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

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 alittle, 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 goingto 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