I.—I am thinking that all you have told me is more specious than solid. But that is no matter. You taught, you say, accompaniment and composition.
He.—Yes.
I.—And you knew nothing about either.
He.—No, i’ faith; and that is why there were worse than I was, namely those who fancied they knew something. At any rate, I did not spoil either the child’s taste or its hands. When they passed from me to a good master, if they had learnt nothing, at all events they had nothing to unlearn, and that was always so much time and so much money saved.
I.—What did you do?
He.—What they all do! I got there, I threw myself into a chair. “What shocking weather! How tiring the streets are!” Then some gossip: “Mademoiselle Lemierre was to have taken the part of Vestal in the new opera, but she is in an interesting condition for the second time, and they do not know who will take her place. Mademoiselle Arnould has just left her little Count: they say she is negotiating with Bertin.... That poor Dumesnil no longer knows either what he is saying or what he is doing.... Now, Miss, take your book.” While Miss, who is in no hurry, is looking for her book, which is lost, while they call the housemaid and scold and make a great stir, I continue—“The Clairon is really incomprehensible. They talk of a marriage which is outrageously absurd: ’tis that of Miss ... what is her name? a little creature that used to live with so and so, etcetera, etcetera:—Come, Rameau, you are talking nonsense; it is impossible.—I don’t talk nonsense at all; they even say it is done. There is a rumour that Voltaire is dead, and so much the better.—And pray, why so much the better?—Because he must be going to give us something more laughable than usual; it is always his custom to die a fortnight before.” What more shall I tell you? I used to tell certain naughtinesses that I brought from houses where I had been, for we are all of us great fetchers and carriers. I played the madman, they listened to me, they laughed, they called out: How charming he is! Meanwhile Missy’s book had been found under the sofa, where it had been pulled about, gnawed, torn by a puppy or a kitten. She sat down to the piano. At first she made a noise on it by herself; then I went towards her, after giving her mother a sign of approbation. The mother: “That is not bad; people have only to be in earnest, but they are not in earnest; they would rather waste their time in chattering, in disarranging things, in gadding hither and thither, and I know not what besides. Your back is no sooner turned, M. Rameau, than the book is shut up, not to be opened until your next visit; still you never scold her.” Then, as something had to be done, I took hold of her hands and placed them differently; I got out of temper, I called out “Sol, Sol, Sol, Miss, it is a Sol.” The mother: “Have you no ear? I am not at the piano, and I can’t see your book, yet I know it ought to be a Sol. You are most troublesome to your teacher; I can’t tell how he is so patient; you do not remember a word of what he says to you; you make no progress....” Then I would lower my tone rather, and throwing my head on one side, would say: “Pardon me, madam, all would go very well if the young lady liked, if she only studied a little more; but it is not bad.” The mother: “If I were you, I should keep her at one piece for a whole year.” “Oh, as for that, she shall not leave it before she has mastered every difficulty, and that will not be as long as you may think.” “Monsieur Rameau, you flatter her, you are too good. That is the only part of the lesson which she will keep in mind, and she will take care to repeat it to me upon occasion....” And so the time got over; my pupil presented me my little fee, with the curtsey she had learnt from the dancing master. I put it into my pocket while the mother said: “Very well done, mademoiselle; if Favillier were here, he would applaud you.” I chattered a moment or two for politeness’ sake, and behold, that was what they call a music lesson.
I.—Well, and now it is quite another thing?
He.—Another thing! I should think so, indeed. I get there. I am deadly grave; I take off my cuffs hastily, I open the piano, I run my fingers over the keys, I am always in a desperate hurry. If they keep me waiting a moment, I cry out as if they were robbing me of a crown piece: in an hour from now I must be so and so; in two hours, with the duchess of so and so; I am expected to dine with a handsome marchioness, and then, on leaving her, there is a concert at the baron’s....
I.—And all the time nobody is expecting you anywhere at all?
He.—No.