Jacques and His Master: An Homage to Diderot in Three Acts, Page 4

  Young Bigre (overjoyed): The truest of women! The truest

  of friends! I'm as happy as a king! (During these lines, Young Bigre exits with Justine. Saint-Ouen remains for the first few lines of the following scene, then exits as well.)

  Scene 6

  Master: My story ended badly. With the worst of endings a human story can have . . .

  Jacques: And what is the worst of endings of a human story?

  Master: Think it over.

  Jacques: Let me think . . . What is the worst of endings of a human story . . . But my story isn't over yet either, sir. I lost my virginity, I found my best friend. I was so happy I went out and got drunk. My father gave me a beating. A regiment was passing through, I signed up, a battle broke out, a bullet hit me in the knee, I was loaded into a cart, the cart stopped in front of a hut, and a woman appeared on the threshold. . . .

  Master: You've been through that before.

  Jacques: Butting in again, are you?

  Master: Go on, go on!

  Jacques: I will not! I refuse to be constantly interrupted.

  Master (testily): All right, but let's keep going. We've still got a long way to go. . . . Wait a minute, damn it! Why is it we have no horses?

  Jacques: You forget that we're on stage. You can't have horses on stage!

  Master: You mean I have to walk because of a ridiculous play? The master who invented us meant us to have horses!

  Jacques: That's a risk you take when you're invented by too many masters.

  Master: You know, I've often wondered whether or not we're good inventions. What do you think, Jacques? Are we well invented?

  Jacques: By whom, sir? The one on high?

  Master: It was written on high that someone here below would write our story, and I can't help wondering whether he did a good job. Was he at least talented?

  Jacques: If he weren't talented, he wouldn't write.

  Master: What?

  Jacques: I said he wouldn't write if he weren't talented.

  Master (laughing heartily): That shows you are nothing but a servant. Do you think everyone who writes has tal­ent? What about that young poet who once came to call on the master of us both?

  Jacques: I don't know any poet.

  Master: Clearly you know nothing about our master. You are a most uneducated servant.

  (Enter the Innkeeper. She goes up to Jacques and his Mas­ter and bows to them.)

  Innkeeper: Welcome, gentlemen.

  Master: And just where are we welcome, Madame?

  Innkeeper: The Great Stag Inn.

  Master: I don't believe I've heard the name.

  Innkeeper: Bring me a table! And some chairs! (Two Waiters run in with a table and chairs and seat Jacques and his Master at them.) It was written that you would stop at our inn, where you would eat, drink, sleep, and listen to the tales of the innkeeper, who is known far and wide for her exceptionally big mouth.

  Master: As if my servant's wasn't big enough!

  Innkeeper: What can I do for you, gentlemen?

  Master (surveying the Innkeeper with a greedy eye): That's worth thinking about.

  Innkeeper: Don't bother. It was written that what you want is duckling, potatoes, and a bottle of wine. . . . (She exits.)

  Jacques: You were about to tell me something about a poet, sir.

  Master (still under the charm of the Innkeeper,): Poet?

  Jacques: The young poet who once paid a visit to the master of us both . . .

  Master: Oh, yes. Well, one day a young poet came to call on the master who invented us. He was constantly being pestered by poets. There's always a surplus of young poets. They increase at the rate of approximately four hundred thousand a year. In France alone. It's even worse in less cultivated countries!

  Jacques: What do people do with them? Drown them?

  Master: They used to. In the good old days, in Sparta. Back then, poets were tossed from a high rock into the sea the moment they were born. But in our enlightened cen­tury we let all sorts live out their days.

  (The Innkeeper brings back a bottle of wine and fills their glasses.)

  Innkeeper: How do you like it?

  Master (tasting it): Excellent! Leave the bottle. (The Inn­keeper exits.) Now then, one day a young poet turned up at our master's with a sheet of paper. "What a surprise," said our master, "these are poems!" "Yes, Master, poems from my own pen," said the poet, "and I beg you to tell me the truth about them, nothing but the truth." "And are you not afraid of the truth?" said our master. "No," the poet answered in a quavering voice. And our master said to him: "My friend, not only have you shown me that your poems are not worth their weight in shit; your work will never be any better!" "I'm sorry to hear that," said the young poet. "It means I shall have to write bad poetry all my life." To which our master replied, "Let me warn you, young man. Neither gods nor men nor signposts for­give mediocrity in a poet!" "I understand, master," said the poet, "but I can't help myself. It's a compulsion."

  Jacques: A what?

  Master: A compulsion. "I have a tremendous compulsion to write bad verse." "Let me warn you again of the con­sequences!" our master exclaimed, but the young poet re­plied, "You are the great Diderot, I am a bad poet. But we bad poets are the most numerous; we'll always be in the majority! All of mankind consists of bad poets! And the public—its mind, its taste, its sensibility—is nothing but a crowd of bad poets! Why do you think that bad poets offend other bad poets? The bad poets who make up man­kind are crazy about bad verse! Indeed, it is just because I write bad verse that I shall one day be in the pantheon of great poets!"

  Jacques: Is that what the young poet said to our master?

  Master: His very words.

  Jacques: They're not without a certain truth.

  Master: Certainly not. And that gives me a blasphemous thought.

  Jacques: I know what it is.

  Master: You do?

  Jacques: I do.

  Master: Out with it, then.

  Jacques: No, you had it first.

  Master: We had it simultaneously. Don't lie, now.

  Jacques: I had it after you.

  Master: All right then. What is it? Come now! Out with it!

  Jacques: You suddenly wondered whether our master wasn't a bad poet too.

  Master: And who's to say he wasn't?

  Jacques: Do you think we'd be better if we'd been in­vented by somebody else?

  Master (thoughtfully): It depends. If we'd sprung from the pen of a truly great writer, a genius . . . certainly.

  Jacques (sadly, after a pause): It's sad, you know?

  Master: What's sad?

  Jacques: That you have such a low opinion of your cre­ator.

  Master (looking at Jacques,): I judge the creator by his work.

  Jacques: We should love the master who made us what we are. We'd be much happier if we loved him. More se­rene and self-confident. But you, you want a better cre­ator. To be quite frank, Master, I call that blasphemy.

  Innkeeper (entering with food on a tray): Your duckling, gentlemen . . . And when you're finished eating, I'll tell you the story of Madame de La Pommeraye.

  Jacques (annoyed): When we're finished eating, I'm going to tell you about how I fell in love!

  Innkeeper: Your master will decide who speaks first.

  Master: No, no! I refuse! It all depends on what is writ­ten on high!

  Innkeeper: What is written on high is that it's my turn to speak.

  ACT TWO

  Scene 1

  The setting is the same: the stage is entirely empty except for the downstage table at which Jacques and his Master are sitting as they come to the end of their supper.

  Jacques: It all began with the loss of my virginity. I went out and got drunk, my father gave me a beating, a regi­ment was passing through . . .

  Innkeeper (entering): Was it good?

  Master: Delicious!

  Jacques: Excellent!

  Innkeeper: Another bottle?
/>   Master: Why not?

  Innkeeper (calling offstage): Another bottle! . . . (To Jacques and his Master.) I promised to tell the gen­tlemen the story of Madame de La Pommeraye to round off their fine supper. . . .

  Jacques: Damn it all, Madame Innkeeper! I'm telling about how I fell in love!

  Innkeeper: Men are quick to fall in love and just as quick to throw you over. Nothing new about that. Now I'm going to tell you a story of how they get their comeup­pance.

  Jacques: You have a big mouth, Madame Innkeeper, and eighteen thousand barrels of words in your gullet, and you're always on the lookout for an unfortunate ear to spill them in!

  Innkeeper: You have a perfect lout for a servant, Mon-

  sieur. He thinks he's a wit and dares to keep interrupting a lady.

  Master (reprovingly): Do stop putting yourself forward, Jacques. . . .

  Innkeeper: Now then, there once was a marquis by the name of Des Arcis. An odd bird and incorrigible skirt-chaser. In short, a fine fellow. Only he had no respect for women.

  Jacques: For good reason.

  Innkeeper: You're interrupting, Monsieur Jacques!

  Jacques: I'm not speaking to you, Madame Keeper of the Great Stag Inn.

  Innkeeper: In any case, the Marquis got wind of a certain Marquise de La Pommeraye, a widow of good manners and birth, of wealth and dignity. After duly taxing the Marquis's time and energy, she succumbed at last and be­stowed her favors on him. In a few years, however, his interest began to wane. You know what I mean, gen­tlemen. First he suggested that they spend more time in society. Then that she entertain more. Soon he failed to appear at her receptions. He always had something urgent to attend to. When he did come to see her, he would scarcely speak, would stretch out in an armchair, pick up a book, toss it aside, play with her dog, and then fall asleep in her presence. But Madame de La Pom­meraye still loved him, and suffered dreadfully, until one day, proud woman that she was, she flew into a rage and determined to put an end to it.

  Scene 2

  During the speech of the Innkeeper, the Marquis enters upstage on the platform, carrying a chair. He sets it down, then drops into it, lazily and with an air of bliss.

  Innkeeper (turning to the Marquis): My dear friend . . .

  Offstage Voice: Madame Innkeeper!

  Innkeeper (calling offstage): What is it?

  Offstage Voice: The key to the pantry!

  Innkeeper: It's hanging on the hook. . . . (To the Marquis.) You're dreaming, my friend. . . . (She mounts the platform and walks over to the Marquis.)

  Marquis: As are you, Marquise.

  Innkeeper: True, and rather sad dreams at that.

  Marquis: What's ailing you, Marquise?

  Innkeeper: Oh, nothing.

  Marquis (yawning): Not so! Come now, Marquise, do tell me. If nothing else, it'll dispel our boredom.

  Innkeeper: So you're bored, are you?

  Marquis: No, no! . . . It's just that there are days . . . when . . .

  Innkeeper: . . . when we are bored together.

  Marquis: No! It's not that, my dear. . . . But there are days . . . Heaven only knows why . . .

  Innkeeper: There's something I've long been meaning to tell you, my friend. I only fear it will grieve you.

  Marquis: You? Grieve me?

  Innkeeper: Heaven only knows I'm not at fault in the matter.

  Offstage Voice: Madame Innkeeper!

  Innkeeper (calling offstage): Haven't I told you to stop bothering me? Ask my husband!

  Offstage Voice: He's not here!

  Innkeeper: Well, what the hell is it this time?

  Offstage Voice: The straw merchant.

  Innkeeper: Pay him and chuck him out. . . . (To the Mar-quis.) Yes, Marquis, it happened before I was even aware of it, and I myself am devastated. Every night I ask my­self, "Is the Marquis any less worthy of my love? Have I any reason to reproach him? Has he been unfaithful? No! Then why has my heart changed when his remains con­stant? I no longer feel alarmed when he's late nor sweetly moved when at last he appears."

  Marquis (joyfully): Really!

  Innkeeper (covering her eyes with her hands): Oh, Mar­quis! Spare me your reproaches. ... Or rather, no. Spare me not. I deserve them. . . . Should I have concealed my feelings? I'm the one who has changed, not you. That is why I respect you more than ever. I'll not lie to myself. Love has abandoned my heart. It is a terrible discovery, terrible but true.

  Marquis (falling at her feet with joy): You charming crea­ture, you! You are the most charming woman on earth! How happy you have made me! Your sincerity puts me to shame. You tower above me! I am nothing next to you! For the tale your heart tells is word for word the tale my heart would tell, had I but the courage to speak.

  Innkeeper: Is that true?

  Marquis: Nothing could be truer. Now the only thing left for us to do is rejoice that we've both lost, at the very same time, the fragile and deceptive sentiment uniting us.

  Innkeeper: Quite. It is a great misfortune when one con­tinues to love after the other no longer does.

  Marquis: Never have you appeared more lovely to me than in this moment, and if experience had not made a prudent man of me, I should go so far as to say that I love you more than ever.

  Innkeeper: But, Marquis, what do we do now?

  Marquis: We have never deceived each other nor spoken falsely. You have a right to my deepest respect; I trust I have not entirely lost yours. We shall be the best of friends. We shall assist each other in our amorous in­trigues! And who knows what may happen one day. . . .

  Jacques: Good God, who does know?

  Marquis: Perhaps . . .

  Offstage Voice: Where's my wife gone to?

  Innkeeper (calling offstage, annoyed): What do you want?

  Offstage Voice: Nothing!

  Innkeeper (to Jacques and his Master): It's enough to drive you crazy, gentlemen! Wouldn't you know he'd call me just when things seem to have settled down in this godforsaken hole, just when everyone's asleep. Now he's made me lose the thread, the clumsy oaf. . . . (She steps down from the platform.) Gentlemen, I am truly to be pitied. . . .

  Scene 3

  Master: And I am perfectly willing to pity you, Madame. (He gives her a slap on the behind.) But I must congratulate you as well, for you are an excellent storyteller. I've just had an odd thought. What if instead of the clumsy oaf, as you've just called your husband, you were married to Monsieur Jacques here? What I mean is, what would a husband who never stops jabbering do with a wife who never closes her mouth?

  Jacques: Exactly what my grandmother and grandfather did with me all the years I lived with them. They were very strict. They'd get up, get dressed, get to work; then eat and go back to work. In the evening, Grandmother did her sewing and Grandfather read the Bible. Nobody said a word all day.

  Master: And you? What did you do?

  Jacques: I ran back and forth in the room with a gag in my mouth!

  Innkeeper: A gag?

  Jacques: Grandfather liked his quiet. So I spent the first twelve years of my life gagged. . . .

  Innkeeper (calling offstage): Jean!

  Offstage Voice: What is it?

  Innkeeper: Two more bottles! But not the ones we serve the customers. Way in the back, behind the firewood!

  Offstage Voice: Right!

  Innkeeper: Monsieur Jacques, I've changed my mind about you. You're actually quite a touching man. The mo­ment I pictured you with that gag in your mouth, dying to talk, I felt a great love for you well up inside me. What do you say? . . . Let's make peace. (They embrace.)

  (A waiter enters and places two bottles on the table. He opens them and fills three glasses.)

  Innkeeper: Gentlemen, you'll never drink a better wine!

  Jacques: You must have been a devilishly beautiful woman, Madame Innkeeper!

  Master: You lout! She is a devilishly beautiful woman!

  Innkeeper: Oh, I'm not what I used to be. You should have seen me in my prime! But that's
neither here nor there. . . . Back to Madame de La Pommeraye . . .