THE PHILOSOPHIC GROUP
The Philosophic Group of oriental tales is in number far smaller and in
literary value far more considerable than the Moralistic. Here, again,
Addison was the guide, using several oriental stories to illustrate
philosophical ideas and composing one famous oriental tale, or rather
sketch, _The Vision of Mirza_.[130] The _Vision_ is so familiar and so
accessible that any detailed account of it would be superfluous. Mirza,
from the topmost pinnacle of the high hills of Bagdad, beholds
multitudes passing over the bridge of life, which spans a part of the
great tide of eternity. Sooner or later all fall from the bridge and are
borne out into the thick mist toward either the islands of the blest or
the dark clouds beyond the rock of adamant. By means of this vision,
Mirza realizes the vicissitudes of life, the certainty of death, the
consolation of faith, and the mystery enveloping man’s existence. It is
Addison’s way of saying “From the great deep to the great deep he
goes.”[131]. The form of the _Vision_ is simplicity and clearness
itself. The language, lucid and direct, displays Addison’s
characteristic restraint in the use of oriental ornament and imagery.
The literary value of _The Vision of Mirza_ as an oriental tale lies
less in the specific detail of oriental colouring than in the general
impression of beauty and of awe. “But instead of the rolling tide, the
arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow
valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels, grazing upon the sides
of it,”—a serene English valley, orientalized only by the name _Bagdat_
and the presence of the camels. And yet, if the oriental elements were
cut away from _The Vision of Mirza_, the picturesque attributes of the
central metaphor, the bridge of human life, would go, for they are drawn
from the Mahometan tradition of the bridge “Al Sirát,” laid across hell,
“finer than a hair and sharper than the edge of a sword,” over which the
souls of men pass,—the good to the Mahometan paradise, the wicked to
hell, which is encircled by a wall of adamant. Moreover, the quiet,
cumulative force of one slight stroke of oriental imagery after another
produces a sense of remoteness and stimulates the imagination,
especially when the phrases echo Biblical cadences and thus attain an
added solemnity. “‘Surely,’ said I, ‘man is but a shadow and life a
dream....’ ‘The valley that thou seest,’ said he, ‘is the vale of
misery, and the tide of water that thou seest, is part of the great tide
of eternity....’ ‘I wished for the wings of an eagle that I might fly
away to those happy seats; but the genius told me there was no passage
to them except through the gates of death.’”
The other philosophic oriental tales in the Addisonian periodicals
illustrate various themes: the transitoriness of life, the subjectivity
of time, personal identity, and so on. Frequent phrases suggest that in
oriental thought and imagery what appealed most forcibly to Addison’s
reverent nature was “likeness to those beautiful metaphors in
scripture.”[132] One brief story is told by him to illustrate the figure
“where life is termed a pilgrimage, and those who pass through it are
called strangers and sojourners upon earth,” and to conclude an essay on
the value of contemplating the transitoriness of human life. A dervish
mistakes a palace for an inn, and when the king asks an explanation,
replies by a series of questions leading up to an admirable climax.
“‘Sir,’ says the Dervish, ‘give me leave to ask your Majesty a question
or two. Who were the persons that lodged in this house when it was first
built?’ The King replied, his ancestors. ‘And who,’ says the Dervish,
‘was the last person that lodged here?’ The King replied, his father.
‘And who is it,’ says the Dervish, ‘that lodges here at present?’ The
King told him that it was he himself. ‘And who,’ says the Dervish, ‘will
be here after you?’ The King answered, the young Prince, his son. ‘Ah,
Sir,’ said the Dervish, ‘a house that changes its inhabitants so often
and receives such a perpetual succession of guests, is not a Palace, but
a Caravansary.’”[133] The oriental colouring here is slightly stronger
than in _The Vision of Mirza_. The dervish, “traveling through Tartary,”
arrived “at the town of Balk, ... laid down his wallet and spread his
carpet in order to repose himself upon it, after the manner of Eastern
nations.” The notion of the subjectivity of time as set forth by Locke
is exemplified in the account of Mahomet’s journey to the seven heavens
in the twinkling of an eye,[134] as well as by the adventures of the
Sultan of Egypt.[134] The latter story, drawn from the _Turkish Tales_,
is interestingly told, though shorn of most of its picturesque details.
From the _Persian Tales_ an unknown contributor to the _Spectator_ takes
the story of _Fadlallah and Zemroude_, and introduces it by a quotation
from “Mr. Locke” on personal identity and by these remarks: “I was
mightily pleased by a story in some measure applicable to this piece of
philosophy, which I read the other day in the _Persian Tales_, as they
are lately very well translated by Mr. Philips ... these stories are
writ after the Eastern manner, but somewhat more correct.”[135] The
writer chastens the style of his quotation still further by eliminating
many of the imaginative elements for the sake of the “piece of
philosophy.” The idea of perpetual suspense is illustrated by reference
not only to the mediæval ass between two bundles of hay but also to
Mahomet’s coffin suspended in midair by magnets.[136] The misery and
ingratitude of humanity is shown by a vision.[137] The conception of the
development of philosophy and virtue in a man on a desert island, guided
by “the pure light and universal benevolence of nature,”[138] is given
as a quotation from an Arabian author. It calls to mind Mrs. Behn’s
_Oroonoko_ and his successor, the “natural man” of the eighteenth
century. In all these narratives or fragments of narratives the tone is
speculative rather than directly didactic, but all except _Fadlallah and
Zemroude_ are used to point a moral. With one exception, all the
philosophical and moral ideas in the twenty-nine oriental tales found in
these early periodicals, from the opening number of the _Tatler_, in
1709, to the last issue of the _Freeholder_, in 1716, are either
noticeably English in character or else universal ideas, common to
English and oriental thought. The one exception[139] is the doctrine of
transmigration of souls, which has been attributed to oriental
philosophy. Yet this doctrine is Pythagorean as well as oriental, and
the ultimate source, though possibly oriental, is unknown. In general
the philosophizing in the periodicals is along the lines of universal
thought, expressed in a thoroughly English and Addisonian manner.
In the philosophic as in the moralistic tales the most famous of
Addison’s successors was Dr. Johnson. As suggested above,[140] the
difference in temperament between the two men is clearly reflected in
their periodicals. Addison’s lighter touch and buoyant spirit are
replaced in the _Rambler_ and the _Idler_ by Johnson’s heavier style and
more uniformly serious purpose. And yet the _Rambler_ and its imitators
have much in common with the earlier group. The similarity is especially
noticeable in those parts of Johnson’s work that are deliberate and
conscious imitations. Addison had used the oriental tale among other
devices to convey instruction under the guise of amusement; Johnson did
likewise. The story of _Ortogrul of Basra_[141] distinctly recalls
Addison’s oriental tales. The scene is laid in Bagdad, and the narrative
opens with an account of Ortogrul wandering in “the tranquillity of
meditation” along the streets. He is taught the value of slow and
constant industry by a dream, in which, like Mirza, he beholds a vision
from a hilltop. The genius in _Mirza_ is replaced by the father of
Ortogrul, who directs the latter’s gaze to an ineffectual torrent and to
a slow but sure “rivulet,” and points the moral. For local colour in
these tales Johnson is satisfied with vague allusions such as that to
the vizier’s return from the divan to spacious apartments in his palace,
hung with golden tapestry and carpeted with silk. Dates, places, and
oriental customs are likewise indistinct. “In the reign of Zenghis Can,”
“Samarcand,” “Arabia,” “the emirs and viziers, the sons of valour and of
wisdom, that stand at the corners of the Indian throne, to assist the
Councils,”—such brief references suffice for Johnson’s purpose. Like
Addison, too, Johnson feels that an oriental tale demands elevated and
dignified diction, Biblical imagery, and the abstract, general term
instead of the concrete.
But there the likeness ends, for Johnson’s early oriental tales, far
more than any of his other writings, are embellished with peculiarly
Johnsonian Latin derivatives and resounding antitheses. Sometimes the
style gains by these means the added force and dignity purposed by the
author. “In the height of my power, I said to defamation, who will hear
thee? and to artifice, what canst thou perform?”... “The clouds of
sorrow gathered round his head.” But often this attempt at rhetorical
ornamentation results in bombast and unintentional humour: “The curls of
beauty fell from his head;” “the voracious grave is howling for its
prey;” “he practised the smile of universal courtesy;” “a frigorific
torpor encroaches upon my veins.” In _Ortogrul_, Johnson goes even to
this extreme in describing the rich vizier’s life: “The dishes of Luxury
cover his table, the voice of Harmony lulls him in his bowers; he
breathes the fragrance of the groves of Java, and sleeps upon the down
of the cygnets of Ganges.” Grandiloquence of this sort takes the place
of detail in description. When Johnson wishes to depict an Eastern
princess, he portrays her “sitting on a throne, attired in the robe of
royalty, and shining with the jewels of Golconda; command sparkled in
her eyes and dignity towered on her forehead.” Such a description is
eminently in keeping with Johnson’s didactic purpose. Didactic in the
_Rambler_ Johnson always is. “Instruction,” in Boswell’s words, “is the
predominant purpose of the _Rambler_,”[142]—instruction, whether
directly inculcating morality, as in the moralistic tales, or indirectly
setting forth some philosophic idea connected with human conduct, as in
the six so-called philosophic tales. Yet, even in the latter group,
Johnson’s speculation is always concerned with questions of vital
interest to mankind, and hence in the deepest sense moral questions. In
all of his fiction, moralistic teachings are present, whether explicit
or implicit, although less prominent than the philosophic ideas.
Frequently pompous in diction and artificial in manner, these stories,
nevertheless, do not lack a certain impressive simplicity in their
presentation of various aspects of Johnson’s earnest philosophy of life.
His convictions of the vanity of accumulating riches, expecting
gratitude, seeking happiness, desiring fame, forming a definite plan for
one’s life, are all found here and are all variations on his favourite
theme: the vanity of human wishes. But, even in these short stories,
Johnson reveals two other equally characteristic aspects of his
philosophy: religious faith, and brave insistence on duty. _Nouradin the
Merchant and his son Almamoulin_, which forms the whole of the
_Rambler_, No. 120, is prefaced by quotations on virtue, and teaches the
vanity of gathering riches. _Morad the son of Hanuth and his son
Abonzaid_[143] sets forth the vanity of labours that wish to be rewarded
by gratitude, and concludes that the only satisfactory aim of life is to
please God. _Seged, Lord of Ethiopia, and his efforts to be happy_,[144]
is obviously an earlier draft of _Rasselas_.[145] Seged, having
fulfilled all his duties as king, determined to retire for ten days from
the cares of state, in order to be happy for that short interval. He
commanded “the house of pleasure built in an island of the Lake Dambia,
to be prepared,” and endeavoured to gratify every desire. But the first
day there were so many pleasures to choose from that the day slipped by
without a choice; and the other days were marred by accidents, a bad
dream, tyranny, envy among those whom he sought to please, by the memory
of a defeat, and finally by the death of his daughter. Hence the king
concluded: “Let no man ever presume to say, ‘This day shall be a day of
happiness.’” The narrative is better than in the other tales; it
possesses more unity and more interest. The oriental setting is slight,
the descriptions are vague, and emphasis is thrown upon the unadorned
theme. The strength of the story lies in the force of this theme and the
sympathetic account of Seged’s successive feelings. It is interesting to
find Johnson meditating on these questions seven years before writing
_Rasselas_. Two other tales, published after _Rasselas_, treat of
similar ideas. _Gelalledin_[146] is like a part of the story of Imlac in
_Rasselas_. Gelalledin, the learned youth, refused a professor’s chair
in hopes of returning to his native city “to dazzle and instruct,” but
when he returned, was unnoticed and ignored. _Omar, Son of Hassan_,[147]
the good and wise servant of the caliph, tells the plan he made in youth
for his life: ten years study; ten years travel; marriage, and
retirement from court. But he “trifled away the years of improvement,”
and each part of his plan was frustrated. Terrestrial happiness is
short, and it is vanity to plan life according to one’s wishes,—surely
an echo of the theme of _Rasselas_.
The imitators of Johnson apparently found it easier to write moralistic
than philosophic tales. At least this is true of the editor of the
_Adventurer_, who was so voluminous a moralist. Only one of his stories,
_Almet the Dervise_,[148] can be called philosophic, and even here the
author moralizes throughout. The title given the essay is _The Value of
Life fixed by Hope and Fear and therefore dependent upon the Will: an
Eastern story_. Almet is taught by an angel, who shows him in a vision a
fair landscape and an “austere” scene and comments on them. Like
Johnson, Hawkesworth employs oriental colouring sparingly. He exerts his
imagination upon the picture of the dervish Almet watching the sacred
lamp in the sepulcher of the prophet and, after the angel has vanished,
finding himself at the temple porch in the serene twilight. One other
imitation of Johnson’s philosophic tales is Goldsmith’s _Asem, an
Eastern Tale: or a vindication of the wisdom of Providence in the moral
government of the world_.[149] Asem is taught by the customary vision
and Genius. Goldsmith’s fancy, not content with the conventional
introduction, pictures the Genius walking over the lake and guiding Asem
to a beautiful country beneath its depths. The lucid style and the
occasional satire, characteristic of the author, serve to distinguish
this sketch from those of his predecessors.
We have spoken of the development of the philosophic oriental tale from
Addison’s _Vision of Mirza_ on through Johnson’s work in the _Rambler_
and the _Idler_ to Hawkesworth’s and Goldsmith’s imitations. There
remain to be considered the translations from Voltaire, especially
_Zadig_, and the most important philosophical oriental tale of the
period, Johnson’s _Rasselas_. But before examining these books, which
carry on the philosophizing tendency to its culmination, it may be well
to mention two works, somewhat apart from the general current, yet
warranting a brief digression.
One is a pseudo-translation: _The Bonze, or Chinese Anchorite_;[150] the
other, a genuine translation from the Arabic, _The Life of Hai Ebn
Yokdhan_. The full title of the latter reads:[151] _The Improvement of
Human Reason, Exhibited in the Life of Hai Ebn Yokdhan: Written in
Arabick above 500 years ago, by Abu Jaafar Ebn Tophail, In which is
demonstrated, By what Methods one may, by the meer Light of Nature,
attain the Knowledg of things Natural and Supernatural; more
particularly the Knowledg of God, and the Affairs of another Life,
Illustrated with proper Figures. Newly Translated from the Original
Arabick, by Simon Ockley, A. M. Vicar of Swavesey in Cambridgshire. With
an Appendix, In which the Possibility of Man’s attaining the True
Knowledge of God, and Things necessary to Salvation, without
Instruction, is briefly consider’d_. London ... 1708. The bookseller’s
preface to the reader summarizes the author’s purpose and outlines the
story with sufficient clearness: “The Design of the Author (who was a
Mahometan Philosopher) is to shew how Humane Reason may, by Observation
and Experience, arrive at the Knowledge of Natural Things, and from
thence to Supernatural; particularly the Knowledge of God and a Future
State. And in order to [do] this, he supposes a Person brought up by
himself, where he was altogether destitute of any Instruction, but what
he could get from his own Observation. He lays the scene in some
Fortunate Island, situate under the Equinoctial; where he supposes this
Philosopher, either to have been bred (according to _Avicen’s_
Hypothesis, who conceiv’d a Possibility of a Man’s being form’d by the
Influence of the Planets upon Matter rightly disposed) without either
Father or Mother; or else expos’d in his Infancy, and providentially
suckled by a Roe. Not that our Author believ’d any such matter, but only
having design’d to contrive a convenient place for his Philosopher, so
as to leave him to Reason by himself, and make his Observations without
any Guide.... Then he shews by what Steps ... he advanc’d ... till at
last he perceived the Necessity of acknowledging an Infinite, Eternal,
Wise Creator, and also the Immateriality and Immortality of his own
Soul, and that its Happiness consisted only in a continued Conjunction
with this supream Being.” The bookseller continues with a comment to
which the reader will assent: “The Matter of this Book is curious.” One
interesting description of the solitary hero’s method of making himself
comfortable on the island recalls _Robinson Crusoe_, and as this book
appeared only eleven years before _Crusoe_, the passage may possibly
have been seen by Defoe. Hai Ebn Yokdhan, by the time he was twenty-one
years old, “had made abundance of pretty Contrivances. He made himself
both Cloaths and Shoes of the Skins of such Wild Beasts as he had
dissected. His thread was made of Hair, and of the Bark of ...
Plants.... He made awls of sharp Thorns.... He learn’d the Art of
Building from the Observations he made upon the Swallows Nests....
He ... made a Door ... of Canes twisted together ... etc.”[152] One
other passage of interest is the account of his mystical trance.[153] He
prepared himself by abstinence and by “Imitation of the Heavenly Bodies”
in three respects, first in exercising beneficence toward animals and
plants, second in keeping himself “clear, bright, and pure” like the
light, third in “practising a circular motion” until dizziness weakened
his bodily faculties and purified his spirit.[154] By such means and by
constant meditation, he at last attained to the sight of perfect vision
in the highest sphere. There he beheld the reflection of the divine
glory, the perfection of beauty, splendour, and joy; and after that, the
successive reflections of the divine essence in the other heavenly
spheres. Thus he came to realize the dependence of all created things on
the “one, true, necessary, self-existent” First Cause: and saw that this
world followed “the Divine World as a Shadow does the Body.” The story
concludes with an account of the friendship formed by the philosopher
with a holy man who came to the island, and of their “serving God ...
till they died.” In addition to the slight resemblance to _Robinson
Crusoe_ noted above, the book possesses interest as a link between the
work of seventeenth-century orientalists like Dr. Pococke[155] and the
oriental tales of our period; and also as an example of the exaltation
of the “natural man” found earlier in _Oroonoko_ and later in the works
of Rousseau.
_The Bonze_ is more curious but less valuable. It is an odd medley of
moralistic and philosophic rhapsodies on all sorts of subjects,—the
Trinity, Lucifer, Adam’s fall,—combined with sentimental and coarse
love-tales concerning the Chinese prince Zangola’s transmigrations, and
recounted in a vision to the sage Confuciango. The style is so atrocious
as to be amusing, _e.g._ the “gay pomposity” of the peacock’s “beauteous
tail,” “horrific scenes,” “old dreadful tygers” [_sic_], the “elegance
of heaven,” and “the hideous tenebrosity of hell.” “Elegance” of every
kind is frequent. “Never before was my heart susceptible of such elegant
feelings.” “Methought mortality fell from me like the catterpiller’s
[_sic_] form, when he becomes invested with elegance, and shaking his
golden wings, disdaining earth, he flies exulting towards heaven.” But
when the writer goes so far as to describe “a sunrise, orientally
decorated,” one is irresistibly reminded of Fielding’s cheerful parodies
of flamboyant preambles in, for example, the opening paragraph of Chap.
II., Book IV., of _Tom Jones_: “A short hint of what we can do in the
sublime, and a description of Miss Sophia Western.” _The Bonze_ in
extravagance thus occupies a unique, if insignificant, place among the
philosophic tales. Like them it discusses questions such as the origin
of evil and the search for happiness, attempts but little local colour,
and regards the East as “romantic” and “barbaric,”—words at that time
almost synonymous. “He received me in as kind a manner as it is possible
for a mere barbarian.” “There was a romantic palace in the free taste of
China, which, tied to no partial rules, admitted all the beauties of
architecture.” The attitude of the writer is one of apologetic
admiration of objects and ideas so foreign to eighteenth-century
standards. But _The Bonze_, despite its aim to “mingle instruction with
delight in hope to gain the smile of approbation,” stands at one side in
any general view of the philosophic oriental tale, and serves to bring
into greater prominence the real value of such works as Voltaire’s
_Zadig_ and Johnson’s _Rasselas_.
In France, the _Conte Philosophique_, founded by Voltaire, had been one
of the most notable imitations of the genuine oriental tale. In 1749,
only a year after the first complete French edition appeared,
_Zadig_[156] was translated into English. The popularity it attained in
England was due in part to the fact that one of its chapters, _The
Hermit_, was based on the poem by Thomas Parnell,[157] in part to the
fame of Voltaire, and chiefly to the character of the book itself.
Abounding in wit, humour, and philosophy,—qualities enhanced by
Voltaire’s keen and brilliant style,—_Zadig_ has a permanent value,
visible even through the medium of translation. There is a slight but
sufficiently firm thread of story,—the love of Zadig for the queen,—and
on this are strung Zadig’s separate and vari-coloured adventures. The
discovery of the king’s lost palfrey by circumstantial evidence, Zadig’s
pretense at worshiping candles to rebuke his idolatrous master, the
frustrated attempt of Zadig’s affectionate wife to cut off his nose, his
rescue from death by a parrot’s finding his verses, the fantastic scene
of the maidens in a meadow searching for a basilisk,—such incidents are
cleverly told, and even in the English version show something of the wit
of the original French. The main story has a good climax and a happy
dénouement. Voltaire’s clever manipulation of oriental colouring
apparently contributed not a little to the immediate popularity of both
the French and the English versions. By the time _Zadig_ appeared,[158]
the European critic of manners and thought in the disguise of an
Oriental had become a conventional type in the oriental tale.[159]
_Zadig_ is a variant on the theme of the _Lettres Persanes_. Voltaire is
a more subtle satirist in that he does not locate his Oriental in Paris,
but in Babylon. Hence, like Swift’s satires, Voltaire’s criticisms of
European customs, because ostensibly remote and not aimed at Europe, are
the more penetrating. “That show of insignificant words which in Babylon
they called polite conversation.”... “They would not suffer him to open
his mouth in his own vindication. His pocket-book was sufficient
evidence against him. So strict were the Babylonish laws.” Zadig is, of
course, Voltaire himself, and the other characters with fanciful
“oriental” names—Arimanzes, Astarte, Seloc—are said to be Voltaire’s
court enemies and friends. Like the similar device in the pastoral, this
gave piquancy to the narrative. Voltaire’s twofold aim, to be the
entertaining story-teller and the satirical philosopher, is discernible
on every page, and his light and facile use of oriental setting is not
unlike Goldsmith’s in _The Citizen of the World_. He lays the scene in
Babylon or Egypt, the Indies or Memphis, and mentions Siberia and
Scythia to add to the sense of remoteness. His characters wear turbans
and sandals, travel on the “swiftest dromedaries” and camels, are sold
as slaves to an Arab merchant, are threatened with the bowstring and
poisoned cup. The “fair coquet” insists that the old and gouty chief
Magus shall “dance a saraband” before her, and the beautiful Almona is
rescued from the suttee by the ability of Zadig. Besides such references
to Eastern customs, there are quotations of proverbs and of Zoroastrian
precepts, and various references to religious beliefs and observances,
_e.g._ the bridge of death, the angel Azrael, Oromazdes, and temple
worship. Chap. XI., _The Evening’s Entertainment_, treats of ideas found
also in Voltaire’s _Fragments historiques sur l’Inde_: the worship of
one God under the symbol of fire by the ancient Persians; of one supreme
Deity under various symbols by the Egyptians, etc. A heated discussion
takes place between an Egyptian, an Indian, a Greek, and others as to
the superior claims of their respective religions. They are finally
brought by Zadig’s sense and tact to acknowledge that, in truth, they
all worship the Supreme Creator as behind and above all symbols.[160] By
this mockery of oriental fanaticism, Voltaire is actually satirizing
European bigotry and unreason. In a similar manner he strikes at the
metaphysicians. Zadig “was well instructed in the science of the ancient
Chaldeans ... and understood as much of metaphysics as any that have
lived after him,—that is to say, he knew very little about it.” And,
aiming ostensibly at the mercenary selfishness of the Babylonian
courtiers, Voltaire hits the sycophants of the French court. The king
ordered Zadig’s fine of four hundred ounces to be restored to him.
“Agreeable to his Majesty’s commands, the clerk of the court, the
tipstaffs, and the other petty officers, waited on Zadig ... to refund
the four hundred ounces of gold; modestly reserving only three hundred
and ninety ounces, to defray the fees of the court and other expenses.”
The inconsistency of the oriental freebooter who thought it wrong for
the rich, but quite right for himself, to get and keep wealth, might
easily have found a parallel in France. “I was distracted to see” (he
says) “in a wide world which ought to be divided fairly among mankind,
that Fate had reserved so small a portion for me.” Other themes
illustrated are the misery caused by tyrants; the injustice of the
social structure; the fickleness of women who protest too much; and
above all the question of the part played in human life by destiny,—the
apparent supremacy of Chance, and the real supremacy of a foreknowing
and overruling Providence. Zadig’s adventures hinge upon trivial
happenings, and hence he doubts Providence, until the angel, disguised
as a hermit, teaches him.[161] We have spoken of Voltaire’s facile use
of oriental colouring. But in _Zadig_ few figures of speech occur. On
one occasion Zadig addresses the judges as “glorious stars of justice,”
and “mirrors of equity.” Such figures, however, are rare, a fact the
more remarkable since Voltaire considered the immoderate use of metaphor
one of the chief characteristics of oriental writing,[162] and another
instance of the way in which he subordinated the oriental setting to his
serious purpose.
Besides _Zadig_, several other _contes philosophiques_ by Voltaire were
early translated into English. In the majority of them, literary and
social satire predominates over philosophical speculation, and therefore
these tales may best be classified among the Satiric Group in Chap. IV.
But in two, though satire is present, speculation is predominant: _The
World as it Goes_, (1754)[163] and _The Good Bramin_ (1763).[164] Both
are brief. The latter is a sketch of a good Bramin who had studied much
and, in his own estimation, learned nothing. Hence he was unhappy, yet
he preferred his condition to that of an old woman, who lived near him,
contented because ignorant. In conclusion the author states that he has
been unable to find any philosopher who would accept happiness on the
terms of being ignorant. All men seem to set a greater value on reason
than on happiness. Is not that folly? _The World as it Goes_ is an
account of a visit to Persepolis, _i.e._ Paris, by Babouc the Scythian,
sent by the genie Ithuriel to observe the inhabitants in order to assist
Ithuriel in deciding whether or not to destroy Persepolis. Babouc
observed soldiers, church-goers, lawyers, merchants, magi, men of
letters, and women. In each group he found both good and bad qualities
so mingled that he wavered back and forth in his judgment, and finally
grew fond of a city, “the inhabitants of which were polite, affable, and
beneficent, though fickle, slanderous, and vain.” When obliged to report
to the angel, he presented him with a little statue made of base metals,
gold, and jewels. “Wilt thou break,” said he to Ithuriel, “this pretty
statue because it is not wholly composed of gold and diamonds?” Ithuriel
understood, and resolved to spare the city and to leave “the world as it
goes.” “For,” he said, “if all is not well, all is passable.” Except for
these _contes_ by Voltaire, no philosophic oriental tales of any
importance were translated from the French. The current tended, in fact,
the other way. English tales, both moralistic and philosophic, were
translated and adapted for use in _Les Mercures de France_.
Of the philosophic oriental tales composed in English, _Rasselas_
(1759),[165] the most important, remains to be discussed. The
culmination of the fiction in the _Rambler_ and the _Idler_, this brief
sketch may be regarded as the best type of the serious English oriental
tale. Written immediately after the death of Johnson’s mother, it
expresses the substance of the author’s somber philosophy of life.
Though darkened by his immediate grief, the philosophy is essentially
the same as that revealed in his conversations and his verse. The theme
of the tale can hardly be stated in a better phrase than “The Vanity of
Human Wishes.” Rasselas, confined in the Happy Valley all the days of
his youth, realizes that the gratification of desire does not confer
lasting happiness; and, with his sister Nekayah and two other
companions, escapes into the world only to discover unhappiness
everywhere. Unable to obtain even his wish to govern a little kingdom
beneficently, he resolves to return to Abyssinia. In sight of this
conclusion, the princess Nekayah significantly declares: “The choice of
life is become less important. I hope hereafter to think only on the
choice of eternity.”
The story is broken by continual philosophizing, or rather the
philosophizing—to the author more important—is held together by the
slender thread of narrative. Serious and leisurely conversations held by
Rasselas with his companions turn upon the problems of government; the
characteristics of melancholia; the mysterious causes of good and evil;
the immortality of the soul; and, most frequently, the impossibility of
attaining happiness. One of the chief reasons for discontent is the lack
of free choice. “Very few ... live by choice. Every man is placed in his
present condition by causes which acted without his foresight and with
which he did not always willingly coöperate; and therefore you will
rarely meet one who does not think the lot of his neighbours better than
his own.” Each endeavour of Rasselas to find a happy man is
unsuccessful. “The young men of spirit and gaiety,” whose only business
is pleasure, are not happy; shepherds in the much-praised pastoral life
and courtiers in gay society are envious and discontented; hermits are
at heart unhappy, and so are the sages who trust in empty and eloquent
commonplaces on the superiority of reason; men who advise living
“according to nature” attain only a false content. “Marriage has many
pains, but celibacy has no pleasures;” old age is darkened by loneliness
and disappointed hopes; happiness itself is the cause of keenest misery
to the man who has loved and lost a friend, and “human life is
everywhere a state in which much is to be endured and little to be
enjoyed.”
The mitigating circumstance which affords this little enjoyment is the
power of man to attain knowledge and to retain integrity. An educated
intellect and a quiet conscience go far, in Johnson’s estimation,
towards winning serenity and patience. “Knowledge” includes poetry; the
poet Imlac is a man of learning, a scholar; and poetry is “considered as
the highest learning and regarded with a veneration....” The poet should
educate himself by study and by observation until he is able to fulfil
his function “as the interpreter of nature and the legislator of
mankind, ... presiding over the thoughts and manners of future
generations, ... a being superior to time and place.” To Johnson,
thoroughly convinced that life ought to be viewed from the moralistic
side, knowledge is valuable only when ideas are applied to life, and his
philosophizing continually verges towards the dividing line between
speculation and conduct. He rebukes those who, while “making the choice
of life,” “neglect to live”; those who, like Rasselas, pass “four months
in resolving to lose no more time in idle resolves”; he inculcates
employment as the best cure for sorrow; perseverance, courage, and
honesty as essentials of character; and concludes that “all that virtue
can afford is quietness of conscience and a steady prospect of a happier
state; this may enable us to endure calamity with patience, but remember
that patience must suppose pain.”
This fundamental characteristic of Johnson’s philosophy of life—the
sense of the consolation offered to man in the midst of mystery and
unhappiness by virtue, by knowledge, and by faith in a future
existence—renders interesting a comparison of _Rasselas_ and
_Candide_.[166] The two _contes philosophiques_ were published almost
simultaneously,[167] and show striking points of similarity and of
difference. Johnson’s reverent manner, for instance, is opposed to
Voltaire’s habitual mockery; yet Johnson sometimes satirizes shams with
savage irony, and Voltaire, underneath his mockery, has an honest
reverence for the truth. Both are absolutely independent and fearless in
facing intellectual or philosophic problems.
The themes of _Rasselas_ and _Candide_ are strikingly similar. In this
enigmatical world, says Voltaire, which is full of unhappiness due to
misfortune and crime, optimism is false and futile. Candide spends his
sheltered youth in a castle which he is taught to believe blindly is the
most magnificent of all castles in the best of all possible worlds,—an
environment of ideas as artificial as the Happy Valley is for Rasselas,
and affording an equally sharp contrast to the real life outside. For
the Happy Valley, if we look for the meaning of Johnson’s allegory,
signifies the environment, whether inherited or self-made, of the
extreme optimist. Rasselas has the optimistic temperament, hopeful,
charitable, saying confidently: “Surely happiness is somewhere to be
found.” The other inhabitants of the Happy Valley, who enter it
voluntarily and can never leave it, may be likened to optimists like Dr.
Pangloss, Candide’s base and foolish tutor, whose blindness is the
darker because self-imposed,—none so blind as those who will not see.
Gradually the conviction is borne in upon Rasselas that every search for
happiness is futile, and his efforts end in a “conclusion in which
nothing is concluded.” The disillusionment of Candide, less profound
than that of Rasselas, is more bitter because based on intimate and
vivid experiences of crime and horrors.
_Rasselas_ is Voltairean not only in general theme but also in several
specific ideas. Johnson treats with keen satire the philosopher who
“looked round him with a placid air and enjoyed the consciousness of his
own beneficence,” after exhorting men to “live according to nature.”
Rasselas respectfully asked him to define his terms, whereupon he
enlarged as follows: “‘To live according to nature is to act always with
due regard to the fitness arising from the relations ... of cause and
effects; to concur with the great ... scheme of universal felicity; to
coöperate with the general disposition and tendency of the present
system of things.’ The prince found that this was one of the sages whom
he should understand less as he heard him longer. He therefore bowed and
was silent; and the philosopher, supposing him satisfied, and the rest
vanquished, rose up and departed with the air of a man that had
coöperated with the present system.” The irony of Voltaire finds an echo
in Imlac’s words: “learning from the sailors the art of navigation,
which I have never practised, and ... forming schemes for my conduct in
different situations, in not one of which I have ever been placed.”
There is obvious satire too in the account of the eminent mechanist who
discoursed learnedly upon the art of flying. But his flying machine
refused to fly and he promptly dropped into the lake, from which “the
prince drew him to land half dead with terror and vexation.”[168]
Johnson’s “wise and happy man,” who talks nobly about fortitude, but who
is unable to sustain the loss of his daughter, resembles the philosopher
in Voltaire’s sketch, _Les deux Consolés_, who seeks to solace a lady’s
grief by eloquence and refuses to be similarly comforted upon the death
of his son. Imlac’s encomium upon the busy and cheerful monastic life
has been compared with the close of _Candide_. There the hero meets a
contentedly ignorant old man whose entire life is employed in
cultivating his garden, and who thus escapes from ennui, vice, and want.
Candide is profoundly impressed, and brushes aside the grandiloquence of
Pangloss with the significant reply: “Cela est bien dit, ... mais il
faut cultiver notre jardin.” This is Voltaire’s last word in _Candide_,
and, like Johnson’s comment upon the return of Rasselas to Abyssinia, is
“a conclusion in which nothing is concluded.” Thus the similarity of
incidents and ideas brings us back to the deeper analogy between the
themes: the disillusionment of the optimist who has been brought up in
unreality.
All this similarity is, however, counterbalanced by an utter
dissimilarity of treatment. A consideration of Voltaire’s artistic
method throws Johnson’s concept of an oriental tale into bolder relief,
with the high lights on those elements that he considered of prime
importance. Voltaire enjoyed telling the story for the sake of the
story, and delighted in the means he took to make blind optimism
ridiculous, wit and keen satire, vivid description and incident, clever
characterization,—in short, an artistic use of the concrete. _Candide_
has been called “the wittiest book of the eighteenth century,” and wit
is a characteristic as far removed as possible from the seriousness of
_Rasselas_. To Johnson the story was a means to an end,—a frame
necessary to hold together and enhance the thought,—hence the simpler
the frame the better. In _Candide_ the story is interpenetrated with the
theme, but not borne down by it. Candide, like Rasselas, is searching
for happiness; but unlike Johnson’s hero, he desires not happiness in
the abstract,—a philosophical possibility,—but pleasure in the concrete
form of his mistress. He travels far and wide, in hopeful anticipation;
but when he finds her at last, she is no longer fair or lovable, and his
marriage with her is perfunctory and joyless,—a concrete, Voltairean
expression of the idea that happiness attained is often no happiness,
but vanishes in one’s grasp like the apples of dust.
The scenes of Voltaire’s tale, moreover, are not laid in remote
Abyssinia, but chiefly in Europe, with an excursion to “El Dorado” in
the New World, an impossible and comfortable Utopia, the memory of which
serves to embitter Candide’s distress during his subsequent misfortunes.
The Europe of the tale is clearly the Europe of Voltaire’s own day:
there are obvious allusions to contemporary events, such as the
execution of the innocent English admiral Byng in 1757, an excellent
opportunity for Voltaire’s famous gibe at the English: “Dans ce pays-ci
il est bon de tuer de temps en temps un amiral pour encourager les
autres.” The characters also are more individualized than in _Rasselas_,
and scenes like the visit to the blasé Venetian senator Pococurante
(Chap. XXV.)[169] are brilliantly depicted. Throughout the entire story
one definite incident follows another, good and bad, but never
indifferent; until a general effect of rich complexity, of rapid
movement—not unlike that of _Gil Blas_—is attained. In the last analysis
what more striking contrast to this work of Voltaire, the consummate
artist and keen satirist, than _Rasselas_, the profoundly philosophical
tale of Johnson the moralist? Voltaire’s keen wit and brilliant mockery
is indeed exhilarating after the slow and ponderous progress of
Johnson’s thought; but, on the other hand, after the atmosphere of
turmoil, excitement, and repulsive crime in _Candide_, the clear and
pure air of _Rasselas_ affords a welcome relief. In the remote regions
of Johnson’s imaginary Abyssinia and Egypt, events are of minor
importance; the quiet, even advance of speculation concerning truth is
Johnson’s chief interest. There is no emphasis on any incident that
might distract the attention,—in fact the only noticeable events are the
flight from the Happy Valley and the adventure of Pekuah. Neither is
there any emphasis on description; the Happy Valley is depicted in the
most general terms; it might be any valley anywhere. Similarly, in
describing the Lady Pekuah in the Arab’s tent, or Rasselas in Cairo, or
the pyramids of Egypt,—in each case Johnson abstains from the concrete
and prefers the general term. Again, as to time and place he is vague.
His scene is laid far from contemporary Europe. “Rasselas was the fourth
son of the mighty emperor, in whose dominions the Father of Waters
begins his course, whose bounty ... scatters over half the world the
harvests of Egypt.” In fact Johnson’s method of orientalizing his tale
was extremely simple. “Imlac in _Rasselas_,” he says, “I spelt with a
_c_ at the end, because it is less like English, which should always
have the Saxon _k_ added to the _c_.”[170] Eastern localities are only
occasionally mentioned, and always in a thoroughly Johnsonian manner:
“Agra, the capital of Indostan, the city in which the Great Mogul
resides;” “Persia, where I saw many remains of ancient magnificence, and
observed many new accommodations of life.” But there is no local colour,
even in the account of Imlac’s journey with the caravan to the Red Sea,
or of the Arab bandits who demanded ransom for the Lady Pekuah, or of
the story-telling in the cool of the day. The language, clear and often
simple, always dignified and powerful, sometimes pompous, is seldom
orientalized by the introduction of figures such as “the frown of
power,” “the eye of wisdom,” “the waves of violence,” “the rocks of
treachery.” Unobstructed by imagery, it reflects Johnson’s clear and
serious thought. The Happy Valley, as a central concept, is as simple as
the bridge in _The Vision of Mirza_; indeed, Johnson’s treatment of
imaginative elements in general is like Addison’s. Rasselas, like Mirza,
is so generalized as to be “Everyman,” lacking the specific traits of a
living individual and in so far resembling characters in other oriental
tales. Yet the earnestness and dignity of the author raise _Rasselas_
above the average oriental tale. Both theme and treatment compel
attention, and like music, may be interpreted by each reader for
himself. To a man of Johnson’s temperament, habitually threatened by
melancholy, the brighter side of life was invisible; such facts as
abiding joy, enduring content, true happiness, were beyond his field of
vision. Consequently _Rasselas_ shows only the shadows of the picture,
and is, in so far, untrue to life as a whole. But the truth that Johnson
saw, he faced unflinchingly and depicted powerfully, and by this truth,
so depicted, _Rasselas_ still lives. Emphasis on philosophizing rather
than on narrative; creation of a setting faint in colour; intentional
vagueness regarding character, time, and place, result in a strong
impression of remoteness. The Abyssinia and Cairo of _Rasselas_ are
far-away and shadowy places, in which shadowy people move; but the
questions raised, the grief expressed, come home to whoever “hath kept
watch o’er man’s mortality,” and, like Johnson, perplexed by
“the mystery, ...
the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,”
has taken refuge in “learning,” “integrity,” and “faith.” These are the
realities behind the shadows in _Rasselas_,—realities which gain from
the vagueness and remoteness of setting a heightened effect of
universality.