Read Online Jacques the Fatalist: And His Master by Denis Diderot - Free Book Online Page B

introducing a villain among all these good people. Jacques would have been seen, or rather you would have seen Jacques, on the point of being pulled out of his bed, thrown into the highroad or even a ditch.
    – Why not killed?
    Killed, no. I would easily have been able to call someone to his assistance. That someone could have been a soldier from his company but that would have stunk to high heaven of
Cleveland
. 9 Truth, truth.
    – Truth, you tell me, is often cold, ordinary and dull. For example, your last description of Jacques’ bandaging is true, but what’s interesting about it? Nothing.
    Agreed.
    – If it is necessary to be truthful, then let it be like Molière, Regnard, Richardson or Sedaine. 10 Truth has its interesting sides which one brings out if one’s a genius.
    Yes, when one is a genius, but what if one isn’t?
    – When one isn’t one shouldn’t write.
    But what if one has the misfortune to resemble a certain poet I sent to Pondicherry?
    – Who is this poet?
    This poet… But if you keep on interrupting me, Reader, and if I interrupt myself all the time, what will become of Jacques’ loves? Take my word for it, let us leave our poet there… Jacques’ host and hostess moved away…
    – No, no, the story of the poet of Pondicherry… 11
    The surgeon went over to Jacques’ bed…
    – The story of the poet of Pondicherry, the story of the poet of Pondicherry.
    One day a young poet came to me, as they do every day… But, Reader, what has that got to do with the journey of Jacques the Fatalist and his master?
    – The story of the poet of Pondicherry.
    After the usual social niceties about my wit, my genius, my good taste, my benevolence and other things I didn’t believe a word of even though people have been repeatedly telling me them, and perhaps in all sincerity, for the last twenty years, the young poet took a sheet of paper out of his pocket.
    ‘Here are some verses.’
    ‘Verses?’
    ‘Yes, Monsieur, some verses on which I hope you will have the kindness to give me your opinion.’
    ‘Do you like truth?’
    ‘Yes, Monsieur, and I’m asking you to tell me it.’
    ‘Well, you’ll have it.’
    ‘What! Are you really stupid enough to think that a poet seeks the truth from you?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And stupid enough to tell him it?’
    ‘Certainly.’
    ‘Without attenuation?’
    ‘Of course. Any attenuation, however artful, would be the most offensive of all insults. Faithfully interpreted it would mean: “You’re a bad poet and, since I don’t believe you are man enough to hear the truth, you’re a worthless man as well.” ’
    ‘And has honesty always worked for you?’
    ‘Almost always…’
    I read my young poet’s odes and told him: ‘Not only is your poetry bad but it is evident that you’ll never write any good poetry.’
    ‘Then I must write bad poetry because I can’t stop myself from writing.’
    ‘That’s a terrible affliction. Can you not see, Monsieur, what abjection you will fall into? Neither the gods, your fellow men, nor the reviews have ever forgiven mediocrity in a poet. It’s Horace who said that.’ 12
    ‘I know.’
    ‘Are you rich?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Are you poor?’
    ‘Very poor.’
    ‘And you are going to add to your poverty the ridicule of being a bad poet. You will have wasted your entire life and before you know it you’ll be old. Old, poor, and a bad poet. Ah! Monsieur, what a combination!’
    ‘I can see that but there’s nothing I can do to stop myself.’
    (Here Jacques would have said: ‘It was written up above.’)
    ‘Have you got parents?’
    ‘I have.’
    ‘What is their position in life?’
    ‘They are jewellers.’
    ‘Would they help you financially?’
    ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘Well, go and see your parents and ask them to lend you a small bag of jewels. Embark for Pondicherry and on the way you’ll write terrible poetry but when you get there you’ll make your fortune. When you’ve made your fortune you can come back here