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

jaw moving, mouthing, like an automaton: ‘Yes, you’re right, Mademoiselle. Subtlety, that’s what is needed.’] That’s what decides, that’s what always decides, irrevocably, in the morning, in the evening, while dressing, at dinner, at the café, at the gaming tables, at the theatre, at supper, in bed, and, God forgive me, I do believe in the arms of his mistress. I’m not in a position to hear these last decisions, but I’m damnably tired of the others. Gloomy, inscrutable, and final as fate: that’s our
patron
.
    Opposite him, there’s a prude who puts on important airs and to whom one forces oneself to say that she’s pretty, because she is, still, although there’s a few scabs on her face, and she’s vying with Madame Bouvillon in the fat stakes. I’m fond of a bit of flesh, when it’s nicely rounded, but enough is enough, and movement is vital to matter!
And
: she’s nastier, prouder, and stupider than a goose.
And
: she tries to be witty. And: you have to make her believe you think her wittier than anyone else.
And
: she knows nothing, but that doesn’t stop her laying down the law.
And
: you must applaud these pronouncements with your feet, with your hands, leap for joy, faint with amazement. How beautiful, delicate, well expressed, discerning, how extraordinarily sensitive! Whence comes this ability that women possess? It’s unstudied, it’s sheer force of instinct, it’s a powerful natural gift: it’s almost a miracle! Just let someone dare assert that experience, study, reflection, education, playany part in it! And other nonsense of that sort: then come tears of joy. Ten times a day you must bow, one knee bent forward, the other leg stretched back, your arms extended towards the goddess, your eyes fixed on hers to discover her wishes; you must hang on her words, await her bidding, then depart in a flash. Who can subject himself to the demands of such a role, except the wretch who finds in that house, two or three times a week, what he needs to calm the torment in his belly? What is one to think of the others, like Palissot, Fréron, the Poinsinets, Baculard, who aren’t destitute, and whose grovelling can’t be excused by the rumbling of their tortured guts?
    ME: I’d never have supposed you to be so fastidious.
    HIM: I’m not fastidious. At first I watched the others, and I did what they did, or even improved on it a little, because I’m more openly impudent, a better actor, more ravenous, blessed with better lungs. Evidently I’m a direct descendant of the famous Stentor.
    And, to give me a clear idea of the power of that organ, he began coughing so violently that it rattled the panes of the café windows, and distracted the chess players from their game.
    ME: But what’s the use of that talent?
    HIM: You can’t guess?
    ME: No. I haven’t much imagination.
    HIM: Imagine that an argument is in full swing and my victory is uncertain: I rise, and, deploying my thunder, say: ‘It’s just as Mademoiselle has declared. That’s what I call judgement! I defy any of our best minds to equal it. The expression is pure genius.’ But you mustn’t always give your approval in the same manner. You’d become boring. You’d sound false. You’d lack piquancy. You can only avoid that by judgement and inventiveness; you have to know how to prepare and situate these imperious major keys, how to grasp the opportunity and the moment; for instance, when opinions are divided, and the argument has reached boiling-point, people are no longer listening but are allspeaking at once; then you must distance yourself, take up your position in the corner of the room farthest from the battlefield, prepare for your thunderbolt by a long silence, and suddenly launch it like an exploding mortar into the thick of the battle. No one can equal me in this art. But where I am astonishing is in the opposite situation: I can draw on a range of soft tones that accompany a smile; on an infinite variety of approving