ore。 The air was not free enough。 When at home she had three or four at supper every day； often a dozen； and； once a week； a grand supper。 All the intellectual fashions of the time are found here。 La Harpe reads a translation from Sophocles and his own tragedy。 Clairon； the actress in vogue； recites the roles of Phedre and Agrippine； Lekain reads Voltaire； and Goldoni a comedy of his own； which the hostess finds tiresome。 New books； new plays； the last song； the latest word of the philosophersall are talked about； eulogized； or dismissed with a sarcasm。 The wit of Mme。 du Deffand is feared； but it fascinates。 She delights in clever repartees and sparkling epigrams。 A shaft of wit silences the most complacent of monologues。 〃What tiresome book are you reading？〃 she said one day to a friend who talked too earnestly and too longsaving herself from the charge of rudeness by an easy refuge in her blindness。
Her criticisms are always severe。 〃There are only two pleasures for me in the worldsociety and reading；〃 she writes。 〃What society does one find？ Imbeciles； who utter only commonplaces； who know nothing； feel nothing； think nothing； a few people of talent； full of themselves； jealous； envious； wicked； whom one must hate or scorn。〃 To some one who was eulogizing a mediocre man； adding that all the world was of the same opinion； she replied； 〃I make small account of the world； Monsieur； since I perceive that one can divide it into three parts； les trompeurs； les trompes； et les trompettes。〃 Still it is life alone that interests her。 Though she is not satisfied with people； she has always the hope that she will be。 In literature she likes only letters and memoirs； because they are purely human； but the age has nothing that pleases her。 〃It is cynical or pedantic；〃 she writes to Voltaire； 〃there is no grace； no facility； no imagination。 Everything is a la glace； hardness without force； license without gaiety； no talent； much presumption。〃
As age came on； and she felt the approach of blindness； she found a companion in Mlle。 de Lespinasse； a young girl of remarkable gifts； who had an obscure and unacknowledged connection with her family。 For ten years the young woman was a slave to the caprices of her exacting mistress； reading to her through long nights of wakeful restlessness； and assisting to entertain her guests。 The one thing upon which Mme。 du Deffand most prided herself was frankness。 She hated finesse； and had stipulated that she would not tolerate artifice in any form。 It was her habit to lie awake all night and sleep all day； and as she did not receive her guests until six o'clock； Mlle。 de Lespinasse； whose amiable character and conversational charm had endeared her at once to the circle of her patroness； arranged to see her personal friendsamong whom were d'Alembert； Turgot； Chastellux； and Marmontelin her own apartments for an hour before the marquise appeared。 When this came to the knowledge of the latter； she fell into a violent rage at what she chose to regard as a treachery to herself； and dismissed her companion at once。 The result was the opening of a rival salon which carried off many of her favorite guests； notably d'Alembert； to whom she was much attached。 〃If she had died fifteen years earlier； I should not have lost d'Alembert；〃 was her sympathetic remark when she heard of the death of Mlle。 de Lespinasse。
But the most striking point in the career of this worldly woman was her friendship for Horace Walpole。 When they first met she was nearly seventy； blind； ill…tempered； bitter； and hopelessly ennuyee。 He was not yet fifty； a brilliant； versatile man of the world； and saw her only at long intervals。 Their curious correspondence extends over a period of fifteen years； ending only with her death。
In a letter to Grayson； after meeting her； he writes： 〃Mme。 du Deffand is now very old and stone blind； but retains all her vivacity； wit； memory； judgment； passion； and agreeableness。 She goes to operas； plays； suppers； Versailles； gives supper twice a week； has everything new read to her； makes new songs and epigramsaye； admirablyand remembers every one that has been made these fourscore years。 She corresponds with Voltaire； dictates charming letters to him； contradicts him； is no bigot to him or anybody； and laughs both at the clergy and the philosophers。 In a dispute； into which she easily falls； she is very warm； and yet scarce ever in the wrong； her judgment on every subject is as just as possible； on every point of conduct as wrong as possible； for she is all love and hatred； passionate for her friends to enthusiasm； still anxious to be lovedI don't mean by loversand a vehement enemy openly。〃
The acquaintance thus begun quickly drilled into an intimacy。 Friendship she calls this absorbing sentiment； but it has all the caprices and inconsistencies of love。 Fed by the imagination； and prevented by separation from wearing itself out； it became the most permanent interest of her life。 There is something curiously pathetic in the submissive attitude of this blind； aged； but spirited womanwho scoffs at sentiment and confesses that she could never love anythingtowards the man who criticizes her； scolds her； crushes back her too ardent feeling； yet calls her his dear old friend； writes her a weekly letter； and modestly declares that she 〃loves him better than all France together。〃
The spirit of this correspondence greatly modifies the impression which her own words； as well as the facts of her career； would naturally give us。 We find in the letters of this period little of the freshness and spontaneity that lent such a charm to the letters of Mme。 de Sevigne and her contemporaries。 Women still write of the incidents of their lives； the people they meet； their jealousies； their rivalries； their loves； and their follies； but they think； where they formerly mirrored the world about them。 They analyze； they compare； the criticize； they formulate their own emotions； they add opinions to facts。 The gaiety； the sparkle； the wit； the play of feeling； is not there。 Occasionally there is the tone of passion； as in the letters of Mlle。 Aisse and Mlle。 de Lespinasse； but this is rare。 Even passion has grown sophisticated and deals with phrases。 There is more or less artificiality in the exchange of written thoughts。 Mme。 du Deffand thinks while she writes； and what she sees takes always the color of her own intelligence。 She complains of her inability to catch the elusive quality； the clearness； the flexibility of Mme。 de Sevigne； whom she longs to rival because Walpole so admires her。 But if she lacks the vivacity； the simplicity； the poetic grace of her model； she has qualities not less striking； though less lovable。 Her keen insight is unfailing。 With masterly penetration she grasps the essence of things。 No one has portrayed so concisely and so vividly the men and women of her time。 No one has discriminated between the shades of character with such nicety。 No one has so clearly fathomed the underlying motives of action。 No one has forecast the outcome of theories and events with such prophetic vision。 The note of bitterness and cynicism is always there。 The nature of the woman reveals itself in every line： keen； dry； critical； with clear ideals which she can never hope to attain。 But we feel that she has stripped off the rags of pretension and brought us face to face with realities。 〃All that I can do is to love you with all my heart； as I have done for about fifty years；〃 wrote Voltaire。 〃How could I fail to love you？ Your soul seeks always the true； it is a quality as rare as truth itself。〃 So far does she carry her hatred of insincerity that one is often tempted to believe she affects a freedom from affectation。 〃I am so fatigued with the vanity of others that I avoid the occasion of having any myself；〃 she writes。 Is there not here a trace of the quality she so despises？
But beneath all this runs the swift undercurrent of an absorbing passion。 A passion of friendship it may be； but it forces itself through the arid shells of conventionalism； it is at once the agony and the consolation of a despairing soul。 Heartless； Mme。 du Deffand is called； and her life seems to prove the truth of the verdict； but these letters throb and palpitate with feeling which she laughs at； but cannot still。 It is the cry of the soul for what it has not； what the world cannot give； what it has somehow missed out of a cold； hard； restless； and superficial existence。 With a need of loving； she is satisfied with no one。 There is something wanting； even in the affection of her friends。 〃Ma grand'maman；〃 she says to the gentle Duchesse de Choiseul； 〃you KNOW that you love me； but you do not FEEL it。〃
Devouring herself in solitude； she despises the society she cannot do without。 〃Men and women appear to me puppets who go； come； talk； laugh； without thinking； without reflecting； without feeling；〃 she writes。 She confesses that she has a thousand troubles in assembling a choice company of people who bore her to death。 〃One sees only masks； one hears only lies；〃 is her constant refrain。 She does not want to live； but is afraid to die； she says she is not made for this world； but does not know that there is any other。 She tries devotion； but has no taste for it。 Of the light that shines from within upon so many darkened and weary souls she has no knowledge。 Her vision is bounded by the tangible； which offers only a rigid barrier； against which her life flutters itself away。 She dies as she has lived； with a deepened conviction of the nothingness of existence。 〃Spare me three things；〃 she said to her confessor in her last moments； 〃let me have no questions； no reasons； and no sermons。〃 Seeing Wiart； her faithful servitor； in tears； she remarks pathetically； as if surprised； 〃You love me then？〃 〃Divert yourself as much as you can；〃 was her final message to Walpole。 〃You will regret me； because one is very glad to know that one is loved。〃 She commends to his care and affection Tonton； her little dog。
Strong but not gentle； brilliant but not tender； too penetrating for any illusions； with a nature forever at war with itself； its surroundings； and its limitations； no one