Two Persians walk into Paris
The Persian Letters — Lettres persanes — appeared anonymously in 1721, printed in Amsterdam, beyond the reach of the royal censors who licensed everything published in France. It is a novel made entirely of letters, and its two chief correspondents are Usbek and Rica, Persian noblemen travelling in Europe who write home describing what they see. What they see is Paris — the crowds, the coffee-houses, the fashions that change twice a year, the theatre, the king, the pope, the convents — and because they have no idea what any of it means, they describe it exactly, which is what makes it ridiculous. Rica reports that the King of France is a great magician, since he can convince his subjects that one coin is worth two; the pope, a greater one, since he can make people believe that three are one.
That is the device the whole book runs on, and it is why the book could be written at all. Direct satire of the court, the church and the money of France in 1721 was dangerous; satire delivered by a bewildered foreigner is merely a traveller's honest report, and the author is only the man who found the letters. Behind the comedy the book argues for what the Bibliothèque nationale de France — the French national library — calls a liberalism set against the despotism embodied by Louis XIV, the absolute monarch who had died six years before it appeared. The boldest passages are the ones about religion. Success was immediate, and it made an anonymous provincial judge the most talked-about writer in Paris.
The salons opened — the salon being a private drawing room where a hostess gathered writers, nobles and officials to talk, and where in eighteenth-century France reputations and careers were actually made. He became a fixture at the house of the marquise de Lambert, whose Tuesday gatherings on the rue de Richelieu were the most literary in the city and whose encouragement pushed him towards writing full-time, and probably at the club de l'Entresol, a short-lived discussion society for politics and public affairs. After Madame de Lambert died he was taken up by the Brancas and the d'Aiguillon families, by Madame de Tencin, Madame du Deffand and Madame Geoffrin — the women whose drawing rooms were, in practice, the institutions of the French Enlightenment, the century-long argument for reason, tolerance and reform against church and absolute monarchy. In 1728 the Académie française — France's official literary academy, forty members elected for life — elected him, over objections from churchmen who had read the Persian Letters and from academicians who had noticed that the book mocked the Académie too.
The Spirit of the Laws
Immediately after his election he left, and spent three years crossing Italy, Germany, Austria and England, taking notes on how each country was actually governed; the eighteen months in England mattered most. He came home to Bordeaux in 1731 with failing eyesight and a project. It took him roughly twenty years. The Spirit of the Laws — De l'esprit des lois — published in Geneva in 1748 and, like the Persian Letters, without his name on it, surveys the laws of every society he could get information about and tries to explain them by their causes — climate, terrain, population, commerce, religion, the character a nation acquires from all of these together, which he called its general spirit. He sorts governments into three kinds: republics, monarchies, and despotisms, and argues that only moderate governments protect individual liberty.
The idea that made him permanent is in Book XI. A state has three powers — the legislative, which makes laws; the executive, which enforces them; and the judicial, which tries cases — and liberty survives only when these are held by different hands, so that no one can do all three. His formulation of why is the sentence everyone quotes: it is necessary, from the very nature of things, that power should be a check to power. He believed he had found the arrangement working in the English constitution, which is where he had spent his eighteen months.
The reception in France was hostile in the quarters that mattered. The attacks began as soon as the book appeared, which is why he had already published a Défense de L'Esprit des lois — 'A Defence of The Spirit of the Laws' — in 1750; the condemnations came anyway. The church placed the book on the Index of prohibited works, the Vatican's list of what Catholics were forbidden to read, on 29 November 1751, and the Sorbonne, the theology faculty of the University of Paris, condemned it too. Abroad it did the opposite. When the American states argued about ratifying their new constitution in 1787–88, the separation of powers was the crux, and in Federalist 47 — one of the newspaper essays written to argue the constitution through — James Madison called Montesquieu "the oracle who is always consulted and cited on this subject" before spending the rest of the essay explaining what Montesquieu had actually meant. That argument is why an eighteenth-century Bordeaux magistrate is still looked up daily by American readers.