Read Jacques the Fatalist: And His Master Online
Authors: Denis Diderot
JACQUES
: I don’t know that either.
MASTER
: You’ll see. It’ll turn out that these men are smugglers who have doubtless filled the coffin with contraband and been betrayed to the excise by the same ruffians they bought the goods from.
JACQUES
: But why the carriage with my Captain’s arms?
MASTER
: Or it’s a kidnapping. They have hidden who knows what, a woman, a girl, a nun even in the coffin. It takes more than a shroud to make a dead man.
JACQUES
: But why the carriage with my Captain’s arms?
MASTER
: For whatever reason you like, but finish your Captain’s story for me.
JACQUES
: You still want to hear it? But perhaps my Captain is still alive?
MASTER
: What’s that got to do with it?
JACQUES
: I don’t like to speak about the living because from time to time one is ashamed of the good and the bad things one says of them – of the good
things because they go and spoil them and the bad because they make amends.
MASTER
: Be neither the reluctant panegyrist nor the embittered censor. Just tell the thing as it is.
JACQUES
: That’s not easy. Has not everyone his own character, his own interests, his own tastes and passions according to which he either exaggerates or attenuates everything?
Tell the thing as it is, you say!… That might not even happen twice in one day in the whole of a large town. And is the person who listens any better qualified to listen than the person who speaks? No. Which is why in the whole of a large town it can hardly happen twice in one day that someone’s words are understood in the same way as they are spoken.
MASTER
: What the devil, Jacques, those principles are enough to outlaw speaking and listening altogether. Say nothing, hear nothing, believe nothing… Just tell the thing as you will. I will listen as I can and believe as I am able.
JACQUES
: And it’s not just that one’s words are hardly ever understood in the same way as they are spoken. Even worse than that is that one’s actions are hardly ever judged in the way they are performed.
MASTER
: I doubt that there can be anywhere under God’s heaven another head which contains as many paradoxes as yours.
JACQUES
: What harm is there in that? A paradox isn’t always a lie.
MASTER
: That is true.
JACQUES
: We were passing through Orléans, my Captain and myself. The only talk in the town was of an incident which had recently happened to a citizen called M. le Pelletier, who was a man who was filled with such profound commiseration for the poor that after having reduced his own quite considerable fortune to a bare subsistence through excessive alms-giving he was himself reduced to going from door to door seeking from the purses of others the help which he was no longer able to give from his own.
17
MASTER
: And you think there were two different views of this man’s behaviour?
JACQUES
: Not among the poor, but practically all of the rich, without exception, looked on him as some kind of madman, and his relatives nearly had him declared incapable of managing his own affairs.
While we were taking refreshment at an inn, a crowd of idlers gathered round a sort of orator who was the local barber, and asked him: ‘You were there. Tell us how the thing happened.’
‘Certainly,’ replied the local soap-box orator, who liked nothing better than being asked to hold forth…
Monsieur Aubertot, one of my clients, whose house is opposite the Franciscan church, was standing on his doorstep and M. le Pelletier went up to him and said: ‘Monsieur Aubertot, will you give me nothing for my friends?’ – because that is, you know, how he refers to the poor.
‘Nothing today, Monsieur le Pelletier.’
Monsieur le Pelletier insisted: ‘If you only knew on whose behalf I was asking for your charity. It’s for a poor woman who’s just given birth and who hasn’t even a rag to wrap her baby in.’
‘I cannot.’
‘It’s for a beautiful young girl who has no food and no work, whom your generosity might save from ruin.’
‘I cannot.’
‘It is for a labourer who has only his hands to live by and who has just broken a leg falling from his scaffolding.’
‘I cannot, I tell you.’
‘Come on, Monsieur Aubertot, allow yourself to be touched. You can be sure that you’ll never have the chance of doing a more meritorious action.’
‘I cannot. I cannot.’
‘My dear merciful Monsieur Aubertot…’
‘Monsieur le Pelletier, leave me alone… When I want to give I don’t have to be asked.’
And at that M. Aubertot turned his back on him and went into his shop where M. le Pelletier followed him. He followed him from his shop and into his back room, from his back room into his living-quarters, and there, M. Aubertot, who had been driven to the end of his tether by M. le Pelletier’s insistence, slapped his face.
At this point my Captain got up suddenly and asked the orator: ‘Didn’t he kill him?’
‘No, Monsieur, does one kill for something like that?’
‘A slap in the face! My God, a slap in the face! What did he do then?’
‘What did he do after he was slapped in the face? He said to M. Aubertot in an amused tone of voice: “That’s for me, but for my friends?…” ’
On hearing this everyone who was listening cried out in admiration,
except my Captain, who said to them: ‘Your Monsieur le Pelletier, Messieurs, is nothing but a beggar, a wretch, an unspeakable coward who would for all that have been vindicated on the spot by this sword of mine if I had been there. And your Aubertot would have been extremely lucky if it had only cost him his nose and his two ears.’
The orator replied: ‘I can see, Monsieur, that you would not have left this insolent man the time to acknowledge the error of his ways and throw himself at the feet of M. le Pelletier and give him his purse.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘You are a soldier and M. le Pelletier is a Christian. You haven’t got quite the same ideas about a slap on the face.’
‘The cheek of every man of honour is the same.’
‘That’s not what the Gospel says.’
‘The Gospel is in my heart and in my scabbard, and I don’t know any other.’
‘Your Gospel, my Master, is I don’t know where, but mine is inscribed up above. Everyone understands the good and bad done to him in his own way and perhaps we never judge anything the same way twice in our lives.’
MASTER
: What happened next, you damned gossip? What happened next?
Whenever Jacques’ master became annoyed, Jacques used to shut up and lose himself in thoughts, often breaking his silence only by an occasional word which was linked in his thoughts, but as disconnected conversationally as the reading of a book when one has skipped a few pages. This is precisely what happened to him when he found himself saying the words: ‘My dear Master…’
MASTER
: Ah! I see that you’ve recovered your powers of speech at long last. I’m pleased for both of us because I was beginning to get bored not hearing you speak, and I suppose you were bored too since you weren’t speaking. So, speak.
JACQUES
: My dear Master. Life is a series of misunderstandings. There are the misunderstandings of love, the misunderstandings of friendship, the misunderstandings of politics, finance, the church, law, commerce, women, husbands…
MASTER
: Forget about your misunderstandings and try to understand that it is terribly rude to start moralizing when it’s a question of historical fact. Now, your Captain’s story?
Jacques was about to start his Captain’s story when, for the second time, his horse slewed violently off the road to the right, carried him a good quarter league across a long plain and then suddenly stopped dead between the forks of a gallows…
– Between the forks of a gallows? That’s really extraordinary behaviour for a horse, to lead its rider to the gibbet.
‘What does this signify?’ asked Jacques. ‘Is this a warning from Destiny?’
MASTER
: My friend, do not doubt it. That horse of yours is inspired and the only worrying thing is that all of these prognostications, inspirations and warnings by dreams or by apparitions which come from on high are useless. Whatever it is will happen all the same. My dear friend, I advise you to put your conscience in order, to sort out your little affairs, and to tell me your Captain’s story and the story of your loves as quickly as you can because I would be very annoyed to lose you without hearing them. If you were to worry about it any more than you are worrying already, what good would it do you? None. The decree of your Destiny, pronounced twice by your horse, will be fulfilled. Tell me, do you have nothing which you ought to give back to anybody? Confide your last wishes in me and you may be sure they will be faithfully carried out. If you have taken anything from me, I give it to you. Ask only for pardon from God, and during the long or the short time which remains to us together don’t steal any more from me.
JACQUES
: No matter how much I go back over the past, I can’t see that I have any score to settle with the justice of men. I haven’t killed or stolen or raped.
MASTER
: Too bad. All things considered I’d prefer it if the crime had already been committed than remained to be, and for good reason.
JACQUES
: But, Monsieur, perhaps I won’t be hanged on my account, but on account of someone else’s actions.
MASTER
: That’s possible.
JACQUES
: Perhaps I’ll only be hanged after my death?
MASTER
: That’s possible too.
JACQUES
: Perhaps I won’t be hanged at all.
MASTER
: I doubt that.
JACQUES
: Perhaps it is written up above that I will merely assist at the
hanging of another person. And as for that other person, who knows who he is? Whether he is near by or far away from me?
MASTER
: Monsieur Jacques, be hanged, since Fate wills it and your horse says it, but do not be insolent. Stop your impertinent conjecture and tell me your Captain’s story quickly.
JACQUES
: Monsieur, don’t get angry. Sometimes perfectly honest people have been hanged. It’s one of the misunderstandings of justice.
MASTER
: These misunderstandings of yours are painful. Let’s change the subject.
Jacques, who was feeling a little reassured by the diverse interpretations he had found for his horse’s prognostication, said:
When I joined the regiment there were two officers who were both of more or less the same age, same birth, same length of service, and both of equal merit. My Captain was one of them. The only difference between them was that one was rich and the other wasn’t. My Captain was the rich one. This similarity was bound to produce either the greatest sympathy or the most violent antipathy. In fact it produced both…
Here Jacques stopped, and this happened to him several more times during the course of his story, every time his horse moved his head to the left or the right. And to carry on he repeated his last phrase, as if he had the hiccups.
JACQUES
: In fact it produced both. There were days when they were the best of friends and others when they were mortal enemies. On their days of friendship they would seek each other out, make a great show of pleasure when they met, embrace each other and then tell each other all their problems, their pleasures and their needs. They would consult each other on the most intimate subjects, on their domestic affairs, their hopes, their fears, their ambitions. And then the next day they would pass each other by without looking, or they would glare fiercely at each other, call each other ‘Monsieur’, say harsh words to each other, draw their swords and fight. If it happened that one of the two was wounded, the other would rush up to his friend crying and lamenting, see him to his quarters and install himself at his friend’s bedside until he was better. Then, a week, or a fortnight, or a month later, it would begin again, and people would see from one moment to the next two gallant men… two gallant men, two sincere friends each facing
death at the other’s hands and the one who died would certainly not have been the one deserving the most pity.
People had often spoken to them about the strangeness of their conduct. I, myself– for my Captain allowed me to discuss things with him – used to ask him: ‘Monsieur, what if you killed him?’
At these words he would start to cry and bury his face in his hands. Then he would run round his apartment like a madman. Two hours later, either his friend would bring him back wounded or he would do the same for his friend.
Neither my protests… neither my protests nor those of anyone else did any good. The only solution was to separate them. The Minister of War was informed of their extraordinary persistence in these extremes of behaviour and my Captain was given command of a fortress with strict orders to present himself there immediately and an absolute prohibition on leaving it. For his part, my Captain’s friend was forbidden from leaving the regiment… I think this damned horse will drive me insane… Hardly had the orders of the Minister arrived than my Captain, under the pretext of going to present his thanks for the favour bestowed on him, left for Court, where he pointed out that he himself was rich, but his comrade had the same right to the King’s graces, that the command which he had been given would reward his friend’s services and add to his small fortune – and this would for his part make him very happy. Since the Minister only had it in mind to separate these two strange men and since generous behaviour always has an effect on people, it was decided… Damned beast, can’t you keep your head straight… it was decided that my Captain would stay in the regiment and his friend would be transferred to take command of the fortress.
Hardly had they been separated when they realized how much they needed each other and they both fell into the most profound melancholy. My Captain asked for six months’ leave to go back home for a rest. When he was two leagues away from the garrison, he sold his horse, disguised himself as a peasant and made his way towards the fortress his friend commanded. It appears that this had been arranged between them. He arrived… Oh, go where you like! Is there another gibbet you’d like to visit?… It’s all right for you to laugh, Monsieur! I don’t find it at all funny!… He arrived. But it was written up above that, despite the precautions they took to hide the satisfaction they felt at seeing each other again and the care they took to approach each other with the external appearance of deference that might be expected of a peasant in the presence of the commanding officer of a fortress, some soldiers and some officers, who were by chance present at their
meeting, and who happened to know of their past adventures, became suspicious and went to warn the adjutant of the fortress.
The adjutant, a careful man, was amused by the situation but did not fail to attach to it the importance it merited. He set spies around the Commandant. Their first report was that the Commandant hardly ever went out and the peasant not at all. It was impossible for these two men to live together for a week without their strange obsession taking hold of them and this did not fail to happen.
You can see, Reader, how obliging I am. If I had a mind to do it, I could whip on the horses pulling the black-draped carriage, I could assemble together at the door of the nearest cottage Jacques, his master, the excise men or the mounted constabulary and the rest of the cortège. I could interrupt the story of Jacques’ Captain and make you as impatient as I wanted to. But to do all that I would have to lie, and I don’t like lies unless they are necessary and useful. The fact is that Jacques and his master saw no more of the draped carriage and that Jacques, although he was still very worried about his horse’s behaviour, continued his story.