The influence of the “Encyclopædia,” great during its day, is by no means yet exhausted. But it is an influence indirectly exerted, for the “Encyclopædia” itself has long been an obsolete work.
There is a legal maxim that the laws are silent when a state of war exists. Certainly, amid the madness of a revolution such as, during the closing years of the eighteenth century, the influence of Voltaire, Rousseau, and the Encyclopædists, with Beaumarchais, reacting against the accumulated political and ecclesiastical oppressions of ages, precipitated upon France, it might safely be assumed that letters would be silent. But the nation meantime was portentously preparing material for a literature which many wondering centuries to follow would occupy themselves with writing.
XIX.
MADAME DE STAEL.
1766-1817.
In Madame de Stael we encounter a truly redoubtable figure in literature.
But Madame de Stael in her day seemed more than a writer, more even than a writer of what the Germans would call world-importance; she was, or she seemed, a prodigious living personal force. For her tongue was not less formidable than her pen. In truth, the fame of Madame de Stael is due to the twofold power which, during her life-time, she exercised, and exercised in very uncertain proportions, first perhaps as a talker and second as a writer. She is generally allowed, and that upon the most incontestable authority, to have been one of the most brilliant and most effective talkers in the history of the human race.
This power in Madame de Stael of personal impression you are not free to ascribe to any charm that she owned of physical beauty; for Madame de Stael was not a beautiful woman. By her friend, Madame Récamier, that charm was exercised to the full, and that charm Madame de Stael, did not despise. So far from it, she is said once (thus at least the present writer seems to remember, but he has been unable to verify his impression) passionately to have exclaimed that she would give all her genius for one evening of Madame Récamier’s beauty. This was not the vanity on her part of wish to be admired. It was the pathos of longing to be loved. “Never, never,” she cried out in anguish, “I shall never be loved as I love.” She was true woman after all; and it would be inexpiable wrong against her not to say this also, and say it with emphasis, however sharply we may be just in pronouncing the masculine strength of her character. The contrast was so obvious between Madame de Stael and Madame Récamier in point of mere personal charm that, in a moment evil for him, a gentleman once seated between them permitted himself the awkwardness of saying, in ill-advised intention of compliment to both, but with most unhappy chief effect to the contrary, alike on this side and on that, “How fortunate! I sit between Wit and Beauty.” “Yes, and without possessing either the one or the other,” retorted Wit, amply avenging herself for being reminded that she was not also Beauty. Madame de Stael had certainly justified one half of the gentleman’s compliment; and Madame Récamier, with her serene ineffable charm, did not need to speak in order to justify the other.
It was, then, by the pure dry light of her intellect and her wit that Madame de Stael dazzled so in conversation—dazzled so, and so attracted. Wherever she was, there was the center. She made a salon anywhere, by simply being there. And Madame de Stael’s salon was felt by the ruler of Europe to be a formidable political power implacably hostile to himself. “Somehow,” said Napoleon, “I observe that, whatever is talked about at Madame de Stael’s, those who go there come away thinking less favorably of me.” It seems to have been in part because she said nothing, and would say nothing, of Napoleon in her “Germany,” that he finally suppressed that book. “You will speak ill of me when you get back to your academy,” said to Plato the tyrant of Syracuse. “In the academy we shall not have time to speak of you at all,” was the philosopher’s reply.