Read Online Jacques the Fatalist: And His Master by Denis Diderot - Free Book Online
Authors: Denis Diderot
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never seen in my life, whom I nevertheless paid. And I came back.’
‘And as for me, while I was waiting for you…’
‘While you were waiting for me it was written up above that you would fall asleep and that someone would steal your horse. Monsieur, think no more of it. It’s one lost horse, and perhaps it is written up above that it’ll be found again.’
‘My horse! My poor horse!’
‘And if you cry from now till tomorrow it won’t be any the more or the less so.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Well, I’ll take you up behind me, or, if you would rather, we can take off our boots, tie them on to my horse’s saddle and carry on our way on foot.’
‘My horse! My poor horse!’
They chose to continue on foot, the master crying out from time to time: ‘My horse! My poor horse!’ and Jacques elaborating on the account of his adventures. When he had got to the girl’s accusation his master said to him: ‘Is it true, Jacques, that you didn’t sleep with the girl?’
JACQUES : No, Monsieur.
MASTER : And yet you paid for her?
JACQUES : Of course.
MASTER : Well, I was once even unluckier than you.
JACQUES : You mean you paid for it after you slept with her?
MASTER : You’ve said it.
JACQUES : Won’t you tell me about it?
MASTER : I think that before we start on the story of my loves we hadbetter get to the end of yours. Well, Jacques, tell me more of your loves, which I shall take as the first and only loves of your life notwithstanding your little adventure with the servant girl of the Lieutenant-Governor of Conches, because although you may have slept with her that doesn’t mean you were in love with her. Every day people sleep with women they don’t love and every day they don’t sleep with women they love. But…
JACQUES : But what? Well, what’s wrong?
MASTER : My horse!… Jacques, my friend, don’t get angry with me. Put yourself in my horse’s shoes. Suppose that I’d lost you, and tell me if you wouldn’t have thought the better of me if you heard me saying: ‘Jacques! My poor Jacques!’
Jacques smiled and said:
I think I had got to the dialogue between my host and his wife during the night after my wound had first been dressed. I rested a little. My host and his wife both got up the next day a little later than they usually did.
MASTER : I can believe that.
JACQUES : When I woke up I quietly drew back the curtains around my bed and I saw my host, his wife and the surgeon in secret conference over by the window. After what I had heard during the night it wasn’t difficult to guess what was being discussed. I coughed. The surgeon said to the husband: ‘He’s woken up. Friend, go down to the wine cellar. We’ll have a drink to steady our hands. Then I’ll change the bandage and after that we’ll see about the rest.’
After the bottle had arrived and been emptied, because ‘to have a drink’ is a term of art and means to empty at least one bottle, the surgeon came to my bed and said to me: ‘What sort of night did you have?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Your arm… good, good, your pulse isn’t bad, there’s hardly any more fever. Now let’s see about this knee. Come on, mistress,’ he said to my host’s wife, who was standing at the foot of my bed on the other side of the curtain, ‘and help us…’
The hostess called one of her children.
‘It’s not a child we need here, it’s you. One false move will give us work for the next month. Come here…’
The woman drew near, her eyes lowered.
‘Take hold of his leg, the good one, I’ll take care of the other one. Gently,gently. Towards me, a little bit more. And you, my friend, a half turn to the right, to the right, I said, and there we are…’
I was holding the mattress with both hands, grinding my teeth, sweat running down my face.
‘My friend, this isn’t going to be easy.’
‘I can see that.’
‘There you are. Now, dear, let go of the leg and take hold of the pillow. Bring up the chair
‘And as for me, while I was waiting for you…’
‘While you were waiting for me it was written up above that you would fall asleep and that someone would steal your horse. Monsieur, think no more of it. It’s one lost horse, and perhaps it is written up above that it’ll be found again.’
‘My horse! My poor horse!’
‘And if you cry from now till tomorrow it won’t be any the more or the less so.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Well, I’ll take you up behind me, or, if you would rather, we can take off our boots, tie them on to my horse’s saddle and carry on our way on foot.’
‘My horse! My poor horse!’
They chose to continue on foot, the master crying out from time to time: ‘My horse! My poor horse!’ and Jacques elaborating on the account of his adventures. When he had got to the girl’s accusation his master said to him: ‘Is it true, Jacques, that you didn’t sleep with the girl?’
JACQUES : No, Monsieur.
MASTER : And yet you paid for her?
JACQUES : Of course.
MASTER : Well, I was once even unluckier than you.
JACQUES : You mean you paid for it after you slept with her?
MASTER : You’ve said it.
JACQUES : Won’t you tell me about it?
MASTER : I think that before we start on the story of my loves we hadbetter get to the end of yours. Well, Jacques, tell me more of your loves, which I shall take as the first and only loves of your life notwithstanding your little adventure with the servant girl of the Lieutenant-Governor of Conches, because although you may have slept with her that doesn’t mean you were in love with her. Every day people sleep with women they don’t love and every day they don’t sleep with women they love. But…
JACQUES : But what? Well, what’s wrong?
MASTER : My horse!… Jacques, my friend, don’t get angry with me. Put yourself in my horse’s shoes. Suppose that I’d lost you, and tell me if you wouldn’t have thought the better of me if you heard me saying: ‘Jacques! My poor Jacques!’
Jacques smiled and said:
I think I had got to the dialogue between my host and his wife during the night after my wound had first been dressed. I rested a little. My host and his wife both got up the next day a little later than they usually did.
MASTER : I can believe that.
JACQUES : When I woke up I quietly drew back the curtains around my bed and I saw my host, his wife and the surgeon in secret conference over by the window. After what I had heard during the night it wasn’t difficult to guess what was being discussed. I coughed. The surgeon said to the husband: ‘He’s woken up. Friend, go down to the wine cellar. We’ll have a drink to steady our hands. Then I’ll change the bandage and after that we’ll see about the rest.’
After the bottle had arrived and been emptied, because ‘to have a drink’ is a term of art and means to empty at least one bottle, the surgeon came to my bed and said to me: ‘What sort of night did you have?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Your arm… good, good, your pulse isn’t bad, there’s hardly any more fever. Now let’s see about this knee. Come on, mistress,’ he said to my host’s wife, who was standing at the foot of my bed on the other side of the curtain, ‘and help us…’
The hostess called one of her children.
‘It’s not a child we need here, it’s you. One false move will give us work for the next month. Come here…’
The woman drew near, her eyes lowered.
‘Take hold of his leg, the good one, I’ll take care of the other one. Gently,gently. Towards me, a little bit more. And you, my friend, a half turn to the right, to the right, I said, and there we are…’
I was holding the mattress with both hands, grinding my teeth, sweat running down my face.
‘My friend, this isn’t going to be easy.’
‘I can see that.’
‘There you are. Now, dear, let go of the leg and take hold of the pillow. Bring up the chair
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