Jacques the Fatalist: And His Master

by Denis Diderot

  His master, who was stretched out in his armchair yawning and tapping his snuff-box, replied: ‘Jacques, we have more than one day to live together, unless…’

  JACQUES: What you are saying is that today our Destiny is for me to keep my mouth shut, or, to put it another way, for our hostess to speak. She’s a chatterbox and that will obviously suit her. Let her speak, then!

  MASTER: You’re getting cross.

  JACQUES: Well, I like to talk too.

  MASTER: Your turn will come.

  JACQUES: Or not come.

  I know what you are thinking, Reader, you are thinking that this is the real denouement of the Rough Diamond.30 I believe it is. If I had been the author I would have introduced into this little work a character whom one would have taken as being episodic, but who would, in fact, not have been. This character would have appeared a few times, and some motive would have been given for his appearances. The first time he would have come to ask for grace, but the fear of a hostile welcome would have made him leave before the arrival of Géronte. Pressed by the bailiffs breaking into his house, the second time he would have had the courage to wait for Géronte, but Géronte would have refused to see him. Eventually I would have brought him on at the denouement, where he would have played the same role the peasant did with the innkeeper. Like the peasant he would have had a daughter whom he was going to place with a dressmaker, a son whom he was going to withdraw from school and send into service, and as for him, he would have decided to beg until he became tired of living. We would have seen the Rough Diamond at the feet of this man. We would have heard the Rough Diamond rebuked because he merited it. He would have been obliged to appeal to his whole family around him in order to move his debtor to pity to persuade him to accept fresh help. The Rough Diamond would have been punished. He would have promised to correct himself but at this very moment he would revert to his true character and, losing patience with the characters on stage, who would, by now, be exchanging civilities in order to go back into the house, he would have said brusquely: ‘May the devil take these damned…’ but he would have stopped dead in the middle of the word, and in a softer tone he would have said to his nieces: ‘Come along, girls, take my hand and we’ll go…’

  – And in order that this character should be better integrated into the play, you would have made this character a protégé of Géronte’s nephew?

  Very good.

  – And it would have been at the nephew’s request that the uncle lent him money?

  Perfect.

  – And this loan would have been a bone of contention between uncle and nephew?

  Exactly that.

  – And the denouement of this agreeable play, would it not have been a repeat with the whole family in chorus of what he had previously said with each of them individually?

  You’re right.

  – Well then, if ever I meet Monsieur Goldoni I will repeat the scene in the inn to him.

  You would do well there. He’s got more than enough talent to make something of it.

  The hostess came back, still carrying Nicole in her arms, and said: ‘I hope to give you a good dinner. The poacher’s just come, which means the squire’s gamekeeper will not be far behind’, and as she was speaking she took a chair, ‘One should always be suspicious of servants. Masters do not have a worse enemy.’

  JACQUES: Madame, you don’t know what you’re talking about. There are good ones and bad ones and it might be that there are more good valets than good masters.

  MASTER: Jacques, you are not being very circumspect and are committing precisely the same indiscretion which shocked you.

  JACQUES: It’s just that masters…

  MASTER: It’s just that valets…

  Well now, Reader! What is there to stop me from starting a violent quarrel between these three characters, from having the innkeeper’s wife taken by the shoulders and thrown out of the room by Jacques, from having Jacques taken by the shoulders and thrown outside by his master, from sending one off in one direction and the other in a different one so that you wouldn’t hear either the innkeeper’s wife’s story or the rest of the story of Jacques’ love life? But don’t worry, I will do no such thing. And so the innkeeper’s wife continued: ‘It must be admitted that if there are a lot of very wicked men there are also a lot of very wicked women.’

  JACQUES: And one never has to go too far to find one…

  HOSTESS: What are you interfering for? I am a woman and entitled to say whatever I like about women without your approval.

  JACQUES: My approval’s worth just as much as another’s.

  HOSTESS: Monsieur, you have a valet who thinks he knows about everything and is not showing you proper respect. I have valets too, but I would like them to get it into their heads…

  MASTER: Jacques, shut up and let Madame speak.

  The innkeeper’s wife, encouraged by Jacques’ master’s words, squared up to Jacques, put her hands on her hips, forgot that she was holding Nicole, let go and there was Nicole on the floor, bruised and struggling in her blanket, barking her head off, and their hostess adding her cries to Nicole’s barking and Jacques adding his peals of laughter to the barking of Nicole and the cries of their hostess and Jacques’ master opening his snuff-box, taking his pinch of snuff, and unable to suppress a smile. The whole inn was now in tumult.

  ‘Nanon, Nanon, quickly, quickly, bring me the spirit bottle. My poor Nicole’s dead! Undress her… Oh, you’re so clumsy.’

  ‘I’m doing my best.’

  ‘How she’s crying. Get out of the way. Let me do it. She’s dead. That’s right, laugh, you big booby, I suppose you think it’s a laughing matter. My poor Nicole is dead!’

  ‘No, Madame. I think she’ll come out of it. Look, she’s moving…’

  And Nanon rubbed brandy into the dog’s nose and made her swallow some and the hostess was wailing and storming about impertinent valets and Nanon was saying: ‘Look, Madame, she’s opening her eyes. There she is, looking at you.’

  ‘Poor beast. How expressive she is. Who could fail to be moved by her?’

  ‘Madame, stroke her a little, say something to her.’

  ‘Come here, my poor Nicole. Cry, my baby. Cry if it makes you feel better. There’s a Destiny for animals just the same as for people. It sends happiness to idlers, unpleasant people, brawlers and gluttons and misery to the best creature in the world.’

  ‘Madame is perfectly right. There’s no justice in the world.’

  ‘Be quiet. Put her clothes back on and put her under my pillow. And remember, if she makes the slightest cry you’ll answer to me for it. Come here, my poor creature, and let me kiss you before she takes you away. Bring her here, then, you silly girl. Ah, dogs, they’re so good, they’re worth more…’

  JACQUES: Than father, mother, sisters, children, valets, husbands…

  HOSTESS: Yes, that’s right. There’s nothing to laugh at. They’re perfectly innocent, faithful, never do any harm, while all those others…

  JACQUES: Long live dogs! There’s nothing more perfect under God’s heaven.

  HOSTESS: If there is anything more perfect it certainly isn’t man. I wish you knew the carpenter’s dog. He’s my Nicole’s lover. There’s not one amongst the lot of you whom he wouldn’t make blush with shame. He comes as soon as day breaks, from more than a league away, to station himself under this window. And his sighs, they’d break anyone’s heart. No matter what the weather is like he stays there. The rain falls down on him. He sinks into the mud so that you can hardly see his ears and the end of his nose. Would you do so much for the woman you loved best?

  MASTER: That’s very gallant.

  JACQUES: One might also ask, where is the woman as worthy of this treatment as your Nicole?

  The innkeeper’s wife’s passion for animals was not, however, her dominant passion. As you might imagine, her dominant passion was talking. The more that people found pleasure and were patient in listening to her, the more worthy they were in her eyes.
Consequently she didn’t have to be asked to carry on with the interrupted story of the strange marriage. The only condition she imposed was that Jacques shut up. His master promised silence on behalf of Jacques. Jacques stretched himself out nonchalantly in the corner, his eyes shut, hat pulled down over his ears and his back half-turned to their hostess.

  His master coughed, spat, blew his nose, took out his watch, looked at the time, took out his snuff-box, tapped its lid and took a pinch of snuff while their hostess prepared to indulge in the delicious pleasure of holding forth.

  She was about to start when she heard her dog cry: ‘Nanon, go and see to the poor animal… That disturbed me. I don’t know where I’d got to.’

  JACQUES: You haven’t said anything yet.

  HOSTESS: Those two men with whom I was arguing about Nicole when you arrived, Monsieur.

  JACQUES: Say – Messieurs.

  HOSTESS: Why?

  JACQUES: Because up to now we’ve been treated politely and I’ve got used to it. My master calls me Jacques, but others call me – Monsieur Jacques.

  HOSTESS: I’m not going to call you Jacques or Monsieur Jacques. I’m not speaking to you.

  ‘Madame! The bill for number five!’

  ‘Have a look on the chimney breast.’

  These two men are worthy gentlemen. They’ve come from Paris and are going to the elder’s land.

  JACQUES: How do you know that?

  HOSTESS: They said so.

  JACQUES: Fine explanation.

  His master made a sign to the innkeeper’s wife which led her to understand that Jacques’ brain was a little scrambled. She replied to the master’s sign with a sympathetic movement of the shoulders and added: ‘At his age. What a terrible shame.’

  JACQUES: It’s a terrible shame never to know where one is going.

  HOSTESS: The elder of the two is called the Marquis des Arcis. He used to be a man of pleasure, very likeable, although he is sceptical about feminine virtue.

  JACQUES: He’s right.

  HOSTESS: Monsieur Jacques, you’re interrupting me.

  JACQUES: Madame, hostess of the Grand-Cerf, I’m not talking to you.

  HOSTESS: The Marquis managed, however, to find one woman peculiar enough to resist his advances. Her name was Mme de La Pommeraye. She was a widow of high moral character, high birth, good breeding, wealth and haughtiness. Monsieur des Arcis broke off with all his other acquaintances and devoted himself exclusively to Mme de La Pommeraye. He courted her with the greatest possible assiduity, attempted by every sacrifice imaginable to show her that he loved her and even proposed to her. But this woman had been so unhappy with a first husband that she…

  ‘Madame!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The key to the oat bin?’

  ‘See if it’s on the nail. If it’s not there look in the lock.’

  … that she would rather expose herself to any kind of misery than the danger of a second marriage.

  JACQUES: Ah! If that had been written up above!

  HOSTESS: The lady led a very quiet life. The Marquis was an old friend of her husband’s. He had been a visitor to the house and she continued to receive him. If one could overlook in him his unrestrained passion for love affairs he was what one would call a man of honour. The Marquis’ unremitting pursuit backed up by his personal qualities, his youth, good looks, what seemed to be the truest of passions, her solitude, her longing for affection, in a word everything that makes us women yield to the wishes of men…

  ‘Madame!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The mail.’

  ‘Put it in the green room and distribute it as usual.’

  … had its effect, and Mme de La Pommeraye, after having resisted both the Marquis and herself for several months and having exacted from him the most solemn of vows, as is customary, finally made him the happiest of men, whose destiny would have been most sweet had he only been able to retain for the Marquise those feelings which he had sworn he had felt for her and which she felt for him. I tell you, Monsieur, it is only women who know how to love. Men don’t know the first thing…

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The friar almoner.’

  ‘Give him twelve sous for these gentlemen here, six sous for me, and let him go round the other rooms…’

  … after a few years the Marquis began to find Mme de La Pommeraye’s life too uneventful. He suggested that she venture out into society. She did so. Then he suggested that she receive a few ladies and a few gentlemen. She did so. He suggested that she give a dinner party and she did so. Little by little he went one day, two days, without seeing her. He would miss the dinner parties he had arranged. Gradually he shortened his visits. He had other business which needed seeing to. When he arrived he would say one word, stretch himself out in an armchair, pick up a pamphlet, and throw it down again, talk to her dog, or go to sleep. In the evenings his health, which was becoming wretched, apparently required that he retire early. This was the advice of Tronchin.31

  ‘He’s a great man, that Tronchin,’ he would say, ‘and by God I haven’t the slightest doubt he will save our friend’s life which the other doctors have despaired of.’

  And as he was speaking he would take his hat and his cane and go away, sometimes forgetting to kiss her. Madame de La Pommeraye…

  ‘Madame!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The cooper.’

  ‘Send him down to the cellar and have him check the two barrels in the corner…’

  … Madame de La Pommeraye suspected that she was no longer loved. She had to find out for certain, and this is how she went…

  ‘Madame!’

  ‘Coming, coming!’

  Tired of these interruptions the hostess went back downstairs and apparently found a way to put an end to them.

  One day after lunch she said to the Marquis: ‘My friend, you’re dreaming.’

  ‘You are dreaming too, Marquise.’

  ‘Yes, and sad dreams at that.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That’s not the truth. Come along, Marquise,’ he said yawning, ‘tell me about it. It will relieve your boredom and mine.’

  ‘Are you bored?’

  ‘No, it’s just that there are some days…’

  ‘When you get bored.’

  ‘You’re wrong, my friend. I swear to you you’re wrong. It’s just that there are some days… Well, I don’t exactly know what causes it.’

  ‘My friend, I have been tempted to tell you something for a long time now, but I am afraid to hurt you.’

  ‘You hurt me?’

  ‘Perhaps, but as heaven is witness to my innocence…’

  ‘Madame! Madame! Madame!’

  ‘Whoever or whatever it is I’ve absolutely forbidden you to call me. Call my husband.’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Excuse me, Messieurs, I’ll be with you again in a moment.’

  And now the hostess has gone downstairs, come back up, and is well into her story.

  HOSTESS: ‘It happened without my willing it, or even being aware of it, by a curse that the whole human race must be subject to since I myself am not free from it.’

  ‘Ah! It’s that you… I was afraid… What is it?’

  ‘Marquis, it’s… I’m heartbroken and I will break your heart and all things considered it would be better if I kept quiet.’

  ‘No, my friend, speak. Do you have a secret for me in the bottom of your heart? Wasn’t it the first thing we agreed that we would open up our souls to each other without reserve?’

  ‘That is true, and that is what is worrying me. That is a reproach which is greater than the one I have to make myself. Can you not see that I am no longer so happy? I have lost my appetite. I only eat and drink because I make myself. I cannot sleep. Our most intimate gatherings displease me. At night I question myself and ask: Is he any the less kind? No. Have you a
nything to complain about? No. Do you have to reproach him for suspect liaisons? No. Has his love for you diminished? No. How is it that if your friend is the same your heart has changed? For it has and you can’t hide the fact. You no longer await him with the same impatience. You no longer feel the same pleasure in seeing him, or experience the same anxiety when he is late. That tender pleasure, to hear the noise of his carriage, to hear his name announced, to see him finally appear – you no longer feel any of it.’

  ‘What! Madame!’

  Then the Marquise de La Pommeraye covered her eyes, lowered her head and was quiet for a moment, after which she added: ‘Marquis, I expected the full scale of your astonishment and the bitter words that you are going to say to me. Marquis! Spare me… No, do not spare me. Say them to me. I will resign myself to listening because I deserve them. Yes, my dear Marquis, it is true… yes, I am… But is it not bad enough that the thing should have happened at all without my adding to it the shame and the scorn of being false and hiding it from you? You are the same but your friend has changed. She reveres you and respects you as much as and more than ever but… but a woman as accustomed as she is to examine carefully everything that happens even in the most secret parts of her heart, and to avoid all self-deception, such a woman cannot hide the fact that there is no love in her heart. The discovery is horrifying but is not any the less real. Me, the Marquise de La Pommeraye, inconstant, fickle… Marquis, fly into a rage, look for the most odious of names. I’ve called myself them all already. Call me them. I will accept them, all of them, except that of false woman, which you will spare me, I hope, because, in all truth, I am not that.’