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.
PEASANT: Friend, will it be for long?
SURGEON: Very long… Here’s to you, friend.
PEASANT: But how long? A month?
SURGEON: A month! Let’s say two, three, four, who knows? The kneecap is damaged, the femur, the tibia… Here’s to you, my dear.
PEASANT: Four months! Saints preserve us! Why take him in here? What the devil was she doing at the door?
WIFE: My friend, you’re off again. That’s not what you promised me last night. But just wait. You’ll see.
PEASANT: But tell me, what are we going to do with this man? It wouldn’t be so serious if it weren’t such a bad year.
WIFE: If you wanted I could go to the parish priest.
PEASANT: If you set foot in there I’ll beat you black and blue.
SURGEON: Why not, my friend? My wife goes there.
PEASANT: Well, that’s your business.
SURGEON: Here’s to my god-daughter. How’s she keeping?
WIFE: Fine.
SURGEON: Come along, my friend. Here’s to our wives, they’re both good women.
PEASANT: Yours is more prudent. She would never have been stupid enough to…
WIFE: But there are always the Sisters of Charity.
SURGEON: Ah! My dear! A man, a man go to the Sisters of Charity! There’s just one little problem about that, and it’s not all that much longer than a finger… Let’s drink to the sisters, they’re good girls.
WIFE: What little problem?
SURGEON: Your husband doesn’t want you to go to the parish priest and my wife won’t allow me anywhere near the sisters… well, my friend, another drink, perhaps that will give us the answer. Have you questioned this man? He is perhaps not without means himself?
PEASANT: A soldier?
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, Monsi
eur, 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?’
JACQUES: I see him.
MASTER: His horse seems good, don’t you think?
JACQUES: I served in the infantry, I wouldn’t know about that.
MASTER: Well, I commanded in the cavalry and I do.
JACQUES: Well?
MASTER: I would like you to go and ask that man to let us have the horse. We’ll pay him for it, of course.
JACQUES: What a foolish idea, but I’ll go. How much do you want to pay?
MASTER: Go as high as one hundred écus.
After having reminded his master not to fall asleep, Jacques went to meet the traveller, suggested to him the purchase of his horse, paid him and led the horse away.
‘Well,’ Jacques’ master said to him, ‘if you have your premonitions you can see I have mine too. He’s a nice horse, this one. I suppose the man swore there was nothing wrong with him, but when it comes to horses all men are sharp dealers.’
JACQUES: When aren’t they?
MASTER: You can ride this one and I’ll have yours.
JACQUES: All right…
And there they were, both on horseback, and Jacques added: ‘When I left home my father and mother and my godfather all gave me something, each of them what little they could afford, and I already had in reserve the five louis which Jean, my elder brother, had given me when he left on his unfortunate trip to Lisbon…’
Here Jacques started to cry and his master began to tell him that it must have been written up above.
JACQUES: That’s true, Monsieur, and I’ve told myself that a hundred times. But in spite of all that I can’t stop myself from crying…
And there he was sobbing and crying even more while his master was taking his pinch of snuff and looking at his watch to see what time it was.
After he had put his horse’s reins between his teeth and wiped his eyes with both hands Jacques continued:
With brother Jean’s five louis, the money I was paid on joining up and the presents of my parents and friends I had a fund – of which I had not spent an obol. It was a lucky thing for me that I had it – don’t you think?
MASTER: It was impossible for you to stay any longer in the cottage.
JACQUES: Even if I paid.
MASTER: But why did your brother Jean go to Lisbon?
JACQUES: It seems to me that you are trying your best to make me lose my way. With all your questions we’ll have gone round the world before we’ve finished the story of my loves.
MASTER: What does that matter so long as you are speaking and I am listening to you? Aren’t those the two important things? You are scolding me when you should thank me.
JACQUES: My brother went to Lisbon in search of peace. Jean, my brother, was a smart lad – it was that which brought him misfortune. It would have been better for him if he had been an idiot like me – but then that was written up above. It was also written that the friar almoner from the Carmelites who used to come to our village to ask for eggs, wool, straw, fruit and wine all the year round would stay at my father’s house, and would corrupt Jean, my brother, and that Jean, my brother, would take a monk’s habit.
MASTER: Jean, your brother, was a Carmelite?
JACQUES: Yes, Monsieur, and a barefoot Carmelite at that.13 He was active, intelligent, a haggler, he was the village lawyer. He knew how to read and write, and even as a young man he used to spend his time deciphering and copying out old manuscripts. He worked his way through all the jobs in the order one after the other – porter, bellringer, gardener, assistant to the procurator and treasurer. At the rate he was going he would have made all of us our fortunes. He married off two of our sisters, and a few other girls in the village, and married them off well at that. He couldn’t walk down the streets without fathers, mothers and children all running up to him and shouting out: ‘Good day, Friar Jean! How are you, Friar Jean?’
It is certain that whenever he went into a house God’s blessing went with him and wherever there was a girl she’d be married two months after his visit! Poor Friar Jean. Ambition was his downfall.
The Procurator of the House where Jean was assistant was old. The monks said that it was Jean’s plan to succeed him after his death, and that, to this end, he turned the deed room upside down, burnt all the old registers and made up new ones in such a way that on the death of the old Procurator the devil himself would have been unable to make head or tail of the community’s papers. If ever anyone needed a document he’d have to spend a month looking for it and then often it couldn’t be found at all. The monks worked out what Friar Jean was up to and what his aim was. They took the thing very seriously and Friar Jean, instead of being procurator, as he flattered himself he would be, was reduced to bread and water and disciplined to the point where he eventually gave up the secret of his registers to someone else. Monks are merciless. When they had got all the enlightenment they needed from Friar Jean they made him the coal carrier for the laboratory where they made Carmelite liqueur. Friar Jean, former treasurer of the order and deputy procurator, now a coal carrier! Friar Jean had a stout heart but he could not tolerate his fall from importance and splendour and he was only waiting for the opportunity to escape from this humiliation.
Now at about this time there arrived at the monastery a young monk who was accepted as the wonder of the order in the confessional and the pulpit. He was called Friar Angel. He had bea
utiful eyes, a handsome face, and the arms and hands of a sculptor’s model. There he was preaching sermons and more sermons, hearing confessions and more confessions and the old spiritual directors were abandoned by their female congregation who flocked to the young Friar Angel. The eve of every Sunday and feast day, Friar Angel’s confessional was surrounded by more and more penitents while the old fathers waited fruitlessly for business in their deserted confessionals which upset them a great deal… But, Monsieur, if perhaps I left the story of Friar Jean and carried on with the story of my loves, it might be more cheerful.
MASTER: No, no. Let’s take a pinch of snuff, see what time it is and carry on.
JACQUES: All right, if that’s what you want…
But Jacques’ horse was of another opinion. All of a sudden it took the bit between its teeth and charged into a ditch. Jacques dug his knees into the beast’s side and pulled back hard on the reins but it was all to no avail and the stubborn animal hurled itself out of the bottom of the ditch and started climbing as fast as it could to the top of a hillock where it stopped dead and where Jacques, looking around, found himself to be between the forks of a gallows.
Anyone other than myself, Reader, would not miss the opportunity of dressing up the gallows with its prey and arranging a sad reunion for Jacques. And if I were to tell you something of this sort you might well believe it because there are stranger things in life but it wouldn’t be any the more true for that. The gallows was empty.
Jacques allowed his horse to get its breath back and then the animal, of its own accord, went back down the hillock, crossed over to the other side of the ditch and brought Jacques back alongside his master, who said to him: ‘Ah! My friend! What a fright you gave me! I thought you were going to be killed… But you’re dreaming! What are you thinking about?’
Jacques the Fatalist: And His Master Page 6
