Jacques the Fatalist: And His Master

by Denis Diderot

  ‘Come on, fathers, you are talking to an old Commissioner of Police. Who are you?’

  ‘We are monks and the habits we are wearing are our own.’

  ‘Listen. Tomorrow you will have to explain your business. Tell me the truth. I may perhaps be able to help you.’

  ‘We have told you the truth… But where are we going?’

  ‘To the Petit Châtelet.’

  ‘To the Petit Châtelet… To prison!’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  And it was there that Richard and his companion were led. But it was not Hudson’s intention to leave them there. He had got into a post-chaise and gone back to Versailles, where he had managed to get an audience with the Minister, to whom he explained the business as it suited him.

  ‘And so you see, Monseigneur, what one exposes oneself to by introducing reform into a dissolute House, and expelling heretics. A moment later and I would have been lost and dishonoured. But their persecution will not stop there. You will hear every single allegation by which it is possible to blacken the reputation of a good man. But I hope, Monseigneur, that you will remember that our General…’

  ‘I know, I know, and I feel sorry for you. The services which you have rendered to the Church and your Order will not be forgotten. The Lord’s elect have always been exposed to disgrace. They have suffered it. You must learn to imitate their courage. You may depend on the kindness and the protection of the King… Ah! monks, monks… I was once one and I know from experience what they are capable of.’

  ‘Were the Church and State so fortunate as to see Your Eminence outlive myself, I would persevere without fear.’

  ‘I will help without delay. Go now.’

  ‘No, Your Eminence, no, I will not go without an express order…’

  ‘To free those two bad monks? I do believe that the honour of your religion and your cloth has moved you to the point of forgetting your personal injuries. That is a very Christian act, and I am edified by it but not surprised, coming from a man such as you. This affair will have no publicity.’

  ‘Ah, Monseigneur, my soul is overwhelmed with joy! That is the only thing I feared.’

  ‘I will see to it.’

  That same evening Hudson had the order for release and the next day Richard and his companion found themselves twenty miles from Paris at daybreak, under the conduct of a bailiff who brought them back to their Mother House. He also brought with him a letter which enjoined the General to desist from similar intrigues and to impose monastic discipline on our two monks. This incident threw Hudson’s enemies into consternation. There was not one monk in his House who did not tremble under his gaze.

  A few months afterwards he received the preferment of a rich abbey.

  The General developed an intense hatred for him. He was old and he had every reason to fear that abbot Hudson might one day succeed him. He was very fond of Richard. ‘My dear friend,’ he said to him one day, ‘what would happen to you if you fell under the power of that scoundrel Hudson? I am afraid for you. You have not yet taken your final vows. If you take my advice you will put aside your habit…’

  Richard followed this advice and returned to his father’s house, which was not far from Hudson’s abbey.

  Hudson and Richard moved in the same society and it was impossible that they should not one day meet. In fact they did meet. One day Richard was visiting the lady of a château situated between Chalons and Saint-Dizier, but nearer to Saint-Dizier than Chalons, and a stone’s throw away from Hudson’s monastery.

  The lady said to him: ‘Your old abbot is here. He is very likeable, but what kind of man is he underneath?’

  ‘The best of friends and the most dangerous of enemies.’

  ‘Are you not tempted to see him again?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Hardly had Richard answered when they heard the noise of a coach entering the courtyard and saw Hudson get down, accompanied by one of the most beautiful ladies of the neighbourhood.

  ‘Well, in spite of your wishes, you are going to see him again,’ said the lady of the château, ‘for here he is.’

  The lady of the château and Richard went to meet Hudson and the lady who had got out of the carriage with him. The ladies embraced. As Hudson got close to Richard, he recognized him and cried out: ‘Ah! Is that you, my dear Richard? You once tried to cause my downfall. I have forgiven you. You must forgive me for your visit to the Petit Châtelet and there’s an end to it.’

  ‘Father Abbot, you must admit that you were a terrible scoundrel.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And if justice had been done it wouldn’t have been me in the Châtelet but you.’

  ‘Perhaps… But I think that I owe my new way of life to the dangers I ran then. Ah, my dear Richard, how it has made me reflect, and how I am changed.’

  ‘That lady you arrived with is charming.’

  ‘I no longer see such attractions.’

  ‘What a figure!’

  ‘I am indifferent to all that.’

  ‘How well she looks.’

  ‘Sooner or later one tires of a pleasure which one can take only on the apex of a roof in danger of breaking one’s neck at any moment.’

  ‘She has the most beautiful hands in the world.’

  ‘I no longer have any use for them. A sensible person always returns to the real values of his calling, to the only true happiness.’

  ‘And those eyes, and the sidelong glances they are giving you. You must admit that even you, who happen to be a connoisseur, can hardly ever have attached yourself to eyes more brilliant or more soft than that. What grace, what nobility and what dignity in her gait and her bearing.’

  ‘I no longer think of such vanities. I read the Scriptures and meditate on the fathers of the Church.’

  ‘And from time to time the perfections of this lady. Does she live far from Moncetz? Is her husband young?’

  Hudson, tired of these questions, and quite convinced that Richard did not take him for a saint, said: ‘My dear Richard, you are taking the piss, and you are quite right.’

  My dear Reader, you must forgive me here for the lack of propriety of this expression and admit that here, as in an infinity of good stories, such as, for example, those of the conversation of Piron and the late Abbé Vatri,50 the decent word would spoil everything.

  – What’s this conversation between Piron and the late Abbé Vatri?

  Go and ask the editor of his works who hasn’t dared write it down but won’t need to have his arm twisted to tell you.

  Our four protagonists had joined company again in the château. They ate well, and happily, and that evening they parted company promising to see each other again. But while the Marquis des Arcis was speaking with Jacques’ master, Jacques for his part was not sitting in silence with the Marquis’ secretary, who thought Jacques one of life’s true originals. Such characters would be more prevalent if first of all education, and then afterwards the ways of the world, did not wear men down like pieces of money which lose their definition in circulation. It was late. The masters and their valets were warned by the clock that it was time to go to bed. And they followed its advice.

  While he was undressing his master Jacques asked him: ‘Do you like pictures?’

  MASTER: Yes, but only verbal pictures, because when they are in colour on canvas, although I am as trenchant in my verdicts as any connoisseur, I will admit to you that I don’t know anything about them at all and I would be very hard put to tell the difference between one School and another. I would take a Boucher for a Rubens or a Raphael and I would mistake a bad copy for the sublime original. I would pay a thousand écus for some daub worth six francs and six francs for something worth a thousand écus. And I have always bought paintings at the Pont Notre-Dame at the Gallery of a certain Tremblin, who in my youth was the dealer for those who hadn’t much money or who wanted salacious stuff and who ruined the talent of Vanloo’s young pupils.51

  JACQUES: How was that?
r />   MASTER: What has that got to do with you? Describe your picture to me and be quick about it because I am dropping with sleep.

  JACQUES: Imagine yourself in front of the Fountain of the Innocents, or near Saint-Denis’ gate – two accessories which will enrich the composition.

  MASTER: I am there.

  JACQUES: Picture, in the middle of the road, a carriage with a broken spring turned over on its side.

  MASTER: I can see it.

  JACQUES: A monk and two prostitutes have got out of it. The monk is running away as fast as he can, the coachman rushing to get down from his seat. The coachman’s dog has escaped from inside the coach and set off in pursuit of the monk, whom he has caught by his tails. The monk is trying everything to rid himself of the dog. One of the prostitutes, dishevelled, and with her breasts showing, is splitting her sides laughing. The other prostitute, who has received a bump on her forehead, is leaning against the door of the coach holding her head in both hands. Meanwhile the populace of the town has gathered around. Street urchins run up shouting. The shopkeepers and their wives are all at their doors and other spectators are at their windows.

  MASTER: What the devil! Jacques, your composition is well ordered, rich, pleasing, varied and full of movement. On our return to Paris take this subject to Fragonard and you will see what he could do with it.

  JACQUES: After what you’ve confessed to me about your knowledge of painting, I can accept your praise without lowering my eyes.

  MASTER: I bet that was one of the adventures of Hudson.

  JACQUES: That is correct.

  Reader, while these good people are sleeping, I would like to propose a little question for you to think about on your pillow. What would the child of Abbot Hudson and Mme de La Pommeraye have been like?

  Perhaps an honest man?

  Perhaps a scheming trickster?

  You can tell me the answer tomorrow morning.

  Morning has come and gone and our travellers have parted company because the Marquis des Arcis wasn’t going the same way as Jacques and his master.

  – So are we going to get back to the story of Jacques’ love life?

  I hope so, but I can tell you one thing for certain. The master knows what time it is, has taken a pinch of snuff and has already asked Jacques: ‘Well, Jacques, your love life?’

  Instead of replying to this question Jacques said: ‘Isn’t it amazing? From morning to night they speak badly of life and yet they still can’t bring themselves to end it all. Could it be that life is not such a bad thing, all in all, or are they just afraid of a worse one to come?’

  MASTER: I suppose it’s a bit of both really. While we’re on the subject, Jacques, do you believe in the life to come?

  JACQUES: I neither believe nor disbelieve. I just don’t think about it. I do my best to enjoy this one as an advance against future expectations.

  MASTER: Well, I prefer to think of myself as a sort of chrysalis. I rather like to think that the butterfly – which is my soul – will one day manage to break out of its cocoon and fly away to divine justice.

  JACQUES: What a charming image.

  MASTER: It’s not mine. I read it I think in a book by an Italian poet called Dante who wrote a work called The Comedy of Inferno, Purgatory and Paradise.

  JACQUES: That’s a strange subject for a comedy.

  MASTER: By God, there are some good things in it though – especially in Hell. He shuts all the heretics in tombs of fire out of which spout flames which carry destruction far and wide. And he puts the ungrateful in niches where they cry tears that freeze on their faces. And the slothful in other niches where their life blood flows from their veins and is consumed by disdainful worms…52

  But why the sudden outburst about our disdain for a life we are afraid of losing?

  JACQUES: Because of what the Marquis’ secretary told me about the husband of that pretty girl in the gig.

  MASTER: Is she a widow?

  JACQUES: She lost her husband on a trip they made to Paris and the wretch of a man wouldn’t even hear mention of the sacraments. The lady of the château where Richard met the Abbé Hudson was given the job of putting his bonnet on.

  MASTER: What do you mean by bonnet?

  JACQUES: His christening bonnet, like they put on new-born babies.53

  MASTER: I see what you mean. And how did she go about that?

  JACQUES: They all gathered round the fire. The doctor took his pulse, which he found very weak, and went to sit down with the others. The lady in question went over to the bed and asked the deceased several questions in a calm quiet voice without speaking any louder than she needed to in order for him to hear every word she wanted him to. After that the conversation continued between the lady, the doctor and one or two others as follows:

  LADY: Well, Doctor, how is Mme de Parme these days, tell us?54

  DOCTOR: I’ve just come from a house where I was assured that she is so ill that they think it’s hopeless.

  LADY: But the Princess has always shown herself so devout. As soon as she felt herself in danger she asked to confess and receive the sacraments.

  DOCTOR: The curé of Saint-Roch is bringing a relic to Versailles for her today, but it will arrive too late.

  LADY: The Princess is not the only person to give that example. The Duke of Chevreuse did not wait until the sacraments were suggested to him when he was ill. He asked for them by himself and that gave great solace to his family…

  DOCTOR: He is much better now.

  ONE OF THOSE PRESENT: It is absolutely beyond doubt that the sacraments can’t kill you… on the contrary even.

  LADY: In all honesty one should attend to these things as soon as there is any danger at all… Sick people apparently have no conception of how hard it is for those around them and yet how indispensable it is to suggest these things to them.

  DOCTOR: I have just left a man who asked me two days ago: ‘Doctor, how am I?’

  ‘Monsieur, the fever is bad and relapses are common.’

  ‘Do you think that I will have one soon?’

  ‘No, I am afraid only for tonight.’

  ‘In that case I had better warn a certain gentleman with whom I have a little personal business to attend to so I can finish it while I’ve still got my wits about me.’

  He confessed and took the sacraments. I returned that evening and there was no relapse. Yesterday he was much better. Today he’s almost completely out of it. And I’ve seen the sacraments have that effect many times in the course of my practice.

  SICK MAN (to his servant): Bring me my chicken.

  JACQUES: So they brought him his chicken. He wanted to cut it but didn’t have the strength so they cut up the wing into small pieces. He asked for some bread and threw himself on it, tried to chew a mouthful, which he wasn’t able to swallow and which he threw up in his napkin. He called for some wine and wet his lips with it and said: ‘I feel fine.’

  Half an hour after he had eaten his bread and drunk his wine he was no more.

  MASTER: Yet the lady went about the business quite well… What about your love life?

  JACQUES: What about the condition you agreed to?

  MASTER: I understand – you are installed in the château Desglands and the old messenger Jeanne has ordered her young daughter Denise to visit you four times a day and look after you. But before we go any further, tell me, had Denise lost her virginity?

  JACQUES: I don’t believe so.

  MASTER: What about yours?

  JACQUES: Mine had long since vanished.

  MASTER: So the story of your love life is not about your first love.

  JACQUES: No, why should it be?

  MASTER: Because a man loves the girl he loses his virginity to just as he is loved by the one whose virginity he takes away.

  JACQUES: Sometimes yes and sometimes no.

  MASTER: Well, how did you lose it, then?

  JACQUES: I didn’t lose it. I swapped it.

  MASTER: Well, tell me something a
bout this swap.

  JACQUES: That would be like the first chapter of Luke’s gospel – a litany of begats – from the first one up to Denise, the last.55

  MASTER: Denise who thought she was taking it but wasn’t.

  JACQUES: And before Denise our two neighbours’ wives.

  MASTER: Who thought they were taking it and didn’t get it.

  JACQUES: No.

  MASTER: For both of them to miss your virginity is none too clever.

  JACQUES: Master, I can see from the way the right-hand corner of your mouth is twisting up and the way your left nostril is twitching that I may as well tell the thing with good grace as have you beg me for it. Just as I can sense my sore throat getting worse and know that the story of my loves will be long and I have hardly enough strength to tell one or two little stories.

  MASTER: If Jacques wanted to give me very great pleasure…

  JACQUES: How would he go about that?

  MASTER: He would begin with the loss of his virginity. Do you want me to tell you why? It is because I’ve always been very partial to stories about that great event.

  JACQUES: And why is that, if you please?

  MASTER: That is because out of all the stories of the same type it is the only interesting one. All the other times are nothing more than insipid banal repetition. Out of all the transgressions of a pretty sinner I am sure that her father confessor is only interested in the first time.