Gouverneur Morris has long been painted as a Libertine. But that Portrait collapses when placed in the full social and political Context of pre-Revolutionary Paris. Contrary to common expectations and the picture painted by previous Biographers, Morris did not thrive in the Salons because of his visible Disability nor despite it.
He did not thrive at all.
And what held him back, was something invisible.
He quickly understood the Game and refused to play until he was made to.
And he lost before it even began.
The Salons were a Theater and Gouverneur Morris was a Critic in the Audience
until the Drama dragged him onto the Stage.
🎭 A Stranger at the Salon
Quite soon upon arriving in Paris and having taken care of Business such as procuring a golden Watch for George Washington, taking care of Robert Morris’ Tobacco Partners, or trying to catch up with his old war Comrade Lafayette, his Letters of Introduction opened the Doors to the World of Paris’ Salons.
Before the Revolution, Salons were semi-public, semi-private Gatherings, hosted mostly by high-ranking Women, where Politics, Poetry, Philosophy, and Flirtation flowed in equal Measure. By the end of the 18th Century they were no longer just stiff, intellectual Circles but lively social Stages, where Wit was Currency, Charm a Weapon, and Intrigue the daily Bread.
Gouverneur Morris’ first experience with Salon Culture as described in his Diaries published by his Granddaughter Anne Cary Morris in 1889, looked like this:
The same day he dined with Madame Dumolley, who included in her society the extremely noisy element, the men who came on foot, and without the adornments of dress.
Her Monday entertainments, and small intrigues were to her the sole end and aim of the week; she lived for them, and the guests who were the special favorites of the moment.
Madame Dumolley had a pleasant face and an agreeable varnish of politeness ; and this, added to the fact that she never failed to include a more or less vigorous love-making episode in her pursuit after happiness, rendered her salon attractive. 1
The Line about Madame Dumolley “never failing to include a more or less vigorous love-making episode” isn’t Satire or Exaggeration. This is how her Salon functioned;
openly, sensually, and in the full spirit of libertine Paris.
Morris is amused, maybe even a little shocked, but he is not moralizing. He observes with a Diplomat’s Detachment and a Writer’s Eye for Character. This is the World he has entered: Flirtation is the Routine and Intrigue the Currency.
Gouverneur Morris discovered, what Thomas Jefferson preferred not to write Home about.
🪞Lessons in Coquetry
From Madame Dumolley’s he soon met other important Duchesses and Ladies among the six or seven Grand Salons of Paris and befriended them quickly, thanks to his Wits, his French Language Skills, and his ever respectful Mannerisms.
With these queens of the salon to instruct him, it was not long before Morris, being an apt scholar, found himself fully initiated into the mysteries of coquetry ; for these seductive court ladies never feared to follow their flattering words with the “look, manner, and tone of voice perfectly in unison with their sentiment.” But Morris was wary of such flatteries, though admitting that “a pleasing error might be preferable to a disagreeable truth.” 2
So Morris tried to play it cool, saying he is not fooled by Flatteries without Substance. He sees through it. But then he goes and admits he will take the beautiful Lie over the ugly Truth, as long as it was served with a Smile. So he consciously gives into the Illusion, because he would rather be charmed than be corrected.
Which is both very self-aware and low-key devastating.
Despite being a Foreigner and coming from a more puritanically, monogamously inclined American culture, Morris was not gullible. He was politically sharp, socially hyper-literate, and often the smartest Man in the Room. But he was also starved for Affection, constantly overworked, seriously overlooked, deeply romantic but pathologically dignified.
And always just one good Sentence away from falling in Love...
So of course he preferred the Women to smile at him and flirt, even if it was calculated, because it distracted him from how many Letters went unread, how few People thanked him, and how isolated he really was.
In short:
Boy was disconnected.
100% self-aware
100% devastating
100% Morris
🪞A Cold Room full of Hot Air
His first Glimpse into a literary Salon and a very detailed Insight into what these Gatherings could look like, is described in his Diary Entry of Tuesday, March 3rd, 1789, exactly one Month to the Day after his Arrival in Paris.
It was the Salon of the famous Poet and Playwright Madame la Comtesse de Beauharnais, also called Fanny.
And he was invited to dine at three o’Clock.
Setting off in great haste, to be punctual, and arriving at a quarter past the hour, he found in the drawing-room “some dirty linen and no fire.”
While the waiting-woman takes away one, a valet lights up the other. Three small sticks in a deep heap of ashes give no great expectation of heat. By the smoke, however, all doubts are removed respecting the existence of fire. To expel the smoke a window is opened, and the day being cold I have the benefit of as fresh air as can reasonably be expected in so large a city.
Towards 4 o’clock the guests begin to assemble, and I begin to suspect that as madame is a poetess, I shall have the honor to dine with that excellent part of the species who devote themselves to the Muses.
In effect, the gentlemen begin to compliment their respective works, and as regular hours cannot be expected in a house where the mistress is occupied more with the intellectual than the material world, I have the delightful prospect of a continuance of the scene.
Towards five, madame steps in to announce dinner, and the hungry poets advance to the charge. As they bring good appetites, they have certainly reason to praise the feast, and I console myself in the persuasion that for this day at least I shall escape indigestion. A very narrow escape, too, for some rancid butter of which the cook had been very liberal, puts me in bodily fear.
If the repast is not abundant we have at least the consolation that there is no lack of conversation. Not being perfectly master of the language, most of the jests escape me ; as for the rest of the company, each being employed either in saying a good thing, or studying one to say ‘tis no wonder if he cannot find time to explain that of his neighbor.
They all agree that we live in an age alike deficient in justice and in taste. Each finds in the fate of his own works numerous instances to justify the censure. They tell me, to my great surprise, that the public now condemn theatrical compositions before they have heard the first recitals, and to remove my doubts, the comtesse is so kind as to assure me that this rash decision has been made on one of her own pieces.
In pitying modern degeneracy, we rise from the table.
I take my leave immediately after the coffee, which by no means dishonors the precedent repast, and madame informs me that on Tuesdays and Thursdays she is always at home, and will be glad to see me. While I stammer out some return to the compliment, my heart, convinced of my unworthyness to partake of such Attic entertainment, makes me promise never again to occupy the place, from which, perhaps, I had excluded a worthier personage.3
What at first Glance reads like the scathing Critique of a haughty, intellectually superior Aristocrat looking down on a disheveled Group of unruly Poets and Thinkers beneath his Sphere, takes on a very different Depth upon closer Inspection.
Because if you consider who Gouverneur Morris was, and how his Mind worked — emotionally, politically, and sensorily — it becomes clear:
This wasn’t Arrogance. It was Overstimulation.
It was never about Snobbery or Class Pride. But about Orientation, Safety, and social Codes that simply were not there. This is not the Voice of a Gentleman sneering at the Bohemians. It is the Voice of someone whose had the Rug pulled from under him.
And for that Reason alone, the Moment deserves a second Look.
🕰️ “Dangerous Liaisons” meets “Moulin Rouge”
Morris rushed to be on Time because to him it was a Matter of both Statesmanship and personal Etiquette. As an Episcopalian Statesman and “A Republican” in his own words, “which has formed one of the most republican of all republican constitutions,” 4 Morris still clung to certain American Ideals of Order, Punctuality, and Decorum.
Being late, especially to a Dinner Invitation, was out of the Question. Months later he described in minute and excruciating Detail how uncomfortable and apologetic he felt, when he arrived thirty Minutes late to a Dinner at a Friend’s.
But what he walked into wasn’t a Dinner. It was a Trial.
A cold Room, dirty Laundry, three Sticks in an Ashpile. There was no Fire, and no Concern that there should be. In short: Morris had landed on a different Planet.
He was a Fish out of Water.
And in classic neurodivergent Fashion he probably felt bad for being the first one there, even though he arrived late. That inner Tug-of-War between over-performing social Expectation and being baffled by unspoken Rules is peak Gouverneur.
Just Days earlier, Morris wrote to George Washington, expressing his “unbounded surprise at the astonishing spectacle” Paris presented to a new Arrival from the New World. “Everything is à l'anglaise:,” he wrote, “and the desire to imitate the British prevails alike in the cut of a coat, and the form of a constitution.” 5
He expected “Dangerous Liaisons” (1988);
powdered Wigs, republican Minds, and a strict pecking Order.
But what he got, was “Moulin Rouge” (2001);
a Smoke-filled drawing Room of hungry Poets screaming over each other and praising their own Verses over rancid Butter.
Welcome to the French Salon, Mr. Morris.
💬 The Language of Exclusion
When he started suspecting the Guests would be “that excellent part of the species who devote themselves to the Muses” the Sarcasm drips lightly, behind the Politeness, but unmistakably. Gouverneur Morris, who read Montesquieu and Voltaire, expected Minds like theirs. Instead he found the Bohème; ten starving Artists and three Logs of Firewood.
The Fact that the Madame did not appear until five... he was clearly overwhelmed and quietly judging. But what truly stung wasn't the cold room or the rancid butter.
It was the silence beside him.
“Each being employed either in saying a good thing, or studying one to say,” Morris tries to follow the Conversation. But he is not fluent enough in free colloquial French to catch all the Jokes on his own. And there is little he treasures or cherishes more.
So he is relying on the conversational Etiquette of Dinner, especially from those seated next to him, to include or explain Things. And they don’t.
For his Neighbors are too absorbed in chasing their own Punchlines.
This is not only a linguistic Struggle, something he usually prides himself in, but additionally a grave social Snub, he deems himself undeserving of. And Morris, as both an Aristocrat and Gentleman, reads it with legal Precision:
the Breach of basic Hospitality, masked as Wit.
This is where his Diaries first plant the Seed that he values Clarity over Performance — and Honesty over Affectation. And as a Lawyer and Founder of a Revolution, he was hyperaware of Performance at all Times.
He was not an Artist like them. He was trained in Form, Logic, and Law.
His Writing and Orations were powerful, but his Gifts were not performative or self-promoting. He felt deeply, but never dramatized outward. So the Poets at Fanny’s threw him off:
He knew French well enough to confer with kings and draft constitutions, but here he was speechless, because he didn't understand the language.
Neither literally nor socially.
So was the rancid Butter Bit really a Joke or an Alarm Bell? The Part reads hysterical, and completely Morrisian within the World of his Diaries, but it is also very telling. In his Journals, “bodily fear” is an unusual phrase. He is clearly being facetious, but underneath is a Discomfort he can’t name.
The Setting is cold. The Smoke stings. The Food is unappetizing. No one speaks his Language. The Jokes fly over his Head. The Dinner is late and scarce. He is alone.
These aren’t literary Hyperbole — they are classic Panic Symptoms, masked in Wit:
Physical Hypersensitivity
Sensory Overload
Linguistic Shutdown
and the uncanny Feeling of being in the “wrong Place” and not being able to leave without seeming rude.
In Dumolley’s previous aristocratic Salon he may have been morally alienated or confronted with something completely new to him, but he knew the Rules and moved within them. Bow. Flirt. Smile.
But at Fanny’s?
There are none of his learned Scripts and Rules
but too many unspoken ones.
So yes: he is joking, but he is also spiraling.
This is how Morris always protects himself:
By narrating the Absurdity before it can humiliate him.
He shifts Blame with Grace and internalizes it completely. He never shifts Blame outward, not even in his later Diaries, after he has been through the unthinkable Terror that is still ahead.
And even though he was more than justified in his Discomfort and had every Reason to complain about the Cold, the Delay, the Smoke, the rancid Butter, the impenetrable and meaningless Conversations, and the self-important and unranking Creatives who ignore the foreign Guest — he never blames the Room.
He blames himself for being in it.
🚪 Exit, Stage Left
This is what makes the Ending of the Entry so crushing:
“While I stammer out some return to the compliment, my heart, convinced of my unworthiness to partake of such Attic entertainment, makes me promise never again to occupy the place.”
That is not Humility. It is Rejection of Self.
And complete Protection and Absolution of the Others.
“My heart, convinced of my unworthiness, makes me promise…” is not a light Remark, but clearly demonstrates his Disconnect. The involuntary Nature of his own Statement towards the Comtesse, driven by deep internalized Rejection, dressed up as social Grace.
He narrates the entire Disaster as if he were an Intruder, unjustified in even showing up, not an invited and then excluded, disadvantaged, and dissatisfied Guest.
It is a profound psychological Tell:
→ He cannot see himself as someone who deserves to take up Space,
unless he knows exactly what Role he is meant to play.
→ In Salons, with no Script, no Policy, no Law — he panics and shuts down.
Because he doesn’t want to be the Fool.
Or worse; the arrogant fool.
Yet unlike most Men in his Position he does not project Arrogance, Anger, or Entitlement outward. He turns the Humiliation inward and makes it literary.
And this, paradoxically, is what makes him the only true Gentleman among so many men of “Manners.”
He chooses self-Questioning over self-Righteousness
He hurts instead of pretending.
And then he walks away quietly instead of demanding the Spotlight back…
“...never again to occupy the place”.
🩷 All or Nothing
This is it.
The executive Dysfunction Pattern dressed up as moral Judgment.
A classic Encounter with Rejection-Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD) and ADHD,
which could perhaps even be read as autistic Coping Behavior:
He felt completely overwhelmed.
Sensorily (Cold, Smoke, bad Food)
Socially (left out of the Jokes, unable to follow the Flow)
Linguistically (even though his French was sufficient for Politics)
and emotionally (expected one Thing, received another, no prep Time).
But instead of parsing out which Part hurt, he collapses the entire Experience into a single, all-or-nothing Rule:
“I do not belong here, so I will never go back.”
This is exactly how neurodivergent People protect themselves from chaotic Systems we can’t predict. We don’t recalibrate.
We withdraw.
And then, because he is Gouverneur Morris and cannot leave anything unanalyzed, he translates that Hurt into a sort of gentle, tragic Courtesy towards the Comtesse:
“My unworthy presence has unjustly excluded someone worthier by taking their place.”
That was his Way of saying:
“It’s not you. You considered me, that was already more than I ever expected.
It’s me. And here is how you can still profit from me leaving.”
His All-or-Nothing Heart is both heartbreaking and deeply relatable.
And I wish I could say it is an exceptional clearly neurodivergently coded Moment of Confrontation or Struggle with his Self in his Diaries.
But it is not.
It is the red Thread through all of his Writings. Even his public Speeches.
Even his Constitutions, Plans, Statutes, and Essays.
🦄 The Man Behind the Mask
Gouverneur Morris was a Unicorn.
He entered the most performative Spaces of his Time visibly marked (with a wooden Leg), emotionally intense (loud and often overwhelming), and neurodivergent long before there was a Word for it.
And yet he entered the salons imposingly, alert, and always a little too honest for the Game being played. He didn’t see himself as a Player at first, but as an Outsider trying to learn the rules.
What he did not know, leaving Fanny’s smoky drawing Room behind that Day,
never to return, was:
The Game would soon play him.
And this Time, it wouldn’t be the Jests that escape him…
…it would be his Heart.
👁🗨 To be continued in “The Art of Seduction - Part II”…
Notes:
Morris, Anne Cary. The Diary and Letters of Gouverneur Morris. Trow’s, 1889. p. 28.
ibid. p. 30.
ibid. p. 31-32.
ibid. p. 27.
ibid. p. 31.