The Archimage first put the following question: ‘Of all things in the world, what is it which is both the longest and the shortest, the quickest and the slowest, the most divisible and the most extensive, the most neglected and the most regretted, without which nothing can be done, which consumes all that is little, and gives life to all that is great?’
It was Itobad’s turn to speak first. He replied that such a man as he knew nothing about riddles; it was enough for him to have conquered by force of arms. Some said the answer to the riddle was Fortune; some said the Earth; some said Light. Zadig said it was Time.
‘Nothing is longer,’ he added, ‘for it is the measure of Eternity; yet nothing is shorter, for there is not enough for all that we would like to do. Nothing is slower for him that waits, and nothing more swift for him that enjoys. It reaches infinite greatness, and can be divided into infinite smallness. All men neglect it, yet all regret its loss; and nothing is done without it. It causes all that is unworthy of posterity to be forgotten, and it immortalizes deeds that are great.’
The assembly agreed that Zadig was right.
The next question was as folllows: ‘What is it that we receive without thanks and enjoy without understanding, that we give to others in moments of ecestasy, and lose without perceiving the fact?’
Each gave his answer, but Zadig alone guessed that it was Life; and he solved the other riddles with the same ease. Itobad kept saying that nothing was easier, and that he could have managed it just as readily if he had cared to take the trouble. Questions were put on the subjects of justice, sovereign good, and the art of government. Zadig’s replies were considered to be the soundest. It’s a great pity, people said, that so good a wit should be so bad a knight.
‘Noble lords,’ said Zadig, ‘I had the honour to be the victor in the lists! The white armour belongs to me. Lord Itobad seized it from me while I slept, apparently thinking it would suit him better than the green. I am ready to prove to him here and now before your eyes, wearing only my gown and sword against all the beautiful white armour he has taken from me, that it was I who had the honour of con-quering the brave Otames!’
Itobad accepted the challenge with the greatest confidence. He never doubted that, with helmet, breastplates, and arm-guards, he could easily overcome a champion in gown and nightcap. Zadig drew his sword and saluted the Queen, who looked at him, overcome with joy and fear. Itobad drew his without saluting anyone. He approached Zadig as though he had nothing to fear, and made ready to cleave his head. Zadig knew how to parry the blow by opposing the hilt of his sword to the point of his adversary’s in such a way that Itobad’s sword was broken. Then, seizing his enemy round the body, Zadig threw him to the ground, and offering the point of his sword to the joint of his breastplate, he said: ‘Lay down your arms, or I kill you.’
Itobad submitted, surprised as usual at the disgraces that happened to such a man as he, and Zadig calmly stripped him of his magnificent helmet, his superb breastplate, his beautiful arm-guards, and his shining cuisses. Clothing himself in them, he threw himself at the feet of Astarte.
Cador easily proved that the armour belonged to Zadig. He was recognized as King by unanimous consent, more particularly by Astarte, who enjoyed the pleasure, after so many adversities, of seeing her lover proved worthy to be her husband in the eyes of the whole world. Itobad returned home to be called ‘Your Highness’, and Zadig became King and a happy man. He recalled what the Angel Jesrad had told him, and he even remembered the grain of sand that became a diamond. The Queen and he worshipped Providence.
Zadig allowed Missouf the pretty wanton to travel abroad. He sent for the robber Argobad, and gave him an honourable rank in his army, promising to promote him to the highest posts if he behaved like a true soldier, and to hang him if he returned to brigandage.
Setoc was recalled from farthest Arabia, with the beautiful Almona, to be chief minister of trade in Babylon. Cador received the rank and the affection which his services deserved; he was the friend of the King, and the King was thus the only monarch in the world to have a friend. The little dumb servant was not forgotten. The fisherman was given a beautiful house, and Orcan was ordered to pay him a large sum and give him back his wife; but the fisherman had learned wisdom, and took only the money.
The beautiful Semira could not console herself for believing that Zadig would lose an eye, and Azora did not cease to lament that she had wanted to cut off his nose. He calmed their grief with presents. Green Eyes died of rage and shame. The Empire enjoyed peace, glory, and abundance, for it was governed by justice and by love. This was the happiest age of the world. All gave thanks to Zadig, and Zadig gave thanks to Heaven.
L’INGÉNU
(THE CHILD OF NATURE)
A TRUE STORY TAKEN FROM THE MANUSCRIPTS OF FATHER QUESNEL
CHAPTER 1
HOW THE PRIOR OF OUR LADY OF THE MOUNTAIN AND HIS SISTER MET A HURON INDIAN
ONE day long ago St Dunstan, who was Irish by nationality and a saint by profession, set sail from Ireland for the coast of France on a little mountain, which deposited him in St Malo bay. On landing, he pronounced a blessing upon his mountain, which made him a low bow and returned to Ireland by the same route it had followed in coming.
Dunstan founded a little priory near by and called it the Priory of the Mountain, a name it still bears, as everybody knows.
In the evening of the 15th of July 1689, the Abbé de Kerkabon, Prior of Our Lady of the Mountain, was taking a walk by the seashore with Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, his sister, to enjoy the fresh air. The Prior, who was getting on in years, was an excellent churchman; he was now as much beloved by his neighbours as he had formerly been by his neighbours’ wives. What made him particularly respected was that he was the only clergyman in the district who did not have to be carried to bed after dining with his colleagues. He had a decent knowledge of theology; and when he was tired of reading St Augustine, he turned for amusement to Rabelais. And so everyone spoke well of him.
Mademoiselle de Kerkabon still kept her looks at the age of forty-five. Though she had had a great mind to marry, she had never found a husband. She was a good-natured woman, warm-hearted, fond of pleasure, and spiritually-minded.
As the Prior looked at the sea, he remarked to his sister with a sigh : ‘It was from this very spot that our poor brother set sail in the frigate Swallow in 1669 to go and serve in Canada, and took with him his wife, our dear sister-in-law, Madame de Kerkabon. If he had not been killed, we might still hope to see him again.’
‘Do you believe,’ said Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, ‘that our sister-in-law was really eaten by the Iroquois, as we were told? She would certainly have returned home if she had not been eaten. I shall never cease to feel her loss, for she was a charming woman; and our brother undoubtedly had wit enough to have made a handsome fortune.’
They were still indulging these tender memories when they saw a little boat entering the bay of Rance on the tide. It was from England and had brought some local produce for sale. The crew jumped ashore without taking any notice either of the Prior or of his sister, who was deeply shocked at such disrespect.
Very different was the behaviour of a fine young man who leapt over the heads of his companions and landed face to face with the lady. He gave her a nod, as he was not accustomed to bowing. His face and his apparel attracted the attention of the brother and sister. He was bareheaded and barelegged, with only sandals on his feet, while his head was adorned with long hair in plaits. A short doublet added grace to a figure which was at once martial and gentle in bearing. In one hand he carried a small bottle of Barbados water, and in the other a kind of purse in which were a goblet and some first-rate ship’s biscuits. He addressed Mademoiselle de Kerkabon and her brother in excellent French, and offered them some of the Barbados water, which he drank with them. He then gave them some more, and his behaviour throughout was so easy and natural that the brother and sister were charmed with it. They offered him their services and asked h
im who he was and where he was going. The young man replied that he himself did not know. He was full of curiosity, and wanted to see what the coast of France was like : that was why he had come, and he was then going back again.
The Prior guessed from his accent that he was not English, and took the liberty of asking from what country he came.
‘I am a Huron,’ replied the young man.
Mademoiselle de Kerkabon was surprised and delighted to find such a courteous Huron, and invited the young man to supper. There was no need to repeat the invitation, and they all three set off together for the Priory of Our Lady of the Mountain. The plump little woman could not take her eyes off him, and kept saying to her brother:
‘Do look at that boy’s complexion! It’s all lilies and roses! What a lovely skin he has, for a Huron!’
‘Yes indeed, sister,’ replied the Prior.
She bombarded the traveller with questions, and the answers she received were always appropriate.
The news that there was a Huron at the Priory spread quickly. All the best society of the district made haste to have supper there. The Abbé de St Yves came with his pretty sister, a fine Low Breton girl who had been very well brought up. The Magistrate and the tax collector and their wives were there too. The stranger was given a seat between Mademoiselle de Kerkabon and Mademoiselle de St Yves. He was the centre of admiration and the target for a continual barrage of questions and conversation; yet nothing disturbed the Huron, for his motto seemed to be that of Lord Bolingbroke, Nil admirari.
But in the end the noise was so great that he was tired out, and said to them politely but with a touch of firmness: ‘Gentlemen, in my country we speak one at a time; how can I answer you when you prevent me from hearing what you say?’
Reason always brings people to their senses for a short time. Silence fell. It was broken by the Magistrate, never one to miss an opportunity for monopolizing a stranger in anyone’s house, and famous throughout the province for his inquisitiveness. Opening his mouth some six inches, he began:
‘Sir, what are you called?’
‘I have always been known as “The Child of Nature",’ replied the Huron, ‘and in England they gave me that name too, because I always say straight out what I think, just as I always do what I like.’
‘You were born a Huron, Sir, but how is it that you managed to get to England?’
‘It was because I was taken there. I was captured by the English after a fight in which I defended myself pretty well. The English admire courage because they are courageous themselves, and as they are also as honourable as we are, they gave me the choice of being sent back to my relatives or coming to England. I chose the latter, because I am by nature a keen traveller.’
‘But, Sir,’ protested the Magistrate, in his pompous voice, ‘how could you bring yourself to leave your father and mother as you did?’
‘I never knew either my father or my mother,’ replied the stranger.
‘Never knew his father or his mother!’ echoed each member of the party, in tones of pity.
‘We will take their place,’ declared the lady of the house to her brother, the Prior. ‘How attractive this Huron is!’
The Child of Nature thanked her warmly in his noble and dignified manner, and gave her to understand that he lacked for nothing.
‘It seems to me, Monsieur Huron,’ said the grave Magistrate, ‘that you speak remarkably good French for one of your nationality.’
‘That is because I learnt it from a Frenchman,’ came the reply. ‘One whom we took prisoner in Huronia when I was quite young, and to whom I became much attached. Anything I wish to learn, I can always master quickly. Moreover, when I arrived at Plymouth, I found there one of your French refugees whom for some reason you call Huguenots. He helped me to make further progress in the knowledge of your language, and as soon as I could make myself understood I came to see your country, because I am fond of the French, when they do not ask too many questions.’
Disregarding this hint, the Abbé de St Yves asked him which of the three languages he liked best, Huron, English, or French.
‘Huron, of course,’ replied the Child of Nature.
‘Can it really be possible?’ exclaimed Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. ‘I had always believed that French was the most beautiful of all languages, except Low Breton.’
Then they all started asking about Huron. What was the word for tobacco in that language?
‘Taya,’ he replied.
And how does one say ‘to eat’?
‘Essenten,’ he answered.
Mademoiselle de Kerkabon insisted on knowing the phrase for ‘making love’; he said it was trovander, and maintained, quite reasonably, that these words were just as good as their French and English equivalents. The guests were all delighted with trovander.
The Prior left the table for a moment to consult the Huron grammar in his library, which had been given him by the Reverend Father Sagan Théodat, a famous Franciscan missionary. He returned in transports of tenderness and joy, for he now recognized the Child of Nature as a true Huron. The discussion turned for a time to the multiplicity of tongues, and it was agreed that all the world would certainly have spoken French, if it had not been for the incident of the Tower of Babel.
The inquisitive Magistrate had somewhat mistrusted this new character; now however he began to feel greater respect for him, and he spoke more politely than hitherto. But his pains were lost upon the Child of Nature.
Mademoiselle de St Yves was very curious to know how people made love in the land of the Hurons.
‘They do fine deeds so as to give pleasure to people who look like you,’ he replied.
This remark was received with applause and astonishment. Mademoiselle de St Yves blushed with delight. Mademoiselle de Kerkabon also blushed, but with less delight – she felt that the gallantry should have been addressed to her. She was so kindhearted, however, that her affection for the Huron was in no way altered by this slight. With undiminished goodwill she next asked him how many mistresses he had had in Huronia.
‘I had only one,’ replied the Child of Nature. ‘She was Mademoiselle Abacaba, the friend of my dear nurse. She was as straight as a sapling, as white as the ermine, as gentle as the lamb, as proud as the eagle, and as light-footed as the deer. One day when she was chasing a hare in our part of the country, about fifty leagues from our home, an ill-bred Algonquin, who lived a hundred leagues further on, came and took her hare from her. I heard about it, and running up club in hand I felled the Algonquin with a single blow, and laid him at the feet of my mistress, bound hand and foot. Abacaba’s family wanted to eat him, but I never had a taste for that sort of feast, so I gave him his freedom and made a friend of him. Abacaba was so touched by my behaviour that she preferred me to all her other lovers. She would love me still, if a bear had not eaten her. I killed the bear, and for a long time wore its skin, but that gave me no great consolation.’
When Mademoiselle de St Yves heard this story she was secretly relieved to hear that the Child of Nature had had only one mistress and that Abacaba was dead, but she did not recognize the source of her pleasure. The eyes of the whole company were on the Child of Nature, and he was much praised for having prevented his companions from eating an Algonquin.
The relentless Magistrate could not contain his stream of questions, and eventually had to relieve his curiosity by asking to what religion the Huron belonged, and whether he had chosen the English form, the French, or the Huguenot.
‘I follow my own religion,’ said he, ‘as you do yours.’
‘Those wretched English!’ exclaimed Mademoiselle de Kerkabon, wringing her hands. ‘I see that they did not even think of getting him baptized.’
‘Heavens above!’ said Mademoiselle de St Yves. ‘How has it come about that Hurons are not Catholics? Haven’t the Reverend Jesuit Fathers converted them all yet?’
The Child of Nature assured her that in his country no one was converted. No true Huron had ever changed
his opinions, and there was no such word as ‘inconstancy’ in the language. Mademoiselle de St Yves was delighted with this last remark.
‘We’ll baptize him, we’ll baptize him,’ said Mademoiselle de Kerkabon to the Prior. ‘You shall have the honour, my dear brother, and I insist on being his godmother. The Abbé de St Yves shall stand godfather. It will be a brilliant ceremony, all Lower Brittany will be talking of it, and it will do us the greatest honour.’
The whole company supported the mistress of the house, and all the guests shouted; ‘We’ll baptize him.’
The Child of Nature’s reply to this was that in England everyone was allowed to live as he liked. The proposal gave him no pleasure at all, and he maintained that Huron Law was worth at least as much as Low Breton Law. Finally he declared that he was leaving next day. They managed to finish his bottle of Barbados water, and then they all went to bed.
When the Child of Nature had been taken to his room, Mademoiselle de Kerkabon and her friend Mademoiselle de St Yves could not resist looking through the keyhole to see how a Huron slept. They noticed that he had spread the covers from his bed on the floor, and that he had settled down in the most graceful attitude in the world.
CHAPTER 2
THE CHILD OF NATURE IS RECOGNIZED BY HIS RELATIVES
THE Child of Nature awoke as usual at daybreak with the crowing of the cock, ‘the trumpet of day’ as they call it in England and in Huronia. He was not like people in high-society who linger idly in their beds till the sun has run half his course, unable either to sleep or to get up, and who lose so many precious hours in that state halfway between life and death, yet are always complaining that life is too short.
He had covered five or six miles and finished off thirty head of game in as many shots, before coming back to find the Prior of Our Lady of the Mountain and his modest sister in their nightcaps taking a walk in their little garden. He laid at their feet all the game he had dispatched, and then begged them to accept, in recognition of their kind reception, a sort of little talisman which he always wore round his neck and which he now produced from under his shirt.