Grimm was another frequenter of the Necker salons; and the mistress of the house being no less prodigal of gracious encouragement towards him than towards everybody else, he also eventually declared his sentiments of friendship and admiration, with as much warmth as his manners allowed of. Like Voltaire, he called her “Hypatie”; and testified the genuineness of his regard by scolding her about her religious opinions. Needless to say these were not infidel, but they were, in Grimm’s opinion, disastrously illogical; and, his fine taste in such matters being offended, he expressed his displeasure on one occasion in no measured terms. Madame Necker retorted, for she loved a discussion too fervently ever to be meek; but apparently Grimm was too much for her. Either his arguments were irrefragable, or his manner was irritating; the result was that Madame Necker—to the polite consternation of her numerous guests—dissolved into tears.
Humiliated, on reflection, at having made such a scene, with characteristic ardor, she seized the opportunity to write Grimm a high-flown apology; and an interchange of letters followed in which the philosopher compared the lady to Venus completed by Minerva, and Madame Necker ransacked the universe for metaphors wherewith to express her admiration of the gentleman’s sensibility.
As the Neckers spent their summer at St. Ouen—not the historic Château associated with Louis XVIII., but another in the neighborhood, and of the same name—the proximity to Paris enabled them to continue unbroken their series of dinners, suppers and receptions, twice a week.
Many of the guests were notable personages, and most of them types which vanished forever a few years later—engulphed by the storm-wave of the Revolution. There was the Abbé Morellet, clear-headed, gravely ironical, with as much tact in concealing as in displaying the range of his knowledge and the depth of his insight; St. Lambert, a little cold, but full of exquisite politeness, supremely elegant in expression, and, without being lively himself, possessed of the delicate art of never quenching liveliness in others; D’Alembert, charming, if frigid, and destined soon to be an object of sentimental interest, because of his inconsolable grief for Mlle. L’Espinasse; the Abbé Raynal, doubtless enchanted to pour into Madame Necker’s respectful ears the floods of eloquence for which Frederick the Great laughed at him; these, with Marmontel and Thomas, were almost always present.
A few years earlier the Abbé Galiani, delightful and incorrigible, would also have been seen. This extraordinary little man, political economist, archæologist, mineralogist, diplomatist and pulcinello, was one of Madame Necker’s professed adorers. Everybody liked and admired him; Diderot described him as “a treasure on a rainy day”; Marmontel as “the prettiest little harlequin,” with “the head of Macchiavelli”; while, for Madame Geoffrin, he was her petite chose. After so much praise, and from such people, Madame Necker must certainly have accepted him unconditionally; but it would be interesting to know exactly with what air she listened to his impassioned declarations. When eventually restored to his native land—or, as he expressed it, exiled from Paris—he wrote her impudent and characteristic epistles, in which reproaches at her virtue, intimate interrogations regarding her health, and envy of M. Necker’s happiness, mingled with inquiries after everybody in the beloved capital, and wails of inconsolable grief at his own departure. “Quel désert que cinquante mille Napolitains!” he exclaims.
Madame Du Deffand was also for a time an intimate guest at the Neckers’. The friendship did not last long. The marquise, by this time infinitely weary of men and things, appears soon to have tired of Madame Necker’s declamations and M. Necker’s superiority. Her final judgment on the wife was very severe, rather ill-tempered, and therefore unjust. Madame Necker was, she says, “stiff and frigid, full of self-consciousness, but an upright woman.” Her liking for the husband held out longer, but finally succumbed to the discovery that, while very intelligent, he failed to elicit wit from others. “One felt oneself more stupid in his company than when with other people or alone.”
There is no trace of any variation in the friendship between Madame Necker and Madame Geoffrin. Perhaps the latter, with her habitual gentle “Voilà, qui est bien,” called her young friend to order, and early repressed the emphatic praises which could not but have wearied her.
We are told that she hated exaggeration in everything; and how could Madame Necker’s heavy flattery have found favor in her eyes? Her delicate savoir-vivre, too, that preternaturally subtle sense which supplied the place in her of brilliancy and learning and early education, must have been vexed at Madame Necker’s innocent but everlasting pedantry. We can fancy, however, that she managed, in her imperceptible, noiseless way, to elude all these disturbing manifestations; and then she was doubtless pleased at Madame Necker’s good-humored patience with her scoldings. All Madame Geoffrin’s friends, as we know, had to submit to be scolded; but probably few showed under the infliction the magnanimity of Madame Necker, who must have possessed all the power of submission peculiar to self-questioning souls. The calm old lady, ensconced in her own peculiar chair, whether in Paris or at St. Ouen, in the midst of the sparkling society to which she had perseveringly fought her way, was disturbed in her serenity by no presage of misfortune.
In point of reputation the most illustrious, and in point of romantic ardor the most fervent, of all Madame Necker’s friends, was Buffon. He wrote her some eighty letters full of fervid flatter and genuine, almost passionate affection, to which she responded in the terms of adulation that the old man still held dear. Such incense had once been offered to him in nauseating abundance; now that he was old and lonely it had diminished, and this fact, joined to his unquestionable admiration for Madame Necker, made him all the more easily intoxicated by her praise. Mixed with her high esteem for his genius was a womanly compassion for his bodily sufferings that rendered the tie uniting their two minds a very sweet and charming one. On hearing that his end was near, she hastened to Montbard, where he was residing, and established herself by his bedside, remaining there five days, and courageously soothing the paroxysms of pain that it tortured her own sensitive nature to see.
Perhaps her strong and unconcealed desire that the philosopher should make a Christian end, lent her fortitude to continue the self-imposed task. There is no proof that she directly influenced him in that final declaration of faith by which he scandalised a free-thinking community; but she had often discussed religious questions with him, and deplored his want of a definite creed; consequently, it is possible that her mere presence may have had some effect upon him at the last.