sort of fusion with it.161 Toward the end of his “Essai sur la société des gens de lettres et des grands,” d’Alembert accepts that the nobles should still govern political life, and occasionally he less aggressively asserts the social value of the men of letters vis-à-vis the nobles. In one concessionary line, he proclaims that “a man of letters, full of probity and talent, is without comparison more worthy than an incapable minister or a dishonored aristocrat.”162 Presumably, the men of letters cannot claim such superiority over the better specimens of noble stock. One reason for d’Alembert’s softer stance is that many of the men of letters believed that the upper classes, crowned heads of Europe included, would be much more receptive to the message of the Enlightenment than the masses.163 D’Alembert was increasingly frustrated “with the apathy and indifference of the masses who are interested in neither toleration, freedom, nor enlightenment.”164 In this attitude, he follows Voltaire, who believed that 90 percent of humanity did not merit enlightenment.165 In addition, some philosophes, most notably Voltaire, plainly enjoyed the status and luxury that attended life in polite society (though he too could be sharply critical of Paris, as evidenced by chapter 22 of Candide). Nevertheless, in the basic narrative of the philosophes, the nobles were the bad guys and were supposed to be supplanted. The truce suggested here is offered only as a matter of practicality and amour de soi-même.
The most systematic and detailed philosophe response to Rousseau is probably Diderot’s Rameau’s Nephew, which was written a few years after the contretemps had run its course. In the dialogue, geniuses are defended as socially beneficial and often virtuous, while the ordinary masses are portrayed as overwhelmed by amour-propre and completely vice ridden. The only silver lining for the masses is that they are driven to their behavior by the nobles, who preside over a cruel economy that forces people to behave poorly to meet their needs. Diderot’s dialogue, in fact, can be read as a point-by-point rejection of the narrative of intellectual life Rousseau laid out in two discourses and his concerns about the overvaluation of talent. Diderot addresses a number of themes and concepts prominent in Rousseau’s early writings, such as the relationship between virtue and talent, amour-propre and amour de soi-même, economic inequality, the plight of the poor, and the moral depravity in Paris. Given that the dialogue is rarely interpreted as a reply to Rousseau, it is worth analyzing in detail.166
The first substantive discussion of the dialogue is about the social value of genius and talent.167 Although Diderot never mentions his name, several arguments by Rousseau are subjected to careful scrutiny and do not hold up particularly well. They come out of the mouth of the knavish nephew, who ironically represents everything Rousseau hates about Paris, and are decisively refuted. The nephew-lui begins the dialogue by trying to make the Rousseauian case that genius is both useless and dangerous—useless because no true social good results from it and dangerous because geniuses are responsible for much of the evil in the world. He admits, however, that he has little knowledge of history and cannot verify his sweeping assertions. He is simply engaging in idle speculation. Moi, a philosopher who seems to be a stand-in for Diderot the philosophe, has little trouble swatting away his claims and makes several convincing counterarguments.
Geniuses are of tremendous social value, Diderot-moi claims, and help the masses understand their prejudices and errors. In direct contradiction to Rousseau’s claims in the First Discourse, he contends they also promote patriotism. He avers that people only honor nations that produce genius. Interestingly, one of his formulations is Homeric. Referencing the dramatist Jean Racine, he states: “A thousand years from now he will draw tears, will be admired by men all over the earth, will inspire compassion, human kindness, love. People will wonder who he was, from what country, and France will be envied.”168 Like Achilles, Racine will earn cultural immortality through his literary genius. Naturally, Diderot-moi defends this fact in democratic terms. After conceding that Racine was by reputation a man of low moral character, he constructs a cost-benefit analysis in which he proves that nonetheless he is responsible for far more good than harm. Frenchmen, and indeed all Europeans, for a millennium will take enjoyment and become better people as a result of his plays. Only a few individuals, by contrast, had to endure him as a person. The same is true of Voltaire and even nephew-lui’s uncle. If a few people are hurt by Voltaire’s thin-skinned replies to criticism or Uncle Rameau’s selfishness, the nation as a whole is likely to benefit for centuries to come. Furthermore, in some instances, the very vices people despise in geniuses are partly responsible for their wonderful achievements. Diderot-moi speculates that the talents of the painter Jean-Baptiste Geuze and those of Voltaire cannot be decoupled from their vanity and hypersensitivity to criticism, respectively.
In addition, he quickly disposes of the claim that geniuses are evil and cause much of the misery in the world. While they suffer from vices, they are no more vice ridden than the population at large. Fools are no less likely to be knaves than are geniuses. The only difference is that the vices of the masses do not produce great cultural treasures. Finally, Diderot-moi convinces the nephew that critics of genius hypocritically pretend to be geniuses themselves and thus do not make sincere criticisms. It is easy enough to imagine that Diderot had Rousseau in mind when devising this argument.
After adequately defending geniuses against the charges they are useless and dangerous, Diderot proceeds to blame the masses and the wealthy for amour-propre and the moral degeneracy in Paris. He develops his case through the nephew, who hypocritically reveals that he would like nothing more than to be a genius almost immediately after suggesting they are evil. The nephew, however, has no hope of attaining the status of genius in the conventional way. His musical talent is middling, and he cannot follow in his uncle’s foot steps. Undeterred, he invents a new form of genius that he insists is just as real and admirable as his uncle’s. He boasts to Diderot-moi that he is a “master scoundrel” who excels in vice. That is, he makes a good living pretending to be a fool so he can live off wealthy and noble patrons. Strangely, wealthy Parisian families like having fools around. They are a source of endless amusement and presumably liven up tedious dinner parties. According to the nephew-lui, there is a science to being a parasite. He has to master the art of “pantomime,” which requires that he know how to lie, forswear, flatter, gossip, diffuse controversy, perfectly time his comments, and so forth. There is even a physical side to this playacting. The nephew-lui claims to have developed a variety of facial expressions and forms of physical posture to help make himself agreeable to his hosts. In general, his genius requires him to have a keen understanding of human nature. He must have an acute sense of what people need to hear, and how and when they need to hear it. Thus, while he appears to be an ignorant, lazy, impudent ne’er-do-well, he in fact is an expert at manipulation.
In making this argument, Diderot relies heavily on Rousseau’s psychological concepts and critique of Paris. The nephew-lui’s moral psychology is described as a combination of amour-propre and amour de soi-même. The desire of the nephew to be a genius appears to result from amour-propre. He admits he is “full of envy” and resentment when he witnesses genius like his uncle and desperately wants to be praised as a unique member of the species. He also concedes that he likes hearing salacious gossip about geniuses because it lessens his envy and, he says, “brings me closer to them; makes me bear my mediocrity more easily.”169 In general, he wants to expose all great things as mere vanity and pull all decent people to pieces.170 He likewise takes great pride in playing a fool rather than being one and taking advantage of the rich. He insists to Diderot-moi that his patrons are the real fools and knaves, and delights in recounting an anecdote about one of his fellow genius-scoundrels, the Renegade from Avignon, who gets his hands on his Jewish patron’s money by turning him over to the Inquisition. The nephew even admits, to foreshadow one of Rousseau’s arguments I explain in Chapter 3, that his amour-propre results in a new desire—the libido dominandi, or the desire to control and dominate people. When he contemplates the possibility of attaining wealth and power, he proudly announces, “I love bossing people and I will boss them.”171
Yet,
