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

fundamental principles. The classictexts 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