Rameau's Nephew and First Satire (Oxford World's Classics) (10 page)

HIM
: Alright, we’ll agree there are none at all; but on the other hand, there are few who are scoundrels outside of their shop; and everything would go on quite nicely were it not for certain individuals who are called hardworking, reliable, punctilious in their duties, strict, or what amounts to it; always in their shop, working at their job from dawn to dusk, and doing nothing else. Result: they’re the only ones to earn a fortune, and a fine reputation.

ME
: Through force of idiom.

HIM
: Exactly. I see you’re with me. Now, an idiom common to all conditions—for there are idioms common to all nations and all ages, just as there are common follies—a common idiom is to acquire as large a clientele as possible; a common folly is to believe that the most capable man is the one with the most clients. There you have two exceptions to the rule of universal morality which we must accept. It’s a kind of good will. It doesn’t mean much in itself, but it acquires value through public opinion. There was a saying that ‘a fine reputation was worth more than a belt of gold’. However, a man with a fine reputation may not own a gold belt, whereas nowadays I see that someone who owns a gold belt seldom lacks a fine reputation. One should, as far as possible, possess both the reputation and the belt. And that is my object when I resort to what you call cheap tricks, base little subterfuges. I teach my lesson, and I teach it well; that’s the absolute standard. I make people believe that I still have more lessons to get to than there are hours in the day. That’s the idiom.

ME
: And you really do teach well?

HIM
: Yes, not badly, tolerably well. The ground-bass theory of the dear uncle has made everything much simpler. In the past I used to steal my pupil’s money: yes, I stole it, no doubt about that. Today I earn it, at least as well as others do.

ME
: And did you steal it without any qualms?

HIM
: Oh, without any qualms. You know the saying: ‘if one thief steals from another, the devil laughs.’ The parents were dripping with money acquired God knows how; they were
courtiers, tax farmers, wholesalers, bankers, businessmen. I helped them to make restitution, I and countless others who, like me, were employed by them. In nature all the species prey on one another; in society all the classes do the same. We mete out justice to one another without benefit of the law. La Deschamps in the past, and today la Guimard, avenge the King by cheating the tax farmer; it’s the dressmaker, the jeweller, the upholsterer, the linen maid, the swindler, the lady’s maid, the cook, the harness-maker, who avenge the tax farmer by cheating la Deschamps. Amidst all this, only the imbecile or the idler suffers a loss without exacting his price from someone else: which only serves him right. Whence you may deduce that these exceptions to the universal conscience, or these moral idioms people make such a fuss about, labelling them illicit benefits, are of no consequence; the only thing that matters is to see clearly.

ME
: I admire that in you.

HIM
: And then there’s poverty. The voice of conscience and of honour sounds very faint when the belly screams. I’ll simply say that if ever I grow rich, I will certainly have to make restitution, and I’m quite determined to do so by all possible means—by feasting, by gaming, by drinking, by women.

ME
: But I’m afraid you’ll never grow rich.

HIM
: That is what I too suspect.

ME
: But if it were to happen, what then?

HIM
: I’d behave like every beggar on horseback: I’d be the most insolent rogue ever seen. I’d then remember everything they’d made me suffer, and I’d pay them back in spades for their affronts. I love bossing people about and I’ll boss them about. I love praise, and they’ll praise me. I’ll have the whole gang of Villemorien’s minions in my pay, and I’ll order them, just as I’ve been ordered: ‘Come on, you rats, amuse me’, and they’ll amuse me; ‘give me the dirt on all the decent people’, and they’ll do so, if any such are still to be found; and we’ll go whoring; we’ll call one another
tu
when we’re drunk, and we shall get drunk; we’ll pass on scurrilous gossip; we’ll indulge in
all kinds of profligacy and vice. It’ll be absolutely delicious. We’ll prove that Voltaire has no genius, that Buffon, who’s always on his high horse, is just a pompous ranter; that Montesquieu is nothing but a wit;
*
we’ll tell D’Alembert to stick to his sums and we’ll give a really good going-over to all those petty stoics like you, who despise us out of envy, cloak their pride in modesty, and live soberly out of necessity. And music? Ah, then indeed we’ll have music!

ME
: Considering the worthy use you’d make of wealth, it seems to me deplorable that you should be penniless. Such a lifestyle would reflect great honour on the human race, be of great service to your fellow citizens, and reflect great glory upon you.

HIM
: I rather think that you’re making fun of me; but, Master Philosopher, you don’t understand whom you’re dealing with; you’ve no idea that at this moment I represent the most significant section of the Town and the Court. The very wealthy in every social group either have or have not told themselves these very same things that I’ve confided to you; but the fact remains that the life I’d lead were I in their shoes is precisely the life they do lead. Just take a look at what you believe. You people imagine that everyone seeks the same kind of happiness. What a strange fantasy! Your happiness presupposes a certain romantic mindset that the rest of us don’t share, an exceptional kind of spirit, particular tastes. You adorn this oddity with the label of virtue, you call it philosophy. But are virtue and philosophy suited to everybody? Enjoy them if you can. Be true to them if you can. Imagine the world wise and philosophical; you must agree that it would be devilishly dreary. Listen—let’s give a cheer for philosophy, and one for wisdom: the wisdom of Solomon. Drinking fine wines, eating one’s fill of choice dishes, tumbling pretty girls, sleeping on soft beds—except for these, all else is vanity.
*

ME
: What! Defending your country?

HIM
: Vanity. It’s no longer
your
country. From pole to pole I see only tyrants and slaves.

ME:
Helping your friends?

HIM:
Vanity. Have you any friends? And supposing you had, should you risk making ingrates of them? Consider carefully: you’ll realize that almost always ingratitude is what you get for helping them. Gratitude is a burden, and all burdens are made to be cast off.

ME:
Holding a position in society and fulfilling its responsibilities?

HIM:
Vanity. What does it matter whether you have a position or not, as long as you’re rich, since you only take a position in order to become so? Fulfilling your responsibilities, what does that get you? Jealousy, problems, persecution. Is that the way to get on in the world? Pay court, for God’s sake, pay court; frequent the powerful, study their tastes, fall in with their whims, serve their vices, applaud their wrongdoing. That’s the secret.

ME:
Seeing to your children’s education?

HIM:
Vanity. That’s the responsibility of a tutor.

ME:
But supposing that tutor were a follower of your principles and neglected his duties, who would pay the penalty?

HIM:
Not I, that’s certain; some day, possibly, my daughter’s husband, or my son’s wife.

ME:
But if they were both to sink into a life of debauchery and vice?

HIM:
That’s in keeping with their position.

ME:
And if they were disgraced?

HIM:
If you’re rich, no matter what you do, you can’t be disgraced.

ME:
And supposing they were ruined?

HIM:
That’s their bad luck.

ME:
It seems to me that if you don’t take responsibility for the conduct of your wife, your children, or your servants, you might easily neglect your own affairs.

HIM:
Excuse me, but you’re mistaken; it’s sometimes difficult to lay one’s hands on money, and so it’s prudent to look ahead.

ME:
But you wouldn’t bother much about your wife.

HIM:
Not at all, in fact. The best possible policy, I believe, in dealing with one’s better half is to do what pleases her. In your
opinion, wouldn’t society be extremely entertaining if we all did our own thing?

ME:
Why not? I never think my evening so delightful as when I’ve enjoyed my morning.

HIM:
That’s true of me too.

ME:
What makes society people so finicky about their diversions is their complete idleness.

HIM:
Don’t you believe it. They’re constantly on the go.

ME:
Because they never get tired, they can never feel refreshed.

HIM:
Don’t you believe it. They’re always worn out.

ME:
They pursue pleasure because it keeps them busy, never because they feel the need of it.

HIM:
So much the better; need is always an affliction.

ME:
They use everything up. Their soul becomes stupefied. Boredom takes possession of it. He who would deprive them of life at the height of their burdensome plenty would be doing them a favour. They know only that part of happiness which loses its edge most rapidly. I don’t despise the pleasures of the senses. I too have a palate, which delights in a delicate dish or a delectable wine. I have a heart and I have eyes: I love looking at a pretty woman. I love to feel beneath my hand the firmness and roundness of her breast, to press my lips to hers, to drink in the sensuality of her gaze, and to die of ecstasy in her arms. Occasionally, when I’m with friends, an evening of wine and women, even if it’s somewhat wild, does not displease me. But I won’t conceal from you that I find it infinitely sweeter to have helped the unfortunate, concluded a thorny negotiation, given useful advice, read an agreeable book, taken a walk with a man or a woman dear to my heart, spent some instructive hours with my children, written a satisfying page, fulfilled the duties of my station, or to have told my beloved of sweet and tender feelings which induced her to wrap her arms round my neck.
*
There are certain things I would give everything I own to have done.
Mahomet
is a sublime work; but I would rather have rehabilitated the memory of Calas.
*
An acquaintance of mine had taken refuge in Carthagenia. He was a younger son, in a
country where custom dictates that all property pass to the eldest. While abroad he hears that his elder brother, a spoilt youth, has robbed his too-credulous father and mother of everything they possess, cast them out of their chateau, and left the good old people quite destitute, to languish in some small provincial town. So what does that younger son do? Harshly treated by his parents in the past, he had departed to seek his fortune in a distant land: he sends them money, and quickly settles his own affairs. He returns a very wealthy man. He restores his parents to their home. He arranges marriages for his sisters. Ah, my dear Rameau, this man thinks of that period of time as the happiest in his life. It was with tears in his eyes that he told me of it; and my heart, as I tell you this story, overflows with joy, and happiness renders me speechless.

HIM:
How odd you are, you people!

ME:
And how greatly you people are to be pitied, if you can’t believe that one can rise above good or ill fortune, and that it’s impossible to be unhappy, when one is protected by fine deeds like these.

HIM:
That’s a kind of happiness with which I’d find it hard to become familiar, for it is very rare. So, the way you see it, one must be an honourable man?

ME:
To be happy? Unquestionably.

HIM:
Nevertheless, I know countless honourable people who aren’t happy, and countless people who are happy without being honourable.

ME:
That’s what you think.

HIM:
And isn’t it because, for just a moment, I showed some common sense and honesty that I don’t know where to find my dinner this evening?

ME:
Oh no, it’s because you haven’t always shown them. It’s because you didn’t understand straight away that first and foremost one must secure a livelihood that is independent of servitude.

HIM:
Independent or not, the livelihood I secured is surely the least demanding.

ME:
And the least dependable, and the least honourable.

HIM:
But the most consonant with my character of idler, fool and good-for-nothing.

ME:
Agreed.

HIM:
And furthermore, since I can secure my happiness by means of vices which come naturally to me, that I’ve acquired without labour and preserved without effort, which suit the ways of my country, conform to the tastes of my protectors, and are more appropriate to their special little needs than virtues which would embarrass them by making them feel ashamed all day long; it would be extremely odd were I to torment myself like a soul in hell, to become something other than what I am, and develop a character quite alien to my own; highly estimable qualities, I admit, to avoid argument, but which I’d find exceedingly difficult to acquire and to practice, which would get me nowhere, perhaps worse than nowhere, by continually showing up the rich from whom beggars like myself seek to earn their livelihood. The world praises virtue, but loathes it and flees from it; virtue is left out in the cold, and in this world one must keep one’s feet warm. And then, it would be certain to put me out of humour; for why do devout people so often strike us as so hard, so difficult, so unsociable? It’s because they’ve set themselves a task which doesn’t come naturally. They suffer, and when you suffer, you make others suffer. That doesn’t suit me, nor does it suit my patrons; I have to be light-hearted, adaptable, entertaining, clownish, amusing. Virtue demands respect, and respect is uncomfortable. Virtue demands admiration, and admiration isn’t funny. I spend my time with people who get bored, and it’s my job to make them laugh. Now, absurdity and folly are what make people laugh, so I must be absurd, and a fool; if nature had not given me those qualities, then the simplest solution would be to pretend to possess them. Luckily I have no need to be a hypocrite, since there are already so many of every hue, apart from those who are hypocrites with themselves. That chevalier de la Morlière who wears his hat with upturned brim tipped over one ear, sticks
his nose in the air and stares over his shoulder at every passerby, who carries a long sword that thumps against his thigh, has an insult ready for anyone not thus armed, and seems to challenge every man he meets, what’s he doing? He’s doing his utmost to persuade himself that he’s brave, but he’s really a coward. Tweak the end of his nose and he’ll take it meekly. If you’d like him to lower his tone, raise yours. Show him your cane, or let your foot connect with his buttocks: astonished at discovering he’s a coward, he’ll ask you who it was that told you, or where you found it out. He himself was unaware of it a moment earlier; his ingrained habit of aping the brave had deceived him. He had so often adopted the posture that he believed he was the real thing. And that woman who mortifies herself, visits prisons, attends every charitable assembly, walks with lowered gaze, not daring to look a man in the face lest she let down her guard against the seduction of the senses; does all that prevent her heart from burning, does it prevent her sighs escaping, or her passions quickening, her desires tormenting her, or her imagination from replaying, by day as by night, scenes from
Le Portier des Chartreux
, or the positions described in Aretino?
*
So then what happens to her? What does her maid think as she jumps out of her bed in her shift, and flies to help her mistress who cries out that she’s dying? Justine, go back to bed. It’s not you your mistress is calling for in her delirium. And, were our friend Rameau some day to disdain fortune, women, fine dishes, idleness, and turn stoic, what would he be? A hypocrite. Rameau must be what he is: a lucky rogue among wealthy rogues, and not a trumpeter of virtue, or even a virtuous man, gnawing his crust of bread alone or in a company of beggars. And, in a word, I am not settling for your felicity, nor for the happiness of a few visionaries like yourself.