ME: Why not?
HIM: Because they’d have spent their entire life learning them. You have to have completely immersed yourself in art or in science to understand its fundamental principles. The classic texts are only interpreted well by those who’ve grown old in their perusal. It’s the middle and the end that illuminate the shadows of the beginning. Ask your friend Monsieur D’Alembert, the leading luminary of mathematical science, whether he would be too expert to teach its rudiments. It was only after thirty or forty years of study that my uncle began to see glimmers of light in the darkness of musical theory.
ME: Oh, you king of all fools [I exclaimed], how does it come about that that no-good head of yours contains such sound ideas all scrambled together with such wildly extravagant notions?
HIM: Who the devil knows? Chance puts them into your head, and there they remain. It therefore follows that unless you know everything, you really know nothing. You don’t know where one thing’s going; where another comes from; where this or that one should be put; which one should come first or would be better placed second. Can you teach something properly without a method? And a method, where does that originate? Listen, my philosopher friend, it strikes me that physics will always be a weakling science, a drop of water from the vast ocean caught up on the point of a needle, a grain of dust from off the Alps; and then, what about the causes of phenomena—truly, it would be better to know nothing than to know so little, so imperfectly; and that’s exactly the point I’d reached when I became a teacher of accompaniment and composition. What are you thinking about?
ME: I’m thinking that everything you’ve just said is more specious than solid. But enough of that. You’ve taught, you say, accompaniment and composition?
HIM: Yes.
ME: And you knew nothing whatever about them?
HIM: Believe me, I knew nothing; and that’s why there were some worse than me: those who believed they knew something. At least I didn’t spoil either the taste or the hands of the children. When they went from me to a good teacher, as they had learnt nothing they at least had nothing to unlearn; which meant that much money and time saved.
ME: How did you manage?
HIM: The way they all do. I’d arrive. I’d fling myself into an armchair … ‘What dreadful weather! The streets are so exhausting!’ I’d pass on a few bits of gossip. ‘Mademoiselle Lemierre was to play a vestal virgin in that new opera, but she’s pregnant for the second time. No one knows who’s to be her understudy. Mademoiselle Arnould’s just broken with her little count.* They say she’s negotiating with Bertin. However, the little count has discovered the secret of Monsieur de Montami’s porcelain. At their last concert the Friends of Music had an Italian woman who sang like an angel.* That Préville’s a rare bird. You really must see him in Le Mercure galant,* the bit about the enigma’s a riot. That poor Dumesnil hasn’t a clue what she’s saying or what she’s doing. Come on, Mademoiselle, get your book.’ While Mademoiselle, who’s in no hurry, hunts for her book which she’s mislaid, and a chambermaid’s summoned, and Madame scolds, I continue: ‘La Clairon is quite incomprehensible. There’s talk of a totally preposterous marriage—it’s that Mademoiselle—now whatever is her name—that little thing he was keeping, by whom he’s had two or three children, and who’d been kept by all those others …’ ‘Come now, Rameau, it’s not possible, you’re talking nonsense.’ ‘No, it’s not nonsense. They say it’s actually taken place. There’s a rumour that Voltaire’s dead. What good news.’ ‘Why good news?’ ‘Because that means he’s about to let loose some splendid sally. It’s his custom to die a couple of weeks beforehand. Let’s see, what else was there?’ I’d tell a few smutty anecdotes I’d heard at the houses where I’d just been, for we’re all of us great scandalmongers. I’d play the fool. They’d listen to me, they’d laugh. They’d exclaim: ‘Still such a charmer!’ Meanwhile Mademoiselle’s book would have turned up under an armchair where it had been dragged, chewed and torn by a puppy or perhaps a kitten. She’d sit down at her harpsichord. She’d begin to make a noise all by herself. Then I’d draw nearer, after nodding my approval to the mother. The mother: ‘It’s not going badly; she just needs to exert herself a little, but exertion’s the last thing on her mind. She’d rather waste time chattering, messing with her clothes, rushing about, doing goodness knows what. The door’s barely shut behind you but the book’s closed, and isn’t reopened until you come again. And you never tell her off…’ As some action was called for, I’d take her hands and reposition them on the keyboard. I’d get cross and shout: ‘G, G, G, Mademoiselle, it’s G!’ The mother: ‘Mademoiselle, have you no ear? Even I, who am not at the instrument, and can’t see your book, I feel it’s a G that’s wanted. You’re giving Monsieur Rameau so much trouble. His patience is beyond belief. You don’t remember a thing he tells you. You’re making no progress at all …’ I’d then temper the blows somewhat and, with a nod, would say: ‘Excuse me, Madame, excuse me, things could be better, if Mademoiselle made an effort, if she studied a little, but it’s not going badly.’ The mother: ‘If I were you I’d keep her on the same piece for an entire year …’ ‘As to that, she won’t master it until she’s overcome all the difficulties; but that won’t take as long as Madame supposes …’ The mother: ‘Monsieur Rameau, you’re flattering her; you’re too kind. That’s the only thing she’ll remember from her lesson, and she’ll be sure to repeat it to me when the need arises …’ The hour would pass. My student would hand me my fee, with the graceful gesture and curtsey her dancing master taught her. I’d put it into my pocket, while the mother said: ‘Very nice, Mademoiselle; if Javillier were here, he’d applaud you.’ I’d chat a little longer out of politeness, then I’d slip away; that’s what used to be called a lesson in accompaniment.
ME: And is it any different today?
HIM: Lord, I think so. I arrive. I look serious. I quickly deposit my muff. I open the harpsichord. I run my fingers over the keys. I’m always in a hurry. If I’m kept waiting for a minute, I protest loudly, as though I were being robbed: ‘An hour from now I have to be at such and such a house; two hours from now the Duchess of X expects me. I’m engaged for dinner with a beautiful marquise, and when I leave there, I’m going to a concert at Baron de Bagge’s house, in the Rue neuve des Petits-Champs.’
ME: But you’re not really expected anywhere?
HIM: True.
ME: So why go in for those base little subterfuges?
HIM: Base? Why base, may I ask? They’re standard in my calling. I’m not degrading myself by doing as everyone else does. It wasn’t I who invented them, and I’d be strange and maladroit not to use them. Of course I know quite well that if you apply to what I’ve described certain general principles of God knows what morality that people talk about all the time but never put into practice, what is white will be black, and what is black will be white. But, Master Philosopher, there exists such a thing as a universal conscience. Just as there’s a universal grammar; and then there are exceptions in every language that you experts call, I believe, well … give me a hint, will you? … you call them …
ME: Idioms.
HIM: Exactly. Well now, every calling has its exceptions to the universal conscience, which I’d like to call the idioms of that calling.
ME: I understand. Fontenelle speaks well and writes well, although his style teems with French idioms.
HE: And the sovereign, the minister, the financier, the magistrate, the soldier, the man of letters, the lawyer, the public prosecutor, the merchant, the banker, the craftsman, the singing master, the dancing master, are perfectly respectable people, although their conduct deviates in several respects from the universal conscience, and abounds in moral idioms. The more ancient an institution, the greater the number of its idioms; the worse the suffering in a particular age, the more the idioms multiply. The man is worth what his occupation is worth, and vice versa; in the final analysis, their worth is the same. So people make their own occupation seem as significant as possible.
HIM: Alright, we’ll agree there are none at all; but on the other hand, there are few who are scoundrels outside of their shop; and everything would go on quite nicely were it not for certain individuals who are called hardworking, reliable, punctilious in their duties, strict, or what amounts to it; always in their shop, working at their job from dawn to dusk, and doing nothing else. Result: they’re the only ones to earn a fortune, and a fine reputation.
ME: Through force of idiom.
HIM: Exactly. I see you’re with me. Now, an idiom common to all conditions—for there are idioms common to all nations and all ages, just as there are common follies—a common idiom is to acquire as large a clientele as possible; a common folly is to believe that the most capable man is the one with the most clients. There you have two exceptions to the rule of universal morality which we must accept. It’s a kind of good will. It doesn’t mean much in itself, but it acquires value through public opinion. There was a saying that ‘a fine reputation was worth more than a belt of gold’. However, a man with a fine reputation may not own a gold belt, whereas nowadays I see that someone who owns a gold belt seldom lacks a fine reputation. One should, as far as possible, possess both the reputation and the belt. And that is my object when I resort to what you call cheap tricks, base little subterfuges. I teach my lesson, and I teach it well; that’s the absolute standard. I make people believe that I still have more lessons to get to than there are hours in the day. That’s the idiom.
ME: And you really do teach well?
HIM: Yes, not badly, tolerably well. The ground-bass theory of the dear uncle has made everything much simpler. In the past I used to steal my pupil’s money: yes, I stole it, no doubt about that. Today I earn it, at least as well as others do.
ME: And did you steal it without any qualms?
HIM: Oh, without any qualms. You know the saying: ‘if one thief steals from another, the devil laughs.’ The parents were dripping with money acquired God knows how; they were courtiers, tax farmers, wholesalers, bankers, businessmen. I helped them to make restitution, I and countless others who, like me, were employed by them. In nature all the species prey on one another; in society all the classes do the same. We mete out justice to one another without benefit of the law. La Deschamps in the past, and today la Guimard, avenge the King by cheating the tax farmer; it’s the dressmaker, the jeweller, the upholsterer, the linen maid, the swindler, the lady’s maid, the cook, the harness-maker, who avenge the tax farmer by cheating la Deschamps. Amidst all this, only the imbecile or the idler suffers a loss without exacting his price from someone else: which only serves him right. Whence you may deduce that these exceptions to the universal conscience, or these moral idioms people make such a fuss about, labelling them illicit benefits, are of no consequence; the only thing that matters is to see clearly.
ME: I admire that in you.
HIM: And then there’s poverty. The voice of conscience and of honour sounds very faint when the belly screams. I’ll simply say that if ever I grow rich, I will certainly have to make restitution, and I’m quite determined to do so by all possible means—by feasting, by gaming, by drinking, by women.
ME: But I’m afraid you’ll never grow rich.
HIM: That is what I too suspect.
ME: But if it were to happen, what then?
HIM: I’d behave like every beggar on horseback: I’d be the most insolent rogue ever seen. I’d then remember everything they’d made me suffer, and I’d pay them back in spades for their affronts. I love bossing people about and I’ll boss them about. I love praise, and they’ll praise me. I’ll have the whole gang of Villemorien’s minions in my pay, and I’ll order them, just as I’ve been ordered: ‘Come on, you rats, amuse me’, and they’ll amuse me; ‘give me the dirt on all the decent people’, and they’ll do so, if any such are still to be found; and we’ll go whoring; we’ll call one another tu when we’re drunk, and we shall get drunk; we’ll pass on scurrilous gossip; we’ll indulge in all kinds of profligacy and vice. It’ll be absolutely delicious. We’ll prove that Voltaire has no genius, that Buffon, who’s always on his high horse, is just a pompous ranter; that Montesquieu is nothing but a wit;* we’ll tell D’Alembert to stick to his sums and we’ll give a really good going-over to all those petty stoics like you, who despise us out of envy, cloak their pride in modesty, and live soberly out of necessity. And music? Ah, then indeed we’ll have music!
ME: Considering the worthy use you’d make of wealth, it seems to me deplorable that you should be penniless. Such a lifestyle would reflect great honour on the human race, be of great service to your fellow citizens, and reflect great glory upon you.
HIM: I rather think that you’re making fun of me; but, Master Philosopher, you don’t understand whom you’re dealing with; you’ve no idea that at this moment I represent the most significant section of the Town and the Court. The very wealthy in every social group either have or have not told themselves these very same things that I’ve confided to you; but the fact remains that the life I’d lead were I in their shoes is precisely the life they do lead. Just take a look at what you believe. You people imagine that everyone seeks the same kind of happiness. What a strange fantasy! Your happiness presupposes a certain romantic mindset that the rest of us don’t share, an exceptional kind of spirit, particular tastes. You adorn this oddity with the label of virtue, you call it philosophy. But are virtue and philosophy suited to everybody? Enjoy them if you can. Be true to them if you can. Imagine the world wise and philosophical; you must agree that it would be devilishly dreary. Listen—let’s give a cheer for philosophy, and one for wisdom: the wisdom of Solomon. Drinking fine wines, eating one’s fill of choice dishes, tumbling pretty girls, sleeping on soft beds—except for these, all else is vanity.*
ME: What! Defending your country?
HIM: Vanity. It’s no longer your country. From pole to pole I see only tyrants and slaves.
ME: Helping your friends?
HIM: Vanity. Have you any friends? And supposing you had, should you risk making ingrates of them? Consider carefully: you’ll realize that almost always ingratitude is what you get for helping them. Gratitude is a burden, and all burdens are made to be cast off.
ME: Holding a position in society and fulfilling its responsibilities?
HIM: Vanity. What does it matter whether you have a position or not, as long as you’re rich, since you only take a position in order to become so? Fulfilling your responsibilities, what does that get you? Jealousy, problems, persecution. Is that the way to get on in the world? Pay court, for God’s sake, pay court; frequent the powerful, study their tastes, fall in with their whims, serve their vices, applaud their wrongdoing. That’s the secret.
ME: Seeing to your children’s education?
HIM: Vanity. That’s the responsibility of a tutor.
ME: But supposing that tutor were a follower of your principles and neglected his duties, who would pay the penalty?
HIM: Not I, that’s certain; some day, possibly, my daughter’s husband, or my son’s wife.
ME: But if they were both to sink into a life of debauchery and vice?
HIM: That’s in keeping with their position.
ME: And if they were disgraced?
HIM: If you’re rich, no matter what you do, you can’t be disgraced.
ME: And supposing they were ruined?
HIM: That’s their bad luck.
ME: It seems to me that if you don’t take responsibility for the conduct of your wife, your children, or your servants, you might easily neglect your own affairs.
HIM: Excuse me, but you’re mistaken; it’s sometimes difficult to lay one’s hands on money, and so it’s prudent to look ahead.
ME: But you wouldn’t bother much about your wife.
HIM: Not at all, in fact. The best possible policy,
I believe, in dealing with one’s better half is to do what pleases her. In your opinion, wouldn’t society be extremely entertaining if we all did our own thing?
ME: Why not? I never think my evening so delightful as when I’ve enjoyed my morning.
HIM: That’s true of me too.
ME: What makes society people so finicky about their diversions is their complete idleness.
HIM: Don’t you believe it. They’re constantly on the go.
ME: Because they never get tired, they can never feel refreshed.
HIM: Don’t you believe it. They’re always worn out.
ME: They pursue pleasure because it keeps them busy, never because they feel the need of it.
HIM: So much the better; need is always an affliction.
ME: They use everything up. Their soul becomes stupefied. Boredom takes possession of it. He who would deprive them of life at the height of their burdensome plenty would be doing them a favour. They know only that part of happiness which loses its edge most rapidly. I don’t despise the pleasures of the senses. I too have a palate, which delights in a delicate dish or a delectable wine. I have a heart and I have eyes: I love looking at a pretty woman. I love to feel beneath my hand the firmness and roundness of her breast, to press my lips to hers, to drink in the sensuality of her gaze, and to die of ecstasy in her arms. Occasionally, when I’m with friends, an evening of wine and women, even if it’s somewhat wild, does not displease me. But I won’t conceal from you that I find it infinitely sweeter to have helped the unfortunate, concluded a thorny negotiation, given useful advice, read an agreeable book, taken a walk with a man or a woman dear to my heart, spent some instructive hours with my children, written a satisfying page, fulfilled the duties of my station, or to have told my beloved of sweet and tender feelings which induced her to wrap her arms round my neck.* There are certain things I would give everything I own to have done. Mahomet is a sublime work; but I would rather have rehabilitated the memory of Calas.* An acquaintance of mine had taken refuge in Carthagenia. He was a younger son, in a country where custom dictates that all property pass to the eldest. While abroad he hears that his elder brother, a spoilt youth, has robbed his too-credulous father and mother of everything they possess, cast them out of their chateau, and left the good old people quite destitute, to languish in some small provincial town. So what does that younger son do? Harshly treated by his parents in the past, he had departed to seek his fortune in a distant land: he sends them money, and quickly settles his own affairs. He returns a very wealthy man. He restores his parents to their home. He arranges marriages for his sisters. Ah, my dear Rameau, this man thinks of that period of time as the happiest in his life. It was with tears in his eyes that he told me of it; and my heart, as I tell you this story, overflows with joy, and happiness renders me speechless.
Rameau's Nephew and First Satire (Oxford World's Classics) Page 7
