Jacques the Fatalist: And His Master

by Denis Diderot

  ‘No, no. I owe you my life and I could never thank you enough.’

  ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

  ‘Are you not the helpful citizen who rescued me, bled and bandaged me when my horse…’

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘Are you not the honest citizen who bought back this horse for the same price he sold it to me for?’

  ‘I am.’

  And Jacques began to kiss him again, first on one cheek, then on the other. His master smiled and the two dogs stood with their noses in the air, apparently filled with wonder at a scene which they had never seen the like of before. After Jacques had added several bows to his effusions which his benefactor did not return and many good wishes for the future which were received rather coldly, he got back on his horse, and said to his master: ‘I feel the greatest respect for that man and you must tell me who he is.’

  MASTER: And why, Jacques, in your opinion, is he so worthy of respect?

  JACQUES: Because he attaches no importance to the good works he performs and must therefore be of a naturally kindly disposition and have a long-standing habit of doing good.

  MASTER: And how do you reach that conclusion?

  JACQUES: From the cold and indifferent manner in which he received my thanks. He did not acknowledge me. He didn’t say a word. He seemed hardly to recognize me and, who knows, perhaps at this very moment he may be saying to himself with contempt: ‘Kindness must be a very strange thing to that traveller and just dealing a difficult thing for him since he is so touched by them.’

  What have I said that is so absurd as to make you laugh so heartily? Whatever it is, tell me the man’s name so that I may make a note of it.

  MASTER: Willingly. Write.

  JACQUES: Tell me.

  MASTER: Write: The man for whom I hold the greatest respect…

  JACQUES:… the greatest respect…

  MASTER:… is…

  JACQUES:… is…

  MASTER: The hangman of *****.

  JACQUES: The hangman!

  MASTER: Yes, yes! The hangman.

  JACQUES: Perhaps you could tell me what the point of this joke is?

  MASTER: I am not joking. Just follow the links in your fob-chain. You need a horse. Fate directs you to a passer-by, and this passer-by happens to be a hangman. The horse takes you to a gallows twice. The third time he delivers you to a hangman’s home where you fall half dead. And from there, where are you taken? Into an inn, a resting-place, a common refuge. Jacques, do you know the story of the death of Socrates?

  JACQUES: No.

  MASTER: He was an Athenian sage. For a long time now the role of sage has been dangerous amongst madmen. His fellow citizens condemned him to drink hemlock. Well, Socrates did what you’ve just done and behaved as politely with his executioner who brought him the hemlock as you did. Jacques, you’re a sort of philosopher, admit it. And I know all too well that philosophers are a breed of men who are loathed by the mighty because they refuse to bend the knee to them. Magistrates hate them because they are by their calling protectors of the prejudices which philosophers attack, priests because they see them rarely at the foot of their altars. And poets, who are people without principles, hate them and are stupid enough to think of philosophy as the hatchet of the Arts not to mention the fact that those poets who have indulged in the hateful genre of satire have simply been flatterers. They are hated also by the peoples who have always been enslaved to the tyrants who oppress them, the rogues who trick them and the clowns who amuse them. So you can see that I am familiar with all of the perils of your profession and am fully aware of the importance of the admission I am asking you to make. But I will not betray your secret. Jacques, my friend, you are a philosopher, and I am sorry for you. If it is permitted to read the events of the future from those of the present and if what is written up above is ever revealed to men long before it happens, I predict that your death will be philosophical and that you will put your head in the noose with the same good grace as Socrates took his cup of hemlock.

  JACQUES: Master, a prophet couldn’t put it better. But fortunately…

  MASTER: You don’t really believe me. But that gives more weight to my premonition.

  JACQUES: And you, Monsieur, do you believe it?

  MASTER: I believe it, but even if I didn’t it wouldn’t make any difference.

  JACQUES: Why?

  MASTER: Because there is only danger for people who talk. And I keep quiet.

  JACQUES: What about premonitions?

  MASTER: I laugh at them but somewhat nervously, I must admit. Some of them are of such striking character and we have all been lulled with tales like that from an early age. If your dreams had come true five or six times and it happened that you should dream your friend were dead you would surely go to him the next morning to find out whether it was true or not. But the premonitions which are hardest to rebut are those which come to one at the moment an event is taking place far away from one and which appear symbolic.

  JACQUES: Sometimes you are so profound and sublime that I don’t understand you. Could you not enlighten me with some example?

  MASTER: Nothing simpler. There was once a woman who lived in the country with her eighty-year-old husband who suffered from gallstones. The husband left his wife and went into town to have an operation. On the eve of the operation he wrote to his wife: ‘At the time you read this letter I’ll be under the scalpel of Friar Cosmas.’22

  Are you familiar with those wedding rings which are divided into two parts, one bearing the husband’s name, and the other the wife’s? Well, this woman had one on her finger when she opened her husband’s letter. At that moment the two halves of the ring fell apart. The half which bore her name stayed on her finger. That which had his name fell broken on to the letter which she was reading. Tell me, Jacques, do you think that there is anyone who is strong-minded or resolute enough not to be more of less shaken by a similar incident taking place in similar circumstances? So the woman nearly died. Her fright lasted until the day the next post arrived and she received a letter in which her husband wrote that the operation had gone well and he was completely out of danger and hoped to embrace her by the end of the month.

  JACQUES: And did he?

  MASTER: Yes.

  JACQUES: I asked you that question because I have noticed several times that there’s something sly about Destiny. The first time round you think Destiny is a liar but later it turns out it has told the truth. So, you, Monsieur, think my case comes under the heading of symbolic premonitions and, in spite of yourself, you believe me to be threatened by a philosopher’s death.

  MASTER: It’s no good my trying to hide it from you… but, so as not to dwell on such a sad idea, could you not…

  JACQUES: Carry on with the story of my loves?

  Jacques carried on with the story of his loves. We had left him, I believe, with the surgeon.

  SURGEON: I’m afraid it’ll take more than a day to mend your knee.

  JACQUES: It will take precisely the length of time that is written up above. What does it matter?

  SURGEON: At so much a day for accommodation, food and my services, that’ll make quite a sum.

  JACQUES: Doctor, it’s not a question of how much it will cost for all this time, but how much a day.

  SURGEON: Twenty-five sous. Is that too much?

  JACQUES: Far too much. Come along, doctor, I’m a poor devil so let’s say half of that and see how quickly you can have me taken to your house.

  SURGEON: Twelve and a half sous, that’s hardly anything. Shall we say thirteen sous?

  JACQUES: Twelve and a half sous, thirteen sous… done!

  SURGEON: And you’ll pay every day?

  JACQUES: That’s the condition.

  SURGEON: It’s just that I’ve got the devil of a wife who doesn’t like any funny business, you understand.

  JACQUES: Yes, doctor. Just arrange for me to be taken to your devil of a wife as quickly as you can.

  SURGEON
: A month at thirteen sous a day, that’s nineteen pounds ten sous. You’ll make it twenty francs, won’t you?

  JACQUES: Twenty francs. Done.

  SURGEON: You want to be well fed, well looked after and quickly cured. Besides food, accommodation and attention there will perhaps be medicaments, linen. There will perhaps be…

  JACQUES: Well?

  SURGEON: Well, all that adds up to twenty-four francs easily.

  JACQUES: All right then, twenty-four francs, but no more.

  SURGEON: One month at twenty-four francs. Two months, that will be forty-eight. Three months will be seventy-two. Ah, how pleased Madame my wife would be if you could pay me half of those seventy-two pounds in advance.23

  JACQUES: I agree.

  SURGEON: She’d be even happier if…

  JACQUES: If I paid for the quarter. I’ll pay for it.

  Jacques added: The surgeon went off to find my hosts and tell them of our arrangement and the next moment the peasant, his wife and the children gathered around my bed all looking happy and relieved. There were endless questions on my state of health and about my knee, praise for the surgeon their friend and his wife, endless good wishes, the most friendly affability, and what solicitude and zeal to serve me. The surgeon had not, however, told them that I had a little money, but they knew the man. He was taking me into his house and they knew what that meant. I paid these people what I owed them and I gave the children small presents which their mother and father did not leave in their hands for long. It was morning. My host left for the fields, and my hostess took her basket on her shoulders and went off. The children, who were saddened and annoyed at being robbed, disappeared. When someone was needed to help me off my pallet, dress me and put me on my stretcher, there was nobody there but the surgeon, who started to shout his head off… not that anyone could hear.

  MASTER: And Jacques, who likes talking to himself so much, was probably saying: ‘Never pay in advance unless you want bad service.’

  JACQUES: No, no, Master, this was not the time to moralize, but more the time to get impatient and swear. So I got impatient and swore. I moralized afterwards. And while I was moralizing the surgeon, who had left me alone, came back with two peasants whom he had hired to carry me, at my expense, as he didn’t hesitate to point out. These men helped me with the preliminaries prior to getting me to a sort of stretcher they had made for me out of a mattress stretched over two thin poles.

  MASTER: Praise be to God. There you are in the surgeon’s house, falling in love with the surgeon’s wife, or perhaps it’s his daughter.

  JACQUES: I think, Master, that you are wrong there.

  MASTER: Do you think I’m going to wait in the surgeon’s house for three months before hearing the first word of your loves? Ah, Jacques! That’s not possible. I beg you, spare me the description of the house, the description of the surgeon’s character, his wife’s temper, your recovery. Skip over all that. The facts – those are what matters. Your knee is almost cured. You’re quite well and you’re in love.

  JACQUES: I’m in love, then, since you’re in so much of a hurry.

  MASTER: And who are you in love with?

  JACQUES: A tall brunette aged eighteen, with a beautiful figure, large black eyes, delicate crimson mouth, nice arms, pretty hands… ah, Master… such pretty hands… It’s just that those hands…

  MASTER: You think you’re still holding them?

  JACQUES: It’s just that you have taken them and held them furtively yourself more than once, and if they had only let you you would have done whatever you wanted.

  MASTER: My God, Jacques, I didn’t expect that!

  JACQUES: Nor did I.

  MASTER: No matter how hard I try I cannot remember either the big brunette or the pretty hands. Try and explain yourself.

  JACQUES: All right, but on condition that we retrace our steps to the surgeon’s house.

  MASTER: Do you think that is what is written up above?

  JACQUES: That depends on you. But down here it is written: Chi va piano va sano.

  MASTER: And it is also written: Chi va sano va lontano.24 And I’d like to hear the end of this.

  JACQUES: All right, then, what have you decided?

  MASTER: Whatever you want.

  JACQUES: In that case here we are again at the surgeon’s – and it was written up above that we’d return there. The surgeon, along with his wife and children, made such concerted efforts to empty my purse by all sorts of little tricks that they soon succeeded. The recovery of my knee seemed well advanced without in fact being so. The wound had just about closed. I could go out with the aid of a crutch and I had eighteen francs left. There’s nobody who likes to speak more than a man with a stammer and nobody likes walking more than a man with a limp. One autumn day after lunch I planned a long trip because the weather was nice. The distance from the village where I was living to the next village was about two leagues.

  MASTER: And this village was called?

  JACQUES: If I told you that you’d know everything. Once I got there I went into an inn, rested awhile and took some refreshment. Night was beginning to fall and I was just about to start out on the journey back home when, from where I was sitting in the inn, I heard the piercing screams of a woman. I went out and a crowd had gathered around her. She was on the ground tearing out her hair, and pointing to the remains of a broken pitcher, saying: ‘I’m ruined. I shan’t have a sou for the next month, and who will feed my poor children then? That steward whose heart is harder than stone won’t let me off even a sou. How unlucky I am! I’m ruined! Ruined!’

  Everyone felt sorry for her, and all I could hear around her were cries of ‘Poor woman,’ but nobody put their hands in their pockets.

  I went up to her suddenly and asked: ‘My good woman, what has happened to you?’

  ‘What’s happened to me! Can’t you see? I was sent to buy a pitcher of oil. I stumbled and fell. The pitcher broke and there is the oil that was in it.’

  At this moment the woman’s little children arrived. They were practically naked and the bad clothing of their mother showed the full extent of the poverty of this family. The children and their mother all started to cry. As I am standing here now, Master, it needs ten times less than that to move me. I was deeply moved with compassion and tears came to my eyes. I asked her in a broken voice how much the oil in the pitcher was worth.

  ‘How much?’ she answered, lifting her hands up to heaven. ‘Nine francs’ worth! More than I could earn in a month!’

  I untied my purse straight away and tossed her two six-franc pieces, saying: ‘Here you are, my good woman. There are twelve…’ and without waiting for thanks I started on my way back to the village.

  MASTER: Jacques, you did a beautiful thing there.

  JACQUES: I did a very foolish thing, if you please. I wasn’t a hundred yards from the village when I said as much. And half-way home I said a lot more. On my arrival at the surgeon’s house with an empty purse I felt quite differently.

  MASTER: You could well be right and my praise could be as inappropriate as your commiseration… No, no, Jacques, I come back to my first judgement. The principal merit in your action lies in the disregard for your own need. I can see the consequences: you will be exposed to the inhumanity of your surgeon and his wife. They will throw you out of their house but, when you find yourself dying on the dungheap outside their door, you will lie dying on that dungheap satisfied with yourself.

  JACQUES: Master, I am not made of such stern stuff as that. I went limping on my way and I am afraid that I must admit that I missed my two écus, which didn’t bring them back and spoiled the good deed I had done with my regrets.

  I was about half-way between the two villages and it was quite dark when three bandits came out from the undergrowth at the side of the road, leapt on me, knocked me to the ground, searched me and were astonished to find me with so little money. They had counted on a better prey. Having witnessed my alms-giving in the village they had imagined that
somebody who could divest himself of half a louis so easily must have twenty or more. In their fury at seeing their hopes dashed and exposing themselves to having their bones broken on a scaffold for the fistful of sous I had on me if I should denounce them and they were caught and identified by me, they debated for a while whether or not they ought to kill me. Fortunately they heard a noise and fled and I escaped with a few bruises from my fall and a few more which I received when they were taking my money. When the bandits had gone I withdrew and got back to the village as best I was able, arriving at two o’clock in the morning, pale and exhausted. The pain in my knee was by now extremely intense and I was suffering from pains in various parts of my body caused by the blows I had received. The surgeon… Master, what’s wrong with you? You’re clenching your teeth and getting all agitated as if you were in the presence of some enemy.