HIM: A hundred fools like me! No, Master Philosopher, they’re not that common. Oh, there are plenty of boring fools. But with foolishness, people are harder to please than with talent, or virtue. I’m rare among my kind, yes, very rare. Now that they’ve no longer got me, however are they managing? They’re as dull as ditchwater. I’m an inexhaustible fountain of impudence. I was never without a sally that made them laugh till they cried; they saw me as a complete lunatic asylum of their very own.
ME: And you also had your meals, your bed, your coat, jacket, breeches, and shoes, and your spending-money every month.
HIM: That was the good side, the profit; but the costs, you’ve said nothing about them. First, if rumour spoke of a new play, I was required, regardless of the weather, to go ferreting through all the attics in Paris until I’d found the author, succeeded in reading the work, and adroitly dropped a hint that one of the parts would be superbly played by an acquaintance of mine … ‘And who is that, may I ask?’ ‘Who? What a question! One who unites all graces, all sweetness, all subtlety …’ ‘You must mean Mademoiselle Dangeville, do you really know her?’ ‘Yes, slightly, but she’s not the one …’ ‘Who is it then?’ I murmur the name. ‘Her!’ ‘Yes, her,’ I would repeat, rather shamefacedly. For sometimes I do feel ashamed; you should see how the playwright’s face would fall on hearing that name repeated; sometimes, he’d just explode with laughter in my face. Nevertheless, I had to get my fellow, willy-nilly, to the dinner table; he, afraid of committing himself, would sulkily refuse. And you should have seen the way I’d be treated if I failed in my mission—called a lout, a blunderer, stupid, utterly useless, not worth the glass of water they allowed me. But it was even worse when she actually got a part, and I had to go and—deaf to the booing of a public whose judgement, contrary to general belief, is good—bravely let my solitary applause ring out, and endure the stares and, sometimes, the hisses that she had earned; hear people round me whisper: ‘It’s a footman in disguise, he belongs to the man she’s sleeping with; when will the bastard stop that row!’ People don’t know why someone does what I did; they assume it’s out of ineptness, whereas it springs from a motive that excuses everything.
ME: Even contravening the laws of civilized behaviour.
HIM: Eventually I’d be recognized, and they’d say: ‘Oh, it’s only Rameau.’ My solution was to throw in the odd ironic comment that rescued my solitary applause from seeming ridiculous, by making it mean its opposite. You must agree that it takes a powerful incentive to defy the assembled public like that, and that each one of these thankless tasks was worthy of a decent remuneration.
ME: Why didn’t you insist on some help?
HIM: Occasionally I did, and made a bit on the side that way. Before entering the torture-chamber, one had to commit to memory all the brilliant bits, where it was so vital to set the right tone. If I happened to forget them and pick the wrong moments, thunderbolts struck me upon my return—you simply can’t imagine the hullabaloo. And at home there was a pack of dogs to look after; it’s true I’d stupidly taken on this job; and I had charge of the cats—I was lucky if Micou didn’t claw my hand or tear my cuff! Criquette tends to be colicky and I’m the one who massages her belly. In the early days Mademoiselle suffered from the vapours; now, it’s nerves, not to mention other slight indispositions that she discusses freely in front of me. That’s fine with me: I’ve never assumed my presence should inhibit anyone. I’ve read somewhere that at times a king known as le Grand liked to lean on the back of his mistress’s commode. People tend to ignore decorum when they’re with their familiars, and in those days I was more familiar than anyone else. I’m the apostle of familiarity and ease. I preached to them by example, without anyone objecting; they should simply have let me go on like that. I’ve sketched the patron for you. Mademoiselle’s beginning to get fat; you should just hear the great stories they’re telling about that!
ME: But surely you’re not one of those people.
HIM: Why not?
ME: Because at the very least it’s bad manners to tell tales that ridicule your benefactors.
HIM: But isn’t it even worse to use one’s own position as benefactor to vilify one’s protégé?
ME: But if the protégé were not vile already, nothing would give the benefactor the power to do that.
HIM: But if the individuals concerned were not themselves already ridiculous, people wouldn’t tell those great stories. And then, is it my fault if they keep low company? Is it my fault, if, when they’re in that company, they’re betrayed and ridiculed? When people choose to live with people like us, if they’ve any sense, they must be prepared for all manner of low-down tricks. When they take us in, don’t they know us for what we are, self-seeking, base, and faithless? If they do know us to be such, all is well. There’s a tacit agreement that they’ll treat us well, and that sooner or later we’ll return evil for the good they’ve done us. Isn’t there such a pact between a man and his monkey or his parrot? Brun complains loudly that Palissot, his guest and friend, has written some couplets attacking him. Palissot had to write the couplets, and it’s Brun who’s in the wrong. Poinsinet complains loudly that Palissot’s attributed to him the couplets he wrote against Brun. Palissot had to attribute to Poinsinet the couplets he wrote against Brun, and it’s Poinsinet who’s in the wrong. The little Abbé Rey complains loudly because his friend Palissot has pinched his mistress, after Rey himself had taken Palissot to visit her. The point is that he should either not have taken Palissot to see her, or resigned himself to losing her. Palissot did what he had to do, and it’s Rey who’s in the wrong. The bookseller David loudly complains that his colleague Palissot has slept or tried to sleep with his wife; the bookseller David’s wife complains that Palissot’s hinting to anyone prepared to believe him that he slept with her; whether Palissot did or did not sleep with the bookseller’s wife is a difficult question, since the wife would have to deny it if it did happen, and Palissot may well have insinuated something that did not happen. Whatever the facts of the case, Palissot was faithful to his role, and it’s David and his wife who are in the wrong. Helvétius complains loudly that Palissot portrayed him in a play as rude and impolite, when Palissot’s still in his debt for medical treatment for his illness, as well as for food and clothing. Should he have expected anything different, from a man tainted by every kind of infamy, who for amusement persuaded his friend to renounce his religion, who steals from his business partners, who has no faith, no moral code, no feelings, who chases money per fas et nefas,* whose days are counted out in evil deeds, and who portrayed himself in a play as one of the most dangerous scoundrels ever*—a piece of impudence unrivalled in the past and likely to remain so in the future? No. It’s not Palissot, it’s Helvétius who’s in the wrong. If you take a young man from the provinces to the Versailles menagerie, and he stupidly decides to put his hand between the bars of the tiger’s or the panther’s cage: if this young man loses his arm in the beast’s maw, who is in the wrong? It’s all spelled out in the tacit agreement. Hard luck for anyone unaware of that agreement, or who has forgotten it. How often would I not invoke this universal, sacred compact to justify those we accuse of malice, when it is we ourselves and our own stupidity that we should accuse! Yes, my corpulent Countess, it’s you who are in the wrong, when you gather round you what your circle calls ‘types’, and then these ‘types’ stab you in the back, induce you to behave like them, and expose you to the resentment of decent people. The decent people behave as they must; so do the ‘types’. You are wrong to keep company with ‘types’. If Bertinhus* had lived quietly and peacefully with his mistress; if, because they were decent people, they’d made decent friends; if they’d gathered round them men of talent, men known in society for their virtues; if they’d reserved for a small, choice, enlightened circle of friends the hours of relaxation they could spare from the pleasure of being together, of loving one another and sharing their feelings at their own quiet fireside, do you suppose that
any stories—whether good or bad—would have been made up about them? But what in fact did happen to them? They got what they deserved. They were punished for their imprudence; we are the means appointed for all eternity by Providence to mete out justice to the Bertins of our day, and it is those of our posterity who resemble us that will see justice done to the Monsauges and the Bertins still to come. But while we execute Providence’s just decrees on stupidity, you, who depict us as we really are, you execute her just decrees on us. What would you think of us, if, with our shameful way of life, we laid claim to public respect? You would think us mad. And people who expect decent treatment at the hands of those who are innately corrupt, whose characters are vile and base, are they wise? Everything in this world pays its just dues. There are two attorneys-general: one lives amongst us, and punishes offences against society. The other one is Nature. Nature deals with all the vices that escape the law. Abandon yourself to a life of debauchery and womanizing and you’ll develop dropsy; if you’re profligate and dissolute, your lungs will suffer. Open your door to riff-raff, live with them; you’ll be betrayed, ridiculed, scorned. The simplest thing is to resign yourself to the fairness of Nature’s judgements, and tell yourself: it’s all as it should be; then either pull yourself together and mend your ways, or remain as you are, but accept the aforesaid contract.
ME: You’re right.
HIM: And by the way, about those unkind stories, not one of them originates with me; I stick to the part of scandalmonger. It appears that a few days ago, about five in the morning, the most outrageous hullabaloo broke out; all the bells were ringing at once, and broken, muffled cries were heard as of a man being asphyxiated: ‘Help, help, I’m suffocating, I’m dying.’ These cries came from the patron’s room. People rush in and help him. Our fat friend, who’d completely lost her head, and was blind and deaf to everything, as often happens in this situation, went on moving faster and faster, raising herself up on her hands and then, from the highest point she could attain, letting drop upon the Private Parts of the Treasury a two- or three-hundred pound weight, with a momentum energized by the most raging desire. To free him was a Herculean task. But what a crazy notion, for a tiny hammer to place itself beneath a massive anvil!
ME: You’re a scoundrel. Let’s change the subject. Ever since we began talking, I’ve been longing to ask you something.
HIM: So why have you waited all this time?
ME: Because I was afraid of presuming.
HIM: After what I’ve just been saying, I can’t think what secrets I haven’t already told you.
ME: You’re in no doubt about my opinion of your character.
HIM: In none whatever. I’m a very abject, very despicable being in your eyes, and occasionally—albeit rarely—in my own as well. I more often congratulate myself on my vices than castigate myself for them. You’re more consistent in your scorn.
ME: True. But why reveal to me all your depravity?
HIM: In the first place, because you were already aware of most of it; and then, I judged I had more to gain than lose by confessing the remainder.
ME: How so, if I may ask?
HIM: If there’s any area in which it really matters to be sublime, it is, above all else, in wickedness. People spit upon a petty thief, but cannot refuse a kind of respect to a great criminal. His courage astounds, his cruelty terrifies. People value unity of character in everything.
ME: But you have not yet developed this prized unity of character. At times you seem to vacillate in your principles. It isn’t clear whether your wickedness comes naturally or through study; or whether study has taken you as far as it can.
HIM: I agree; but I’ve done my best. Didn’t I have sufficient modesty to acknowledge beings more perfect than myself? Didn’t I tell you, with the deepest admiration, about Bouret? To my mind, Bouret is the greatest man on earth.
ME: But you come directly after Bouret.
HIM: No.
ME: So it’s Palissot?
HIM: It’s Palissot, but it’s not only Palissot.
ME: And who can be worthy of sharing second place with him?
HIM: The renegade of Avignon.
ME: I’ve never heard of this renegade of Avignon, but he must be a most astonishing man.
HIM: He most certainly is.
ME: I’ve always taken an interest in the histories of great men.
HIM: Yes, of course. This one lived with a good and decent descendant of the tribe of Abraham, which, as was promised to the father of believers, is equal in number to the number of stars in the sky.*
ME: With a Jew.
HIM: With a Jew. First he had inspired the Jew’s compassion, then his benevolence, and finally his complete trust. That’s the way it always happens. We rely so much on the effect of our good deeds, that we almost never conceal our secrets from the recipient of our kindnesses. How can we expect ingratitude not to flourish, when we expose man to the temptation of being ungrateful with impunity? This judicious reflection never occurred to our Jew. He therefore admitted to the renegade that he could not, in good conscience, eat pork. You shall see to what advantage a fertile mind could turn this confession. Several months went by, during which our renegade’s devoted attentions grew even greater. When he considered that his Jew was deeply affected and won over by his devotion, and felt he had no better friend among all the tribes of Israel, then—and this deserves our admiration—he showed great prudence. He takes his time. He allows the pear to ripen, before he shakes the branch. Too much enthusiasm might spell the ruin of his enterprise. As a general rule, greatness of character comes from a natural balance between several antithetical qualities.
ME: Enough of your ruminations; get on with your story.
HIM: That’s not possible. There are days where I have to ruminate. It’s a disease that must run its course. Where was I?
ME: On the establishment of a close relationship between the Jew and the renegade.
HIM: So the pear was now ripe … but you’re not paying attention. What are you thinking about?
ME: I’m thinking about the way your tone varies; sometimes it’s high-flown, sometimes familiar and low.
HIM: Can the tone of an imperfect man be uniform? One evening he knocks at his good friend’s door with a terrified air, hardly able to speak, his face pale as death, shaking in every limb … ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ ‘We’re done for.’ ‘What do you mean, done for?’ ‘Done for, I tell you; there’s no escaping it.’ ‘But explain yourself.’ ‘Give me a minute, to get over my fright.’ ‘Yes, yes, take your time,’ the Jew said to him, instead of saying, ‘You’re an unmitigated scoundrel; I don’t know what you’re going to tell me, but you’re a real scoundrel, your terror’s just a sham.’
ME: But why should he speak to him like that?
HIM: Because he was faking, and he’d overstepped the mark. It’s clear to me; don’t interrupt me again. ‘We’re done for, there’s no hope for us.’ Don’t you sense the affectation of those repeated done fors? ‘A traitor’s betrayed us to the Holy Inquisition, you as a Jew, I as a renegade, an infamous renegade.’ Just listen to the way that traitor unblushingly uses the most odious language. It takes more courage than you might suppose to call oneself by one’s true name. You don’t know what it takes to reach that point.
ME: I certainly don’t. But this infamous renegade…
HIM: Was lying; but it was a very clever lie. The Jew is very frightened, tugs at his beard, flings himself about. He imagines the police at his door, sees himself wrapped up in a san-benito, his auto-da-fé set up in readiness …* ‘My dear, my loving friend, my only friend, what should we do?’ ‘What should we do? Show ourselves, appear perfectly secure, behave as we always do. This tribunal operates in secret, but slowly. This delay must be used to sell off everything. I’ll go and charter a vessel—or arrange for someone else to do that; yes, chartering it through someone else would be best. We’ll store your fortune aboard; because it’s your fortune they’re mainly after; and yo
u and I will leave, and seek on some other shore the freedom and security to serve our God and obey the Law of Abraham and of our conscience. What’s absolutely vital in this dangerous situation, is not to make a rash move.’ No sooner said than done. The ship’s chartered, and supplied with provisions and sailors. The Jew’s fortune is on board. Tomorrow at dawn they’ll set sail. They can dine light-heartedly and sleep securely. Tomorrow they’ll escape their persecutors. During the night the renegade gets up, robs the Jew of his wallet, purse, and jewels, boards the vessel, and away he sails. And you think that’s the end of it? Ha! You haven’t understood. When I was told this tale, I, Rameau, guessed what I’ve kept from you, to test your shrewdness. You were right to be an honest man, you’d never have been more than a scamp. Up to this point, the renegade is just that. He’s a despicable rascal whom no one would choose to emulate. The sublime part of his wickedness is this: he himself had denounced to the Holy Inquisition his good friend the Israelite, who was arrested the next morning, and, a few days later, fuelled a fine bonfire. And that’s how the renegade became the tranquil possessor of the fortune of that accursed descendant of those who crucified our Lord.
ME: I don’t know which of the two horrifies me more: the villainy of your renegade, or the tone in which you speak of it.
HIM: And that’s what I was telling you. The atrocity of the act carries you beyond contempt, and that’s why I’m being sincere. I wanted you to realize just how much I excel at my art; force you to admit that I was at least original in my degradation, lay claim, in your thoughts, to my place in the great tradition of super-scoundrels, so that then I can exclaim: Vivat Mascarillus, fourbum imperator!* Come on, Master Philosopher, let’s be merry, all together please: Vivat Mascarillus, fourbum imperator!
Whereupon he began an extraordinary fugue-like song. At times the melody would be grave and majestic, at times light-hearted and playful; now he’d be imitating the bass, now a treble part; he’d indicate, by outstretched arm and neck, where the notes were sustained; he performed and composed a song of triumph in his own honour, demonstrating that he knew more about good music than good morals.
Rameau's Nephew and First Satire (Oxford World's Classics) Page 10
