Benjamin Franklin: An American Life (57 page)

In the final days of the negotiations, Franklin became even more obdurate against any compensation for the loyalists, even as Adams and Jay showed some willingness to compromise on the issue. In the past, Adams had accused Franklin of being untrustworthy because of his supposed sympathy toward his loyalist son. Now he was baffled that Franklin was being so belligerent in the other direction. “Dr. Franklin is very staunch against the Tories,” he noted in his diary, “more decided on this point than Mr. Jay or myself.”

Given the influence of the loyalist emigrants now living in Britain, Shelburne knew that his ministry might fall if he did nothing to satisfy their claims. His negotiators pushed until the very last day, but Franklin threatened to scuttle the entire treaty over this point. He pulled from his pocket a paper that resurrected his own demand that Britain, if it wanted any recompense for the loyalists’ estates, must pay for all of the American towns destroyed, goods taken, cargo captured, villages burned, and even his own looted library in Philadelphia.

The British were forced to relent. After hearing Franklin’s diatribe, they retired to an adjacent room, huddled, and returned to say they would accept instead a somewhat meaningless promise that the Congress would “earnestly recommend” to the individual states that they make whatever restitution each of them saw fit for the loyalists’ estates confiscated there. The Americans knew that the states would end up doing little, so they agreed, but Franklin still insisted on one caveat, aimed at William: the recommendation would not apply to loyalists who had “borne arms against the said United States.”

The next morning, November 30, 1782, the American negotiators, along with their secretary, Temple Franklin, met with the British in Oswald’s suite at the Grand Hotel Muscovite to sign the provisional treaty that, in effect, ended the Revolutionary War. In a nod to the obligations owed France, the pact would not become formally binding “until terms of a peace shall be agreed upon between Great Britain and France.” That would take another nine months. But the treaty had an immediate and irrevocable import that was contained in its opening line, which declared the United States “to be free, sovereign and independent.”

That afternoon, the American negotiators all went to Passy, where Franklin hosted a celebratory dinner. Even John Adams was feeling mellower, at least for the time being. He conceded to his friend Matthew Ridley that Franklin had “behaved well and nobly.”
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To Franklin fell the difficult duty of explaining to Vergennes why the Americans had breached their obligations to France, and their instructions from the Congress, by agreeing to a treaty without consulting him. After sending Vergennes a copy of the signed accord, which he stressed was provisional, Franklin called on him at Versailles the following week. The French minister remarked, coolly but politely, that “proceeding in this abrupt signature of the articles” was not “agreeable to the [French] King” and that the Americans “had not been particularly civil.” Nevertheless, Vergennes did allow that the Americans had done well by themselves, and he noted that “our conversation was amicable.”

Only when Franklin followed up with a brash request for yet another French loan, along with the information that he was transmitting the peace accord to the Congress, did Vergennes take the opportunity to protest officially. It was lacking in propriety, he wrote Franklin, for him “to hold out a certain hope of peace to America without even informing yourself on the state of negotiation on our part.” America was under an obligation not to consider ratifying any peace until France had also come to terms with Britain. “You have all your life performed your duties,” Vergennes continued. “I pray you to consider how you propose to fulfill those which are due to the King.”
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Franklin’s response, which has been called “a diplomatic masterpiece” and “one of the most famous of all diplomatic letters,” combined a few dignified expressions of contrition with appeals to France’s national interest. “Nothing has been agreed in the preliminaries contrary to the interests of France,” he noted, not entirely correctly, “and no peace is to take place between us and England until you have concluded yours.” Using a French word that roughly translates as “propriety,” Franklin sought to minimize the American transgression:

He went on, undaunted, to press his case for another loan. “Certainly the whole edifice sinks to the ground immediately if you refuse on that account to give us any further assistance.” With that came both a plea and an implied threat: making a public issue of the transgression, he warned, could hurt the mutual interests of both countries. “The English, I just now learn, flatter themselves they have already divided us. I hope this little misunderstanding will therefore be kept a secret, and that they will find themselves totally mistaken.”
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Vergennes was stunned by Franklin’s letter, a copy of which he sent to his ambassador in Philadelphia. “You may imagine my astonishment,” he wrote. “I think it proper that the most influential members of Congress should be informed of the very irregular conduct of their commissioners in regard to us.” He did not blame Franklin personally, except to say that “he has yielded too easily to the bias of his colleagues.” Vergennes went on to lament, correctly, that the new nation was not one that would enter into entangling alliances. “We shall be but poorly paid for all that we have done for the United States,” he complained, “and for securing to them a national existence.”

There was little Vergennes could do. Forcing a showdown, as Franklin had subtly warned, would drive the Americans into an even faster and closer alliance with Britain. So, reluctantly, he let the matter drop, instructed his envoy not to file an official protest with the Congress, and even agreed to supply yet another French loan.
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“Two great diplomatic duelists had formally crossed swords,” Carl Van Doren noted, “and the philosopher had exquisitely disarmed the minister.” Yes, but perhaps a better analogy would be to Franklin’s own favorite game of chess. From his opening gambit that led to America’s treaty of alliance with France to the endgame that produced a peace with England while preserving French friendship, Franklin mastered a three-dimensional game against two aggressive players by exhibiting great patience when the pieces were not properly aligned and carefully exploiting strategic advantages when they were.
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Franklin had been instrumental in shaping the three great documents of the war: the Declaration of Independence, the alliance with France, and the treaty with England. Now he turned his thoughts to peace. “All wars are follies, very expensive, and very mischievous ones,” he wrote Polly Stevenson. “When will mankind be convinced of this, and agree to settle their differences by arbitration? Were they to do it, even by the cast of a die, it would be better than by fighting and destroying each other.” To Joseph Banks, one of the many old friends from England he wrote in celebration, he asserted yet again his famous, albeit somewhat misleading, credo: “There never was a good war or a bad peace.”
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Rather than return home immediately, Franklin decided to relish his newly earned peace and leisure by enjoying the friends, family, and intellectual pursuits available to him in the idyllic setting of Passy. His grandson Benny had been languishing at his school in Geneva, which had recently been thrown into political turmoil over plans to give full voting rights to all citizens. Now that his diplomatic duties had subsided, Franklin decided to permit Benny to come back to Passy for a vacation during the summer of 1783, his first since leaving four years earlier.
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Reunited at last with the grandfather he was so eager to impress, Benny was completely charmed. Franklin was “very different from other old persons,” he told a visitor, “for they are fretful and complaining and dissatisfied, and my grandpapa is laughing and cheerful like a young person.” Their new proximity also warmed Franklin. Benny was “so well grown,” he wrote the boy’s parents, “and so much improved in his learning and behavior.” To Polly Stevenson he wrote, “He gains every day upon my affections.”

That summer, during which Benny turned 14, his grandfather took him to the Seine for swimming lessons, and his cousin Temple taught him fencing and dancing. Temple also impressed him by pretending to kill a mouse with helium, then reviving him, then killing him for good with an electric spark from one of Franklin’s batteries. “I am sure my cousin would pass for a conjurer in America,” Benny wrote his parents.
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Benny had been sickly and depressed at school, Franklin learned, and the political situation in Geneva remained volatile. So he decided that the boy need not return, even though he had left his clothes and books there. He had earlier considered sending Benny to school in England under the care of Polly Stevenson, who had been excited by the prospect. Now, worried that Benny was losing his command of English, he raised the possibility with Polly more seriously. “Would that still be convenient to you?” he asked. “He is docile and of gentle manners, ready to receive and follow good advice, and will set no bad example to your
other
children.” Polly was wary but willing. “I fear he will think us so unpolished he will scarcely be able to endure us,” she replied, “but if English cordiality will make amends for French refinement, we may have some chance of making him happy.”
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Franklin, who had grown ever more fond of Benny, instead decided that he should stay in Passy. “He showed such an unwillingness to leave me, and Temple such a fondness for retaining him, that I concluded to keep him,” Franklin explained to Polly in a letter at the end of 1783. “He behaves very well, and we love him very much.”

Perhaps, with his felicity in language, Benny could become a diplomat, Franklin thought. That would require, however, getting him a public appointment, something that was proving difficult for Temple. He had once told Richard Bache, just as he had told his son, William, and many others, that it was demeaning to be dependent on a government appointment. Now he expressed the same sentiment to Richard again, this time in a letter about his son Benny: “I have determined to give him a trade that he may have something to depend on, and not be obliged to ask favors or offices of anybody.”
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The trade Franklin chose was the obvious one. His private little printing press at Passy was busy that autumn turning out editions of his bagatelles, so he was delighted when the boy eagerly started to work there. A master founder was hired to teach him how to cast type, and by spring Franklin had persuaded François Didot, the greatest and most artistic printer in France, to take him on as a student. Benny was destined to follow in Franklin’s footsteps, not only as a printer but also eventually as a newspaper editor.

As for Temple, Franklin was reduced to asking for favors and offices. As he was enjoying the sweet summer of 1783, he wrote to Foreign Secretary Livingston yet another plaintive plea on poor Temple’s behalf:

Temple did not get a ministerial posting, nor did his grandfather take him on a grand tour. Instead, he emulated his grandfather (and father) in a less laudable way than Benny. After failing to marry either of the Brillons’ daughters, Temple became involved with a married woman who lived near Passy, Blanchette Caillot, whose husband was a successful actor. With her he fathered an illegitimate son, Theodore. In a cruel irony, the child died from smallpox, the disease that had taken the only legitimate son among three generations of Franklins.

Theodore Franklin, the illegitimate son of the illegitimate son of Franklin’s own illegitimate son, was, albeit briefly, the last male-line descendant of Benjamin Franklin, who would in the end leave no family line bearing his name.
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Among the diversions Benny enjoyed with his grandfather in the summer and fall of 1783 were the grand spectacles of the first balloon flights. The age of air travel began in June when two brothers, Joseph and Etienne Montgolfier, launched an unmanned hot-air balloon near Lyons that rose to a height of six thousand feet. The Franklins were not there, but they did witness in late August the first unmanned flight using hydrogen. A scientist named Jacques Charles launched a twelve-foot-diameter silk balloon filled with hydrogen produced by pouring oil of vitriol over fiery iron filings. With great fanfare, it took off from Paris in front of fifty thousand spectators and floated for more than forty-five minutes before landing in a village more than fifteen miles away. “The country people who saw it fall were frightened,” Franklin wrote Sir Joseph Banks, president of the Royal Society, “and attacked it with stones and knives so that it was much mangled.”