Rameau's Nephew and First Satire (Oxford World's Classics) (8 page)

HIM
: That’s not what I’m afraid of. That’ll never happen.

ME
: However extraordinary your talents may be, someone else could replace you.

HIM
: With difficulty.

ME
: Agreed. Nevertheless, I’d go to see them with your face a wreck, your eyes staring, your collar bedraggled, and your hair a mess, in short with that positively tragic air you’re displaying at this very moment. I’d cast myself at the feet of the goddess. I’d press my face into the ground; without getting up, I’d say in a low, heartbroken voice: ‘Forgive me, madame, forgive me! I’m a worthless, vile wretch. It was but a fleeting mistake; for you know that I am not usually given to showing good sense, and I promise you that I never, ever, will do so again.’

The amusing thing was that, while I was telling him this, he was suiting his actions to my words. He’d flung himself down and was pressing his face into the ground; his hands seemed to be clutching at the tip of a slipper; he was weeping, and sobbing, and saying: ‘Yes, my sweet queen, I promise you this; never again in my whole life, never again.’ Then, suddenly standing up, he added in a serious, thoughtful tone:

HIM
: Yes, you’re right. I believe that’s best. She’s kind. Monsieur
Vieillard says that she’s so kind. I’ve seen some of it myself. And yet, to have to toady to that dreadful bitch! Beg for mercy from a wretched second-rate player whom the pit loves to hiss off the stage! I, Rameau, son of Monsieur Rameau, the Dijon apothecary, a man of substance, who’s never called anyone Master! I, Rameau, nephew to the man known as the great Rameau, whom one sees walking in the Palais-Royal, holding himself erect, his arms swinging freely, ever since Monsieur Carmontel sketched him bent double with his arms tucked under the skirts of his jacket!
*
I, who have composed pieces for the harpsichord which nobody plays, but which may be the only ones to survive and be played by posterity; I, Rameau in person! That I should go …! Look, Monsieur, it simply can’t be. [And placing his right hand on his heart, he added:] I feel something rising up here and telling me: Rameau, you’ll do nothing of the kind. It’s essential that man’s nature comprise a certain dignity, which nothing can stifle. A mere trifle can arouse it. Yes, a mere trifle. Then there are other times when I’d happily be as vile as you could wish; at such a time it wouldn’t cost a penny to get me to kiss little Hus’s arse.

ME
: But look here, my friend: it’s white, young, pretty, tender, plump; it’s an act of humility that a more fastidious man than you might stoop to on occasion.

HIM
: Let’s get this clear: there’s kissing arses literally, and kissing arses figuratively. Ask that fat Bergier, who kisses Madame de La Marck’s arse both literally and figuratively; and, upon my word! in that particular case I’d find both equally unpleasant.

ME
: If the plan I’ve suggested isn’t to your liking, then have the courage to be a pauper.

HIM
: It’s hard to be a pauper, when there are so many wealthy halfwits one could live off. And then to despise oneself: that’s unbearable.

ME
: But have you ever experienced that emotion?

HIM
: Of course I have; how many times have I said to myself: for God’s sake, Rameau, there’s ten thousand well-served tables in Paris, each with fifteen to twenty places set; of those places,
there isn’t a single one for you! Purses are overflowing with gold on every side, and not one coin falls your way! A thousand little so-called wits without talent or merit, a thousand charmless little creatures, a thousand mean and petty schemers go about in finery, and you are naked? You’re as big a fool as that? Can’t you flatter as well as the next fellow? Don’t you know how to lie, swear, perjure yourself, promise, break or keep your word, like the next fellow? Don’t you know how to get down on all fours, like the next fellow? Don’t you know how to ease the way for Madame’s little affair, and deliver Monsieur’s
billet doux
, like the next fellow? Don’t you know how to encourage that young man to speak to Mademoiselle, and persuade Mademoiselle to listen to him, like the next fellow? Don’t you know how to hint to the daughter of a bourgeois that she’s badly turned out; that a pair of lovely earrings, a touch of rouge, some lace, and a dress
à la polonaise
would suit her to perfection? That those dainty feet of hers weren’t made to walk on pavements? That there’s a handsome gentleman, young and wealthy, with a gold-laced coat, a splendid carriage, and six tall footmen, who saw her as he passed by and found her enchanting; that since that day he cannot eat, or drink, or sleep, and so will surely die of love … ‘But my papa!’ ‘Well, yes, your papa! He’ll be rather cross at first …’ ‘And mama, who’s forever exhorting me to be a good girl? Who tells me that the only thing that matters in this world is my honour? …’ ‘Oh, those are meaningless old-fashioned notions …’ ‘And what about my father confessor? …’ ‘You won’t see him any more; or if you insist on telling him of your diversions, it’ll cost you a few pounds of sugar and coffee …’ ‘He’s very strict; he’s already refused me absolution for singing that song: “Come into my cell” …’
*
‘That’s because you had nothing to give him … but when he sees you wearing lace …’ ‘So I’ll be wearing lace?’ ‘Certainly, lace of every variety; and beautiful diamond earrings …’ ‘So I’ll have beautiful diamond earrings?’ ‘Yes …’ ‘Like those of that Marquise who sometimes buys gloves in our shop? …’ ‘Exactly … in an elegant carriage, drawn by a pair
of dapple-greys; two tall footmen, a little black boy, a runner in front, rouge, patches, someone to carry your train …’ ‘At a ball? …’ ‘At a ball, at the opera, at the theatre …’ Her heart is already leaping for joy. ‘Your fingers are fiddling with a sheet of paper. What is it?’ ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ ‘But what is it?’ ‘It’s a note.’ ‘Who’s it for?’ ‘It’s for you, if you were the slightest bit interested.’ ‘Interested … I’m very interested. Let me see …’ She reads. ‘A meeting, that’s impossible.’ ‘Perhaps on your way to mass …’ ‘Mama always goes with me; but if he came here, quite early; I get up first, and I’m behind the counter before anyone’s about …’ He comes, he pleases; one fine day, at twilight, Mademoiselle vanishes, and I collect my two thousand écus … And here you are with a talent like that, and yet you can’t find yourself a decent meal! Aren’t you ashamed, you pathetic creature? I could recall a dozen rogues who didn’t hold a candle to me, but had purses full to bursting. There I was in a coat of coarse linen, while they were wearing velvet; they leaned on gold-handled canes, their fingers loaded with splendid diamond rings. And yet what were they? For the most part miserable music hacks; now they’re gentlemen, of a sort. So then I’d feel full of courage; my spirits soaring, my mind razor-sharp, capable of anything. But it seems that this positive attitude never lasted, for up until now I’ve made no headway. However that may be, you now know the subject of my habitual soliloquies: make of them what you will, as long as you conclude that I am indeed familiar with self-contempt, that torment of the conscience you suffer if you fail to use those talents Providence bestowed on you; it’s the cruellest of all torments. One almost feels it would have been better not to have been born.

As I listened to him describing the scene of the procurer seducing the young girl, I found myself torn between two conflicting emotions, between a powerful desire to laugh and an overwhelming surge of indignation. I was in agony. Again and again a roar of laughter prevented my rage bursting forth; again and again the
rage rising in my heart became a roar of laughter. I was dumbfounded by such shrewdness and such depravity; by such soundness of ideas alternating with such falseness; by so general a perversity of feeling, so total a corruption, and so exceptional a candour. He saw how agitated I was. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

ME
: Nothing.

HIM
: I think you’re upset.

ME
: Indeed I am.

HIM
: So what do you think I should do?

ME
: Talk about something else. What a wretched fate, to have been born or to have fallen so low!

HIM
: I agree. But don’t let my state affect you too much. In opening my heart to you, it was not my intention to upset you. I’ve managed to save a little, while I was with those people. Remember I wanted for nothing, nothing whatsoever, and they also made me a small allowance for incidentals. [Here he began to strike himself on the forehead with his fist, bite his lips, and roll his eyes like a lunatic, then he said:] What’s done is done. I’ve put a bit aside. Time’s passed, so I’m that much to the good.

ME
: You mean to the bad.

HIM
: No, to the good. Live one day less, or have one écu more, it’s all the same. The important thing is to open your bowels easily, freely, enjoyably, copiously, every evening;
o stercus pretiosum!
*
That’s the grand outcome of life in every condition. At the final moment, we are all equally rich—Samuel Bernard who by dint of theft, pillage, and bankruptcy leaves twenty-seven million in gold, and Rameau who’ll leave nothing, Rameau for whom charity will provide the winding-sheet to wrap him in. The corpse doesn’t hear the bells tolling. It’s in vain that a hundred priests bawl themselves hoarse for him, it’s in vain that he’s preceded and followed by a long line of mourners bearing flaming candles; his soul does not process beside the master of ceremonies. Rotting under marble or rotting under earth, you’re still rotting. Whether you’ve choirboys in red and
blue surplices around your coffin or no one at all, what difference does it make? And then just look at this wrist: it was stiff as the devil. These ten fingers were like rods stuck into a wooden metacarpus; these tendons were like old catgut cords that were drier, harder and more unyielding than those driving a turner’s wheel. But I tormented them, I worked them, I broke them. You don’t want to do it; well by God I’m telling you you’ll do it; and you shall.

While he was speaking he had grasped the fingers and wrist of his left hand with his right and forced them up, then down, so that the tips of the fingers were touching his arm; the joints began to crack and I feared he might dislocate the bones.

ME
: Careful; you’ll damage yourself.

HIM
: Don’t worry. They’re used to it; for the last ten years I’ve given them a really bad time. In spite of themselves, the stubborn devils have had to get used to it, and learn how to place themselves on the keys and to dart about on the strings. So now they work. Yes, they work.

Saying this, he assumes the posture of a violinist; he hums an
allegro
of Locatelli’s; his right arm mimics the movement of the bow, while his left hand and fingers seem to travel up and down the neck; if he plays a wrong note he stops, tightens or loosens the peg, then plucks the string with his nail to check that it’s in tune; he takes up the air again where he left off, beating time with his foot while his head, his feet, his hands, his arms, his entire body continue their frenetic activity. Occasionally, at the Concert spirituel,
*
you’ve seen Ferrari or Chiabrano or some other
virtuoso
go through the same gyrations; they create an image of this same torture, and watching them, I feel this same pain; for is it not painful to watch the agonies suffered by someone trying to portray pleasure? Let a curtain conceal this man from me, if he has to show me a victim being put to the torture. If, in the midst of his agitation and his cries, if he came to a slow, sustained phrase, one
of those melodious passages where the bow slowly moves over several strings at once, his face would assume an ecstatic expression, and his voice grow softer as he listened rapturously to himself, knowing with certainty that the harmonies were resounding in my ears as well as in his own. Then, with the hand that held his instrument, he tucked it back under his left arm, and let his right hand, the bow still in it, fall. ‘Well, how was it?’ he asked me.

ME
: Superb.

HIM
: It’ll do, I think; it sounded pretty good, as good as other people.

And then he promptly squatted down, like a musician seating himself at the harpsichord. ‘Please, don’t—for both our sakes,’ I said to him.

HIM
: No, no; since I’ve got you, you’re going to listen to me. I’ve no use for plaudits I haven’t earned. You’ll praise me more confidently, and that’ll attract a pupil or two.

ME
: I go about in society so rarely, you’ll tire yourself for nothing.

HIM
: I never get tired.

Realizing that it was pointless to feel sorry for the fellow—the violin sonata had left him drenched in sweat—I decided to let him go ahead. So there he was, seated at the harpsichord, legs bent, head up, gazing at the ceiling as if to read there the notes of a score, singing, trying this and that, and then playing a composition by Alberti, or Galuppi, I’m not sure which. His voice sang like the wind, his fingers flew over the keys, sometimes dropping the treble for the bass, sometimes abandoning the accompaniment and picking up the melody again. His features revealed the play of successive emotions: tenderness, fury, pleasure, pain. You could tell when he was playing
piano
, when
forte
. And I’m certain that a more accomplished man than I would have recognized the piece, by its tempo and character, by the expressions on his face
and by a few snatches of song that occasionally escaped him. But the curious thing was that at times he’d stumble in his playing, then correct himself as if he’d played a wrong note, and felt upset at no longer having the piece at his fingertips. ‘There, as you can see,’ he said, standing up and wiping the drops of sweat that were trickling down his cheeks, ‘we also know the correct use of augmented fourths and fifths, and are quite familiar with dominant progressions. Those enharmonic modulations my dear uncle made such a to-do about aren’t really that difficult: we manage.’