C — Catéchisme du Japonois
Original French
L’INDIEN.
Est-il vrai qu’autrefois les Japonois ne sçavaient pas faire la cuisine, qu’ils avaient soumis leur royaume au grand Lama, que ce grand Lama décidait souverainement de leur boire & de leur manger, qu’il envoyait chez vous de temps en temps un petit Lama, lequel venait recueillir les tributs, & qu’il vous donnait en échange un signe de protection, fait avec les deux premiers doigts & le pouce?
LE JAPONOIS.
Hélas! rien n’est plus vrai. Figurez vous même que toutes les places de Canusi qui sont les grands cuisiniers de nôtre île, étaient données par le Lama, & n’étaient pas données pour l’amour de Dieu. De plus, chaque maison de nos séculiers payait une once d’argent par an à ce grand cuisinier du Thibet. Il ne nous accordait pour tout dédommagement que des petits plats d’assez mauvais goût qu’on appelle des restes. Et quand il lui prenait quelque fantaisie nouvelle, comme de faire la guerre aux peuples du Tangut, il levait chez nous de nouveaux subsides. Nôtre nation se plaignit souvent, mais sans aucun fruit; & même chaque plainte finissait par payer un peu davantage. Enfin l’amour qui fait tout pour le mieux, nous délivra de cette servitude. Un de nos empereurs se brouilla avec le grand Lama pour une femme: mais il faut avoüer que ceux qui nous servirent le plus dans cette affaire furent nos Canusi, autrement Pauxcospies; c’est à eux que nous avons l’obligation d’avoir secoué le joug, & voici comment.
Le grand Lama avait une plaisante manie; il croyait avoir toujours raison; nôtre Daïri & nos Canisi voulurent avoir du moins raison quelquefois. Le grand Lama trouva cette prétention absurde; nos Canisi n’en démordirent point, & ils rompirent pour jamais avec lui.
L’INDIEN.
Eh bien, depuis ce temps-là vous avez été sans doute heureux & tranquilles?
LE JAPONOIS.
Point du tout, nous nous sommes persécutés, déchirés, dévorés pendant près de deux siècles. Nos Canusi voulaient en vain avoir raison; il n’y a que cent ans qu’ils sont raisonnables. Aussi, depuis ce temps-là pouvons-nous hardiment nous regarder comme une des nations des plus heureuses de la terre.
L’INDIEN.
Comment pouvez - vous jouïr d’un tel bonheur, s’il est vrai ce qu’on m’a dit que vous ayez douze factions de cuisine dans vôtre empire? vous devez avoir douze guerres civiles par an.
LE JAPONOIS.
Pourquoi? s’il y a douze traiteurs dont chacun ait une recette différente, faudra-t-il pour cela se couper la gorge au lieu de diner? au contraire, chacun fera bonne chère à sa façon chez le cuisinier qui lui agréera davantage.
L’INDIEN.
Il est vrai qu’on ne doit point disputer des gouts, mais on en dispute, & la querelle s’échauffe.
LE JAPONOIS.
Après qu’on a disputé bien longtemps, & qu’on a vu que toutes ces querelles n’aprenaient aux hommes qu’à se nuire, on prend enfin le parti de se tolérer mutuellement, & c’est sans contredit ce qu’il y a de mieux à faire.
L’INDIEN.
Et qui sont, s’il vous plaît, ces traiteurs qui partagent vôtre nation dans l’art de boire & de manger?
LE JAPONOIS.
Il y a premiérement les Breuxeli, qui ne vous donneront jamais de boudin ni de lard; ils sont attachés à l’ancienne cuisine, ils aimeraient mieux mourir que de piquer un poulet; d’ailleurs, grands calculateurs; & s’il y a une once d'argent à partager entre eux & les onze autres cuisiniers, ils en prennent d’abord la moitié pour eux, & le reste est pour ceux qui sçavent le mieux compter.
L’INDIEN.
Je crois que vous ne soupez guères avec ces gens-là?
LE JAPONOIS.
Non; il y a ensuite les Pispates, qui certains jours de chaque semaine, & même pendant un temps considérable de l’année, aimeraient cent fois mieux manger pour cent écus de turbots, de truites, de soles, de saumons, d’esturgeons, que de se nourir d’une blanquette de veau, qui ne reviendrait pas à quatre sous.
Pour nous autres Canusi, nous aimons fort le bœuf, & une certaine patisserie qu’on appelle en Japonois du pudding. Au reste, tout le monde convient que nos cuisiniers sont infiniment plus sçavants que ceux des Pispates. Personne n’a plus aprofondi que nous le Garum des Romains, n’a mieux connu les oignons de l’ancienne Egypte, la pâte de sauterelles des premiers Arabes, la chair de cheval des Tartares, & il y a toujours quelque chose à apprendre dans les livres des Canusi, qu’on appelle communément Pauxcospie.
Je ne vous parlerai point de ceux qui ne mangent qu’à la Terlu, ni de ceux qui tiennent pour le régime de Vincal, ni des Batistanes, ni des autres; mais les Quekars méritent une attention particuliére. Ce sont les seuls convives que je n’aye jamais vu s’enyvrer & jurer. Ils sont très difficiles à tromper, mais ils ne vous tromperont jamais. Il semble que la loi d’aimer son prochain comme soi-même n’ait été faite que pour ces gens-là; car en vérité, comment un bon Japonois peut-il se vanter d’aimer son prochain comme lui-même, quand il va pour quelque argent lui tirer une balle de plomb dans la cervelle, ou l’égorger avec un criss large de quatre doigts, le tout en front de bandiére? il s’expose lui-même à être égorgé, & à recevoir des balles de plomb; ainsi, on peut dire avec bien plus de vérité, qu’il hait son prochain comme lui-même. Les Quekars n’ont jamais eu cette frénésie; ils disent que les pauvres humains sont des cruches d’argile faites pour durer très-peu, & que ce n’est pas la peine qu’elles aillent de gaieté de cœur se briser les unes contre les autres.
Je vous avoüe que si je n’étais pas Canusi, je ne haïrais pas d’être Quekar. Vous m’avoüerez qu'il n’y a pas moyen de se quereller avec des cuisiniers si pacifiques. Il y en a d'autres en très grand nombre qu’on appelle Diestes; ceux là donnent à diner à tout le monde indifféremment, & vous êtes libre chez eux de manger tout ce qui vous plaît, lardé, bardé, sans lard, sans barde, aux œufs, à l'huile; perdrix, saumon, vin gris, vin rouge, tout celà leur est indifférent, pourvu que vous fassiez quelque priére à Dieu avant ou après le diner, & même simplement avant le déjeuner, & que vous soyez honnêtes gens, ils riront avec vous aux dépends du grand Lama, à qui celà ne fera nul mal, & aux dépends de Terluh & de Vincal, & de Memnon &c. il est bon seulement que nos Diestes avoüent que nos Canusi sont très sçavants en cuisine, & que surtout ils ne parlent jamais de retrancher nos rentes; alors nous vivrons très paisiblement ensemble.
L’INDIEN.
Mais enfin, il faut qu’il y ait une cuisine dominante, la cuisine du Roi.
LE JAPONOIS.
Je l’avoüe; mais quand le Roi du Japon a fait bonne chère, il doit être de bonne humeur, & il ne doit pas empêcher ses bons sujets de digérer.
L’INDIEN.
Mais si des entêtés veulent manger au nez du Roi des saucisses pour lesquelles le Roi aura de l’aversion, s’ils s’assemblent quatre ou cinq mille armés de grils pour faire cuire leurs saucisses, s’ils insultent ceux qui n’en mangent point?
LE JAPONOIS.
Alors il faut les punir comme des yvrognes qui troublent le repos des citoyens. Nous avons pourvu à ce danger. Il n’y a que ceux qui mangent à la royale qui soient susceptibles des dignités de l’état. Tous les autres peuvent diner à leur fantaisie, mais ils sont exclus des charges. Les attroupements sont souverainement défendus, & punis sur le champ sans remission; toutes les querelles à table sont réprimées soigneusement, selon le précepte de nôtre grand cuisinier Japonois qui a écrit dans la langue sacrée, Suti raho, cus flat, natis in usum lætitiæ sciphis pugnare tracum est: ce qui veut dire, Le diner est fait pour une joye recueillie & honnête, & il ne faut pas se jetter les verres à la tête.
Avec ces maximes nous vivons heureusement chez nous; nôtre liberté est affermie sous nos Taicosema; nos richesses augmentent; nous avons deux cent jonques de ligne, & nous sommes la terreur de nos voisins.
L’INDIEN.
Pourquoi donc le bon versificateur Recina, fils de ce poëte Indien Recina, si tendre, si exact, si harmonieux, si éloquent, a-t-il dit dans un ouvrage didactique en rimes, intitulé la grace, & non les graces,
Le Japon où jadis brilla tant de lumiére,N'est plus qu’un triste amas de folles visions?
LE JAPONOIS.
Le Recina dont vous me parlez est lui-même un grand visionaire. Ce pauvre Indien ignore-t-il que nous lui avons enseigné ce que c’est que la lumiére? que si on connait aujourd’hui dans l'Inde la véritable route des planètes, c’est à nous qu’on en est redevable? que nous seuls avons enseigné aux hommes les loix primitives de la nature, & le calcul de l’infini? que s’il faut descendre à des choses qui sont d’un usage plus commun, les gens de son païs n’ont appris que de nous à faire des jonques, dans les proportions matématiques? qu'ils nous doivent jusqu’aux chausses appellées les bas au métier, dont ils couvrent leurs jambes? Serait-il possible qu’ayant inventé tant de choses admirables ou utiles, nous ne fussions que des fous? & qu’un homme qui a mis en vers les rêveries des autres fût le seul sage? Qu’il nous laisse faire nôtre cuisine, & qu’il fasse, s'il veut, des vers sur des sujets plus poëtiques.1
L’INDIEN.
Que voulez-vous? il a les préjugés de son païs, ceux de son parti, & les siens propres.
LE JAPONOIS.
Oh voilà trop de préjugés!
1 NB. Cet Indien Recina sur la foi des rêveurs de son païs, a cru qu’on ne pouvait faire de bonnes sauces que quand Brama par une volonté toute particulière enseignait lui-même la sauce à ses favoris; qu’il y avait un nombre infini de cuisiniers auxquels il était impossible de faire un ragoût avec la ferme volonté d’y réussir, & que Brama lui en ôtait les moyens par pure malice. On ne croit pas au Japon une pareille impertinence, & on y tient pour une vérité incontestable cette sentence Japonoise,God naver acts by partial will, but by general Laws.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation of the 73 articles in the 1764 first edition, made directly from the French and reviewed against the scan-collated French text. The author’s notes, quotations and verse are retained. Historical ethnic labels, including offensive terms, are retained from the 1764 text.
The Indian.
Is it true that the Japanese once did not know how to cook, that they had subjected their kingdom to the Grand Lama, that this Grand Lama decided with sovereign authority what they should eat and drink; that from time to time he sent a little lama to your country to collect tribute and give you in exchange a sign of protection made with the first two fingers and the thumb?
The Japanese.
Alas, nothing is truer. Imagine that even all the posts of Canusi, the chief cooks of our island, were bestowed by the lama, and not bestowed for the love of God. Moreover, every secular household paid an ounce of silver a year to this great cook of Tibet. All he gave us in compensation were little dishes in rather bad taste, called remains. And whenever some new whim took him, such as making war on the peoples of Tangut, he levied new subsidies on us. Our nation often complained, but to no purpose; indeed, each complaint ended in paying a little more. At last love, which does everything for the best, delivered us from this servitude. One of our emperors quarreled with the Grand Lama over a woman. But it must be admitted that those who served us best in this affair were our Canusi, otherwise Pauxcospies. We owe it to them that we shook off the yoke, and here is how.
The Grand Lama had an amusing mania: he believed he was always right. Our Dairi and our Canusi wanted at least to be right sometimes. The Grand Lama found this pretension absurd; our Canusi would not give way, and broke with him forever.
The Indian.
Well then, since that time you have doubtless been happy and peaceful?
The Japanese.
Not at all. We persecuted, tore apart, and devoured one another for nearly two centuries. Our Canusi wanted in vain to be right; they have been reasonable for only a hundred years. Accordingly, since that time we can confidently regard ourselves as one of the happiest nations on earth.
The Indian.
How can you enjoy such happiness if what I have been told is true, that you have twelve culinary factions in your empire? You must have twelve civil wars a year.
The Japanese.
Why? If there are twelve caterers, each with a different recipe, must people cut one another’s throats instead of dining? On the contrary, everyone will dine well in his own fashion with the cook he likes best.
The Indian.
It is true that one ought not to dispute tastes; but people do dispute them, and the quarrel grows heated.
The Japanese.
After disputing a long time and seeing that all these quarrels teach men only to harm one another, they finally decide on mutual tolerance, unquestionably the best thing to do.
The Indian.
And who, if you please, are these caterers who divide your nation in the art of eating and drinking?
The Japanese.
First there are the Breuxeli, who will never give you blood sausage or bacon. They cling to the old cuisine; they would rather die than lard a chicken. Besides, they are great calculators: if there is an ounce of silver to divide between them and the eleven other cooks, they first take half for themselves, and the rest goes to those best at arithmetic.
The Indian.
I imagine you seldom dine with those people?
The Japanese.
No. Then there are the Pispates, who on certain days every week, and even for a considerable part of the year, would a hundred times rather eat a hundred crowns’ worth of turbot, trout, sole, salmon, and sturgeon than feed on a veal stew that would not cost four sous.
As for us Canusi, we are very fond of beef and a certain pastry called pudding in Japanese. Everyone agrees, moreover, that our cooks are infinitely more learned than those of the Pispates. No one has studied the Romans’ garum more deeply than we have, or better understood the onions of ancient Egypt, the locust paste of the earliest Arabs, the Tartars’ horseflesh; and there is always something to learn in the books of the Canusi, commonly called Pauxcospie.
I shall not speak of those who eat only in the manner of Terlu, or those who adhere to Vincal’s diet, or the Batistanes, or the others; but the Quekars deserve particular attention. They are the only guests I have never seen get drunk or swear. They are very hard to deceive, but they will never deceive you. It seems the law of loving one’s neighbor as oneself was made only for these people; for really, how can a good Japanese boast of loving his neighbor as himself when for a little money he goes and fires a lead bullet into his brains, or cuts his throat with a kris four fingers wide, all under a banner? He exposes himself to having his own throat cut and receiving lead bullets; so one can say with far more truth that he hates his neighbor as himself. The Quekars have never had this frenzy. They say poor humans are earthenware jugs made to last a very short time, and that it is not worth their while to go merrily smashing themselves against one another.
I confess that if I were not a Canusi, I would not mind being a Quekar. You will admit there is no way to quarrel with such peaceful cooks. There are very many others called Diestes. They give dinner to everyone without distinction, and in their houses you are free to eat whatever you please: larded, wrapped in bacon, without lard, without bacon, with eggs, with oil; partridge, salmon, pale wine, red wine—it is all the same to them, provided you say some prayer to God before or after dinner, or even simply before breakfast, and are honest people. They will laugh with you at the Grand Lama’s expense, which will do him no harm, and at the expense of Terluh and Vincal and Memnon, etc. It is only right that our Diestes should admit our Canusi are very learned in cookery, and above all never speak of reducing our revenues; then we shall live together very peacefully.
The Indian.
But after all, there must be a dominant cuisine, the king’s cuisine.
The Japanese.
I admit it; but when the king of Japan has dined well, he ought to be in a good humor and not prevent his good subjects from digesting.
The Indian.
But if obstinate people insist on eating sausages under the king’s nose that the king detests; if four or five thousand assemble armed with grills to cook their sausages; if they insult those who do not eat them?
The Japanese.
Then they must be punished like drunkards disturbing the citizens’ peace. We have provided against that danger. Only those who eat in the royal fashion are eligible for dignities of state. All the others may dine as they please, but they are excluded from office. Riotous gatherings are strictly forbidden and punished immediately, without remission; all quarrels at table are carefully suppressed, according to the precept of our great Japanese cook, who wrote in the sacred language, Suti raho, cus flat, natis in usum lætitiæ sciphis pugnare tracum est: which means, dinner is meant for quiet, decent joy, and one must not throw glasses at people’s heads.
With these maxims we live happily at home. Our liberty is secure under our Taicosema; our wealth increases; we have two hundred junks of the line, and we are the terror of our neighbors.
The Indian.
Why, then, did the good versifier Recina, son of that Indian poet Recina, so tender, so precise, so harmonious, so eloquent, say in a didactic work in rhyme entitled Grace, and not The Graces:
Japan, where once so much light shone,Is now a dreary heap of mad visions?
The Japanese.
The Recina you speak of is himself a great visionary. Does this poor Indian not know that we taught him what light is? That if the true course of the planets is known in India today, it is owed to us? That we alone taught men the fundamental laws of nature and the calculus of infinity? That, to descend to things of more common use, the people of his country learned only from us how to build junks in mathematical proportions? That they owe us even the coverings called machine-knit stockings with which they clothe their legs? Could we have invented so many admirable or useful things and be nothing but fools, while a man who put other people’s fantasies into verse is the only sage? Let him leave us to do our cooking, and write verses, if he likes, on more poetic subjects.1
The Indian.
What can you expect? He has his country’s prejudices, his party’s, and his own.
The Japanese.
Oh, that is too many prejudices!
1 NB. This Indian Recina, taking his country’s dreamers on trust, believed good sauces could be made only when Brahma, by a wholly particular act of will, taught his favorites the sauce himself; that there were an infinite number of cooks for whom it was impossible to make a stew with a firm wish to succeed, and that Brahma deprived them of the means out of sheer malice. No such impertinence is believed in Japan, where this Japanese saying is held an incontestable truth:God naver acts by partial will, but by general Laws.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Plain English translation of the same 73 articles, made directly from the French and reviewed against the scan-collated French text. The author’s notes, quotations and verse are retained. Historical ethnic labels, including offensive terms, are retained from the 1764 text.
The Indian.
Did the Japanese really not know how to cook once? I hear they put their kingdom under the Grand Lama. He decided everything about their food and drink. Every so often, he sent you a little lama to collect tribute. All you got back was his sign of protection. He made it with his first two fingers and thumb. Is that true?
The Japanese man.
Sadly, yes, every bit of it. Think of our Canusi, the island’s chief cooks. The lama chose who got every single job. And he wasn’t doing it for the love of God. Every household of laypeople also paid that grand cook of Tibet an ounce of silver a year. All he gave us back were little dishes called leftovers. They didn’t taste very good. Whenever some new whim took him, we paid extra taxes. He might decide to attack the people of Tangut, for example. Our people kept complaining, and it never helped. Each complaint actually ended up costing us a bit more. Love finally got us out of that slavery. It always does everything for the best. An emperor of ours quarreled with the Grand Lama over a woman. Still, our Canusi, or Pauxcospies, did the most to help us. We have them to thank for getting that yoke off. This is how they did it.
The Grand Lama had this odd habit. He thought he was right about everything, all the time. Our Daïri and our Canisi wanted a turn at being right. The Grand Lama thought that was an absurd demand. Our Canisi stuck to it and cut ties with him for good.
The Indian.
So after that, life must have been happy and peaceful?
The Japanese man.
Far from it. For almost two centuries, we persecuted each other. We tore each other apart and ate each other up. Our Canusi kept trying to be right, without success. It’s only in the last hundred years that they’ve been sensible. Since then we really can count ourselves among the happiest peoples anywhere.
The Indian.
But I hear your empire has twelve rival cooking groups. How can life be so good with that going on? Surely that means twelve civil wars every year.
The Japanese man.
Why would it? You have twelve caterers with twelve different recipes. Why cut each other’s throats when you could have dinner? Everyone can enjoy a good meal their own way. They just go to whichever cook suits them best.
The Indian.
Yes, taste isn’t something we should fight over. But we do, and things get heated.
The Japanese man.
People fight about it for ages. Eventually they see what all that fighting teaches them: just how to hurt each other. Then they decide to let each other be. That’s clearly the best choice.
The Indian.
Tell me about these caterers, then. Who’s dividing your people over how to eat and drink?
The Japanese man.
The Breuxeli come first. You’ll never get blood sausage or bacon from them. They follow the old ways of cooking. They’d sooner die than stick bacon into a chicken. They’re wonderful at figures, too. Say they have an ounce of silver to share with the other eleven cooks. They help themselves to half before anything else. Whoever’s best at counting gets what’s left.
The Indian.
You don’t eat supper with them much, I take it?
The Japanese man.
No. Then there are the Pispates. On certain days every week, and for a long stretch each year, they’d spend a hundred écus on fish. Turbot, trout, sole, salmon, sturgeon: they’d choose that a hundred times over a white veal stew. The stew wouldn’t even cost four sous.
Beef is a great favorite with us Canusi. So is a kind of baked dish called pudding in Japanese. And everyone agrees our cooks know vastly more than the Pispates’ do. We’ve studied Roman garum more closely than anyone else. Nobody knows ancient Egyptian onions better, either. The same goes for the early Arabs’ locust paste and the Tartars’ horsemeat. The Canusi, usually called Pauxcospie, write books you can always learn from.
I’ll leave out those who only eat Terlu’s way. I won’t discuss Vincal’s diet, the Batistanes, or the rest. But it’s worth taking a close look at the Quekars. I’ve never seen a Quekar get drunk or swear. They’re the only dinner guests I can say that about. You’ll have a hard time cheating them. They, though, will never cheat you. You’d think the rule about loving your neighbor as yourself was written just for them. Think of a good Japanese man. For a bit of money, he’ll put a lead bullet through his neighbor’s brain. Or he’ll slit his throat with a kris four fingers wide. He does it all lined up for battle. How can he claim to love his neighbor as himself? He’s risking his own throat and taking bullets himself. It’s much closer to the truth to say he hates his neighbor as himself. The Quekars have never gone in for that madness. They say we poor humans are clay jugs. We’re made to last hardly any time at all. It’s not worth rushing happily off to smash ourselves against each other.
Honestly, if I weren’t a Canusi, being a Quekar would suit me. You have to admit you can’t quarrel with cooks that peaceful. There are also lots of others called Diestes. They’ll serve dinner to absolutely anyone. You can eat anything you want at their table. Have bacon stuck into your food or wrapped around it, or neither. Have eggs or oil, partridge or salmon, pale wine or red. They don’t mind any of it. Just say a prayer to God before or after dinner. Even a prayer before breakfast will do. And be a decent person. They’ll laugh along with you at the Grand Lama. That won’t do him any harm. They’ll laugh at Terluh, Vincal, Memnon, and the others too. There’s just this: our Diestes should admit our Canusi really know their cooking. Above all, they mustn’t ever suggest cutting our income. On those terms, we’ll get along very peacefully.
The Indian.
But there has to be an official way of cooking—the king’s.
The Japanese man.
Yes, I grant you that. But a good dinner should leave Japan’s king feeling cheerful. He should let his good subjects digest theirs in peace.
The Indian.
What about stubborn people who eat sausages right under his nose? Sausages the king can’t stand, I mean. What if four or five thousand turn up with grills to cook them? And what if they insult anyone who won’t eat them?
The Japanese man.
Then punish them as you would drunks disturbing everyone’s peace. We’ve taken steps to prevent that. You can only reach high state office if you eat the royal way. Everyone else can dine however they please, but gets no public post. Gathering in crowds is strictly forbidden. Break that rule and you’re punished straight away, without mercy. We take care to stop every fight at the table. Our great Japanese cook gave us the rule in the sacred language: Suti raho, cus flat, natis in usum lætitiæ sciphis pugnare tracum est. In plain words, dinner is for calm, decent enjoyment. Don’t start throwing glasses at people’s heads.
These rules let us live happily at home. Under our Taicosema, our freedom stands firm. We’re getting richer. Our fleet has two hundred junks of the line. Our neighbors are terrified of us.
The Indian.
Then what about Recina, the good writer of verse? His father was the Indian poet Recina, so tender, precise, musical, and eloquent. Why did the son write these lines in his teaching poem? It’s called Grace, not the Graces.
Japan once shone with so much light,But now it’s a sad jumble of wild fantasies.
The Japanese man.
That Recina you’re talking about has plenty of wild fantasies himself. Doesn’t the poor Indian know we taught him what light is? If India now knows the planets’ actual paths, it’s thanks to us. We alone taught people the basic laws of nature. We taught them the calculus of infinity too. Now take things people use more often. Who taught his countrymen to build junks with mathematical proportions? Only us. Even the machine-knitted stockings on their legs came from us. Could we invent all those wonderful or useful things and still be nothing but fools? Could he alone be wise, just for turning other people’s fantasies into verse? He should leave us alone to cook our food. He can write poems on more poetic subjects if he likes.1
The Indian.
What can you expect? There’s the prejudice of his country and of his party. Then he has his own on top of those.
The Japanese man.
Well, that’s far too much prejudice!
1 NB. Recina, this Indian, believed his country’s dreamers. He thought good sauces were only possible when Brama specially chose to teach his favorites himself. He thought there were countless cooks who simply couldn’t make a stew. Their firm wish to succeed made no difference. Out of pure spite, Brama denied them the means. Japan doesn’t accept that kind of nonsense. This Japanese saying is taken there as an unquestionable truth:God naver acts by partial will, but by general Laws.
About this section
C — Catéchisme du Japonois is part of Pocket Philosophical Dictionary by Voltaire. This page sets the French original beside 2 direct-source translations, so any line can be checked against the source. It is article 27 of 73 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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