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

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, oneof 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 faceand 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.’
    ME : You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to show me how highly skilled you are, but I was quite prepared to take your word for it.
    HIM : Highly skilled? Oh no! As regards my profession, I know more or less what I’m doing, which is more than what’s required. Is there any obligation, in this country, to know the subject one teaches?
    ME : No more than to know the subject one studies!
    HIM : By God that’s right, that’s exactly right. Now, Master Philosopher, place your hand on your heart and tell me honestly: wasn’t there a time when you were not as well off as you are today?
    ME : I’m still not all that well off.
    HIM : But now, in summer, you wouldn’t still go to the Luxembourg Gardens—you remember?
    ME : Let’s not talk about that; yes, I remember.
    HIM : In a shaggy