04/11/2007

Voltaire

More Short Tales

Table of Contents

Publication Information

Jeannot and Colin.

The History of the Travels of Scarmentado.

The World As It Goes.

The Black and the White.

The Good Brahmin.

Notes

Publication Information

François-Marie Arouet de Voltaire:

Jeannot et Colin (1764)

Histoire des Voyages de Scarmentado (1756)

Le Monde comme il va, vision de Babouc (1746)

Le Blanc et le noir (1764)

Histoire d' un bon bramin (1759)

Extracted from Voltaire, The Works of Voltaire: A Contemporary Version. Volume: 3.

Translated by William F. Fleming.

Publisher: E. R. DuMont.

Place of Publication: Paris.

Publication Year: 1901

This translation has been revised. Some missing passages have been translated and restored by the transcriber.

Jeannot and Colin.

Many persons, worthy of credit, have seen Jeannot and Colin at school in the town of Issoire, in Auvergne, France a town famous all over the world for its college and its cauldrons.

Jeannot was the son of a dealer in mules, of great reputation, and Colin owed his birth to a good substantial farmer in the neighbourhood, who cultivated the land with four mules, and who, after he had paid all taxes and duties at the rate of a sol per pound, was not very rich at the year’s end.

Jeannot and Colin were very handsome, considering they were natives of Auvergne. They dearly loved each other. They had many enjoyments in common, and certain little adventures of such a nature as men always recollect with pleasure when they afterwards meet in the world.

Their studies were nearly finished, when a tailor brought Jeannot a velvet suit of three colours, with a waistcoat from Lyons, which was extremely well fancied. With these came a letter addressed to Monsieur de la Jeannotière.

Colin admired the coat, and was not at all jealous; but Jeannot assumed an air of superiority which gave Colin some uneasiness. From that moment Jeannot abandoned his studies; he contemplated himself in a glass, and despised all mankind.

Soon after a valet de chambre arrived post-haste, and brought a second letter to the Marquis de la Jeannotière. It was an order from his father, who desired the young marquis to repair immediately to Paris. Jeannot got into his chaise, giving his hand to Colin with a smile, which denoted the superiority of a patron. Colin felt his littleness, and wept. Jeannot departed in all the pomp of his glory.

Such readers as take a pleasure in being instructed should be informed that Monsieur Jeannot, the father, had, with great rapidity, acquired an immense fortune by business. You will ask how such great fortunes are made. My answer is, by luck. Monsieur Jeannot had a good person, so had his wife; and she had still some freshness remaining. They went to Paris on account of a lawsuit, which ruined them; when fortune, which raises and depresses men at her pleasure, presented them to the wife of an undertaker belonging to one of the hospitals for the army. This undertaker, a man of great talents, might make it his boast that he had buried more soldiers in a year than cannons destroy in ten. Jeannot pleased the wife; the wife of Jeannot interested the undertaker. Jeannot was employed in the undertaker’s business; this introduced him to other business. When our boat runs with wind and stream we have nothing to do but let it sail on. We then make an immense fortune with ease. The poor creatures who from the shore see you pursue your voyage with full sail, stare with astonishment; they cannot conceive to what you owe your success; they envy you instinctively, and write pamphlets against you which you never read.

That is just what happened to Jeannot, the father, who soon became Monsieur de la Jeannotière; and who, having purchased a marquisate in six months’ time, took the young marquis, his son, from school in order to introduce him to the polite world at Paris.

Colin, whose heart was replete with tenderness, wrote a letter of compliments to his old companion, and congratulated him on his good fortune. The little marquis did not reply. Colin was so much affected at this neglect that he was taken ill.

The father and mother immediately consigned the young marquis to the care of a governor. This governor, who was a man of fashion, and who knew nothing, was not able to teach his pupil anything.

The marquis would have had his son learn Latin. This his lady opposed. They then referred the matter to the judgment of an author, who had at that time acquired great reputation by his entertaining writings. This author was invited to dinner. The master of the house immediately addressed him thus:

“Sir, as you understand Latin, and are a man acquainted with the court— “

“I understand Latin! I don’t know one word of it,” answered the wit, “and I think myself the better for being unacquainted with it. It is very evident that a man speaks his own language in greater perfection when he does not divide his application between it and foreign languages. Only consider our ladies; they have a much more agreeable turn of wit than the men; their letters are written with a hundred times the grace of ours. This superiority they owe to nothing else but their not understanding Latin.”

“Well, was I not in the right?” said the lady. “I would have my son prove a notable man, I would have him succeed in the world; and you see that if he were to understand Latin he would be ruined. Pray, are plays and operas performed in Latin? Do lawyers plead in Latin? Do men court a mistress in Latin?”

The marquis, dazzled by these reasons, gave up the point, and it was resolved that the young marquis should not mis-spend his time in endeavouring to become acquainted with Cicero, Horace, and Virgil.

“Then,” said the father, “what shall he learn? For he must know something. Might not one teach him a little geography?”

“Of what use will that be?” answered the governor. When the marquis goes to his estate won’t the postilion know the roads? They certainly will not carry him out of his way. There is no occasion for a quadrant to travel there; and one can go very commodiously from Paris to Auvergne without knowing what latitude one is in.”

“You are in the right,” replied the father; “but I have heard of a science called astronomy, if I am not mistaken.”

“Bless me!” said the governor, “do people regulate their conduct by the influence of the stars in this world? And must the young gentleman perplex himself with the calculation of an eclipse when he finds it ready calculated to his hand in an almanac which, at the same time, shows him the movable feasts, the age of the moon, and also that of all the princesses in Europe?”

The lady agreed perfectly with the governor; the little marquis was transported with joy; the father remained undetermined. “What then is my son to learn?” said he.

“To become amiable,” answered the friend who was consulted, “and if he knows how to please he will know all that need be known. This art he will learn in the company of his mother without either he or she being at any trouble.”

The lady upon hearing this embraced the ignorant flatterer and said: “It is easy to see, sir, that you are the wisest man in the world. My son will be entirely indebted to you for his education. I think, however, it would not be amiss if he were to know something of history.”

“Alas! madam, what is that good for?” answered he; “there certainly is no useful or entertaining history but the history of the day; all ancient histories, as one of our wits has observed, are only fables that men have agreed to admit as true. With regard to modern history it is a mere chaos, a confusion of which it is impossible to make anything. Of what consequence is it to the young marquis, your son, to know that Charlemagne instituted the twelve peers of France and that his successor stammered?”

“Admirably said,” cried the governor; “the genius of young persons is smothered under a heap of useless knowledge; but of all sciences, the most absurd, and that which, in my opinion, is most calculated to stifle genius of every kind, is geometry. The objects about which this ridiculous science is conversant are surfaces, lines, and points that have no existence in nature. By the force of imagination the geometrician makes a hundred thousand curved lines pass between a circle and a right line that touches it, when, in reality, there is not room for a straw to pass there. Geometry, if we consider it in its true light, is a mere jest, and nothing more.”

The marquis and his lady did not well understand the governor’s meaning, yet they were entirely of his opinion.

“A man of quality, like the young marquis,” continued he, “should not rack his brains with useless sciences. If he should ever have occasion for a plan of the lands of his estate he may have them correctly surveyed without studying geometry. If he has a mind to trace the antiquity of his noble family, which leads the inquirer back to the most remote ages, he will send for a Benedictine. It will be the same thing with regard to all other wants. A young man of quality endowed with a happy genius is neither a painter, a musician, an architect, nor an engraver; but he makes all these arts flourish by generously encouraging them. It is, doubtless, better to patronize than to practise them. It is enough for the young marquis to have a taste; it is the business of artists to exert themselves for him; and it is in this sense that it is said very justly of people of quality (I mean those who are very rich), that they know all things without having learned anything; for they, in fact, come at last to know how to judge concerning whatever they order or pay for.”

The ignorant man of fashion then spoke to this purpose:

“You have very justly observed, madam, that the grand end which a man should have in view is to succeed in the world. Can it possibly be said that this success is to be obtained by cultivating the sciences? Did anybody ever so much as think of talking of geometry in good company? Does any one ever inquire of a man of the world what star rises with the sun? Who inquires at supper whether the long-haired Clodion passed the Rhine?”

“No, doubtless,” cried the marchioness, whom her charms had in some measure initiated into the customs of the polite world; “and my son should not extinguish his genius by the study of all this stuff. But what is he, after all, to learn? for it is proper that a young person of quality should know how to shine upon an occasion, as my husband observes. I remember to have heard an abbé say that the most delightful of all sciences is something that begins with a. B”

“With a B, madam? Is it not botany you mean?”

“No, it was not botany he spoke of; the name of the science he mentioned began with a B, and ended with on”

“Oh, I comprehend you, madam,” said the man of fashion; “it is Blason you mean. It is, indeed, a profound science; but it is no longer in fashion since the people of quality have ceased to cause their arms to be painted upon the doors of their coaches. It was once the most useful thing in the world, in a well regulated state. Besides, this study would be endless. Nowadays there is hardly a barber that has not his coat of arms; and you know that whatever becomes common is but little esteemed.”

In fine, after they had examined the excellencies and defects of all the sciences it was determined that the young marquis should learn to dance.

Nature, which does all, had given him a talent that quickly displayed itself surprisingly; it was that of singing ballads agreeably. The graces of youth, joined to this superior gift, caused him to be looked upon as a young man of the brightest hopes. He was admired by the women; and having his head full of songs he composed some for his mistress. He stole from the song, “Bacchus and Love,” in one ballad; from that of “Night and Day,” in another; from that of “Charms and Alarms,” in a third. But as there were always in his verses some superfluous feet, or not enough, he had them corrected for twenty louis d’or a song; and in the annals of literature he was put upon a level with the La Fares, Chaulieus, Hamiltons, Sarrazins, and Voitures.

The marchioness then looked upon herself as the mother of a wit, and gave a supper to the wits of Paris. The young man’s brain was soon turned; he acquired the art of speaking without knowing his own meaning, and he became perfect in the habit of being good for nothing. When his father found that he was so eloquent he very much regretted that his son had not learned Latin; for he would have bought him a lucrative place among the gentry of the long robe. The mother, who had more elevated sentiments, undertook to procure a regiment for her son; and, in the meantime, courtship was his occupation. Love is sometimes more expensive than a regiment. He was very improvident, whilst his parents exhausted their finances still more by expensive living.

A young widow of fashion, their neighbour, who had but a moderate fortune, had an inclination to secure the great wealth of Monsieur and Madame de la Jeannotière and appropriating it to herself by a marriage with the young marquis. She allured him to visit her; she admitted his addresses; she showed that she was not indifferent to him; she led him on by degrees; she enchanted and captivated him without much difficulty. Sometimes she lavished praises upon him, sometimes she gave him advice. She became the most intimate friend of both the father and mother.

An elderly lady, who was their neighbour, proposed the match. The parents, dazzled by the glory of such an alliance, accepted the proposal with joy. They gave their only son to their intimate friend.

The young marquis was now on the point of marrying a woman whom he adored, and by whom he was beloved; the friends of the family congratulated them; the marriage articles were just going to be drawn up, whilst wedding clothes were being made for the young couple, and their epithalamium composed.

The young marquis was one day upon his knees before his charming mistress whom love, esteem, and friendship were going to make all his own. In a tender and spirited conversation they enjoyed a foretaste of their coming happiness; they concerted measures to lead a happy life. When, all on a sudden, a valet de chambre belonging to the old marchioness, arrived in a great fright.

“Here is sad news,” said he. “Officers have removed the effects of my master and mistress; the creditors have seized upon all by virtue of an execution; and I am obliged to make the best shift I can to have my wages paid.”

“Let’s see,” said the marquis, “‘what is this? What can this adventure mean?”

“Go,” said the widow, “go quickly, and punish those villains.”

He runs, he arrives at the house; his father is already in prison; all the servants have fled in different ways, each carrying off whatever he could lay his hands upon. His mother is alone, without assistance, without comfort, drowned in tears. She has nothing left but the remembrance of her fortune, of her beauty, her faults, and her extravagant living.

After the son had wept a long time with his mother he at length said to her:

“Let us not give ourselves up to despair. This young widow loves me to excess; she is more generous than rich, I can answer for her; I will go and bring her to you.”

He returns to his mistress and finds her in company with a very amiable young officer.

“What, is it you, M. de la Jeannotière?” said she; “What brings you here? Is it proper to forsake your unhappy mother in such a crisis? Go to that poor, unfortunate woman and tell her that I still wish her well. I have occasion for a chambermaid and will give her the preference.”

“My lad,” said the officer, “you are well shaped. Enlist in my company; you may depend on good usage.”

The marquis, thunderstruck, and with a heart enraged, went in quest of his old governor, made him acquainted with his misfortune and asked his advice. The governor proposed that he should become a tutor, like himself.

“Alas!” said the marquis, “I know nothing; you have taught me nothing, and you are the first cause of my misfortunes.” He sobbed when he spoke thus.

“Write romances,” said a wit who was present; “it is an admirable resource at Paris.”

The young man in greater despair than ever ran to his mother’s confessor. This confessor was a Theatin of great reputation who directed the consciences only of women of the first rank. As soon as he saw Jeannot he ran up to him:

“My God, Mr. Marquis,” said he, “where is your coach? How is the good lady your mother?”

The poor unfortunate young man gave him an account of what had befallen his family. In proportion as he explained himself the Theatin assumed an air more grave, more indifferent, and more defiant.

“My son,” said he, “it is the will of God that you should be reduced to this condition; riches serve only to corrupt the heart. God, in his great mercy, has then reduced your mother to beggary?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the marquis.

“So much the better,” said the confessor, “her election is the more certain.”

“But father,” said the marquis, “is there in the meantime no hopes of some assistance in this world?”

“Farewell, my son,” said the confessor; “a court lady is waiting for me.”

The marquis was almost ready to faint. He met with much the same treatment from all; and acquired more knowledge of the world in half a day than he had previously learned in all the rest of his life.

Being quite overwhelmed with despair, he saw an old-fashioned chaise advance which resembled an open wagon with leather curtains; it was followed by four enormous carts which were loaded. In the chaise there was a young man dressed in the rustic manner, whose fresh countenance was replete with sweetness and gayety. His wife, a little woman of a brown complexion and an agreeable figure, though somewhat stout, sat close by him. As the carriage did not move on like the chaise of a petit-maitre, the traveller had sufficient time to contemplate the marquis, who was motionless and immersed in sorrow.

“Good God!” cried he, “I think that is Jeannot.” Upon hearing this name the marquis lifts up his eyes, the carriage stops, and Colin cries out, “‘Tis Jeannot, ‘tis Jeannot himself.”

The little fat bumpkin gave but one spring from the chaise and ran to embrace his old companion. Jeannot recollected his friend Colin, while his eyes were blinded with tears of shame.

“You have abandoned me,” said Colin; “but though you are a great man I will love you forever.”

Jeannot, confused and affected, related to him, with emotion, a great part of his history.

“Come to the inn where I lodge and tell me the rest of it,” said Colin; “embrace my wife here and let us go and dine together.” They then went on foot, followed by their baggage.

“What is all this train,” said Jeannot; “is it yours?”

“Yes,” answered Colin, “it all belongs to me and to my wife. We have just come in from the country. I am now at the head of a large manufactory of tin and copper. I have married the daughter of a merchant well provided with all things necessary for the great as well as the little. We work a great deal; God blesses us; we have not changed our condition; we are happy; we will assist our friend Jeannot. Be no longer a marquis; all the grandeur in the world is not to be compared to a good friend. You shall return with me to the country. I will teach you the trade; it is not very difficult; I will make you my partner, and we will live merrily in the remote corner where we were born.”

Jeannot, quite transported, felt emotions of grief and joy, tenderness and shame; and he said within himself: “My fashionable friends have betrayed me, and Colin, whom I despised, is the only one who comes to relieve me.” What instruction does not this narrative afford!

Colin’s goodness of heart caused the seeds of a virtuous disposition, which the world had not quite stifled in Jeannot, to revive. He was sensible that he could not forsake his father and mother.

“We will take care of your mother,” said Colin; “and as to the good man your father, who is now in jail, his creditors seeing he has nothing will compromise matters for a trifle. I know something of business and will take the whole affair upon myself.”

Colin found means to procure the father’s release. Jeannot returned to the country with his relatives, who resumed their former way of life. He married a sister of Colin, and she being of the same temper with her brother, made him completely happy.

Jeannot the father, Jeannotte the mother, and Jeannot the son, were thus convinced that happiness is not the result of vanity.

The History of the Travels of Scarmentado.

I was born in Candia, in the year 1600. My father was governor of the city; and I remember that a poet of middling parts, and of a most unmusical ear, whose name was Iro, composed some verses in my praise, in which he made me to descend from Minos in a direct line; but my father being afterwards disgraced, he wrote some other verses, in which he derived my pedigree from no nobler an origin than the amours of Pasiphae and her gallant. This Iro was a most mischievous rogue, and one of the most troublesome fellows in the island.

My father sent me at fifteen years of age to prosecute my studies at Rome. There I arrived in full hopes of learning all kinds of truth, for I had hitherto been taught quite the reverse, according to the custom of this lower world from China to the Alps. Monsignor Profondo, to whom I was recommended, was a man of a very singular character, and one of the most terrible scholars in the world. He was for teaching me the categories of Aristotle; and was just on the point of placing me in the category of his minions; a fate which I narrowly escaped. I saw processions, exorcisms, and some robberies.

It was commonly said, but without any foundation, that la Signora Olympia, a lady of great prudence, had deceived many lovers, she being both inconstant and mercenary. I was then of an age to relish such comical anecdotes.

A young lady of great sweetness of temper, called la Signora Fatelo, thought proper to fall in love with me. She was courted by the reverend father Piognardini and by the reverend father Aconiti, [1] young monks of an order now extinct; and she reconciled the two rivals by declaring her preference for me; but at the same time I ran the risk of being excommunicated and poisoned. I left Rome highly pleased with the architecture of St. Peter’s.

I travelled to France. It was during the reign of Louis the Just. The first question put to me was, whether I chose to breakfast on a slice of the Marshal d’Ancre, [2] whose flesh the people had roasted and distributed with great liberality to such as chose to taste it.

This kingdom was continually involved in civil wars; sometimes for a place at court, sometimes for two pages of theological controversy. This fire, which at one time lay concealed under the ashes, and at another burst forth with great violence, had desolated these beautiful provinces for upwards of sixty years. The pretext was, defending the liberties of the Gallican church. “Alas!” said I, “these people are nevertheless born with a gentle disposition. What can have drawn them so far from their natural character? They joke and keep holy days. [3] Happy the time when they shall do nothing but joke!”

I went over to England, where the same disputes occasioned the same barbarities. Some pious Catholics had resolved, for the good of the church, to blow up into the air with gunpowder the king, the royal family, and the whole parliament, and thus to deliver England from all these heretics at once. They showed me the place where Queen Mary of blessed memory, the daughter of Henry VIII., had caused more than five hundred of her subjects to be burnt. An Irish priest assured me that it was a very good action; first, because those who were burnt were Englishmen, and secondly, because they did not make use of holy water, nor believe in St. Patrick. He was greatly surprised that Queen Mary was not yet canonized, but he hoped she would receive that honour as soon as the cardinal should be a little more at leisure.

From thence I went to Holland, where I hoped to find more tranquillity among a people of a more cool and phlegmatic temperament. Just as I arrived at The Hague the people were cutting off the head of a venerable old man. It was the bald head of the prime minister, Barneveldt, a man who deserved better treatment from the republic. Touched with pity at this affecting scene, I asked what was his crime, and whether he had betrayed the state.

“He has done much worse,” replied a preacher in a black cloak; “he believed that men may be saved by good works as well as by faith. You must perceive,” adds he, “that if such opinions were to gain ground, a republic could not subsist, and that there must be severe laws to suppress such scandalous and horrid blasphemies.”

A profound politician said to me with a sigh: “Alas! sir, this happy time will not last long; it is only by chance that the people are so zealous. They are naturally inclined to the abominable doctrine of toleration, and they will certainly at last grant it.” This reflection set him a-groaning.

For my own part, in expectation of that fatal period when moderation and indulgence should take place, I instantly quitted a country where severity was not softened by any lenitive, and embarked for Spain.

The court was then at Seville. The galleons had just arrived, and everything breathed plenty and gladness, in the most beautiful season of the year. I observed, at the end of an alley of orange and citron trees, a kind of large ring, surrounded with steps covered with rich and costly cloth. The king, the queen, the infantes, and the infantas were seated under a superb canopy. Opposite to the royal family was another throne, raised higher than that on which his majesty sat. I said to a fellow-traveller: “Unless this throne be reserved for God, I don’t see what purpose it can serve.”

This unguarded expression was overheard by a grave Spaniard, and cost me dear. Meanwhile, I imagined we were going to a carousal, or a match of bull-baiting, when the grand inquisitor appeared on that elevated throne, from whence he blessed the king and the people.

Then came an army of monks, who filed off in pairs, white, black, grey, shod, unshod, bearded, beardless, with pointed cowls, and without cowls. Next followed the hangman, and last of all were seen, in the midst of the guards and grandees, about forty persons clad in sackcloth, on which were painted the figures of flames and devils. Some of these were Jews, who could not be prevailed upon to renounce Moses entirely; others were Christians who had married women with whom they had stood sponsors to a child; who had not adored our Lady of Atocha; or who had refused to part with their ready money in favour of the Hieronymite brothers. Some pretty prayers were sung with much devotion and then the criminals were burnt at a slow fire a ceremony with which the royal family seemed to be greatly edified.

As I was going to bed in the evening, two members of the Inquisition came to my lodging with the Santa Hermandad. They embraced me with great tenderness, and conducted me in solemn silence to a well-aired prison, furnished with a bed of mat, and a beautiful crucifix. There I remained for six weeks, at the end of which time the reverend father, the inquisitor, sent for me. He pressed me in his arms for some time with the most paternal affection, and told me that he was sorry to hear that I had been so ill lodged; but that all the apartments of the house were full, and hoped I should be better accommodated the next time. He then asked me with great cordiality if I knew for what reason I was imprisoned.

I told the reverend father that it was evidently for my sins.

“Very well,” said he, “my dear child; but for what particular sin? Speak freely.”

I racked my brain with conjectures, but could not possibly guess. He then charitably dismissed me. At last I remembered my unguarded expression. I escaped with a little bodily correction, and a fine of thirty thousand reals. I was led to make my obeisance to the grand inquisitor, who was a man of great politeness. He asked me how I liked his little feast. I told him it was a most delicious one, and then went to press my companions to quit the country, beautiful as it was.

They had, during my imprisonment, found time to inform themselves of all the great things which the Spaniards had done for the interest of religion. They had read the memoirs of the famous bishop of Chiapa, by which it appears that they had massacred, or burnt, or drowned, about ten millions of infidels in America, in order to convert them. I believe the accounts of the bishop are a little exaggerated; but suppose we reduce the number of victims to five millions, it will still be a most glorious achievement.

The impulse for travelling still possessed me. I had proposed to finish the tour of Europe with Turkey, and thither we now directed our course. I made a firm resolution not to give my opinion of any public feasts I might see in the future. “These Turks,” said I to my companions, “are a set of miscreants that have not been baptized, and therefore will be more cruel than the reverend fathers, the inquisitors. Let us observe a profound silence while we are among the Mahometans.” When we arrived there I was greatly surprised to see more Christian churches in Turkey than in Candia. I saw also numerous troops of monks, who were allowed to pray to the Virgin Mary with great freedom, and to curse Mahomet some in Greek, some in Latin, and others in Armenian. “What good-natured people are these Turks,” cried I.

The Greek Christians and the Latin Christians in Constantinople were mortal enemies. These sectarians persecuted each other in much the same manner as dogs fight in the streets, till their masters part them with a cudgel.

The grand vizier was at that time the protector of the Greeks. The Greek patriarch accused me of having supped with the Latin patriarch, and I was condemned in full divan to receive a hundred blows on the soles of my feet, redeemable for five hundred sequins. The next day the grand vizier was strangled. The day following his successor, who was for the Latin party, and who was not strangled till a month after, condemned me to suffer the same punishment for having supped with the Greek patriarch. Thus was I reduced to the sad necessity of absenting myself entirely from the Greek and Latin churches.

In order to console myself for this loss, I frequently visited a very handsome Circassian. She was the most entertaining lady I ever knew in a private conversation, and the most devout at the mosque. One evening she received me with tenderness and sweetly cried, “Allah, Illah, Allah!”

These are the sacramental words of the Turks. I imagined they were the expressions of love, and therefore cried in my turn, and with a very tender accent, “Allah, Illah, Allah!”

“Ah!” said she, “God be praised, thou art then a Turk?”

I told her that I was blessing God for having given me so much enjoyment, and that I thought myself extremely happy.

In the morning the imaum came to enrol me among the circumcised, and as I made some objection to the initiation, the cadi of that district a man of great loyalty proposed to have me empaled. I preserved my freedom by paying a thousand sequins, and then fled directly into Persia, resolved for the future never to hear Greek or Latin mass, nor to cry “Allah, Illah, Allah!” in a love encounter.

On my arrival at Ispahan the people asked me whether I was for white or black mutton? I told them that it was a matter of indifference to me, provided it was tender. It must be observed that the Persian empire was at that time split into two factions, that of the white mutton and that of the black. The two parties imagined that I had made a jest of them both, so that I found myself engaged in a very troublesome affair at the gates of the city, and it cost me a great number of sequins to get rid of the white and the black mutton.

I proceeded as far as China, in company with an interpreter, who assured me that this country was the seat of gayety and freedom. The Tartars had made themselves masters of it, after having destroyed everything with fire and sword.

The reverend fathers, the Jesuits, on the one hand, and the reverend fathers, the Dominicans, on the other, alleged that they had gained many souls to God in that country, without any one knowing aught of the matter. Never were seen such zealous converters. They alternately persecuted one another; they transmitted to Rome whole volumes of slander, and treated each other as infidels and prevaricators for the sake of one soul. But the most violent dispute between them was with regard to the manner of making a bow. The Jesuits would have the Chinese to salute their parents after the fashion of China, and the Dominicans would have them to do it after the fashion of Rome.

I happened unluckily to be taken by the Jesuits for a Dominican. They represented me to his Tartarian majesty as a spy of the pope. The supreme council charged a prime mandarin, who ordered a sergeant, who commanded four shires of the country, to seize me and bind me with great ceremony. In this manner I was conducted before his majesty, after having made about a hundred and forty genuflections. He asked me if I was a spy of the pope’s, and if it was true that that prince was to come in person to dethrone him. I told him that the pope was a priest of seventy years of age; that he lived at the distance of four thousand leagues from his sacred Tartaro-Chinese majesty; that he had about two thousand soldiers, who mounted guard with umbrellas; that he never dethroned anybody; and that his majesty might sleep in perfect security.

Of all the adventures of my life this was the least fatal. I was sent to Macao, and there I took shipping for Europe.

My ship required to be refitted on the coast of Golconda. I embraced this opportunity to visit the court of the great Aurung-Zeb, of whom such wonderful things have been told, and which was then in Delphi. I had the pleasure to see him on the day of that pompous ceremony in which he receives the celestial present sent him by the Sherif of Mecca. This was the besom with which they had swept the holy house, the Kaaba, and the Beth Alia. It is a symbol that sweeps away all the pollutions of the soul.

Aurung-Zeb seemed to have no need of it. He was the most pious man in all Indostan. It is true, he had cut the throat of one of his brothers, and poisoned his father. Twenty rayas, and as many omras, had been put to death; but that was a trifle. Nothing was talked of but his devotion. No king was thought comparable to him, except his sacred majesty, Muley Ismael, the most serene emperor of Morocco, who always cut off some heads every Friday after prayers.

I spoke not a word. My travels had taught me wisdom. I was sensible that it did not belong to me to decide between these august sovereigns. A young Frenchman, a fellow lodger of mine, was, however, greatly wanting in respect to both the emperor of the Indies, and to that of Morocco. He happened to say, very imprudently, that there were sovereigns in Europe who governed their dominions with great equity, and even went to church without killing their fathers or brothers, or cutting off the heads of their subjects.

This indiscreet discourse of my young friend the interpreter at once translated. Instructed by former experience, I instantly caused my camels to be saddled, and set out with my Frenchman. I was afterwards informed that the officers of the great Aurung-Zeb came that very night to seize me, but finding only the interpreter, they publicly executed him, and the courtiers all claimed, very justly, that his punishment was well deserved.

I had now only Africa to visit in order to enjoy all the pleasures of our continent, and thither I went to complete my voyage. The ship in which I embarked was taken by the negro corsairs. The master of the vessel complained loudly, and asked why they thus violated the laws of nations. The captain of the negroes thus replied:

“You have a long nose, and we have a short one. Your hair is straight, and ours is curled; your skin is ash-coloured, and ours is of the colour of ebon; and therefore we ought, by the sacred laws of nature, to be always at enmity. You buy us in the public markets on the coast of Guinea like beasts of burden, to make us labour in I don’t know what kind of drudgery, equally hard and ridiculous. With the whip held over our heads, you make us dig in mines for a kind of yellow earth, which in itself is good for nothing, and is not so valuable as an Egyptian onion. In like manner, wherever we meet you, and are superior to you in strength, we make you slaves, and oblige you to cultivate our fields, or in case of refusal we cut off your nose and ears.”

To such a learned discourse it was impossible to make any answer. I submitted to labour in the garden of an old negress, in order to save my nose and ears. After continuing in slavery for a whole year I was at length happily ransomed.

As I had now seen all that was rare, good, or beautiful on earth, I resolved for the future to see nothing but my own home. I took a wife, and soon suspected that she deceived me; but, notwithstanding this doubt, I still found that of all conditions of life this was much the happiest.

The World As It Goes.

Among the genii who preside over the empires of the earth, Ithuriel held one of the first ranks, and had the department of Upper Asia. He one morning descended into the abode of Babouc, the Scythian, who dwelt on the banks of the Oxus, and said to him:

“Babouc, the follies and vices of the Persians have drawn upon them our indignation. Yesterday an assembly of the genii of Upper Asia was held, to consider whether we would chastise Persepolis or destroy it entirely. Go to that city; examine everything; return and give me a faithful account; and, according to thy report, I will then determine whether to correct or extirpate the inhabitants.”

“But, my lord,” said Babouc with great humility, “I have never been in Persia, nor do I know a single person in that country.”

“So much the better,” said the angel, “thou wilt be the more impartial: thou hast received from heaven the spirit of discernment, to which I now add the power of inspiring confidence. Go, see, hear, observe, and fear nothing. Thou shalt everywhere meet with a favourable reception.”

Babouc mounted his camel, and set out with his servants. After having travelled some days, he met, near the plains of Senaar, the Persian army, which was going to attack the forces of India. He first addressed himself to a soldier, whom he found at a distance from the main army, and asked him what was the occasion of the war.

“By all the gods,” said the soldier, “I know nothing of the matter. It is none of my business. My trade is to kill and to be killed, to get a livelihood. It is of no consequence to me whom I serve. Tomorrow, perhaps, I may go over to the Indian camp; for it is said that they give their soldiers nearly half a copper drachma a day more than we have in this cursed service of Persia. If thou desirest to know why we fight, speak to my captain.”

Babouc, having given the soldier a small present, entered the camp. He soon became acquainted with the captain, and asked him the cause of the war.

“How canst thou imagine that I should know it?” said the captain, “or of what importance is it to me? I live about two hundred leagues from Persepolis: I hear that war is declared; I instantly leave my family, and, having nothing else to do, go, according to our custom, to make my fortune or to fall by a glorious death.”

“But are not thy companions,” said Babouc, “a little better informed than thee?”

“No,” said the officer, “there are none but our principal satraps that know the true cause of our cutting one another’s throats.”

Babouc, struck with astonishment, introduced himself to the generals, and soon became familiarly acquainted with them. At last one of them said:

“The cause of this war, which for twenty years past hath desolated Asia, sprang originally from a quarrel between a eunuch belonging to one of the concubines of the great king of Persia, and the clerk of a factory belonging to the great king of India. The dispute was about a claim which amounted nearly to the thirtieth part of a daric. Our first minister, and the representative of India, maintained the rights of their respective masters with becoming dignity. The dispute grew warm. Both parties sent into the field an army of a million of soldiers. This army must be recruited every year with upwards of four hundred thousand men. Massacres, burning of houses, ruin and devastation, are daily multiplied; the universe suffers; and their mutual animosity still continues. The first ministers of the two nations frequently protest that they have nothing in view but the happiness of mankind; and every protestation is attended with the destruction of a town, or the desolation of a province.”

Next day, on a report being spread that peace was going to be concluded, the Persian and Indian generals made haste to come to an engagement. The battle was long and bloody. Babouc beheld every crime, and every abomination. He was witness to the arts and stratagems of the principal satraps, who did all that lay in their power to expose their general to the disgrace of a defeat. He saw officers killed by their own troops, and soldiers stabbing their already expiring comrades in order to strip them of a few bloody garments torn and covered with dirt. He entered the hospitals to which they were conveying the wounded, most of whom died through the inhuman negligence of those who were well paid by the king of Persia to assist these unhappy men.

“Are these men,” cried Babouc, “or are they wild beasts? Ah! I plainly see that Persepolis will be destroyed.”

Full of this thought, he went over to the camp of the Indians, where, according to the prediction of the genii, he was as well received as in that of the Persians; but he saw there the same crimes which had already filled him with horror.

“Oh!” said he to himself, “if the angel Ithuriel should exterminate the Persians, the angel of India must certainly destroy the Indians.”

But being afterward more particularly informed of all that passed in both armies, he heard of such acts of generosity, humanity, and greatness of soul as at once surprised and charmed him.

“Unaccountable mortals! as ye are,” cried he, “how can you thus unite so much baseness and so much grandeur, so many virtues and so many vices?”

Meanwhile the peace was proclaimed, and the generals of the two armies, neither of whom had gained a complete victory, but who, for their own private interest, had shed the blood of so many of their fellow-creatures, went to solicit their courts for rewards. The peace was celebrated in public writings which announced the return of virtue and happiness to the earth.

“God be praised,” said Babouc, “Persepolis will now be the abode of spotless innocence, and will not be destroyed, as the cruel genii intended. Let us haste without delay to this capital of Asia.”

He entered that immense city by the ancient gate, which was entirely barbarous, and offended the eye by its disagreeable rusticity. All that part of the town savoured of the time when it was built; for, notwithstanding the obstinacy of men in praising ancient at the expense of modern times, it must be owned that the first essays in every art are rude and unfinished.

Babouc mingled in a crowd of people composed of the most ignorant, dirty, and deformed of both sexes, who were thronging with a stupid air into a large and gloomy enclosure. By the constant hum; by the gestures of the people; by the money which some persons gave to others for the liberty of sitting down, he imagined that he was in a market where chairs were sold: but observing several women fall down on their knees with an appearance of looking directly before them, while in reality they were leering at the men by their sides, he was soon convinced that he was in a temple. Shrill, hoarse, savage, and discordant voices made the vault re-echo with ill-articulated sounds, that produced the same effect as the braying of asses, when, in the plains of Pictavia, they answer the cornet that calls them together. He stopped his ears; but he was ready to shut his mouth and hold his nose when he saw several labourers enter into the temple with picks and spades, who removed a large stone and threw up the earth on both sides, from whence exhaled a pestilential vapour. At last some others approached, deposited a dead body in the opening, and replaced the stone upon it.”

“What!” cried Babouc, “do these people bury their dead in the place where they adore the Deity? What! are their temples paved with carcasses? I am no longer surprised at those pestilential diseases that frequently depopulate Persepolis. The putrefaction of the dead, and the infected breath of such numbers of the living, assembled and crowded together in the same place, are sufficient to poison the whole terrestrial globe. Oh! what an abominable city is Persepolis! The angels probably intend to destroy it in order to build a more beautiful one in its place, and to people it with inhabitants who are more virtuous and better singers. Providence may have its reasons for so doing; to its disposal let us leave all future events.”

Meanwhile the sun approached his meridian height. Babouc was to dine at the other end of the city with a lady for whom her husband, an officer in the army, had given him some letters, but he first took several turns in Persepolis, where he saw other temples, better built and more richly adorned, filled with a polite audience, and resounding with harmonious music. He beheld public fountains, which, though ill-placed, struck the eye by their beauty; squares where the best kings that had governed Persia seemed to breathe in bronze, and others where he heard the people crying out:

“When shall we see our beloved master?”

He admired the magnificent bridges built over the river; the superb and commodious quays; the palaces raised on both sides; and an immense house, where thousands of old soldiers, covered with scars and crowned with victory, offered their daily praises to the god of armies. At last he entered the house of the lady, who, with a set of fashionable people, waited his company to dinner. The house was neat and elegant, the repast delicious, the lady young, beautiful, witty, and engaging, and the company worthy of her, and Babouc every moment said to himself:

“The angel Ithuriel has little regard for the world or he would never think of destroying such a charming city.”

In the meantime he observed that the lady, who had begun by tenderly asking news about her husband, spoke more tenderly to a young magus toward the conclusion of the repast. He saw a magistrate, who, in presence of his wife, paid his court with great vivacity to a widow, while the indulgent widow held out her hand to a young citizen remarkable for his modesty and graceful appearance.

Babouc then began to fear that the genius Ithuriel had but too much reason for destroying Persepolis. The talent he possessed of gaining confidence let him that same day into all the secrets of the lady. She confessed to him her affection for the young magus, and assured him that in all the houses in Persepolis he would meet with similar examples of attachment. Babouc concluded that such a society could not possibly survive; that jealousy, discord, and vengeance must desolate every house; that tears and blood must be daily shed; and, in fine, that Ithuriel would do well to destroy immediately a city abandoned to continual disasters.

Such were the gloomy ideas that possessed his mind, when a grave man in a black gown appeared at the gate and humbly begged to speak to the young magistrate. This stripling, without rising or taking the least notice of the old gentleman, gave him some papers with a haughty and careless air, and then dismissed him. Babouc asked who this man was. The mistress of the house said to him in a low voice:

“He is one of the best advocates in the city, and hath studied the law these fifty years. The other, who is but twenty-five years of age, and has only been a satrap of the law for two days, hath ordered him to make an extract of a process he is going to determine, though he has not as yet examined it.”

“This giddy youth acts wisely,” said Babouc, “in asking counsel of an old man. But why is not the old man himself the judge?”

“Thou art surely in jest,” said they; “those who have grown old in laborious and inferior posts are never raised to places of dignity. This young man has a great post because his father is rich and the right of dispensing justice is purchased here like a farm.”

“O unhappy city!” cried Babouc, “this is surely the height of anarchy and confusion. Those who have thus purchased the right of judging will doubtless sell their judgments; nothing do I see here but an abyss of iniquity!”

While he was thus expressing his grief and surprise, a young warrior, who that very day had returned from the army, said to him:

“Why wouldst thou not have seats in the courts of justice offered for sale? I myself purchased the right of braving death at the head of two thousand men who are under my command. It has this year cost me forty darics of gold to lie on the earth thirty nights successively in a red dress, and at last to receive two wounds with an arrow, of which I still feel the smart. If I ruin myself to serve the emperor of Persia, whom I never saw, the satrap of the law may well pay something for enjoying the pleasure of giving audience to pleaders.”

Babouc was filled with indignation, and could not help condemning a country where the highest posts in the army and the law were exposed for sale. He at once concluded that the inhabitants must be entirely ignorant of the art of war and the laws of equity; and that, though Ithuriel should not destroy them, they must soon be ruined by their detestable administration.

He was still further confirmed in his bad opinion by the arrival of a fat man, who, after saluting all the company with great familiarity, went up to the young officer and said:

“I can only lend thee fifty thousand darics of gold; for indeed the taxes of the empire have this year brought me in but three hundred thousand.”

Babouc inquired into the character of this man who complained of having gained so little, and was informed that in Persepolis there were forty plebeian kings who held the empire of Persia by lease, and paid a small tribute to the monarch.

After dinner he went into one of the most superb temples in the city, and seated himself amidst a crowd of men and women who had come thither to pass away the time. A magus appeared in a machine elevated above the heads of the people, and talked a long time of vice and virtue. He divided into several parts what needed no division at all; he proved methodically what was sufficiently clear, and he taught what everybody knew. He threw himself into a passion with great composure, and went away perspiring and out of breath. The assembly then awoke and imagined they had been present at a very instructive discourse. Babouc said:

“This man has done his best to tire two or three hundred of his fellow-citizens; but his intention was good, and there is nothing in this that should occasion the destruction of Persepolis.”

Upon leaving the assembly he was conducted to a public entertainment which was exhibited every day in the year. It was in a kind of great hall, at the end of which appeared a palace. The most beautiful women of Persepolis and the most considerable satraps were ranged in order, and formed so fine a spectacle that Babouc at first believed that this was all the entertainment. Two or three persons, who seemed to be kings and queens, soon appeared in the vestibule of their palace. Their language was very different from that of the people; it was measured, harmonious, and sublime. Nobody slept. The audience kept a profound silence which was only interrupted by expressions of sensibility and admiration. The duty of kings, the love of virtue, and the dangers arising from unbridled passions were all described by such lively and affecting strokes that Babouc shed tears. He doubted not but that these heroes and heroines, these kings and queens whom he had just heard, were the preachers of the empire; he even purposed to engage Ithuriel to come and hear them, being confident that such a spectacle would forever reconcile him to the city.

As soon as the entertainment was finished, he resolved to visit the principal queen, who had recommended such pure and noble morals in the palace. He desired to be introduced to her majesty, and was led up a narrow staircase to an ill-furnished apartment in the second story, where he found a woman in a mean dress, who said to him with a noble and pathetic air:

“This employment does not afford me a sufficient maintenance. I want money, and without money there is no comfort.”

Babouc gave her a hundred darics of gold, saying:

“Had there been no other evil in the city but this, Ithuriel would have been to blame for being so much offended.”

From thence he went to spend the evening at the house of a tradesman who dealt in magnificent trifles. He was conducted thither by a man of sense, with whom he had contracted an acquaintance. He bought whatever pleased his fancy; and the toy-man with great politeness sold him everything for more than it was worth. On his return home his friends showed him how much he had been cheated. Babouc set down the name of the tradesman in his pocketbook, in order to point him out to Ithuriel as an object of peculiar vengeance on the day when the city should be punished. As he was writing, he heard somebody knock at the door; this was the toy-man himself, who came to restore him his purse, which he had left by mistake on the counter.

“How canst thou,” cried Babouc, “be so generous and faithful, when thou hast had the assurance to sell me these trifles for four times their value?”

“There is not a tradesman,” replied the merchant, “of ever so little note in the city, that would not have returned thee thy purse; but whoever said that I sold thee these trifles for four times their value is greatly mistaken; I sold them for ten times their value; and this is so true, that wert thou to sell them again in a month hence, thou wouldst not get even this tenth part. But nothing is more just. It is the variable fancies of men that set a value on these baubles; it is this fancy that maintains a hundred workmen whom I employ; it is this that gives me a fine house and a handsome chariot and horses; it is this, in fine, that excites industry, encourages taste, promotes circulation, and produces abundance.

“I sell the same trifles to the neighbouring nation at a much higher rate than I have sold them to thee, and by these means I am useful to the empire.”

Babouc, after having reflected a moment, erased the tradesman’s name from his tablets.

Babouc, not knowing as yet what to think of Persepolis, resolved to visit the magi and the men of letters; for, as the one studied wisdom and the other religion, he hoped that they in conjunction would obtain mercy for the rest of the people. Accordingly, he went next morning into a college of magi. The archimandrite confessed to him that he had a hundred thousand crowns a year for having taken the vow of poverty, and that he enjoyed a very extensive empire in virtue of his vow of humility; after which he left him with an inferior brother, who did him the honours of the place.

While the brother was showing him the magnificence of this house of penitence, a report was spread abroad that Babouc was come to reform all these houses. He immediately received petitions from each of them, the substance of which was, “Preserve us and destroy all the rest.” On hearing their apologies, all these societies were absolutely necessary; on hearing their mutual accusations, they all deserved to be abolished. He was surprised to find that all the members of these societies were so extremely desirous of edifying the world that they wished to have it entirely under their dominion.

Soon after a little man appeared, who was a demimagus, and who said to him:

“I plainly see that the work is going to be accomplished, for Zerdust is returned to earth, and the little girls prophesy, pinching and whipping themselves. We therefore implore thy protection against the great lama.”

“What!” said Babouc, “against the royal pontiff, who resides at Tibet?”

“Yes, against him himself.”

“What! you are then making war upon him, and raising armies!”

“No, but he says that man is a free agent, and we deny it. We have written several pamphlets against him, which he never read. Hardly has he heard our name mentioned. He has only condemned us in the same manner as a man orders the trees in his garden to be cleared from caterpillars.”

Babouc was incensed at the folly of these men who made profession of wisdom; and at the intrigues of those who had renounced the world; and at the ambition, pride, and avarice of such as taught humility and a disinterested spirit; from all which he concluded that Ithuriel had good reason to destroy the whole race.

On his return home, he sent for some new books to alleviate his grief, and in order to exhilarate his spirits, invited some men of letters to dine with him; when, like wasps attracted by a pot of honey, there came twice as many as he desired. These parasites were equally eager to eat and to speak; they praised two sorts of persons, the dead and themselves; but none of their contemporaries, except the master of the house. If any of them happened to drop a smart and witty expression, the rest cast down their eyes and bit their lips out of mere vexation that it had not been said by themselves. They had less dissimulation than the magi, because they had not such grand objects of ambition. Each of them behaved at once with all the meanness of a valet and all the dignity of a great man. They said to each other’s face the most insulting things, which they took for strokes of wit. They had some knowledge of the design of Babouc’s commission; one of them entreated him in a low voice to extirpate an author who had not praised him sufficiently about five years before; another requested the ruin of a citizen who had never laughed at his comedies; and the third demanded the destruction of the academy because he had not been able to get admitted into it. The repast being ended, each of them departed by himself; for in the whole crowd there were not two men that could endure the company or conversation of each other, except at the houses of the rich, who invited them to their tables. Babouc thought that it would be no great loss to the public if all these vermin were destroyed in the general catastrophe.

Having now got rid of these men of letters, he began to read some new books, where he discovered the true spirit by which his guests had been actuated. He observed with particular indignation those slanderous gazettes, those archives of bad taste, dictated by envy, baseness, and hunger; those ungenerous satires, where the vulture is treated with lenity and the dove torn in pieces; and those dry and insipid romances, filled with characters of women to whom the author was an utter stranger.

All these detestable writings he committed to the flames, and went to pass the evening in walking. In this excursion he was introduced to an old man possessed of great learning, who had not come to increase the number of his parasites. This man of letters always fled from crowds; he understood human nature, availed himself of his knowledge, and imparted it to others with great discretion. Babouc told him how much he was grieved at what he had seen and read.

“Thou hast read very despicable performances,” said the man of letters; “but in all times, in all countries, and in all kinds of literature, the bad swarm and the good are rare. Thou hast received into thy house the very dregs of pedantry. In all professions, those who are least worthy of appearing are always sure to present themselves with the greatest impudence. The truly wise live among themselves in retirement and tranquillity; and we have still some men and some books that are worthy of thy attention.”

While he was thus speaking, they were joined by another man of letters; and the conversation became so entertaining and instructive, so elevated above vulgar prejudices, and so conformable to virtue, that Babouc acknowledged he had never heard the like.

“These are men,” said he to himself, “whom the angel Ithuriel will not presume to touch, or he must be a merciless being indeed.”

Though reconciled to men of letters, he was still enraged against the rest of the nation.

“Thou art a stranger,” said the judicious person who was talking to him; “abuses present themselves to thy eyes in crowds, while the good, which lies concealed, and which is even sometimes the result of these very abuses, escapes thy observation.”

He then learned that among men of letters there were some who were free from envy; and that even among the magi themselves there were some men of virtue. In fine, he concluded that these great bodies, which by their mutual shocks seemed to threaten their common ruin, were at bottom very salutary institutions; that each society of magi was a check upon its rivals; and that though these rivals might differ in some speculative points, they all taught the same morals, instructed the people, and lived in subjection to the laws; not unlike to those preceptors who watch over the heir of a family while the master of the house watches over them. He conversed with several of these magi, and found them possessed of exalted souls. He likewise learned that even among the fools who pretended to make war on the great lama there had been some men of distinguished merit; and from all these particulars he conjectured that it might be with the manners of Persepolis as it was with the buildings; some of which moved his pity, while others filled him with admiration.

He said to the man of letters:

“I plainly see that these magi, whom I at first imagined to be so dangerous, are in reality extremely useful, especially when a wise government hinders them from rendering themselves too necessary; but thou wilt at least acknowledge that your young magistrates, who purchase the office of a judge as soon as they can mount a horse, must display in their tribunals the most ridiculous impertinence and the most iniquitous perverseness. It would doubtless be better to give these places gratuitously to those old civilians who have spent their lives in the study of the law.”

The man of letters replied:

“Thou hast seen our army before thy arrival at Persepolis; thou knowest that our young officers fight with great bravery, though they buy their posts; perhaps thou wilt find that our young magistrates do not give wrong decisions, though they purchase the right of dispensing justice.”

He led him next day to the grand tribunal, where an affair of great importance was to be decided. The cause was known to all the world. All the old advocates that spoke on the subject were wavering and unsettled in their opinions. They quoted a hundred laws, none of which were applicable to the question. They considered the matter in a hundred different lights, but never in its true point of view. The judges were more quick in their decisions than the advocates in raising doubts. They were unanimous in their sentiments. They decided justly, because they followed the light of reason. The others reasoned falsely because they only consulted their books.

Babouc concluded that the best things frequently arose from abuses. He saw the same day that the riches of the receivers of the public revenue, at which he had been so much offended, were capable of producing an excellent effect; for the emperor having occasion for money, he found in an hour by their means what he could not have procured in six months by the ordinary methods. He saw that those great clouds, swelled with the dews of the earth, restored in plentiful showers what they had thence derived. Besides, the children of these new gentlemen, who were frequently better educated than those of the most ancient families, were sometimes more useful members of society, for he whose father hath been a good accountant may easily become a good judge, a brave warrior, and an able statesman.

Babouc was insensibly brought to excuse the avarice of the farmer of the revenues, who is reality was not more avaricious than other men, and besides was extremely necessary. He overlooked the folly of those who ruined themselves in order to obtain a post in the law or army, a folly that produces great magistrates and heroes. He forgave the envy of men of letters, among whom there were some that enlightened the world; and he was reconciled to the ambitious and intriguing magi, who were possessed of more great virtues than little vices. But he had still many causes of complaint. The gallantries of the ladies especially, and the fatal effects which these must necessarily produce, filled him with fear and terror.

As he was desirous of prying into the characters of men of every condition, he went to wait on a minister of state, but trembled all the way, lest some wife should be assassinated by her husband in his presence. Having arrived at the statesman’s, he was obliged to remain two hours in the antechamber before his name was sent in, and two hours more after that was done. In this interval he resolved to recommend to the angel Ithuriel both the minister and his insolent porters. The antechamber was filled with ladies of every rank, magi of all colours, judges, merchants, officers, and pedants, and all of them complained of the minister. The miser and the usurer said:

“Doubtless this man plunders the provinces.”

The capricious reproached him with fickleness; the voluptuary said:

“He thinks of nothing but his pleasure.”

The factious hoped to see him soon ruined by a cabal, and the women flattered themselves that they should soon have a younger minister.

Babouc heard their conversation, and could not help saying:

“This is surely a happy man; he hath all his enemies in his antechamber; he crushes with his power those that envy his grandeur; he beholds those who detest him grovelling at his feet.”

At length he was admitted into the presence-chamber, where he saw a little old man bending under the weight of years and business, but still lively and full of spirits.

The minister was pleased with Babouc, and to Babouc he appeared a man of great merit. The conversation became interesting. The minister confessed that he was very unhappy; that he passed for rich, while in reality he was poor; that he was believed to be all-powerful, and yet was constantly contradicted; that he had obliged none but a parcel of ungrateful wretches; and that, in the course of forty years’ labour he had hardly enjoyed a moment’s rest. Babouc was moved with his misfortunes, and thought that if this man had been guilty of some faults, and Ithuriel had a mind to banish him, he ought not to cut him off, but to leave him in possession of his place.

While Babouc was talking to the minister, the beautiful lady with whom he had dined entered hastily, her eyes and countenance showing all the symptoms of grief and indignation. She burst into reproaches against the statesman; she shed tears; she complained bitterly that her husband had been refused a place to which his birth allowed him to aspire, and which he had fully merited by his wounds and his service. She expressed herself with such force; she uttered her complaints with such a graceful air; she overthrew objections with so much address, and enforced her arguments with so much eloquence, that she did not leave the chamber till she had made her husband’s fortune.

Babouc gave her his hand, and said: “Is it possible, madam, that thou canst take so much pains to serve a man whom thou dost not love, and from whom thou hast everything to fear?”

“A man whom I do not love!” cried she; “know, sir, that my husband is the best friend I have in the world, and there is nothing I would not sacrifice for him, except my lover, and he would do anything for me, except leave his mistress. I would like you to get to know her: she is a charming woman; full of spirit and entirely good natured. We will have supper together this evening with my husband and the little magus: come and join us.”

The lady conducted Babouc to her own house. The husband, who had at last arrived overwhelmed with grief, received his wife with transports of joy and gratitude. He embraced by turns his wife, his mistress, the little magus, and Babouc. Wit, harmony, cheerfulness, and all the graces embellished the repast… His beautiful hostess said to him, “Understand that those who are sometimes called dishonourable women nearly always have the esteem of a very honourable man. And, in order to convince you, come with me and dine tomorrow at the beautiful Téone’s house. There are some old maids who ignore her, but she does more good than all of them put together. She has never committed the slightest injustice for any reason; she has never given her lover anything but the most generous advice; she only concerns herself with his reputation: he blushes before her if he has neglected an opportunity to do good; for nothing encourages us to virtuous actions more than having as witness and judge a mistress whose esteem one wishes to earn.”

Babouc did not miss this invitation. He saw a house where all the pleasures reigned. Téone reigned over all; she could converse with each in his own language. She put everyone at ease; she pleased almost without wanting to; she was also lovable and kind; and, adding to the value of all these good qualities, she was beautiful.

Babouc, though a Scythian, and sent by a genius, found, that should he continue much longer in Persepolis, he would forget even the angel Ithuriel for Téone. He began to grow fond of a city the inhabitants of which were polite, affable, and beneficent, though fickle, slanderous, and vain. He was much afraid that Persepolis would be condemned. He was even afraid to give in his account.

This, however, he did in the following manner. He caused a little statue, composed of different metals, of earth, and stones, the most precious and the most vile, to be cast by one of the best founders in the city, and carried it to Ithuriel.

“Wilt thou break,” said he, “this pretty statue, because it is not wholly composed of gold and diamonds?”

Ithuriel immediately understood his meaning, and resolved to think no more of punishing Persepolis, but to leave “the world as it goes.”

“For,” said he, “if all is not well, all is passable.”

Thus Persepolis was suffered to remain, nor did Babouc complain, like Jonas, who (according to the Scriptures) was highly incensed at the preservation of Nineveh.

The Black and the White.

The adventure of the youthful Rustan is generally known throughout the whole province of Candahar. He was the only son of a mirza of that country. The title of mirza there is much the same as that of marquis among us, or that of baron among the Germans. The mirza, his father, had a handsome fortune. Young Rustan was to be married to a mirzasse, or young lady of his own rank. The two families earnestly desired their union. Rustan was to become the comfort of his parents, to make his wife happy, and to live blessed in her possession.

But he had unfortunately seen the princess of Cachemir at the fair of Cabul, which is the most considerable fair in the world, and much more frequented than those of Bassora and Astracan. The occasion that brought the old prince of Cachemir to the fair with his daughter was as follows:

He had lost the two most precious curiosities of his treasury; one of them was a diamond as thick as a man’s thumb, upon which the figure of his daughter was engraved by an art which was then possessed by the Indians, and has since been lost; the other was a javelin, which went of itself wherever its owner thought proper to send it. This is nothing very extraordinary among us, but it was thought so at Cachemir.

A fakir belonging to his highness stole these two curiosities; he carried them to the princess.

“Keep these two curiosities with the utmost care; your destiny depends upon them,” said he, and then departed.

The duke of Cachemir, in despair, resolved to visit the fair of Cabul, in order to see whether there might not, among the merchants who go thither from all quarters of the world, be some one possessed of his diamond and his weapon. The princess carried his diamond well fastened to her girdle; but the javelin, which she could not so easily hide, she had carefully locked up at Cachemir in a large chest.

Rustan and she saw each other at Cabul. They loved one another with all the sincerity of persons of their age, and all the tenderness of affection natural to those of their country. The princess gave Rustan her diamond as a pledge of her love, and he promised at his departure to go incognito to Cachemir, in order to pay her a visit.

The young mirza had two favourites, who served him as secretaries, grooms, stewards, and valets de chambre. The name of one was Topaz; he was handsome, well-shaped, fair as a Circassian beauty, as mild and ready to serve as an Armenian, and as wise as a Gueber. The name of the other was Ebene; he was a very beautiful negro, more active and industrious than Topaz, and one that thought nothing difficult. The young mirza communicated his intention of travelling to these. Topaz endeavoured to dissuade him from it, with the circumspect zeal of a servant who was unwilling to offend him. He represented to him the great danger to which he exposed himself. He asked him how he could leave two families in despair? how he could pierce the hearts of his parents? He shook the resolution of Rustan; but Ebene confirmed it anew, and obviated all his objections.

The young man was not furnished with money to defray the charge of so long a voyage. The prudent Topaz would not have lent him any; Ebene supplied him. He, with great address, stole his master’s diamond, made a false one exactly like it, which he put in its place, and pledged the true one to an Armenian for several thousand rupees.

As soon as the marquis possessed these rupees, all things were in readiness for his departure. An elephant was loaded with his baggage. His attendants mounted on horseback.

Topaz said to his master: “I have taken the liberty to expostulate with you upon your enterprise, but after expostulating it is my duty to obey. I am devoted to you, I love you, I will follow you to the extremity of the earth; but let us by the way consult the oracle that is but two parasangs distant from here.”

Rustan consented. The answer returned by the oracle was:

“If you go to the east you will be at the west.”

Rustan could not guess the meaning of this answer. Topaz maintained that it boded no good. Ebene, always complaisant to his master, persuaded him that it was highly favourable.

There was another oracle at Cabul; they went to it. The oracle of Cabul made answer in these words:

“If you possess, you will cease to possess; if you are conqueror, you will not conquer; if you are Rustan, you will cease to be so.”

This oracle seemed still more unintelligible than the former.

“Take care of yourself,” said Topaz.

“Fear nothing,” said Ebene; and this minister, as may well be imagined, was always thought in the right by his master, whose passions and hopes he encouraged. Having left Cabul, they passed through a vast forest. They seated themselves upon the grass in order to take a repast, and left their horses grazing. The attendants were preparing to unload the elephant which carried the dinner, the table, cloth, plates, etc., when, all on a sudden, Topaz and Ebene were perceived by the little caravan to be missing. They were called, the forest resounded with the names of Topaz and Ebene; the lackeys seek them on every side, and fill the forest with their cries; they return without having seen anything, and without having received any answer.

“We have,” said they to Rustan, “found nothing but a vulture that fought with an eagle, and stripped it of all its feathers.”

The mention of this combat excited the curiosity of Rustan; he went on foot to the place; he perceived neither vulture nor eagle; but he saw his elephant, which was still loaded with baggage, attacked by a huge rhinoceros; one struck with its horn, the other with its proboscis. The rhinoceros desisted upon seeing Rustan; his elephant was brought back, but his horses were not to be found.

“Strange things happen in forests to travellers,” cried Rustan.

The servants were in great consternation, and the master in despair from having at once lost his horse, his dear negro, and the wise Topaz, for whom he still entertained a friendship, though always differing from him in opinion.

The hope of being soon at the feet of the beautiful princess still consoled the mirza, who, journeying on, now met with a huge streaked ass, which a vigorous two-handed country clown beat with an oaken cudgel. The asses of this sort are extremely beautiful, very scarce, and beyond comparison swift in running. The ass resented the repeated blows of the clown by kicks which might have rooted up an oak. The young mirza, as was reasonable, took upon him the defence of the ass, which was a charming creature. The clown betook himself to flight, crying to the ass, “You shall pay for this.”

The ass thanked its deliverer in its own language, and approaching him, permitted his caresses and caressed him in her turn. After dinner, Rustan mounted it and took the road to Cachemir with his servants, who followed him, some on foot and some upon the elephant. Scarce had he mounted his ass, when that animal turned toward Cabul, instead of proceeding to Cachemir. It was to no purpose for her master to turn the bridle, to kick, to press the sides of the beast with his knees, to spur, to slacken the bridle, to pull toward him, to whip both on the right and the left. The obstinate animal persisted in running toward Cabul.

Rustan in despair fretted and raved, when he met with a dealer in camels, who said to him:

“Master, you have there a very malicious beast, that carries you where you do not choose to go. If you will give it to me, I will give you the choice of four of my camels.”

Rustan thanked Providence for having thrown so good a bargain in the way.

“Topaz was very much in the wrong,” said he, “to tell me that my journey would prove unprosperous.”

He mounts the handsome camel, the others follow; he rejoins his caravan, and fancies himself on the road to happiness.

Scarce had he journeyed four parasangs, when he was stopped by a deep, broad, and impetuous torrent, which rolled over huge rocks white with foam. The two banks were frightful precipices which dazzled the sight and made the blood run cold. To pass was impracticable; to go to the right or to the left was impossible.

“I am beginning to be afraid,” said Rustan, “that Topaz was in the right in blaming my journey, and that I was in the wrong in undertaking it. If he were still here he might give me good advice. If I had Ebene with me, he would comfort me and find expedients; but everything fails me.” This perplexity was increased by the consternation of his attendants. The night was dark, and they passed it in lamentations. At last fatigue and dejection made the amorous traveller fall asleep. He awoke at daybreak, and saw, spanning the torrent, a beautiful marble bridge which reached from shore to shore.

Nothing was heard but exclamations, cries of astonishment and joy. Is it possible? Is this a dream? What a prodigy is this! What an enchantment! Shall we venture to pass? The whole company kneeled, rose up, went to the bridge, kissed the ground, looked up to heaven, stretched out their hands, set their feet on it with trembling, went to and fro, fell into ecstasies, and Rustan said:

“At last heaven favours me. Topaz did not know what he was saying. The oracles were favourable to me. Ebene was in the right, but why is he not here?”

Scarce had the company got beyond the torrent, when the bridge sank into the water with a prodigious noise.

“So much the better, so much the better,” cried Rustan. “Praised be God, blessed be heaven; it would not have me return to my country, where I should be nothing more than a gentleman. The intention of heaven is that I should wed her I love. 1 shall become prince of Cachemir; thus in possessing my mistress I shall cease to possess my little marquisate at Candahar. ‘I shall be Rustan, and I shall not be Rustan’ because I shall have become a great prince; thus is a great part of the oracle clearly explained in my favour. The rest will be explained in the same manner. I am very happy. But why is not Ebene with me? I regret him a thousand times more than Topaz.”

He proceeded a few parasangs farther with the greatest alacrity imaginable; but, at the close of day, a chain of mountains more rugged than a counterscarp, and higher than the tower of Babel would have been had it been finished, stopped the passage of the caravan, which was again seized with dread.

All the company cried out: “It is the will of God that we perish here! He broke the bridge merely to take from us all hopes of returning; He raised the mountain for no other reason than to deprive us of all means of advancing. Oh, Rustan! oh, unhappy marquis! we shall never see Cachemir; we shall never return to the land of Candahar.”

The most poignant anguish, the most insupportable dejection succeeded in the soul of Rustan to the immoderate joy which he had felt, to the hopes with which he had intoxicated himself. He was no longer disposed to interpret the prophecies in his favour.

“Oh, heavens! oh, God of my fathers!” said he, “must I then lose my friend Topaz!”

As he pronounced these words, heaving deep sighs and shedding tears in the midst of his disconsolate followers, the base of the mountain opened, a long gallery appeared to the dazzled eyes in a vault lighted with a hundred thousand torches. Rustan immediately begins to exult, and his people to throw themselves upon their knees and to fall upon their backs in astonishment, and cry out, “A miracle! a miracle! Rustan is the favourite of Witsnow, the well-beloved of Brahma. He will become the master of mankind.”

Rustan believed it; he was quite beside himself; he was raised above himself.

“Alas, Ebene,” said he, “my dear Ebene, where are you? Why are you not witness of all these wonders? How did I lose you? Beauteous princess of Cachemir, when shall I again behold your charms!”

He advances with his attendants, his elephants, and his camels under the hollow of the mountain, at the end of which he enters into a meadow enamelled with flowers and encompassed with rivulets. At the extremity of the meadows are walks of trees to the end of which the eye cannot reach, and at the end of these alleys is a river, on the sides of which are a thousand pleasure houses with delicious gardens. He everywhere hears concerts of vocal and instrumental music; he sees dances; he makes haste to go upon one of the bridges of the river; he asks the first man he meets what fine country that is?

He whom he addressed answered:

“You are in the province of Cachemir; you see the inhabitants immersed in joy and pleasure. We celebrate the marriage of our beauteous princess, who is going to be married to the lord Barbabou, to whom her father promised her. May God perpetuate their felicity!”

At these words Rustan fainted away, and the Cachemirian lord thought he was troubled with the falling sickness. He caused him to be carried to his house, where he remained a long time insensible. He sent in search of the two most able physicians in that part of the country. They felt the patient’s pulse, who, having somewhat recovered his spirits, sobbed, rolled his eyes, and cried from time to time, “Topaz, Topaz, you were entirely in the right!”

One of the two physicians said to the Cachemirian lord:

“I perceive, by this young man’s accent, that he is from Candahar, and that the air of this country is hurtful to him. He must be sent home. I perceive by his eyes that he has lost his senses. Intrust me with him; I will carry him back to his own country and cure him.”

The other physician maintained that grief was his only disorder; and that it was proper to carry him to the wedding of the princess, and make him dance. Whilst they were in consultation, the patient recovered his health. The two physicians were dismissed, and Rustan remained along with his host.

“My lord,” said he, “I ask your pardon for having been so free as to faint in your presence. I know it to be a breach of politeness. I entreat you to accept of my elephant, as an acknowledgment of the kindness you have shown me.”

He then related to him all his adventure, taking particular care to conceal from him the occasion of his journey.

“But, in the name of Witsnow and Brahma,” said he to him, “tell me who is this happy Barbabou who is to marry the princess of Cachemir? Why has her father chosen him for his son-in-law, and why has the princess accepted of him for a husband?”

“Sir,” answered the Cachemirian, “the princess has by no means accepted of Barbabou. She is, on the contrary, in tears, whilst the whole province joyfully celebrates her marriage. She has shut herself up in a tower of her palace. She does not choose to see any of the rejoicings made upon the occasion.”

Rustan, at hearing this, perceived himself revived. The bloom of his complexion, which grief had caused to fade, appeared again upon his countenance.

“Tell me, I entreat you,” continued he, “why the prince of Cachemir is obstinately bent upon giving his daughter to Lord Barbabou, whom she does not love?”

“This is the fact,” answered the Cachemirian. “Do you know that our august prince lost a large diamond and a javelin which he considered as of great value?”

“Ah! I very well know that,” said Rustan.

“Know then,” said his host, “that our prince, being in despair at not having heard of his two precious curiosities after having caused them to be sought for all over the world, promised his daughter to whoever should bring him either the one or the other. A Lord Barbabou came who had the diamond, and he is to marry the princess to-morrow.”

Rustan turned pale, stammered out a compliment, took leave of his host, and galloped upon his dromedary to the capital city, where the ceremony was to be performed. He arrives at the palace of the prince, he tells him he has something of importance to communicate to him, he demands an audience. He is told that the prince is taken up with the preparations for the wedding.

“It is for that very reason,” said he, “that I am desirous of speaking to him.” Such is his importunity, that he is at last admitted.

“Prince,” said he, “may God crown all your days with glory and magnificence! Your son-in-law is a knave.”

“What! a knave! how dare you speak in such terms? Is that a proper way of speaking to a duke of Cachemir of a son-in-law of whom he has made choice?”

“Yes, he is a knave,” continued Rustan, “and to prove it to your highness, I have brought you back your diamond.”

The duke, surprised at what he heard, compared the two diamonds; and, as he was no judge of precious stones, he could not determine which was the true one.

“Here are two diamonds,” said he, “and I have but one daughter. I am in a strange perplexity.”

He sent for Barbabou, and asked him if he had not imposed upon him. Barbabou swore he had bought his diamond from an Armenian; the other did not tell him who he had his from; but he proposed an expedient, which was that he should engage his rival in single combat.

“It is not enough for your son-in-law to give a diamond,” said he; “he should also give proofs of valour. Do not you think it just that he who kills his rival should marry the princess?”

“Undoubtedly,” answered the prince. “It will be a fine sight for the court. Fight directly. The conqueror shall take the arms of the conquered, according to the customs of Cachemir, and he shall marry my daughter.”

The two pretenders to the hand of the princess go down into the court. Upon the stairs there was a jay and a raven. The raven cried, “Fight, fight.” The jay cried, “Don’t fight.”

This made the prince laugh; the two rivals scarce took any notice of it. They begin the combat. All the courtiers made a circle round them. The princess, who kept herself constantly shut up in her tower, did not choose to behold this sight. She never dreamed that her lover was at Cachemir, and she hated Barbabou to such a degree that she could not bear the sight of him. The combat had the happiest result imaginable. Barbabou was killed outright; and this greatly rejoiced the people, because he was ugly and Rustan was very handsome. The favour of the public is almost always determined by this circumstance.

The conqueror put on the coat of mail, scarf, and the casque of the conquered and came, followed by the whole court, to present himself under the windows of his mistress. The multitude cried aloud: “Beautiful princess, come and see your handsome lover, who has killed his ugly rival.” These words were re-echoed by her women. The princess unluckily looked out of the window, and, seeing the armour of a man she hated, she ran like one frantic to her strong box, and took out the fatal javelin, which flew to pierce Rustan, notwithstanding his cuirass. He cried out loudly, and at this cry the princess thought she again knew the voice of her unhappy lover.

She ran downstairs, with her hair dishevelled, and death in her eyes as well as her heart. Rustan had already fallen, all bloody, into the arms of his attendants. She sees him. Oh, moment! oh, sight! oh, discovery of inexpressible grief, tenderness and horror! She throws herself upon him, and embraces him.

“You receive,” said she, “the first and last kisses of your mistress and your murderer.”

She pulls the dart from the wound, plunges it in her heart, and dies upon the body of the lover whom she adores. The father, terrified, in despair, and ready to die like his daughter, tries in vain to bring her to life. She was no more. He curses the fatal dart, breaks it to pieces, throws away the two fatal diamonds; and whilst he prepared the funeral of his daughter instead of her marriage, he caused Rustan, who weltered in his blood and had still some remains of life, to be carried to his palace.

He was put into bed. The first objects he saw on each side of his deathbed were Topaz and Ebene. This surprise made him in some degree recover his strength.

“Cruel men,” said he, “why did you abandon me? Perhaps the princess would still be alive if you had been with the unhappy Rustan.”

“I have not forsaken you a moment,” said Topaz.

“I have always been with you,” said Ebene.

“Ah! what do you say? Why do you insult me in my last moments?” answered Rustan, with a languishing voice.

“You may believe me,” said Topaz. “You know I never approved of this fatal journey, the dreadful consequences of which I foresaw. I was the eagle that fought with the vulture and stripped it of its feathers; I was the elephant that carried away the baggage, in order to force you to return to your own country; I was the streaked ass that carried you, whether you would or no, to your father; it was I that made your horses go astray; it was I that caused the torrent that prevented your passage; it was I that raised the mountain which stopped up a road so fatal to you; I was the physician that advised you to return to your own country; I was the jay that cried to you not to fight.”

“And I,” said Ebene, “was the vulture that he stripped of his feathers, the rhinoceros who gave him a hundred strokes with the horn, the clown that beat the streaked ass, the merchant who made you a present of the camels to hasten you to your destruction; I dug the cavern that you crossed, I am the physician that encouraged you to walk, the raven that cried out to you to combat.”

“Alas!” said Topaz, “remember the oracles: ‘If you go to the east you will be at the west.’ “

“Yes,” said Ebene, “here the dead are buried with their faces turned to the west. The oracle was plain enough, though you did not understand it. You possessed, and you did not possess; for though you had the diamond, it was a false one, and you did not know it. You are conqueror, and you die; you are Rustan, and you cease to be so; all has been accomplished.”

Whilst he spoke thus, four white wings covered the body of Topaz, and four black ones that of Ebene.

“What do I see?” cried Rustan.

Topaz and Ebene answered together: “You see your two genii.”

“Good gentlemen,” cried the unhappy Rustan, “how came you to meddle; and what occasion had a poor man for two genii?”

“It is a law,” answered Topaz; “every man has two genii. Plato was the first man who said so, and others have repeated it after him. You see that nothing can be more true. I who now speak to you am your good genius. I was charged to watch over you to the last moment of your life. Of this task I have faithfully acquitted myself.”

“But,” said the dying man, “if your business was to serve me, I am of a nature much superior to yours. And then how can you have the assurance to say you are my good genius, since you have suffered me to be deceived in everything I have undertaken, and since you suffer both my mistress and me to die miserably?”

“Alas!” said Topaz, “it was your destiny.”

“If destiny does all,” answered the dying man, “what is a genius good for? And you, Ebene, with your four black wings, you are doubtless my evil genius.”

“You have hit it,” answered Ebene.

“Then I suppose you were the evil genius of my princess likewise,” said Rustan.

“No,” replied Ebene, “she had an evil genius of her own, and I seconded him perfectly.”

“Ah! cursed Ebene,” said Rustan, “if you are so malicious, you don’t belong to the same master with Topaz; you have been formed by two different principles, one of which is by nature good, the other evil.”

“That does not follow,” said Ebene; “this is a very knotty point.”

“It is not possible,” answered the dying man, “that a benevolent being could create so destructive a genius.”

“Possible or not possible,” replied the genius, “the thing is just as I say.”

“Alas!” said Topaz, “my poor unfortunate friend, don’t you see that that rogue is so malicious as to encourage you to dispute, in order to inflame your blood and hasten your death?”

“Get you gone,” said the melancholy Rustan, “I am not much better satisfied with you than with him. He at least acknowledges that it was his intention to hurt me; and you, who pretended to defend me, have done me no service at all.”

“I am very sorry for it,” said the good genius.

“And I, too,” said the dying man; “there is something at the bottom of all this which I cannot comprehend.”

“Nor I neither,” said the good genius.

“I shall know the truth of the matter in a moment,” said Rustan.

“We shall see that,” said Topaz.

The whole scene then vanished. Rustan again found himself in the house of his father, which he had not quitted, and in his bed, where he had slept an hour.

He awakes in astonishment, perspiring all over, and quite wild. He rubs himself, he calls, he rings the bell. His valet de chambre, Topaz, runs in, in his nightcap, and yawning.

“Am I dead or alive?” cried out Rustan; “shall the beauteous princess of Cachemir escape?”

“Does your lordship rave?” answered Topaz, coldly.

“Ah!” cried Rustan, “what, then, is become of this barbarous Ebene, with his four black wings! It is he that makes me die by so cruel a death.”

“My lord,” answered Topaz, “I left him snoring upstairs. Would you have me bid him come down?”

“The villain,” said Rustan, “has persecuted me for six months together. It was he who carried me to the fatal fair of Cabul; it is he that cheated me of the diamond which the princess presented me; he is the sole cause of my journey, of the death of my princess, and of the wound with the javelin, of which I die in the flower of my age.”

“Take heart,” said Topaz; “you were never at Cabul; there is no princess of Cachemir; her father never had any children but two boys, who are now at college; you never had a diamond; the princess cannot be dead, because she never was born; and you are in perfect health.”

“What! is it not then true that you attended me whilst dying, and in the bed of the prince of Cachemir? Did you not acknowledge to me that, in order to preserve me from so many dangers, you were an eagle, an elephant, a streaked ass, a physician, and a jay?”

“My lord, you have dreamed all this,” answered Topaz; “our ideas are no more of our own creating whilst we are asleep than whilst we are awake. God has thought proper that this train of ideas should pass in your head, most probably to convey some instruction to you of which you may make a good use.”

“You make a jest of me,” replied Rustan; “how long have I slept?”

“My lord,” said Topaz, “you have not yet slept an hour.”

“Cursed reasoner,” returned Rustan, “how is it possible that I could be in the space of an hour at the fair of Cabul six months ago; that I could have returned from thence, have travelled to Cachemir, and that Barbabou, the princess, and I should have died?”

“My lord,” said Topaz, “nothing can be more easy and more common, and you might have travelled around the world, and have met with a great many more adventures in much less time. Is it not true that you can, in an hour’s time, read the abridgment of the Persian history, written by Zoroaster? yet this abridgment contains eight hundred thousand years. All these events pass before your eyes, one after another, in an hour’s time. Now, you must acknowledge that it is as easy to Brahma to confine them to the space of an hour as to extend them to the space of eight hundred thousand years. It is exactly the same thing. Imagine to yourself that time turns upon a wheel whose diameter is infinite. Under this vast wheel is a numerous multitude of wheels one within another. That in the centre is imperceptible, and goes round an infinite number of times, whilst the great wheel performs but one revolution. It is evident that all the events which have happened from the beginning of the world to its end might have happened in much less time than the hundred thousandth part of a second; and one may even go so far as assert that the thing is so.”

“I cannot comprehend all this,” said Rustan.

“If you want information,” said Topaz, “I have a parrot that will easily explain it to you. He was born some time before the deluge; he has been in the ark; he has seen a great deal; yet he is but a year and a half old. He will relate to you his history, which is extremely interesting.”

“Go fetch your parrot,” said Rustan, “it will amuse me till I again find myself disposed to sleep.”

“It is with my sister, the nun,” said Topaz; “I will go and fetch it. It will please you; its memory is faithful; it relates in a simple manner, without endeavouring to show wit at every turn.” “So much the better,” said Rustan, “I like that manner of telling stories.”

The parrot being brought to him, spoke in this manner:—

N. B. Catherine Vade could never find the history of the parrot in the commonplace-book of her late cousin Anthony Vade, author of that tale. This is a great misfortune, considering what age that parrot lived in.

The Good Brahmin.

Does Happiness result from Ignorance or from Knowledge?

In my travels I once happened to meet with an aged Brahmin. This man had a great share of understanding and prudence, and was very learned. He was also very rich, and his riches added greatly to his popularity, for, wanting nothing that wealth could procure, he had no desire to defraud any one. His family was admirably managed by three handsome wives, who always studied to please him, and when he was weary of their society, he had recourse to the study of philosophy.

Not far from his house, which was handsome, well furnished, and embellished with delightful gardens, dwelt an old Indian woman who was a great bigot, ignorant, and withal very poor.

“I wish,” said the Brahmin to me one day, “I had never been born.”

“Why so?” said I.

“Because,” said he, “I have been studying these forty years, and I find it has been so much time lost. While I teach others I know nothing myself. The sense of my condition is so humiliating; it makes all things so distasteful to me, that life has become a burden. I have been born, and I exist in time, without knowing what time is. I am placed, as our wise men say, in the confines between two eternities, and yet I have no idea of eternity. I am composed of matter, I think, but have never been able to satisfy myself what it is that produces thought. I even am ignorant whether my understanding is a simple faculty I possess, like that of walking and digesting, or if I think with my head in the same manner as I take hold of a thing with my hands. I am not only thus in the dark with relation to the principles of thought, but the principles of my motions are entirely unknown to me. I do not know why I exist, and yet I am applied to every day for a solution of the enigma. I must return an answer, but can say nothing satisfactory on the subject. I talk a great deal, and when I have done speaking remain confounded and ashamed of what I have said.

“I am in still greater perplexity when I am asked if Brahma was produced by Vishnu, or if they have both existed from eternity. God is my judge that I know nothing of the matter, as plainly appears by my answers. ‘Reverend father,’ says one, ‘be pleased to inform me how evil is spread over the face of the earth.’ I am as much at a loss as those who ask the question. Sometimes I tell them that everything is for the best; but those who have the gout or the stone those who have lost their fortunes or their limbs in the wars believe as little of this assertion as I do myself. I retire to my own house full of curiosity, and endeavour to enlighten my ignorance by consulting the writings of our ancient sages, but they only serve to bewilder me the more. When I talk with my brethren upon this subject, some tell me we ought to make the most of life and laugh at the world. Others think they know something, and lose themselves in vain and chimerical hypotheses. Every effort I make to solve the mystery adds to the load I feel. Sometimes I am ready to fall into despair when I reflect that, after all my researches, I neither know from whence I came, what I am, whither I shall go, or what is to become of me.”

The condition in which I saw this good man gave me real concern. No one could be more rational, no one more open and honest. It appeared to me that the force of his understanding and the sensibility of his heart were the causes of his misery.

The same day I had a conversation with the old woman, his neighbour. I asked her if she had ever been unhappy for not understanding how her soul was made? She did not even comprehend my question. She had not, for the briefest moment in her life, had a thought about these subjects with which the good Brahmin had so tormented himself. She believed from the bottom of her heart in the metamorphoses of her god, Vishnu, and, provided she could get some of the sacred water of the Ganges in which to make her ablutions, she thought herself the happiest of women.

Struck with the happiness of this poor creature, I returned to my philosopher, whom I thus addressed:

“Are you not ashamed to be thus miserable when, not fifty yards from you, there is an old automaton who thinks of nothing and lives contented?”

“You are right,” he replied. “I have said to myself a thousand times that I should be happy if I were but as ignorant as my old neighbour, and yet it is a happiness I do not desire.”

This reply of the Brahmin made a greater impression on me than anything that had passed. I consulted my own heart and found that I myself should not wish to be happy on condition of being ignorant.

I submitted this matter to some philosophers, and they were all of my opinion; and yet, said I, there is something very contradictory in this manner of thinking, for, after all, what is the question? Is it not to be happy? What signifies it then whether we have understandings or whether we are fools? Besides, there is this to be said: those who are contented with their condition are sure of that content, while those who have the faculty of reasoning are not always sure of reasoning right. It is evident then, I continued, that we ought rather to wish not to have common sense, if that common sense contributes to our being either miserable or wicked.

They were all of my opinion, and yet not one of them could be found to accept of happiness on the terms of being ignorant. From hence I concluded that, although we may set a great value upon happiness, we set a still greater upon reason.

But after mature reflection upon this subject I still thought there was great madness in preferring reason to happiness. How is this contradiction to be explained? Like all other questions, a great deal may be said about it.

The End

Notes

[1] Alluding to the infamous practice of poisoning and assassination at that time prevalent in Rome. (Translator’s note).

[2]This was the famous Concini, who was murdered on the drawbridge of the Louvre, by the intrigues of De Luines, not without the knowledge of the king, Louis XIII. His body, which had been secretly interred in the church of St. Germain 1'Auxerrois, was next day dug up by the populace, who dragged it through the streets, then burned the flesh, and threw the bones into the river. The marshal's greatest crime was his being a foreigner.

[3] Referring to the massacre of Protestants, on the eve of St. Bartholomew.

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