Rameau's Nephew and First Satire (Oxford World's Classics)

by Denis Diderot

  While he was talking to me in this way the crowd surrounding us had dissipated, either because it didn’t understand, or because it took no interest in his remarks, for as a rule children, like men, and men, like children, would sooner be amused than instructed. The chess players had resumed their games, and we were left alone in our corner. Seated on a bench, his head leaning against the wall, his eyes half closed and his arms dangling, he said to me: ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me, when I came I felt fresh as a daisy, and now I’m worn out, exhausted, as if I’d walked for miles and miles. It hit me quite suddenly.’

  ME: Would you like something to drink?

  HIM: Yes, very much. I feel hoarse, and weak; my chest hurts a bit. This happens to me almost every day, just like that, I don’t know why.

  ME: What would you like?

  HIM: Whatever you think. I’m not particular. Poverty’s taught me to like anything.

  They serve us beer and lemonade. He pours some into a big glass which he empties two or three times in quick succession. Then, like a man restored to life, he gives a tremendous cough, shifts about in his seat, and goes on: ‘But in your opinion, Master Philosopher, isn’t it extremely odd that a foreigner, an Italian, a Duni, should come and teach us how to accentuate our music, and adapt our songs to all the tempi, metres, intervals, declamatory passages, without harming prosody? After all, it wasn’t all that difficult a thing to do. Anyone who’d heard a down-and-out begging in the street, a man in the grip of rage, a jealous, furious woman, a lover in despair, a flatterer—yes, a flatterer softening his tone, drawling out his syllables, his voice like honey; in a word, a passion, no matter what kind, provided that by its intensity it deserved to serve as a model for the musician, must have noticed two things: first, that syllables, whether long or short, have no fixed duration, and are not even in any necessary proportional relationship to each other; second, that passion can mould prosody more or less at will; it accommodates the very longest intervals, and the man who cries out in deep despair: “Ah! Wretched that I am!” raises his voice on the first exclamatory syllable to the highest, sharpest pitch and sinks down on the others to the gravest and lowest, ranging over an octave or even more and giving each sound the quantity appropriate to the melody, without offending the ear or letting the syllables, be they long or short, preserve the length or brevity of unemotional speech. We’ve come a long way since the days when we would cite, as miracles of musical expression, the parenthetical remark in Armide:“Rinaldo’s conqueror (if any such exists)”, or “Let us not hesitate, but obey!” from Les Indes galantes.* Now, those miracles make me shrug my shoulders with pity. The rate at which the art is moving ahead, no one can predict where it’ll get to. While we’re waiting, let’s have a drink.’

  He had two, then three, without noticing what he was doing. He would surely have drowned himself, the same way he’d exhausted himself, without realizing it if I hadn’t pushed away the bottle, which he kept reaching for absent-mindedly. Then I said to him:

  ME: How can it be that with such delicacy of feeling, such great sensitivity towards the beauties of musical art, you’re so blind to the beauties of morality, so insensible to the charms of virtue?

  HIM: Apparently some people have a sense that’s missing in me, a fibre I wasn’t granted, or a loose string that it’s useless to pluck because it doesn’t vibrate; or perhaps it’s because I’ve always lived with good musicians and bad people, which is why my ear has become very acute and my heart very deaf. And then there’s the question of heredity. My father’s blood and my uncle’s is the same blood. My blood’s the same as my father’s. The paternal molecule was hard and obtuse, and that accursed original molecule’s taken over all the others.

  ME: Do you love your child?

  HIM: Do I love him, the little savage? I’m crazy about him.

  ME: And won’t you do your utmost to halt the effect on him of the accursed paternal molecule?

  HIM: Trying to do that would be, I believe, absolutely useless. If he’s destined to be a good man, I won’t do him any harm. But if the molecule drove him to be a ne’er-do-well like his father, any attempts of mine to make him into an honest man would harm him greatly; his education would be perpetually at odds with the influence of the molecule, he’d be pulled by two contrary forces and would travel the path of life all askew, like countless people I see who are equally inept in good and in evil; they’re what we call ‘types’, of all epithets the most to be feared, because it indicates mediocrity, and the ultimate in contempt. A great scoundrel is a great scoundrel, he’s not a ‘type’. It would take forever for the paternal molecule to regain control, and draw him into the state of utter degradation that I’ve attained; he’d have wasted his best years. So for now I’m leaving him alone. I’m letting him develop. I observe him. He’s already greedy, glib, rascally, lazy, lying. I’m very much afraid his pedigree’s beginning to show.

  ME: And will you make him a musician, so that the likeness is perfect?

  HIM: A musician! A musician! Sometimes I look at him and say, grinding my teeth: ‘If ever you were to learn one note, I do believe I’d wring your neck!’

  ME: Why so, may I ask?

  HIM: It doesn’t lead to anything.

  ME: It leads to everything.

  HIM: Yes, when you excel; but who can guarantee that his child’s going to excel? It’s ten thousand to one that he’ll be nothing but a wretched fiddle-scraper like me. Do you know that it may be easier to find a child fit to govern a kingdom, to be a great king, than to be a great violinist?

  ME: It seems to me that pleasing talents, even when they’re mediocre, can rapidly advance a man on the road to fortune, in a country without morals that’s given up to profligacy and luxury. I myself once heard the following conversation, which took place between a couple we’ll call patron and protégé. The latter had been referred to the former, as to someone well disposed who might be of service to him … ‘Monsieur, what are you good at?’ ‘I’m quite a good mathematician.’ ‘Well then, teach mathematics; after you’ve spent ten or twelve years pounding Paris’s muddy pavements, you’ll be earning three or four hundred francs a year.’ ‘I’ve studied law, I know it thoroughly …’ ‘If Pufendorf and Grotius came back to earth, they’d starve to death in the street.’ ‘I’m well versed in history and geography …’ ‘If there were any parents who really cared about their children’s education, your fortune would be made, but there aren’t any …’ ‘I’m a good musician …’ ‘Well, why didn’t you say so at once! And to show you how valuable this last talent is, listen, I’ve a daughter. Come every day from seven-thirty till nine in the evening, you’ll give her a lesson and I’ll give you six hundred francs a year. You’ll breakfast and dine and sup with us. The remainder of the day will be yours to use to your advantage.’

  HIM: And what happened to this man?

  ME: Had he been wise he’d have made his fortune, the only thing, apparently, that matters to you.

  HIM: Absolutely. Gold, gold. Gold is everything; the rest, without gold, is nothing. Therefore, instead of stuffing his head with fine precepts that he’ll have to forget, or risk being a pauper, I do this: whenever I have a golden louis—which doesn’t happen to me often—I plant myself in front of him. I take the louis out of my pocket. I show it to him admiringly. I raise my eyes to heaven. I kiss the louis in front of him. And to make him understand even better the importance of the sacred coin, I stammer as I name and point to everything it can buy, a beautiful gown for a child, a beautiful little cap, a fine cake. Next I put the gold coin in my pocket, I strut proudly about, I pull aside my coat-tail and tap my fingers on my pocket; and that’s how I make him understand that the self-confidence he sees in me comes from the louis in my possession.

  ME: No one could do better. But what if he, having thoroughly grasped the value of that louis, were one day to…

  HE: I take your meaning. One must shut one’s eyes to such things. There’s no moral principle that doesn
’t have its drawback. At worst, it’s a nasty interlude, but then it’s over and done with.

  ME: Even after hearing such brave, wise views, I still think it would be a good thing to make a musician of him. I know of no better way of rapidly gaining access to those with power, of serving their vices, and turning one’s own to good account.

  HE: That’s true; but I’ve plans for a quicker, surer path to success. Ah, if only he’d been a girl! But since we can’t always have what we’d like, we must be satisfied with what comes and do our best with it; which means not being as foolish as are the majority of fathers, who (and they couldn’t do worse if they’d actually planned to make their son’s life miserable) give a Spartan-style education to a child destined to live in Paris. If the education he receives is bad, the moral standards of this nation are to blame, not I. Who knows where the responsibility lies. I want my son to be happy or, which amounts to the same thing, respected, rich, and powerful. I know something about the easiest ways to achieve this end, and I’ll instruct him therein early in life. If you and your wise friends blame me, the masses, and his success, will absolve me. He’ll have his gold—you can take my word for it. If he has a great deal, he’ll lack for nothing, not even your good opinion and your respect.

  ME: You could be wrong there.

  HIM: Or he can manage without them, like many others.

  There was, in what he was saying, much that we all think, and by which we guide our behaviour, but do not actually say. In truth, this was the most striking difference between my man and the majority of other people. He admitted to the vices that he, in common with others, had; but he was not a hypocrite. He was neither more nor less odious than they were, he was simply franker, more consistent, and occasionally profound in his depravity. I trembled at what his child might become under such a master. It was clear that under a regime of education so carefully calculated to suit our mores, he should go far, unless his way was prematurely cut short.

  HIM: Don’t worry! The important point, the difficult point to which a father must pay particular attention, is not to give his child vices which would enrich him, or ridiculous habits which would endear him to those in power; that’s what everyone does, although not systematically like me, but at any rate by example and precept; no, instead he must teach him moderation and restraint, and the art of eluding disgrace, dishonour, and the law. Those are discords in social harmony which one must know how to time, prepare and resolve. There’s nothing as boring as a succession of harmonious chords. What’s wanted is an irritant, something to break up the light and scatter its rays.

  ME: Excellent. Your comparison brings me from mores back to music, which I had left unwillingly, and I thank you; for, to be quite frank, I like you better as a musician than as a moralist.

  HIM: Nevertheless I’m quite mediocre as a musician, and as a moralist I’m second to none.

  ME: I doubt that; but even supposing it to be the case, I’m a simple honest man and your principles aren’t mine.

  HIM: So much the worse for you. Ah, if only I had your talents.

  ME: Let’s leave my talents alone, and get back to yours.

  HIM: If only I could express myself like you. But I’ve a damnably absurd kind of style, half high-class and literary, half from the gutter.

  ME: I don’t speak well. All I can do is tell the truth, and, as you know, that’s not always welcome.

  HIM: But it’s not in order to tell the truth that I covet your talent; no, quite the reverse, it’s in order to tell lies well. If only I knew how to write, how to fling a book together, embroider a dedication, turn some fool’s head with praise, and insinuate myself with women!

  ME: But you’re a thousand times better at doing all those things than I am. I’m not even fit to be your pupil.

  HIM: How many great qualities you’ve let go to waste, without even realizing their value!

  ME: I reap all that I sow.

  HIM: If that were true, you wouldn’t be wearing that coat and waistcoat of coarse cloth, those woollen hose and thick-soled shoes, nor that ancient wig.

  ME: I agree. A man must be truly inept if he’s not rich, while permitting himself every latitude in order to become so. But the fact is, there are people like me who don’t value riches as the most precious thing on earth; strange people.

  HIM: Very strange. People aren’t born like that. They become like that, for it isn’t to be found in nature.

  ME: Not in man’s nature?

  HIM: Not in man’s nature. Everything that lives, not excepting man, seeks the good things of life for himself, at the expense of those who already possess them. I’m convinced that if I were to let the little savage grow up without telling him anything, he’d want to be handsomely dressed, superbly fed, popular with men and loved by women, and possessed of every blessing life has to offer.

  ME: If your little savage were left to fend for himself, if he kept all his natural artlessness and then united the minimal reasoning power of an infant with the violent passions of a man of thirty, he’d strangle his father and bed his mother.

  HIM: Which proves that a good education is indispensable—and who’s saying otherwise? And what’s a good education, if not one which leads, without danger or inconvenience, to every kind of enjoyment?

  ME: I almost agree with you, but we’d better not go into details.

  HIM: Why not?

  ME: Because I’m afraid we’re only superficially in agreement, and if once we start discussing the dangers and inconveniences to avoid, we’ll find that we no longer think alike.

  HIM: And why would that matter?

  ME: Let’s leave it, I say. What I know on the subject I would not be able to teach you; you could more easily teach me what you know about music but I don’t. My dear Rameau, let’s talk about music, and tell me how it’s come about that with your gift of experiencing, remembering, and reproducing the most beautiful passages from the great masters, with the passion they inspire in you and you convey to others, you yourself haven’t created anything worthwhile.

  Instead of answering me, he began nodding his head, and, pointing his finger at the sky, then he went on: ‘My star, my star! When nature fashioned Leo, Vinci, Pergolesi, Duni, she smiled. She assumed a serious, imposing air when she made my dear uncle Rameau, who was called “the great Rameau” for a decade or so, and who will soon never be mentioned again. When she flung together the nephew, she pulled a face, and then another face, and then yet another’; and as he said this he was making all sorts of faces that expressed scorn, disdain, irony; and he seemed to be kneading a bit of dough between his fingers and grinning at the ridiculous shapes he was giving to it. This done, he tossed the freakish little figurine far away, remarking: ‘That’s how she made me and threw me down alongside other porcelain figurines, some with huge wrinkled bellies, short necks, and big, bulging, apoplectic eyes; others with crooked necks; some were dried up, with bright eyes and hooked noses; they all burst out laughing on seeing me, just as I clutched my sides and burst out laughing on seeing them; for fools and madmen amuse each other; they seek one another out, they’re drawn to one another. Had I not found, upon arriving there, the proverb already coined that goes: “a fool’s purse is the patrimony of the man with wits,” I’d have claimed it as mine by rights. I felt that nature had put what was my rightful inheritance in the purses of the figurines, and I’ve invented a thousand ways of getting it back.’

  ME: I know those ways, you’ve told me all about them, and I’ve expressed my deep admiration. But, with such a wide choice of possibilities, why didn’t you try your hand at creating something beautiful?

  HIM: Here’s what a man of the world remarked to Abbé Le Blanc … The Abbé was saying: ‘The Marquise of Pompadour takes me by the hand, leads me to the door of the Académie, and then withdraws her hand. I fall and break both legs.’ The man of the world answered: ‘Well, Abbé, you have to get up and batter down the door with your head …’ The Abbé replied: ‘That’s what I tried, and do you k
now what I got for my trouble? A big bump on my forehead.’

  After relating this little tale, my friend began to walk about with his head bent, his air pensive and downcast; he kept sighing, weeping, and lamenting, with hands and eyes raised to the sky, banging his head with his fist hard enough to damage both forehead and fist; then he added: ‘It seems to me there is something in there, but however hard I knock and shake, nothing comes out.’ Next he began shaking his head and banging his forehead even harder, saying: ‘Either nobody’s home, or they don’t want to answer.’

  A moment later, proudly holding his head high and placing his right hand upon his heart, he declared as he strode up and down: ‘I can feel, yes, I can feel.’ Next he mimicked a man growing angry, indignant, emotional, then a man commanding, then entreating; he began declaiming impromptu speeches full of rage, or commiseration, or loathing, or love; his sketches of the nature of the passions were astonishingly delicate and true. Then he added: ‘That’s the way, I think. It’s coming, now; that’s what it means to find a midwife who’s able to stimulate, bring on the pains, and make the baby come out. If I’m alone, I take up my pen, I try to write. I gnaw my nails, I rub at my forehead. Nothing doing. Good-night. The god’s not at home. I’d convinced myself that I had genius; at the end of the first line I read that I’m a fool, a fool, a fool. But how are you to feel, to soar, to think, to depict vividly, when you keep company with people like those you need to survive, and you live amidst their chatter, the stuff you hear, all that gossip. “It was quite delightful today, out on the boulevard.* Have you seen that actress who does the little chimney-sweep?* She plays it enchantingly.” “Monsieur Such-and-such had the finest pair of dapple-greys you could ever hope to see.” “The beautiful Madame So-and-so’s beginning to go off. Whoever heard of a forty-five-year-old doing her hair like that!” “Young Mademoiselle X is dripping with diamonds that didn’t cost her a lot …” “You mean that they did cost her a lot …” “No, indeed, they did not …” “Where did you see her?” “At L’Enfant d’Arlequin perdu et retrouvé…* They played the despair scene better than it’s ever been done. The Punchinello* has a voice, but no subtlety, no soul.” “Madame Y has given birth to two babies at once. Each father will have his own …” And do you suppose that remarks like that, repeated over and over again every day, inspire and lead to great thoughts?’