Saint-Ouen (noticing the Master at last, taken aback): Oh, it's you, my friend. . . .
(The Master draws his sword; Saint-Ouen follows suit.)
Master: Yes, it is I! Your friend, the best friend you ever had! (He lunges at him, and they begin to duel.) What are you doing here? Come to have a look at your son, eh? Come to see if he's plump enough? If I've been giving him enough to eat?
Jacques (following the duel in terror): Careful, sir! Watch out! (Before long, Saint-Ouen, run through by the Master, collapses. Jacques leans over him.) I think he's had it. Oh, sir, why did this have to happen?
(Jacques is still leaning over Saint-Ouen when a group of Peasants rushes onstage.)
Master: Quickly, Jacques! Run! (He runs off.)
Scene 5
Jacques does not manage to escape. He is caught by several Peasants, who tie his hands behind his back. His hands bound, he stands at the edge of the stage while the Bailiff looks him up and down.
Bailiff: Tell me, friend, what do you think of the prospect of being thrown into prison, tried, and hanged?
Jacques: All I can tell you is what my captain used to tell me: Everything that happens here below is written first on high.
Bailiff: A great truth . . . (He and the Peasants exit slowly, leaving Jacques alone for his monologue.)
Jacques: Now, the value of what is written on high— that's another matter entirely. Oh, Master! I'm going to the gallows because you fell in love with that idiot Agathe. Where is the wisdom in that, Master? Now you'll never know how I fell in love. That beautiful, melancholy girl was a servant at the chateau, and then I too was hired as a servant there, but you'll never know the end of the story because I'm going to be hanged, her name was De-nise and I loved her dearly, loved her as I never loved again, but we were together only a fortnight, can you imagine, sir, only a fortnight, a fortnight because my master at the time, who was both my master and hers, gave me to the Comte de Boulay, who then gave me to his elder
brother, the Captain, who gave me to his nephew, the public prosecutor of Toulouse, who gave me to the Comte de Trouville, and the Comte de Trouville gave me to the Marquise du Belloy, who ran off to London with an Englishman, which caused quite a scandal, but just before fleeing she took the time to commend me to the Capitaine de Marty, yes, sir, the very captain who used to say that everything was written on high, and he gave me to Monsieur Herissant, who placed me with Mademoiselle Isse-lin, whom you, sir, were keeping at the time, but who got on your nerves because she was lean and hysterical, and whenever she got on your nerves I would make you laugh with my chatter, so you took a liking to me and would certainly have provided for me in my old age, because you promised to, and I know you'd have kept your word, we'd never have parted, we were made for each other. Jacques for his master, his master for Jacques. And here we are, separated, and for such a stupid prank! Good God, what do I care if you let that scoundrel get the better of you! Why must I hang for your good heart and bad taste! The stupidities written on high! Oh, Master, he who wrote our story on high must have been a very bad poet, the worst of bad poets, the king, the emperor of bad poets!
(During Jacques's last few lines, Young Bigre appears at the edge of the stage. He stands staring at him questioningly, then calls to him.)
Young Bigre: Jacques?
Jacques (without looking at him): Shove off, damn you!
Young Bigre: Is that you, Jacques?
Jacques: Shove off, all of you! I'm talking to my master!
Young Bigre: Damn it, Jacques, don't you recognize me? (He grabs hold of Jacques and turns him round to face him.)
Jacques: Bigre . . .
Young Bigre: Why are your hands tied?
Jacques: They're going to hang me.
Young Bigre: Hang you? No . . . My friend! Fortunately there are still friends around who don't forget their friends! (He undoes the rope binding Jacques's hands, swings him round to face him again, and puts his arms around him. They are still embracing when Jacques bursts out laughing.) What are you laughing about?
Jacques: Here I was, telling off a bad poet for being such a bad poet, and what does he do but quickly send me you to correct his bad poem. And I tell you, Bigre, even the worst of poets couldn't have come up with a more cheerful ending for his bad poem!
Young Bigre: I don't understand a word you're saying, my friend, but it doesn't matter! I've never forgotten you. Remember the attic? (Now it is his turn to laugh. He gives Jacques a slap on the back. Jacques laughs with him.) Do you see it? (He points upstage to the attic.) That's no attic, my boy! It's a chapel! It's a temple of true friendship! You have no idea, Jacques, how happy you made us! You enlisted in the army, remember? And, well, a month later I found out that Justine . . . (He pauses significantly.)
Jacques: What about her?
Young Bigre: That Justine . . . (he makes another eloquent pause) . . . was going to have . . . (He pauses once more.) Well, guess! ... A baby.
Jacques: And it was a month after I enlisted that you found out about it?
Young Bigre: What could my father say? He had no choice but to let me marry her. And eight months later . . . (He makes an eloquent pause.)
Jacques: What was it?
Young Bigre: A boy!
Jacques: How is he doing?
Young Bigre (proudly): Fine, just fine! We named him Jacques in your honor! And believe it or not, he even looks a little like you. You'll have to come and see him! Justine will be thrilled!
Jacques (looking back): Dear little Master, our stories look laughably alike. . . . (Young Bigre leads him off with great glee.)
Scene 6
Master (entering the bare stage and calling out unhappily): Jacques! Jacques, my boy! (He looks around.) Ever since I lost you, the stage is as bare as the world and the world as bare as an empty stage. . . . What I wouldn't give to hear you tell the fable of the Knife and the Sheath again. That disgusting fable. Then I could reject and renounce it and declare it null and void, and you could tell it again and tell it each time as if it were the first. . . . Oh, Jacques, my boy, if only I could reject the story of Saint-Ouen like that! . . . But only your wonderful stories can be revoked; my stupid intrigue is irrevocable. And I'm in it by myself, without you and the splendid asses you evoked with your sweet rambling lips. . . . (He dreamily recites the following line as if it were from an ode.) Hail, voluptuous rumps! Hail, resplendent full moons! . . . (In his usual voice.) You were right, you know. None of us knows where we're going. I thought I'd have a look at my bastard, and instead lost my dear little Jacques.
Jacques (coming up to the Master from the other side): My little Master . . .
Master (turning toward Jacques, amazed): Jacques!
Jacques: Remember what that noble female of an innkeeper with the big bottom said about us: We can't live without each other. (The Master is overcome with emotion. He falls into Jacques's arms, and Jacques comforts him.) There, there. Now tell me, where are we going?
Master: Which of us knows where we're going?
Jacques: Nobody knows.
Master: No one.
Jacques: You lead the way, then.
Master: How can I lead the way if we don't know where we're going?
Jacques: Because it's written on high. You are my master and it's your duty to lead.
Master: True, but haven't you forgotten what's written a bit farther on? That the master gives the orders, but Jacques chooses among them. Well? I'm waiting!
Jacques: All right, then. I want you to lead me . . . forward. . . .
Master (looking around, highly embarrassed): Very well, but where is forward?
Jacques: Let me tell you a great secret. One of mankind's oldest tricks. Forward is anywhere.
Master (turning his head round in a circle): Anywhere?
Jacques (making a large circle with one arm): Anywhere you look, it's all forward!
Master (without enthusiasm): Why, that's splendid,
Jacques! That's splen
did! (He turns around slowly in place.)
Jacques (melancholy): Yes, sir. I find it quite wonderful myself.
Master (after a brief bit of stage business, sadly): Well then, Jacques, forward!
(They exit diagonally upstage. . . .) Prague, July 1971
Milan Kundera, Jacques and His Master: An Homage to Diderot in Three Acts
(Series: # )
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