Jacques the Fatalist: And His Master (6 page)

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Well, I’ll take you up behind me, or, if you would rather, we can take off our boots, tie them on to my horse’s saddle and carry on our way on foot.’

‘My horse! My poor horse!’

They chose to continue on foot, the master crying out from time to time: ‘My horse! My poor horse!’ and Jacques elaborating on the account of his adventures. When he had got to the girl’s accusation his master said to him: ‘Is it true, Jacques, that you didn’t sleep with the girl?’

MASTER
: My horse!… Jacques, my friend, don’t get angry with me. Put yourself in my horse’s shoes. Suppose that I’d lost you, and tell me if you wouldn’t have thought the better of me if you heard me saying: ‘Jacques! My poor Jacques!’

Jacques smiled and said:

I think I had got to the dialogue between my host and his wife during the night after my wound had first been dressed. I rested a little. My host and his wife both got up the next day a little later than they usually did.

JACQUES
: When I woke up I quietly drew back the curtains around my bed and I saw my host, his wife and the surgeon in secret conference over by the window. After what I had heard during the night it wasn’t difficult to guess what was being discussed. I coughed. The surgeon said to the husband: ‘He’s woken up. Friend, go down to the wine cellar. We’ll have a drink to steady our hands. Then I’ll change the bandage and after that we’ll see about the rest.’

After the bottle had arrived and been emptied, because ‘to have a drink’ is a term of art and means to empty at least one bottle, the surgeon came to my bed and said to me: ‘What sort of night did you have?’

‘Not bad.’

‘Your arm… good, good, your pulse isn’t bad, there’s hardly any more fever. Now let’s see about this knee. Come on, mistress,’ he said to my host’s wife, who was standing at the foot of my bed on the other side of the curtain, ‘and help us…’

The hostess called one of her children.

‘It’s not a child we need here, it’s you. One false move will give us work for the next month. Come here…’

The woman drew near, her eyes lowered.

‘Take hold of his leg, the good one, I’ll take care of the other one. Gently,
gently. Towards me, a little bit more. And you, my friend, a half turn to the right, to the right, I said, and there we are…’

I was holding the mattress with both hands, grinding my teeth, sweat running down my face.

‘My friend, this isn’t going to be easy.’

‘I can see that.’

‘There you are. Now, dear, let go of the leg and take hold of the pillow. Bring up the chair and put the pillow on top. Too close… a bit further away . . Friend, give me your hand and hold me tight. You, dear, go between the bed and the wall and hold him under the arms. Marvellous. Neighbour, is there anything left in that bottle?’

‘No.’

‘Come here and take your wife’s place so she can get another one… Good, good, fill it up… Woman, leave your man where he is and come round next to me.’

The woman again called one of her children.

‘Damnation, I’ve already told you, a child is not what we need. Kneel down and put your hand under the calf. You’re trembling, my dear, as if you’d been up to no good. Courage! Left hand under the bottom of the thigh, there above the bandage… very good…’

And then the seams were cut, the bandages unrolled, the dressing taken off and my wound uncovered. The surgeon felt above it, below it and all round it and every time he touched me he said: ‘The ignorant fool! The ass! The lout! And he thinks he’s a surgeon! A leg like this, cut it off? It’ll last as long as the other, take my word for it.’

‘I’ll get better?’

‘I’ve cured worse than you.’

‘I’ll walk?’

‘You’ll walk.’

‘Without a limp?’

‘That’s another matter. Devil take it, my friend, what does it matter how you walk, isn’t it enough for you that I’ve saved your leg? Anyway if you limp it won’t be much. Do you like dancing?’

‘A lot.’

‘If you walk a little less well, you’ll dance all the better. My dear, the warmed wine… no, I’ll have the other one first. Just one more little glass and our bandage will be the better for it.’

He drank and they brought over the warmed wine, cleansed and dressed my wound, bandaged me up, laid me out on the bed again and told me to
sleep if I could. They drew the curtains around my bed, finished off the bottle they had started, brought up another and the conference between my host and hostess and the surgeon started again.

SURGEON
: Well, a soldier’s always got a father and mother, brothers, sisters, relations, friends, someone in the world… Let’s have another drink. Leave me with him and let me see what I can sort out.

And that was word for word the conversation between the surgeon and Jacques’ host and hostess. But what a different complexion could I not have put on the matter by introducing a villain among all these good people. Jacques would have been seen, or rather you would have seen Jacques, on the point of being pulled out of his bed, thrown into the highroad or even a ditch.

– Why not killed?

Killed, no. I would easily have been able to call someone to his assistance. That someone could have been a soldier from his company but that would have stunk to high heaven of
Cleveland
.
⁹
Truth, truth.

– Truth, you tell me, is often cold, ordinary and dull. For example, your last description of Jacques’ bandaging is true, but what’s interesting about it? Nothing.

Agreed.

– If it is necessary to be truthful, then let it be like Molière, Regnard, Richardson or Sedaine.
¹⁰
Truth has its interesting sides which one brings out if one’s a genius.

Yes, when one is a genius, but what if one isn’t?

– When one isn’t one shouldn’t write.

But what if one has the misfortune to resemble a certain poet I sent to Pondicherry?

– Who is this poet?

This poet… But if you keep on interrupting me, Reader, and if I interrupt myself all the time, what will become of Jacques’ loves? Take my word for it, let us leave our poet there… Jacques’ host and hostess moved away…

– No, no, the story of the poet of Pondicherry…
¹¹

The surgeon went over to Jacques’ bed…

– The story of the poet of Pondicherry, the story of the poet of Pondicherry.

One day a young poet came to me, as they do every day… But, Reader, what has that got to do with the journey of Jacques the Fatalist and his master?

– The story of the poet of Pondicherry.

After the usual social niceties about my wit, my genius, my good taste, my benevolence and other things I didn’t believe a word of even though people have been repeatedly telling me them, and perhaps in all sincerity, for the last twenty years, the young poet took a sheet of paper out of his pocket.

‘Here are some verses.’

‘Verses?’

‘Yes, Monsieur, some verses on which I hope you will have the kindness to give me your opinion.’

‘Do you like truth?’

‘Yes, Monsieur, and I’m asking you to tell me it.’

‘Well, you’ll have it.’

‘What! Are you really stupid enough to think that a poet seeks the truth from you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And stupid enough to tell him it?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Without attenuation?’

‘Of course. Any attenuation, however artful, would be the most offensive of all insults. Faithfully interpreted it would mean: “You’re a bad poet and, since I don’t believe you are man enough to hear the truth, you’re a worthless man as well.” ’

‘And has honesty always worked for you?’

‘Almost always…’

I read my young poet’s odes and told him: ‘Not only is your poetry bad but it is evident that you’ll never write any good poetry.’

‘Then I must write bad poetry because I can’t stop myself from writing.’

‘That’s a terrible affliction. Can you not see, Monsieur, what abjection you will fall into? Neither the gods, your fellow men, nor the reviews have ever forgiven mediocrity in a poet. It’s Horace who said that.’
¹²

‘I know.’

‘Are you rich?’

‘No.’

‘Are you poor?’

‘Very poor.’

‘And you are going to add to your poverty the ridicule of being a bad poet. You will have wasted your entire life and before you know it you’ll be old. Old, poor, and a bad poet. Ah! Monsieur, what a combination!’

‘I can see that but there’s nothing I can do to stop myself.’

(Here Jacques would have said: ‘It was written up above.’)

‘Have you got parents?’

‘I have.’

‘What is their position in life?’

‘They are jewellers.’

‘Would they help you financially?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Well, go and see your parents and ask them to lend you a small bag of jewels. Embark for Pondicherry and on the way you’ll write terrible poetry but when you get there you’ll make your fortune. When you’ve made your fortune you can come back here and write as much bad poetry as you want to, provided you don’t have any of it printed because you mustn’t ruin anyone else…’

It was around twelve years after I gave this advice to the young man that he reappeared. I didn’t recognize him.

‘It’s me, Monsieur,’ he said to me, ‘the man you sent to Pondicherry. I went there and I made a hundred thousand francs. I have come back and started to write poetry again and here is some which I’ve brought you. Is it still bad?’

‘It’s still bad, but at least your future is taken care of and I don’t mind if you carry on writing bad poetry.’

‘That is just what I intend to do…’

And when the surgeon had got to Jacques’ bed, Jacques didn’t give him the chance to speak: ‘I heard everything,’ he told him.

Then, turning to his master, he added… that is, he was about to add something when his master stopped him. He was tired of walking and sat himself down by the side of the road, his head turned in the direction of another traveller who was coming towards them on foot, with the reins of his horse, which was following him, over his arm.

You are going to believe, Reader, that this horse was the one that was stolen from Jacques’ master, and you are going to be wrong. That is what would happen in a novel, a little bit sooner or a little bit later, one way or another. But this is not a novel. I’ve already told you that, I believe, and I repeat it again.

The master said to Jacques: ‘Do you see that man coming towards us?’