The Philosopher Blushes – 221

Scene: Candlelight flickers over bread and books as Claire delights in Smith’s awkward grace.

My dearest Mary,

If philosophers are all as easily undone as Adam Smith, then I must take care not to dine among them too often—or at least not in candlelight. I swear he lost half his logic the moment I sat beside him.

He began bravely enough, slicing his bread with moral precision, but soon his knife hovered midair as if awaiting divine instruction. When I asked how long it had taken him to write his Wealth of Nations, he said, “Nearly ten years, Miss Clairmont—and every page was a negotiation between patience and despair.” A lovely confession, don’t you think? It made him quite human.

What I like most about him is that his theories do not seem to have crushed his heart. He believes people can be both selfish and kind, and that our daily exchanges—the price of bread, a favor among neighbors—are acts of mutual recognition. He said at one point, almost shyly, that “Man has almost constant occasion for the help of his brethren, and it is in vain for him to expect it from their benevolence only.”

I did not interrupt, though I might have asked what he meant by “vain.” I think he simply meant that good intentions alone will not bake a loaf. Yet, I sensed in him a wish that they might.

When he finally relaxed, we spoke not of commerce but of friendship. He asked what I missed most from home. I told him: laughter. He looked startled, then pleased—as if laughter were a form of capital he had forgotten to account for.

Your devoted, mischievous, and perhaps dangerously persuasive,
Claire