasteful.
The new forces to which the eighteenth century gave
birth in thought, in art, in sentiment, in action—which
for us form its peculiar interest and its peculiar
glory—were anathema to Madame du Deffand.
In her letters to Walpole, whenever she compares the
present with the past her bitterness becomes extreme.
‘J’ai eu autrefois,’ she writes in
1778, ’des plaisirs indicibles aux operas de
Quinault et de Lulli, et au jeu de Thevenart et de
la Lemaur. Pour aujourd’hui, tout me parait
detestable: acteurs, auteurs, musiciens, beaux
esprits, philosophes, tout est de mauvais gout, tout
est affreux, affreux.’ That great movement
towards intellectual and political emancipation which
centred in the ‘Encyclopaedia’ and the
Philosophes was the object of her particular
detestation. She saw Diderot once—and
that was enough for both of them. She could never
understand why it was that M. de Voltaire would persist
in wasting his talent for writing over such a dreary
subject as religion. Turgot, she confessed, was
an honest man, but he was also a ‘sot animal.’
His dismissal from office—that fatal act,
which made the French Revolution inevitable—delighted
her: she concealed her feelings from Walpole,
who admired him, but she was outspoken enough to the
Duchesse de Choiseul. ‘Le renvoi du Turgot
me plait extremement,’ she wrote; ‘tout
me parait en bon train.’ And then she added,
more prophetically than she knew, ’Mais, assurement,
nous n’en resterons pas la.’ No doubt
her dislike of the Encyclopaedists and all their works
was in part a matter of personal pique—the
result of her famous quarrel with Mademoiselle de
Lespinasse, under whose opposing banner d’Alembert
and all the intellectual leaders of Parisian society
had unhesitatingly ranged themselves. But that
quarrel was itself far more a symptom of a deeply
rooted spiritual antipathy than a mere vulgar struggle
for influence between two rival salonnieres.
There are indications that, even before it took place,
the elder woman’s friendship for d’Alembert
was giving way under the strain of her scorn for his
advanced views and her hatred of his proselytising
cast of mind. ’Il y a de certains articles,’
she complained to Voltaire in 1763—a year
before the final estrangement—’qui
sont devenus pour lui affaires de parti, et sur lesquels
je ne lui trouve pas le sens commun.’ The
truth is that d’Alembert and his friends were
moving, and Madame du Deffand was standing still.
Mademoiselle de Lespinasse simply precipitated and
intensified an inevitable rupture. She was the
younger generation knocking at the door.