MASTER: That’s exactly what I am. I’ve got my sword in my hand, I’m descending on your robbers and I’m avenging you. Tell me how it is that whoever wrote out the great scroll could have decreed that such would be the reward of a noble act? Why should I, who am merely a miserable compound of faults, take your defence while He calmly watched you being attacked, knocked down, manhandled and trampled underfoot, He who is supposed to be the embodiment of all perfection?…
JACQUES: Master, be quiet, be quiet. What you are saying stinks to high heaven of heresy.
MASTER: What are you looking at?
JACQUES: I am looking to see if there is anybody near us who could have heard you…
The surgeon took my pulse and found I was feverish. I went to bed without speaking of my adventure and lay dreaming on my pallet, faced with the prospect of dealing with two people… and what people, my God! I didn’t have a sou and not the slightest doubt that when I woke up the next morning I’d be asked for the agreed daily price.
At this point the master threw his arms round the neck of his valet crying: ‘My poor Jacques. What are you going to do? What will become of you? Your situation frightens me.’
JACQUES: Master, reassure yourself. Here I am.
MASTER: I wasn’t thinking. I was on to tomorrow, beside you at the surgeon’s house at the moment you woke up and they came to ask you for money.
JACQUES: Master, in life one never knows what to rejoice about or what to feel sorry about. Good brings bad after it and bad brings good. We travel in darkness underneath whatever it is that is written up above, all of us equally unreasonable in our hopes, our joys and our afflictions. When I cry I often think that I’m a fool.
MASTER: And what about when you laugh?
JACQUES: I still think that I’m a fool. However, I can’t stop myself from crying or from laughing. And that’s what makes me angry. I’ve tried a hundred times… I didn’t sleep a wink that night.
MASTER: No, no, tell me what it is you’ve tried.
JACQUES: Not to give a damn about anything. Ah, if only I could have succeeded!
MASTER: What would that have done?
JACQUES: It would have made me free from worry, made me no longer need anything, made me completely master of myself, made me find myself just as well off with my head against a milestone on the side of the road as on a good pillow. I am like that sometimes, but the devil of it is that it doesn’t last, and, however hard and rock-steady I am on important occasions, a little contradiction, a mere trifle, will often throw me. It’s enough to make me kick myself. I’ve given up and decided to be as I am and I’ve realized through thinking about it a little that that is almost the same thing if one adds: ‘What does it matter how I am?’ It’s another kind of resignation, easier to achieve and more convenient to live with.
MASTER: Oh, it’s certainly more convenient.
JACQUES: In the morning the surgeon pulled back the curtains around my bed, and said: ‘Come along, my friend, I’ve got a long way to go today, so let’s be looking at your knee.’
I replied sorrowfully: ‘Surgeon… I’m sleepy…’
‘So much the better. That’s a good sign.’
‘Leave me to sleep. I don’t want to be bandaged.’
‘Well, that’s no problem. Go back to sleep.’
At that, he shut the curtains, but I didn’t sleep. One hour afterwards the surgeon’s wife came, drew back my curtains and said: ‘Come along, friend, I’ve brought your sugared toast.’
‘Madame,’ I replied sorrowfully, ‘I don’t feel very hungry.’
‘Go on, eat it, eat it. It’s not going to cost any extra and you won’t pay any the less.’
‘I don’t want to eat.’
‘So much the better. The children and I will have it,’ and at that she shut my curtains, called her children and they all sat about polishing off my sugared toast.
Reader, if I were to stop for a while here and come back to the story of the man who had only one shirt because he had only one body at a time, I would very much like to know what you would think. Would you think that I had got myself into what Voltaire would call an impasse or more vulgarly a cul-de-sac,25 and that I didn’t know how to get out of it? That I had thrown myself into a tale dreamed up so that I might gain time to look for some way of getting out of the story I’ve already started?
Well, Reader, you are wrong. I know very well how Jacques got out of these straits, and what I am about to tell you of Gousse – the man with only one shirt at a time because he had only one body at a time – is not made up at all.
One Whitsun, I received a note from Gousse in which he begged me to visit him in a prison where he was being held. While getting dressed I was thinking about his predicament and I supposed that his tailor, his baker, his wine merchant or his landlord, had obtained and executed against him an order of imprisonment.
I arrived there and found him sharing a cell with some rather ominous-looking people. I asked him who they were.
‘The old boy over there is a very able man who is extremely knowledgeable in arithmetic and who is trying to make the ledgers which he is copying out tally with his accounts. This is difficult and we’ve discussed it but I have no doubt that he will succeed.’
‘And the other one?’
‘He’s a fool.’
‘How so?’
‘A fool who invented a machine for counterfeiting bills. It was a pretty bad machine, a dreadful machine with twenty or more faults.’
‘And the third? The one wearing livery and playing the double-bass?’
‘He’s only here waiting. Tonight or tomorrow morning perhaps – because really his case is nothing – he’ll be transferred to Bicêtre.’26
‘And you?’
‘Me? My case is even less important.’
After this reply he got up and put his bonnet on his bed, and his three cell-mates disappeared instantly.
When I had entered I had found Gousse in his dressing-gown seated at a little table plotting geometric figures and working just as happily as he would have done at home. Now we were alone.
‘And you, what are you doing here?’
‘I’m working, as you can see.’
‘But who got you put in here?’
‘Me.’
‘What do you mean, you?’
‘Yes, me, Monsieur.’
‘And how did you go about that?’
‘The same way I would have gone about having anyone else put in here. I sued myself. I won, and as a result of the sentence I obtained against myself and the warrant which followed I was apprehended and taken here.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘No, Monsieur. I will tell you the thing as it is.’
‘Could you not sue yourself again, win, and by means of another sentence and another warrant get yourself released?’
‘No, Monsieur.’
Gousse had a pretty servant girl who served him as other half more often than his own did. This unequal division had somewhat disturbed the domestic peace. Even though there was nothing that was harder to do than unsettle this man, who of all men was least afraid of gossip, he decided to leave his wife and go and live with his servant girl. But his entire fortune consisted of furniture, machines, drawings, tools and other moveable effects. And he preferred leaving his wife naked to going away empty-handed. Consequently this is the project he conceived.
It was to give credit notes to his servant who would pursue him for payment and so obtain the distraint and sale of his goods which would then be transferred from his home in Pont Saint-Michel to the lodgings he proposed to occupy with her.
He was enchanted with the idea, wrote out the notes, had a writ issued against himself and engaged two lawyers. There he was, running from one to the other, prosecuting himself with the utmost vivacity, attacking himself well and defending himself badly. And then he was condemned to pay the penalty prescribed by the law. In his mind’s eye he was taking possession of everything there was in the ho
use, but it wasn’t quite like that. He was dealing with a very crafty hussy who, instead of obtaining execution on his effects, obtained it on his person, had him arrested and put in prison to such effect that, however bizarre were his enigmatic replies to my questions, they were none the less true.
While I have been telling you these facts – which you have dismissed as a mere tale…
– What about the man in livery playing the double-bass?
Reader, I promise you on my word of honour that you won’t lose that story… but allow me to come back to Jacques and his master.
Jacques and his master had arrived at the place where they were to spend the night. It was late. The gates of the town were closed and they were obliged to stop in the suburb. There I heard an uproar…
– You heard? You weren’t there… It’s got nothing to do with you at all.
You’re quite right. Well, Jacques… His master… there was a terrible uproar… I saw two men.
– You saw nothing. We’re not speaking about you. You weren’t even there.
That’s true. There were two men at table, talking quite quietly. At the door of the room they were in there stood a woman, hands on hips, pouring out a stream of abuse at them.
Jacques tried to calm the woman down but she paid no more attention to his pacifying remonstrations than the two people she was addressing were paying to her invective.
‘Come along, my dear,’ said Jacques, ‘be patient. Calm down. What’s it all about? These gentlemen seem to be decent enough to me.’
‘Decent! Them! They’re brutes, people without pity, humanity or any feeling. Ah! And what harm did poor Nicole do to them for them to treat her so badly? She’ll probably be crippled for the rest of her life.’
‘Perhaps the injury is not as bad as you believe.’
‘It was a frightful blow, I tell you. She’ll be crippled.’
‘You’ll have to wait and see. Someone must get the doctor.’
‘Someone’s already gone.’
‘Put her to bed.’
‘She’s already in bed. And she’s crying enough to break anyone’s heart… My poor Nicole!’
In the midst of these lamentations a bell rang somewhere else and a voice called: ‘Hostess, some wine.’
‘Coming,’ she replied.
‘Hostess, bring some sheets.’
‘Coming.’
‘What about the cutlets and the duck?’
‘Coming.’
‘Bring me something to drink. Bring me a chamber-pot.’
‘Coming, coming.’
And from another corner of the inn a frantic man was shouting: ‘Damn you, you demented chatterbox, what are you interfering for? Have you decided to make me wait till tomorrow? Jacques? Jacques?’
The hostess, who had recovered a little from her sorrow and her anger, said to Jacques: ‘Monsieur, you may leave me now. You’ve been too kind.’
‘Jacques? Jacques?’
‘Go to him quickly. Ah, if you only knew the misfortunes of that poor creature.’
‘Jacques? Jacques?’
‘Go on. I think that’s your master calling you.’
‘Jacques? Jacques?’
Jacques’ master was indeed shouting for him. He had undressed all by himself. He was dying of hunger and getting extremely impatient at not being served. Jacques went on up followed a moment afterwards by the innkeeper’s wife, who looked really miserable.
‘A thousand pardons, Monsieur,’ she said to Jacques’ master, ‘but it is just that there are sometimes things in life which are hard to swallow. What do you want? I have chickens, pigeons, excellent saddle of hare, rabbits – this is a very good area for rabbits – perhaps you’d prefer a river fowl?’
Jacques ordered his master’s supper as if it were for him, as he normally did. It was served and, while he was eating, his master asked Jacques: ‘What the devil were you doing down there?’
JACQUES: Perhaps some good, perhaps some bad, who can tell?
MASTER: And exactly what good or bad were you doing down there?
JACQUES: I was stopping that woman from getting herself beaten up by two men who are down there and who have at the very least broken her servant’s arm.
MASTER: Perhaps it would have done her some good to get beaten up.
JACQUES: For ten reasons, each of them better than the previous, one of the best things that has ever happened to me in my life – to me who speaks to you now…
MASTER: Is to have been beaten up?… Give me something to drink.
JACQUES: Yes, master, beaten up. Beaten up on the high road at night on my way back from the village as I have told you after having committed what was in my opinion the folly or in your opinion the good deed of giving away my money.
MASTER: I remember… Give me something to drink. What was the cause of the quarrel you were pacifying downstairs that the innkeeper’s wife’s servant or daughter should be so badly treated?
JACQUES: For the life of me, I don’t know.
MASTER: You don’t know what it was about and you interfere! Jacques, that’s not prudent, it’s not just, it’s against the principles of… Give me something to drink.
JACQUES: Principles are only rules which some people lay down for other people to observe. I think in one way but I am unable to stop myself acting in another. All sermons are like the preamble to the king’s edicts. All preachers want people to practise what they preach because we might find ourselves better off and they certainly will be. Virtue…
MASTER: Virtue, Jacques, is a good thing. Both the good and the bad speak well of it… Give me something to drink.
JACQUES: Because they both profit from it.
MASTER: And how was it such good fortune for you to be beaten up?
JACQUES: It is late. You’ve eaten well and so have I. We are both tired. It would be better for us, believe me, if we went to bed.
MASTER: We can’t do that. The innkeeper’s wife still has something to bring us. While we’re waiting let’s go back to the story of your loves.
JACQUES: Where was I? I beg you, Master, on this occasion and on all future ones put me back on the right track.
MASTER: I’ll see to that. And to begin my duties as prompter, you are in your bed, with no money, at a loss to know what to do while the surgeon’s wife and her children are eating your sugared toast.
JACQUES: At that moment a carriage drew up outside the door of the house and a valet came in and asked: ‘Does a poor man lodge here, a soldier who walks with a crutch and who came back last night from the next village?’
‘Yes,’ replied the surgeon’s wife, ‘what do you want him for?’
‘To put him in this carriage and take him away with us.’
‘He’s in that bed. Draw back the curtains and speak to him.’
Jacques had got to this point when their hostess came in and asked: ‘What do you want for dessert?’
MASTER: Whatever you’ve got.
Without giving herself the trouble of going downstairs their hostess shouted from their room: ‘Nanon, bring some fruit, biscuits, jams.’
On hearing the name Nanon, Jacques said to himself: ‘Ah! It was her daughter who was maltreated. One could get angry for less than that.’
And his master said to their hostess: ‘You were very angry just now.’
HOSTESS: And who wouldn’t get angry? The poor creature hadn’t done anything to them. She’d hardly gone into their room when I heard her start crying – such cries… Thank God I’m a little reassured now. The surgeon says it’s nothing but she’s got two huge bruises, one on her head, the other on her shoulder.
MASTER: Have you had her long?
HOSTESS: A fortnight at the most. She was abandoned at the nearby staging-post.
MASTER: What, abandoned!
HOSTESS: Alas, yes. There are some people whose hearts are harder than stone. She almost drowned trying to cross the river which runs near here. She arrived here by a miracle and I took her in out of charity
.
MASTER: How old is she?
HOSTESS: I think a little more than a year and a half.
At this point Jacques burst out laughing and exclaimed: ‘Is it a dog?’
HOSTESS: The prettiest animal in the world. I wouldn’t give my poor Nicole away for ten louis. Poor Nicole!
MASTER: Madame has a kind heart.
HOSTESS: I have indeed. I look after my animals and my people.
MASTER: Good for you. But who are these people who treated your Nicole so badly?
HOSTESS: Two bourgeois from the next town. They’re whispering to each other non-stop and they think that people don’t know what they’re saying, and nobody knows what they’re doing. They haven’t been here for more than three hours and there’s not a single bit of their business that I don’t know about. It’s an amusing story and if you’re in as little hurry to go to bed as I am I’ll tell you everything exactly as their servant told my servant, who, by coincidence, comes from the same province and who told my husband who told me. The mother-in-law of the younger one passed through here not more than three months ago. She was going, against her will, to a convent in the provinces where she didn’t last long. She’s dead and that’s why our two young men are in mourning…
Jacques the Fatalist: And His Master Page 11
