Free Jacques the Fatalist: And His Master by Denis Diderot Page B

on the reins but it was all to no avail and the stubborn animal hurled itself out of the bottom of the ditch and started climbing as fast as it could to the top of a hillock where it stopped dead and where Jacques, looking around, found himself to be between the forks of a gallows.
    Anyone other than myself, Reader, would not miss the opportunity of dressing up the gallows with its prey and arranging a sad reunion for Jacques. And if I were to tell you something of this sort you might well believe it because there are stranger things in life but it wouldn’t be any the more true for that. The gallows was empty.
    Jacques allowed his horse to get its breath back and then the animal, of its own accord, went back down the hillock, crossed over to the other side of the ditch and brought Jacques back alongside his master, who said to him: ‘Ah! My friend! What a fright you gave me! I thought you were going to be killed… But you’re dreaming! What are you thinking about?’
    JACQUES : About what I found up there.
    MASTER : And what did you find up there?
    JACQUES : A gallows. A gibbet.
    MASTER : The devil you did! That’s a bad omen. But remember your doctrine. If it is written up above, then no matter what you do you’ll be hanged, my dear friend. And if it isn’t written up above, the horse is a liar. If that beast isn’t inspired he’s suffering from delusions. I should be careful if I were you.
    After a moment’s silence Jacques rubbed his forehead and shook his head, as people do when they’re trying to stop themselves thinking about something nasty, and carried on abruptly:
    The old monks held a conference amongst themselves and resolved that no matter what the cost and no matter what means they had to use they would get rid of this young upstart who was humiliating them. Do you know what they did?… Master, you’re not listening to me.
    MASTER : I’m listening. I’m listening. Carry on.
    JACQUES : They bribed the porter, who was an old rascal like them. This old rascal accused the young priest of having taken liberties with one of the ladies of the congregation in the visiting room and swore on oath that he’d seen it. Perhaps it was true, perhaps it wasn’t. Who knows? What is amusing is that the day after this accusation the Prior of the House received a summons from a surgeon seeking payment for medicines and treatment given to the old porter when the latter was suffering from an amatory ailment…
    Master, you’re not listening and I know what’s distracting you. I bet it’s those gallows.
    MASTER : I can’t deny it.
    JACQUES : I caught you looking at me. Do you find something sinister about me?
    MASTER : No, no.
    JACQUES : You mean ‘Yes, yes’. Well, if I frighten you we can always go our own ways.
    MASTER : Come on, Jacques, you’re losing your wits. Are you becoming insecure?
    JACQUES : No, Monsieur. Who is ever secure anyway?
    MASTER : Every good man. Could it be that Jacques, honest Jacques, feels revulsion for some crime he’s committed?… Come on, Jacques. Let’s finish this argument and carry on with your story.
    JACQUES : As a result of this calumny or slander on the part of the porter, they thought themselves justified in doing a thousand wrongs and injuries to poor Friar Angel, who seemed to lose his wits. Then they called in a doctor whom they bribed and who certified that the priest was mad and needed to return to his home for a rest. If it had been simply a question of sending Friar Angel away or shutting him up the matter would have been quickly dealt with, but he was the darling of the female church-goers amongst whom there were a number of important ladies who had to be handled carefully. The ladies heard their spiritual director spoken of with hypocritical commiseration: ‘Alas! The poor father… It’s a terrible shame… He was the leading light of our community.’
    ‘What’s happened to him, then?’
    The answer to this question was a deep sigh, accompanied by an