Jacques and His Master: An Homage to Diderot in Three Acts

by Milan Kundera

  Renouncing strict unity of action, I sought to create a coherent whole by more subtle means: by the technique of polyphony (the three stories are intermingled rather than told consecutively) and the technique of variation (each of the three stories is in fact a variation on the others). (And so this play, which is a "variation on Diderot," is simulta­neously an "homage to the technique of variation," as was, seven years later, my novel The Book of Laughter and Forgetting.)

  9

  For a Czech writer in the nineteen seventies, it was odd to think that Jacques le Fataliste (also written in the seven­ties) was never published during its author's lifetime and that it circulated among a private and restricted audience in manuscript only. What in Diderot's day was an excep­tion has, in Prague two hundred years later, become the lot of all important Czech writers, who, banned from the presses, can see their works only in typescript. It began with the Russian invasion, it has continued to the present and, by the look of things, is here to stay.

  I wrote Jacques and His Master for my private pleasure and perhaps with the vague idea that it could one day be put on in a Czech theater under an assumed name. By way of a signature I dotted the text (another game, an­other variation!) with several mementos of my previous works: Jacques and his master are reminiscent of the two friends in "The Golden Apple of Eternal Desire" (Laughable Loves); there is an allusion to Life Is Elsewhere and another to The Farewell Party. Yes, they were memen­tos; the entire play was a farewell to my life as a writer, a "farewell in the form of an entertainment." The Farewell Party, the novel I completed at approximately the same time, was to have been my last novel. Yet I lived out that period without the bitter taste of personal defeat, my pri­vate farewell merging completely with another, im­mensely greater one, one that went far beyond me:

  Faced with the eternity of the Russian night, I had expe­rienced in Prague the violent end of Western culture such as it was conceived at the dawn of the modern age, based on the individual and his reason, on pluralism of thought, and on tolerance. In a small Western country I experi­enced the end of the West. That was the grand farewell.

  10

  With an illiterate peasant for a servant, Don Quixote set off one day to do battle with his enemies. One hundred and fifty years later, Toby Shandy turned his garden into a great mock-up of a battlefield; there he devoted his time to reminiscing about his youth in the military, faithfully attended by his man, Corporal Trim. Trim walked with a limp, much like Jacques, who ten years later entertained his master on their journey. He was as garrulous and obstinate as the soldier Svejk, who, one hundred and fifty years later, in the Austro-Hungarian army, so amused and horrified his master, Lieutenant Lukac. Thirty years after that, waiting for Godot, Vladimir and his servant are alone on the empty stage of the world. The journey is over.

  Servant and master have made their way across all the modern history of the West. In Prague, city of the grand farewell, I heard their fading laughter. With love and an­guish, I clung to that laughter as one clings to fragile, per­ishable things, things that have been condemned.

  Paris, July 1981

  JACQUES AND HIS MASTER

  CHARACTERS

  Jacques

  Jacques's Master

  Innkeeper

  Chevalier de Saint-Ouen

  Young Bigre

  Old Bigre

  Justine

  Marquis

  Mother

  Daughter

  Agathe

  Agathe's Mother

  Agathe's Father

  Police Officer

  Bailiff

  The play should be performed without intermission.

  I imagine Jacques as a man of at least forty. His Master is the same age or somewhat younger.

  Francois Gerrnond, who directed the excellent produc­tion in Geneva, had an interesting idea: When Jacques and his Master meet again at the beginning of Act Three, Scene 6, they are already old; years have passed since the preceding scene.

  The stage remains the same throughout the play. It is di­vided in two: a downstage area, below, and a raised up­stage area, in the form of a large platform. All action taking place in the present is performed downstage; epi­sodes from the past are performed on the upstage plat­form.

  As far upstage as possible (and therefore on the plat­form) is a staircase (or ladder) leading to an attic.

  Most of the time, the set (which should be utterly plain and abstract) is completely bare. For certain episodes, however, actors bring on chairs, a table, etc.

  The set must avoid all ornamental, illustrative, and symbolic elements. These are contrary to the spirit of the play, as is any exaggeration in the acting.

  The action takes place in the eighteenth century, but in the eighteenth century as we dream of it today. Just as the language of the play does not aim to reproduce the lan­guage of the time, so the setting and costumes must not stress the period. The historicity of the characters (espe­cially the two protagonists), though never in question, should be slightly muted.

  ACT ONE

  Scene 1

  Enter Jacques and his Master. After they have taken a few steps, Jacques gazes at the audience. He stops short.

  Jacques (discreetly): Sir . . . (pointing out the audience to him) why are they staring at us?

  Master (a bit taken aback and adjusting his clothes as if afraid of calling attention to himself by a sartorial over­sight): Pretend there's no one there.

  Jacques (to the audience): Wouldn't you rather look some­where else? All right then, what do you want to know? Where we've come from? (He stretches his right arm out behind him.) Back there. Where we're going? (Philosophi­cally.) Which of us knows where we're going? (To the au­dience.) Do you know where you're going?

  Master: I'm afraid, Jacques, that I know where we're going.

  Jacques: Afraid?

  Master (sadly): Yes. But I have no intention of acquaint­ing you with my painful obligations. . . .

  Jacques: None of us knows where we're going, sir, believe me. But as my captain used to say, "It's all written on high...."

  Master: And right he was. . . .

  Jacques: Damn Justine and that vile attic where I lost my virginity!

  Master: Why curse the woman, Jacques?

  Jacques: Because the day I lost my virginity, I went out

  and got drunk. My father, mad with rage, gave me a beat­ing. A regiment was passing through, I signed up, a battle broke out, a bullet hit me in the knee. And that was the start of a long string of adventures. Without that bullet, I don't think I'd ever have fallen in love.

  Master: You mean you've been in love? You've never told me that before.

  Jacques: There are many things I haven't told you.

  Master: But how did you fall in love? Tell me that!

  Jacques: Where was I? Oh, yes, the bullet in my knee. I was buried under a pile of dead and wounded bodies. Next day they found me and tossed me in a cart. The road to the hospital was bad, and I howled in pain at the slightest bump. Suddenly we stopped. I asked to be let down. We were at the edge of a village, and I'd noticed a young woman standing in the doorway of a hut. . . .

  Master: Aha! Now I see. . . .

  Jacques: She went inside, came out with a bottle of wine, and held it to my lips. They tried to load me back in the cart, but I grabbed the woman's skirt. Then I passed out, and when I came to I was inside the hut, her husband and children crowding around me while she applied com­presses.

  Master: You scoundrel, you! I see how it ended!

  Jacques: You don't see a thing, sir.

  Master: A man welcomes you into his house, and look how you repay him!

  Jacques: But are we the masters of our actions? As my captain used to say, "The good and evil we encounter here below are written first on high." Dear Master, do you know any way of erasing what has been written? Can I

  cease to be? Can I be someone else? And if I am myself, can I do anything other than what I do?

  Maste
r: There's something that's been bothering me: Are you a scoundrel because it's written on high? Or was it written on high because they knew you were a scoundrel? Which is the cause, which the effect?

  Jacques: I don't know, sir, but you mustn't call me a scoundrel . . .

  Master: A man who cuckolds his benefactor . . .

  Jacques: ... or that man my benefactor. You should have heard the names he called his wife for taking pity on me.

  Master: And right he was . . . Tell me, Jacques, what was she like? Describe her to me.

  Jacques: The young woman?

  Master: Yes.

  Jacques (after a moment of hesitation): Average height ...

  Master (not too pleased): Hm ...

  Jacques: Though actually on the tall side . . .

  Master (nodding his approval): On the tall side . . .

  Jacques: Yes.

  Master: Just the way I like them.

  Jacques (making graphic use of his hands): Beautiful breasts.

  Master: Bigger in front or behind?

  Jacques (hesitating): In front.

  Master (sadly): What a shame.

  Jacques: So you love big bottoms?

  Master: Yes . . . Big ones like Agathe's . . . And her eyes? What were they like?

  Jacques: Her eyes? I don't remember. But she had black hair.

  Master: Agathe was blond.

  Jacques: Is it my fault she didn't look like your Agathe? You'll have to take her as she is. But she did have beau­tiful long legs.

  Master (dreamily): Long legs. That makes me so happy!

  Jacques: And a majestic bottom.

  Master: Majestic? Really?

  Jacques (showing him): Like this . . .

  Master: You scoundrel, you! The more you tell me about her, the wilder I get. . . . The wife of your benefactor, and you went and . . .

  Jacques: No, sir. Nothing ever happened between us.

  Master: Then why bring her up? Why waste our time with her?

  Jacques: You keep interrupting me, sir. It's a very bad habit.

  Master: And I already wanted her. . . .

  Jacques: I tell you I'm in bed with a bullet in my knee, suffering agonies, and all you can think about is your lusts. And Agathe, whoever she is.

  Master: Don't mention that name.

  Jacques: You mentioned it first.

  Master: Have you ever wanted a woman desperately, only to be rejected by her? Again and again?

  Jacques: Yes. Justine.

  Master: Justine? The girl you lost your virginity with?

  Jacques: The same.

  Master: Tell me about her. . . .

  Jacques: After you, sir.

  Scene 2

  Several characters have taken their places on the upstage platform. Young Bigre is sitting on the steps; Justine is standing next to him. On the opposite side of the stage, Agathe is sitting on a chair that the Chevalier de Saint-Ouen has brought out for her; the Chevalier is standing at her side.

  Saint-Ouen (calling to the Master): Greetings, my friend!

  Jacques (turning, together with the Master, and indicating Agathe with his head): Is she the one? (The Master nods.) And the man next to her? Who is he?

  Master: A friend, the Chevalier de Saint-Ouen. He's the one who introduced me to her. (He looks up at Justine.) And the other one, is she yours?

  Jacques: Yes, but I like yours better.

  Master: And I prefer yours. More flesh. How about swap­ping?

  Jacques: You should have thought of that earlier. It's too late now.

  Master (with a sigh): Yes, too late. And who's the brawny fellow?

  Jacques: Bigre, an old pal. We both wanted her, that girl. But for some mysterious reason, he's the one who got her.

  Master: My problem exactly.

  Saint-Ouen (moving toward the Master, to the edge of the platform): You might be a bit more discreet, old boy. The parents are fearful of their daughter's reputation. . . .

  Master (to Jacques, with indignation): The filthy shop­keepers! They were perfectly happy to let me shower her with gifts!

  Saint-Ouen: No, no, you don't understand! They have great respect for you. They simply want you to state your intentions. Otherwise you'll have to stop going there.

  Master (to Jacques, with indignation): When I think that he's the one who introduced me to her! Who egged me on! Who promised me she'd be easy!

  Saint-Ouen: I'm merely passing on their message, my friend.

  Master (to Saint-Ouen): Very well. (He mounts the plat­form.) Then please pass on my message to them: Don't count on dragging me to the altar just yet. As for Agathe, tell her she had best be more tender with me in the future if she doesn't wish to lose me. I have no intention of wast­ing my time and money on her when I can put them to better use elsewhere.

  (Saint-Ouen hears him out, bows, and returns to his place beside Agathe.)

  Jacques: Bravo, sir! That's how I like you! Brave for a change.

  Master (to Jacques, from the platform): I have my mo­ments. I stopped seeing her.

  Saint-Ouen (moving back to the Master along a semicir-

  cle): I've passed on your message word for word, but I can't help thinking you were a bit cruel.

  Jacques: My master? Cruel?

  Saint-Ouen: Hold your tongue, boy! (To the Master.,) The whole family is horrified by your silence. And Agathe . . .

  Master: Agathe?

  Saint-Ouen: Agathe weeps.

  Master: She weeps.

  Saint-Ouen: She spends her days weeping.

  Master: And so you feel that if I resumed my visits . . .

  Saint-Ouen: It would be a mistake! You can't retreat. You'd lose everything by going back to them now. You must teach those merchants some manners.

  Master: But what if they never ask me back?

  Saint-Ouen: They will.

  Master: And if it takes a long time?

  Saint-Ouen: Do you wish to be master or slave?

  Master: So she's weeping . . .

  Saint-Ouen: Better she than you.

  Master: And if they never ask me back?

  Saint-Ouen: They will, I tell you. Now make the most of the situation. Agathe must be made to see that you're not ready to eat out of her hand and that she must make an effort. . . . But tell me . . . We're friends, aren't we? Give me your word of honor. Have you and she . . .

  Master: No.

  Saint-Ouen: Your discretion does you credit.

  Master: Not in the least. It's the plain truth.

  Saint-Ouen: What? Not one small moment of weakness?

  Master: Not one.

  Saint-Ouen: I wonder if you haven't behaved too much like a virgin with her.

  Master: And you, Chevalier? Have you never desired her?

  Saint-Ouen: Of course I have. But the moment you came along, I became invisible to Agathe. Oh, we're still good friends, but nothing more. My only consolation is that if my best friend sleeps with her, I'll feel just as if I myself were doing it. Take my word for it. I'll do my utmost to put you in her bed.

  (At the end of the speech, he moves slowly back to the chair that Agathe is still sitting on.)

  Jacques: Have you noticed what a good listener I am, sir? I haven't interrupted you once. If only you'd follow my example.

  Master: You boast about not interrupting me only to in­terrupt me.

  Jacques: I butt in because you've set a bad example.

  Master: As master I have the right to interrupt my ser­vant as often as I please. My servant has no right to inter­rupt his master.

  Jacques: I don't interrupt you, sir; I talk to you, the way you've always asked me to. And let me tell you: I don't like that friend of yours, and I'll bet it's his mistress he wants you to marry.

  Master: Enough! I have no more to say! (He steps down from the platform in a huff.)

  Jacques: No, sir! Please! Go on!