Benjamin Franklin: An American Life (59 page)

A portrait by Charles Willson Peale, done in 1785, shows him wearing his new spectacles.

Because of his renown both as a scientist and a rationalist, Franklin was appointed by the king in 1784 to a commission to investigate the theories of Friedrich Anton Mesmer, whose advocacy of a new method of healing led to the new word “mesmerize.” (Another member of Franklin’s commission, Dr. Joseph-Ignace Guillotin, would also have his name turned into a neologism during the French Revolution.) A flamboyant healer from Vienna, Mesmer believed that maladies were caused by the artificial disruption of a universal fluid emitted by heavenly bodies and they could be cured by the techniques of animal magnetism he had discovered. His treatment involved putting patients around huge oak tubs filled with glass and iron filings while a healer, carrying an iron wand, magnetized and mesmerized them. In a sign that the Enlightenment was losing its grip, Mesmerism became wildly popular in Paris, replacing ballooning as the fad of the moment, with adherents that included Lafayette, Temple Franklin, and Queen Marie-Antoinette.

Many of the commission’s meetings were held in Passy, where Franklin himself, in the name of science, submitted to the treatments. In his diary, 14-year-old Benny recorded one session where Mesmer’s disciples, “after having magnetized many sick persons…are gone into the garden to magnetize some trees.” It was clear that the power of suggestion could produce some strange effects. The commissioners, however, decided that “our role was to keep cool, rational and open-minded.” So they blindfolded the patients, not letting them know whether or not they were being treated by Mesmer’s doctors. “We discovered we could influence them ourselves so that their answers were the same, whether they had been magnetized or not.” They concluded that Mesmer was a fraud and what was at work was, at they put it in their report, “the power of imagination.” An unpublished annex to the report did note that the treatment was powerful at sexually stimulating young women when “titillations delicieuses” were applied.

Franklin wrote to Temple, who was no longer a disciple of Mesmer, that the report had roundly debunked the theories. “Some think it will put an end to Mesmerism,” he said, “but there is a wonderful deal of credulity in the world, and deceptions as absurd have supported themselves for ages.”
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One source of despair for Franklin was that, in negotiating treaties with other European nations, he had to work with John Adams again. He was worried, he told one friend, about “what will be the offspring of a coalition between my ignorance and his positiveness.” Adams’s brief period of mellowness had lasted for only a few months after the signing of the provisional peace with Britain, and he subsequently resumed his backbiting. Franklin was an “unintelligible politician,” Adams wrote Robert Livingston. “If this gentleman and the marble Mercury in the garden of Versailles were in nomination for an embassy, I would not hesitate to give my vote for the statue, upon the principle that it would do no harm.”

So Franklin was thrilled when Thomas Jefferson, who had twice resisted congressional commissions to join Franklin and Adams as a minister in Paris, finally relented and arrived there in August 1784. Jefferson was everything that Adams was not: diplomatic and charming, partial to France, secure rather than jealous, a lover of women and social gaiety with no Puritan prudishness. He was also a philosopher, inventor, and scientist whose Enlightenment curiosity meshed perfectly with Franklin’s.

To make matters even better, Jefferson was fully aware of the darkness that infected Adams. James Madison had written him to complain that Adams’s letters were “a display of his vanity, his prejudice against the French court and his venom against Dr. Franklin.” Jefferson replied, “He hates Franklin, he hates Jay, he hates the French, he hates the English. To whom will he adhere?”

Jefferson shared Franklin’s belief that idealism and realism should both play a role in foreign policy. “The best interest of nations, like men, was to follow the dictates of conscience,” he declared. And unlike Adams, he completely revered Franklin. “More respect and veneration attached to the character of Dr. Franklin in France than to that of any other person, foreign or native,” he wrote, and he proclaimed Franklin “the greatest man and ornament of the age.” When word spread, a few months later, that he was being tapped to replace Franklin, Jefferson gave his famed reply: “No one can replace him, Sir, I am only his successor.”
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Jefferson dined often with Franklin, played chess with him, and listened to his lectures about the loyalty America owed France. His calming presence even helped Franklin and Adams get along better, and the three men who had worked together on the Declaration now worked together at Passy almost every day throughout September preparing for new European treaties and commercial pacts. There was, in fact, a lot that the three patriots could agree on. They shared a faith in free trade, open covenants, and the need to end the mercantilist system of repressive commercial arrangements and restrictive spheres of influence. As Adams, with uncharacteristic generosity, noted, “We proceeded with wonderful harmony, good humor and unanimity.”

For both men and nations, it was a season of reconciliation. If Franklin could repair his relationship with Adams, there was even hope that he could do so with his son. “Dear and honored father,” William wrote from England that summer. “Ever since the termination of the unhappy contest between Great Britain and America, I have been anxious to write to you, and to endeavor to revive that affectionate intercourse and connection which, until the commencement of the late troubles, had been the pride and happiness of my life.”

It was a noble, gracious, and plaintive gesture from a son who, through it all, had never said anything bad about his estranged father nor stopped loving him. But William was still a Franklin, and he could not bring himself to admit that he had been in the wrong, nor to apologize. “If I have been mistaken, I cannot help it. It is an error of judgment that the maturest reflection I am capable of cannot rectify; and I verily believe were the same circumstances to occur again tomorrow, my conduct would be exactly similar to what it was.” He offered to come to Paris if his father did not want to come to England so they could settle their issues with “a personal interview.”
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Franklin’s response revealed his pain, but it also offered some hints of hope. He began by saying he was “glad to find that you desire to revive the affectionate intercourse,” and he even brought himself to add, “it will be agreeable to me.” Yet he immediately segued from love to anger:

Then he caught himself. “This is a disagreeable subject,” he wrote. “I drop it.” It would not be convenient, he added, to “have you come here at the present.” Instead, Temple would be sent to London to act as an intermediary. “You may confide to your son the family affairs you wish to confer upon with me.” Then, a bit condescendingly, he added, “I trust you will prudently avoid introducing him to company that it may be improper for him to be seen with.” Temple may have been William’s son, but Franklin made it clear who controlled him.
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At 24, Temple had little of his grandfather’s wisdom but possessed a lot more of the normal emotions that bind families, even estranged ones. He had long been hoping, he wrote a London friend, to return there to “embrace my father.” On his visit to England, he nevertheless was careful to show fealty to his grandfather, even asking for permission before accompanying his father on a trip to the seashore.

After a few weeks, Franklin began to fear that Temple might be forsaking him for his father, and he chided him for not writing enough. “I have waited with impatience the arrival of every post. But not a word.” Among other things, Franklin complained, this was embarrassing him with those who kept asking whether he had heard from Temple: “Judge what I must feel, what they must think, and tell me what I am to think of such neglect.” Of all the members of his family, Temple alone could cause such jealousy and possessiveness.

For his part, Temple was thoroughly enjoying himself. He was treated as a celebrity prince: feted by the Royal Society, the Lord Mayor, and various ladies who held teas in his honor. He had his portrait painted by Gilbert Stuart, and a friend gave him a list of the best bootmakers and tailors, adding, “And when lewd, go to the following safe girls who I think are quite handsome.”
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Temple was not able to resolve the issues dividing his father and grandfather, but he was able to accomplish another part of his mission: enticing Polly Stevenson to come to Passy. Now 45, she had been widowed for a decade, and her mother, Franklin’s longtime landlady and companion, had died a year earlier. (She “loved you with the most ardent affection,” Polly had written when conveying the sad news.) Franklin had written Polly that she must come see him soon, for he was now like a building that required “so many repairs that in a little time the Owner will find it cheaper to pull it down and build a new one.” By the end of the summer of 1784, his letters had become even more plaintive. “Come, my dear friend, live with me while I stay here, and go with me, if I do go, to America.”
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In early December 1784, many people converged on Passy and provided for Franklin, during his final winter in France, a most satisfying version of the hybrid families, real and adopted, he so loved to assemble around him. There to pamper him were Temple and Benny, Polly and her three children, Thomas Jefferson and other great minds, plus Mesdames Brillon and Helvétius along with their wonderful retinues. “For a fragile moment,” note Claude-Anne Lopez and Eugenia Herbert, “his various ‘families’ were almost in perfect poise, drawing closer in a network of good will of which he was the center.”
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Polly was amused by Temple on first seeing him again in London after ten years, and she joked with Franklin about how he had tried to keep the boy’s lineage secret back then. “We see a strong resemblance of you, and indeed saw it when we did not think ourselves at liberty to say we did, as we pretended to be as ignorant as you supposed we were, or chose that we should be.” That gave her an opportunity to chide them both a bit: “I believe you may have been handsomer than your grandson is, but then you never were so genteel.”

But close familiarity with Temple did not, except in his grandfather’s case, necessarily breed fondness, and Polly became somewhat disenchanted with him after their arrival in Passy. “He has such a love of dress,” she wrote a relative, “and is so absorbed in self-importance and so engaged in the pursuit of pleasure that he is not an amiable or respectable character.”

Benny, on the other hand, with the benefit of his Geneva education and natural eagerness to please, struck Polly as “sensible and manly in his manner without the slightest tincture of the coxcomb.” He wore his hair like an English lad rather than a French fop, and “with the simplicity of his dress retains a lovely simplicity of character.” Temple might look more like Franklin, but Benny—who swam in the Seine, flew kites with a passion, took Polly on tours of Paris, and yet was ever diligent in his printing work—resembled him more “in mind.”
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There were times, indeed many of them, when Franklin wrote of his inclination not to disrupt this little paradise, but instead to remain in France and die among those who so loved and pleased him. His gout and his kidney stones made the prospect of an ocean voyage something to dread, while the embers of his passions for the ladies of Paris were something he could still savor. In May 1785, he wrote a friend recalling one of his favorite old drinking songs:

“But what signifies our wishing?” he asked. “I have sung that wishing song a thousand times, when I was young, and now find, at fourscore, that the three contraries have befallen me, being subject to the gout and the stone, and not being yet master of all my passions.”

Nevertheless, when word reached him that month that the Congress had at long last accepted his resignation and that Temple was not being offered an overseas assignment, Franklin decided it was time to go home. From Passy he wrote Polly, who had returned to England, begging her to accompany him. He had taken the liberty of reserving a spacious cabin for her whole family. “You may never have so good an opportunity.” For the time being at least, she decided to stay in England.

He sent word of his travel plans to his sister Jane and explained, “I have continued to work until late in the day; ’tis time I should go home, and go to bed.” Such metaphors had begun to creep into his writing, and he expanded on them to his friend David Hartley, who had helped him during his many negotiations. “We were long fellow laborers in the best of all works, the work of peace,” he wrote. “I leave you still in the field, but having finished my day’s work, I am going home
to go to bed
! Wish me a good night’s rest, as I do you a pleasant evening. Adieu!”
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