D — Des Loix
Original French
Du temps de Vespasien & de Tite, pendant que les Romains éventraient les Juifs, un Israëlite fort riche qui ne voulait point être éventré, s’enfuit avec tout l’or qu’il avait gagné à son métier d’usurier, & emmena vers Eziongaber toute sa famille, qui consistait en sa vieille femme, un fils & une fille; il avait dans son train, deux eunuques, dont l’un servait de cuisinier, l’autre était laboureur & vigneron. Un bon Essénien qui savait par cœur le Pentateuque lui servait d’aumônier: tout cela s’embarqua dans le port d’Eziongaber, traversa la mer qu’on nomme rouge, & qui ne l’est point, & entra dans le golphe Persique, pour aller chercher la terre d’Ophir, sans savoir où elle était. Vous croyez bien qu’il survint une horrible tempête, qui poussa la famille Hébraïque vers les côtes des Indes; le vaisseau fit naufrage à une des isles Maldives, nommée aujourd’hui Padrabranca, laquelle était alors déserte.
Le vieux richard & la vieille se noyèrent; le fils, la fille, les deux eunuques & l’aumonier se sauvèrent; on tira comme on put quelques provisions du vaisseau, on bâtit des petites cabanes dans l’île, & on y vécut assez commodément. Vous savez que l’île de Padrabranca est à cinq degrés de la ligne, & qu’on y trouve les plus gros cocos & les meilleurs ananas du monde; il était fort doux d’y vivre dans le temps qu’on égorgeait ailleurs le reste de la nation chérie; mais l’Essénien pleuroit en considérant que peut-être il ne restait plus qu’eux de Juifs sur la terre, & que la semence d’Abraham allait finir.
Il ne tient qu’à vous de la susciter, dit le jeune Juif, épousez ma sœur. Je le voudrais bien, dit l’aumônier, mais la loi s’y oppose. Je suis Essénien, j’ai fait vœu de ne me jamais marier, la loi porte qu’on doit accomplir son vœu; la race Juive finira si elle veut, mais certainement je n’épouserai point votre sœur, toute jolie qu’elle est.
Mes deux eunuques ne peuvent pas lui faire d’enfans, reprit le Juif, je lui en ferai donc s’il vous plait, & ce sera vous qui bénirez le mariage.
J’aimerais mieux cent fois être éventré par les soldats Romains, dit l’aumônier, que de servir à vous faire commettre un inceste; si c’était votre sœur de père, encor passe, la loi le permet; mais elle est votre sœur de mère, cela est abominable.
Je conçois bien, répondit le jeune homme, que ce serait un crime à Jérusalem, où je trouverais d’autres filles; mais dans l’île de Padrabranca, où je ne vois que des cocos, des ananas & des huitres, je crois que la chose est très-permise. Le Juif épousa donc sa sœur, & en eut une fille malgré les protestations de l’Essénien; ce fut l’unique fruit d’un mariage que l’un croyait très-légitime, & l’autre abominable.
Au bout de quatorze ans, la mère mourut; le père dit à l’aumônier, Vous êtes-vous enfin défait de vos anciens préjugés? voulez-vous épouser ma fille? Dieu m’en préserve, dit l’Essénien. Oh bien je l’épouserai donc moi, dit le père, il en sera ce qui pourra, mais je ne veux pas que la semence d’Abraham soit réduite à rien. L’Essénien épouvanté de cet horrible propos ne voulut plus demeurer avec un homme qui manquait à la loi, & s’enfuit. Le nouveau marié avait beau lui crier, Demeurez, mon ami, j’observe la loi naturelle, je sers la patrie, n’abandonnez pas vos amis; l’autre le laissait crier, ayant toûjours la loi dans la tête, & s’enfuit à la nage dans l’île voisine.
C’était la grande île d’Attole, très-peuplée, & très-civilisée; dès qu’il aborda, on le fit esclave. Il apprit à balbutier la langue d’Attole; il se plaignit très-amèrement de la façon inhospitaliére dont on l’avait reçu; on lui dit que c’était la loi, & que depuis que l’île avait été sur le point d’être surprise par les habitans de celle d’Ada, on avait sagement réglé que tous les étrangers qui aborderaient dans Attole, seraient mis en servitude. Ce ne peut être une loi, dit l’Essénien, car elle n’est pas dans le Pentateuque; on lui répondit qu’elle était dans le digeste du païs, & il demeura esclave: il avait heureusement un très bon maître fort riche, qui le traita bien, & auquel il s’attacha beaucoup.
Des assassins vinrent un jour pour tuer le maître, & pour voler ses trésors; ils demandèrent aux esclaves s’il était à la maison, & s’il avait beaucoup d’argent? Nous vous jurons, dirent les esclaves, qu’il n’a point d’argent, & qu’il n’est point à la maison; mais l’Essénien dit, La loi ne permet pas de mentir, je vous jure qu’il est à la maison, & qu’il a beaucoup d’argent; ainsi le maître fut volé & tué; les esclaves accusèrent l’Essénien devant les juges, d’avoir trahi son patron; l’Essénien dit qu’il ne voulait mentir, & qu’il ne mentirait pour rien au monde, & il fut pendu.
On me contait cette histoire, & bien d’autres semblables dans le dernier voyage que je fis des Indes en France.
Quand je fus arrivé, j’allai à Versailles pour quelques affaires, je vis passer une belle femme, suivie de plusieurs belles femmes; Quelle est cette belle femme, dis-je, à mon avocat en parlement, qui était venu avec moi, car j’avais un procès en parlement à Paris, pour mes habits qu’on m’avait fait aux Indes, & je voulais toûjours avoir mon avocat à mes côtés. C’est la fille du roi, dit-il, elle est charmante & bienfaisante, c’est bien dommage que dans aucun cas elle ne puisse jamais être reine de France. Quoi, lui dis-je, si on avait le malheur de perdre tous ses parens, & les princes du sang, ( ce qu’à Dieu ne plaise) elle ne pourrait hériter du royaume de son père? Non, dit l’avocat, la loi Salique s’y oppose formellement. Et qui a fait cette loi Salique? dis-je à l’avocat. Je n’en sais rien, dit-il, mais on prétend que chez un ancien peuple nommé les Saliens, qui ne savaient ni lire ni écrire, il y avait une loi écrite qui disait qu’en terre Salique fille n’héritait pas d’un aleu, & cette loi a été adoptée en terre non Salique. Et moi, lui dis-je, je la casse; vous m’avez assuré que cette princesse est charmante & bienfaisante, donc elle aurait un droit incontestable à la couronne, si le malheur arrivait qu’il ne restât qu’elle du sang Royal; ma mère a hérité de son père, & je veux que cette princesse hérite du sien.
Le lendemain mon procès fut jugé en une chambre du parlement, & je perdis tout d’une voix; mon avocat me dit que je l’aurais gagné tout d’une voix en une autre chambre. Voilà qui est bien comique, lui dis-je; ainsi donc chaque chambre chaque loi. Oui, dit-il, il y a vingt-cinq commentaires sur la coutume de Paris; c’est-à-dire, on a prouvé vingt-cinq fois que la coutume de Paris est équivoque; & s’il y avait vingt-cinq chambres de juges, il y aurait vingt-cinq jurisprudences différentes. Nous avons, continua-t-il, à quinze lieues de Paris une province nommée Normandie,où vous auriez été tout autrement jugé qu’ici. Cela me donna envie de voir la Normandie. J’y allai avec un de mes frères: nous rencontrames à la première auberge un jeune homme qui se désespérait; je lui demandai quelle était sa disgrace? il me répondit que c’était d’avoir un frère aîné. Où est donc le grand malheur d’avoir un frère? lui dis-je; mon frère est mon aîné,& nous vivons très-bien ensemble. Hélas, Monsieur, me dit-il, la loi donne tout ici aux aînés, & ne laisse rien aux cadets. Vous avez raison, lui dis-je, d’être fâché; chez nous on partage également, & quelquefois les frères ne s’en aiment pas mieux.
Ces petites avantures me firent faire de belles & profondes réflexions sur les loix, & je vis qu’il en est d’elles comme de nos vêtements; il m’a falu porter un doliman à Constantinople, & un just’au-corps à Paris.
Si toutes les loix humaines sont de convention, disais-je, il n’y a qu’à bien faire ses marchés. Les bourgeois de Déli & d’Agra disent qu’ils ont fait un très-mauvais marché avec Tamerlan: les bourgeois de Londres se félicitent d’avoir fait un très-bon marché avec le roi Guillaume d’Orange. Un citoyen de Londres me disait un jour, C’est la nécessité qui fait les loix, & la force les fait observer. Je lui demandai si la force ne faisait pas aussi quelquefois des loix, & si Guillaume le bâtard & le conquérant ne leur avait pas donné des ordres sans faire de marché avec eux. Oui, dit-il, nous étions des bœufs alors, Guillaume nous mit un joug, & nous fit marcher à coups d’aiguillons; nous avons depuis été changés en hommes, mais les cornes nous sont restées, & nous en frapons quiconque veut nous faire labourer pour lui, & non pas pour nous.
Plein de toutes ces réflexions, je me complaisais à penser qu’il y a une loi naturelle indépendante de toutes les conventions humaines: le fruit de mon travail doit être à moi; je dois honorer mon père & ma mère; je n’ai nul droit sur la vie de mon prochain, & mon prochain n’en a point sur la mienne, &c. Mais quand je songeai que depuis Cordolaomor jusqu’à Mentzel, colonel de houzards, chacun tue loyament & pille son prochain avec une patente dans sa poche, je fus très affligé.
On me dit que parmi les voleurs il y avait des loix, & qu’il y en avait aussi à la guerre. Je demandai ce que c’était que ces loix de la guerre? C’est, me dit-on, de pendre un brave officier qui aura tenu dans un mauvais poste sans canon contre une armée royale; c’est de faire pendre un prisonnier, si on a pendu un des vôtres; c’est de mettre à feu & à sang les villages qui n’auront pas apporté toute leur subsistance au jour marqué, selon les ordres du gracieux souverain du voisinage. Bon, dis-je, voilà l’esprit des loix.
Après avoir été bien instruit, je découvris qu’il y a de sages loix par lesquelles un berger est condamné à neuf ans de galère pour avoir donné un peu de sel étranger à ses moutons. Mon voisin a été ruiné par un procès pour deux chênes qui lui appartenaient qu’il avait fait couper dans son bois, parce qu’il n’avait pû observer une formalité qu’il n’avait pû connaître; sa femme est morte dans la misère, & son fils traine une vie plus malheureuse. J’avoue que ces loix sont justes, quoique leur exécution soit un peu dure; mais je sais mauvais gré aux loix qui autorisent cent mille hommes à aller loyalement égorger cent mille voisins. Il m’a paru que la plûpart des hommes ont reçu de la nature assez de sens commun pour faire des loix; mais que tout le monde n’a pas assez de justice pour faire de bonnes loix.
Assemblez d’un bout de la terre à l’autre les simples & tranquilles agriculteurs: ils conviendront tous aisément, qu’il doit être permis de vendre à ses voisins l’excédent de son bled, & que la loi contraire est inhumaine & absurde; que les monnoyes représentatives des denrées ne doivent pas plus être altérées que les fruits de la terre; qu’un père de famille doit être le maître chez soi; que la religion doit rassembler les hommes pour les unir, & non pour en faire des fanatiques & des persécuteurs; que ceux qui travaillent, ne doivent pas se priver du fruit de leurs travaux pour en doter la superstition & l’oisiveté; ils feront en une heure trente loix de cette espèce, toutes utiles au genre humain.
Mais que Tamerlan arrive & subjugue l’Inde; alors vous ne verrez plus que des loix arbitraires. L’une accablera une province pour enrichir un publicain de Tamerlan; l’autre fera un crime de léze-majesté d’avoir mal parlé de la maitresse du premier valet de chambre d’un Raya; une troisième ravira la moitié de la récolte de l’agriculteur, & lui contestera le reste; il y aura enfin des loix par lesquelles un appariteur Tartare viendra saisir vos enfans au berceau, fera du plus robuste un soldat, & du plus faible un eunuque, & laissera le père & la mère sans secours & sans consolation.
Or lequel vaut le mieux d’être le chien de Tamerlan ou son sujet? Il est clair que la condition de son chien est fort supérieure.
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.
In the days of Vespasian and Titus, while the Romans were disemboweling the Jews, a very rich Israelite who had no wish to be disemboweled fled with all the gold he had earned in his trade as a usurer, and took his whole family toward Ezion-geber. It consisted of his old wife, a son, and a daughter. In his retinue he had two eunuchs, one serving as cook, the other as plowman and vine grower. A good Essene who knew the Pentateuch by heart served him as chaplain. All these people embarked at the port of Ezion-geber, crossed the sea called Red, which is not red, and entered the Persian Gulf to look for the land of Ophir, without knowing where it was. You may be sure a horrible storm arose and drove the Hebrew family toward the coast of India. The ship was wrecked on one of the Maldives, now called Padrabranca, which was then deserted.
The rich old man and his wife drowned; the son, daughter, two eunuchs, and chaplain survived. They salvaged what provisions they could from the ship, built little huts on the island, and lived fairly comfortably. You know that the island of Padrabranca is five degrees from the equator, and that the world’s largest coconuts and best pineapples are found there. It was very pleasant to live there while the rest of the beloved nation was being slaughtered elsewhere; but the Essene wept to think that perhaps they were the only Jews left on earth and that Abraham’s seed was about to die out.
“It is up to you to revive it,” said the young Jew. “Marry my sister.” “I would gladly,” said the chaplain, “but the law forbids it. I am an Essene; I have vowed never to marry; the law says one must fulfill one’s vow. Let the Jewish race die out if it pleases, but I certainly will not marry your sister, pretty as she is.”
“My two eunuchs cannot give her children,” the Jew continued. “Then I shall give her some, if you please, and you will bless the marriage.”
“I would a hundred times rather be disemboweled by Roman soldiers,” said the chaplain, “than help you commit incest. If she were your sister on your father’s side, it might pass; the law allows that. But she is your sister on your mother’s side: it is abominable.”
“I quite understand,” replied the young man, “that it would be a crime in Jerusalem, where I should find other girls; but on the island of Padrabranca, where I see nothing but coconuts, pineapples, and oysters, I believe it is entirely permissible.” So the Jew married his sister and had a daughter by her despite the Essene’s protests. This was the only fruit of a marriage that one thought perfectly legitimate and the other abominable.
After fourteen years the mother died. The father said to the chaplain, “Have you finally rid yourself of your old prejudices? Will you marry my daughter?” “God preserve me,” said the Essene. “Very well, I shall marry her myself,” said the father. “Come what may, I do not want Abraham’s seed reduced to nothing.” Appalled by this horrible proposal, the Essene refused to remain any longer with a man who broke the law and fled. In vain the newlywed shouted, “Stay, my friend! I am observing natural law; I am serving my country. Do not abandon your friends!” The other let him shout, his head still full of the law, and swam away to the neighboring island.
It was the large island of Attole, very populous and very civilized. As soon as he landed, he was enslaved. He learned to stammer the language of Attole and complained bitterly of the inhospitable way he had been received. He was told that it was the law, and that since the island had nearly been taken by surprise by the inhabitants of Ada, it had been wisely decreed that all foreigners landing on Attole should be put into servitude. “That cannot be a law,” said the Essene, “for it is not in the Pentateuch.” He was told that it was in the country’s digest, and he remained a slave. Fortunately he had a very good, very rich master who treated him well and to whom he became greatly attached.
One day assassins came to kill the master and steal his treasures. They asked the slaves whether he was at home and whether he had much money. “We swear to you,” said the slaves, “that he has no money and is not at home.” But the Essene said, “The law does not permit lying. I swear to you that he is at home and has a great deal of money.” So the master was robbed and killed. Before the judges the slaves accused the Essene of betraying his patron. The Essene said that he would not lie, that he would not lie for anything in the world, and he was hanged.
I was told this story, and many similar ones, on my last voyage from India to France.
When I arrived, I went to Versailles on some business. I saw a beautiful woman pass, followed by several beautiful women. “Who is that beautiful woman?” I asked my lawyer at the parlement, who had come with me; for I had a lawsuit before the Parlement of Paris over the clothes I had had made in India, and I always wanted my lawyer at my side. “That is the king’s daughter,” he said. “She is charming and benevolent. What a pity that under no circumstances can she ever be queen of France.” “What!” I said. “If we had the misfortune to lose all her relatives and the princes of the blood—which God forbid—could she not inherit her father’s kingdom?” “No,” said the lawyer, “Salic law expressly forbids it.” “And who made this Salic law?” I asked the lawyer. “I know nothing about it,” he said, “but it is claimed that among an ancient people called the Salians, who could neither read nor write, there was a written law saying that on Salic land a daughter should not inherit an allodial estate; and this law has been adopted on non-Salic land.” “Well,” I told him, “I annul it. You have assured me that this princess is charming and benevolent; therefore she would have an incontestable right to the crown if the misfortune occurred that she alone remained of the royal blood. My mother inherited from her father, and I want this princess to inherit from hers.”
The next day my case was heard in a chamber of the parlement, and I lost by a unanimous vote. My lawyer told me that in another chamber I would have won by a unanimous vote. “That is very comical,” I said. “So each chamber has its own law?” “Yes,” he said. “There are twenty-five commentaries on the custom of Paris; that is, it has been proved twenty-five times that the custom of Paris is ambiguous; and if there were twenty-five chambers of judges, there would be twenty-five different bodies of jurisprudence. Fifteen leagues from Paris,” he continued, “we have a province called Normandy, where you would have been judged quite differently from here.” This gave me a desire to see Normandy. I went with one of my brothers. At the first inn we met a young man in despair. I asked him what his misfortune was; he replied that it was having an elder brother. “Where is the great misfortune in having a brother?” I asked. “My brother is older than I am, and we live very well together.” “Alas, sir,” he said, “here the law gives everything to the eldest and leaves the younger sons nothing.” “You are right to be angry,” I said. “Where we come from, the shares are equal, and sometimes the brothers love one another no better for it.”
These little adventures led me to fine and profound reflections on laws, and I saw that they are like our clothes: I had to wear a dolman in Constantinople and a close-fitting coat in Paris.
“If all human laws are matters of convention,” I said, “we need only make our bargains well. The citizens of Delhi and Agra say they made a very bad bargain with Tamerlane; the citizens of London congratulate themselves on having made a very good bargain with King William of Orange.” A citizen of London once told me, “Necessity makes laws, and force makes people observe them.” I asked him whether force did not sometimes make laws as well, and whether William the Bastard and Conqueror had not given them orders without making any bargain with them. “Yes,” he said, “we were oxen then. William put us under a yoke and drove us forward with goads. Since then we have been changed into men, but our horns remain, and we strike with them at anyone who wants to make us plow for him rather than for ourselves.”
Full of all these reflections, I took pleasure in thinking that there is a natural law independent of all human conventions: the fruit of my labor must belong to me; I must honor my father and mother; I have no right over my neighbor’s life, nor he over mine, etc. But when I reflected that from Chedorlaomer down to Mentzel, colonel of hussars, everyone lawfully kills and plunders his neighbor with a commission in his pocket, I was greatly distressed.
I was told that there were laws among thieves and laws in war as well. I asked what these laws of war were. “They mean,” I was told, “hanging a brave officer who has held a poor position without cannon against a royal army; hanging a prisoner if one of yours has been hanged; putting villages to fire and sword if they have not brought all their provisions on the appointed day, according to the orders of the gracious sovereign next door.” “Good,” I said. “There is the spirit of the laws.”
After being thoroughly instructed, I discovered that there are wise laws by which a shepherd is condemned to nine years in the galleys for giving his sheep a little foreign salt. My neighbor was ruined by a lawsuit over two oaks of his own that he had had cut in his wood, because he had been unable to comply with a formality he could not have known about. His wife died in poverty, and his son drags out a still more miserable life. I admit that these laws are just, although their enforcement is a little harsh; but I resent laws that authorize a hundred thousand men to go and lawfully slaughter a hundred thousand neighbors. It seemed to me that most men have received enough common sense from nature to make laws, but that not everyone has enough justice to make good laws.
Gather simple, peaceful farmers from one end of the earth to the other: they will all readily agree that one should be allowed to sell one’s surplus grain to one’s neighbors, and that the contrary law is inhuman and absurd; that coins representing commodities should be adulterated no more than the fruits of the earth; that the father of a family should be master in his own home; that religion should bring men together to unite them, not make them fanatics and persecutors; that those who work should not deprive themselves of the fruits of their labor to endow superstition and idleness. In an hour they will make thirty laws of this kind, all useful to the human race.
But let Tamerlane arrive and subjugate India: then you will see nothing but arbitrary laws. One will crush a province to enrich one of Tamerlane’s tax collectors; another will make it high treason to speak ill of the mistress of a raja’s chief valet; a third will seize half the farmer’s harvest and dispute his right to the rest. Finally there will be laws by which a Tartar bailiff will come and seize your children in their cradles, make the strongest a soldier and the weakest a eunuch, and leave their father and mother without help and without consolation.
Now which is better: to be Tamerlane’s dog or his subject? Clearly his dog’s condition is far superior.
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.
Under Vespasian and Titus, the Romans were slitting Jews’ bellies open. One very rich Israelite didn’t want the same thing to happen to him. He fled with all the gold he’d made as a moneylender. He headed for Ezion-geber with his whole family: his elderly wife, son, and daughter. Two eunuchs went with them. One cooked; the other grew crops and tended vines. Their chaplain was a good Essene who knew the Pentateuch by heart. The whole party sailed from Ezion-geber across the so-called Red Sea, which isn’t red. They entered the Persian Gulf, looking for Ophir without knowing where it was. Of course, a dreadful storm blew the Hebrew family toward India’s shores. Their ship broke up on a deserted island in the Maldives, now called Padrabranca.
The rich old man and his wife drowned. Their children, the two eunuchs, and the chaplain escaped. They salvaged what supplies they could and built small huts on the island. They lived there quite comfortably. You know Padrabranca lies five degrees from the equator. Nowhere has bigger coconuts or better pineapples. It was a lovely place to live while the chosen nation’s other members were being slaughtered elsewhere. Yet the Essene wept. Perhaps they were the last Jews on earth, he thought. Abraham’s line was going to end.
“It’s up to you to keep it alive,” the young Jew said. “Marry my sister.”
“I’d like to,” the chaplain said, “but that’s against the law. I’m an Essene. I’ve sworn never to marry, and the law says we must keep our vows. Let the Jewish race die out if it wants to. I certainly won’t marry your sister, however pretty she is.”
“My two eunuchs can’t give her children,” the Jew replied. “So, if you please, I’ll give her children myself. You’ll bless our marriage.”
“I’d a hundred times rather have Roman soldiers slit my belly open,” the chaplain said, “than help you commit incest. If you shared a father, that might be all right. The law allows that. But you share a mother. That’s abominable.”
“I understand,” the young man answered. “In Jerusalem it would be a crime: I could find other girls there. But here on Padrabranca, I see only coconuts, pineapples, and oysters. I think it’s perfectly allowable.” Despite the Essene’s protests, the Jew married his sister and had a daughter with her. That was their only child. One man thought the marriage perfectly lawful; the other thought it abominable.
The mother died after fourteen years. The father asked the chaplain, “Have you got over your old prejudices at last? Will you marry my daughter?”
“God save me from that,” the Essene said.
“Well then, I’ll marry her myself,” the father said. “Whatever happens, happens. But I won’t let Abraham’s line die out.” The Essene was horrified at these dreadful words. He wouldn’t go on living with a lawbreaker, and he fled. The new husband shouted after him, but it did no good. “Stay, my friend! I’m following natural law. I’m serving my country. Don’t leave your friends!” The Essene let him shout. Still thinking only of the law, he swam to the next island.
This was Attole, a large, heavily populated, highly civilized island. They made him a slave as soon as he reached shore. He learned to stumble through a little of their language. Then he complained bitterly about the unfriendly welcome he’d received. They told him it was the law. People from Ada had once nearly taken the island by surprise. Since then, they’d wisely ruled that every foreigner landing on Attole must become a slave. “That can’t be a law,” the Essene said. “It isn’t in the Pentateuch.” They said it was in their country’s legal code. He stayed a slave. Luckily, his master was a very good, very rich man. He treated the Essene well, and the Essene grew very fond of him.
One day some murderers came to kill the master and steal his treasure. They asked the slaves whether he was home and had much money. “We swear he has no money and isn’t home,” the slaves said. But the Essene said, “The law forbids lying. I swear he’s home and has plenty of money.” So they robbed and killed the master. The slaves brought the Essene before the judges for betraying him. The Essene said he didn’t want to lie. Nothing in the world would make him lie. They hanged him.
People told me this story, and many like it, on my last trip from India to France.
After reaching France, I went to Versailles on business. A beautiful woman went past, with several more beautiful women behind her. “Who’s that beautiful woman?” I asked the lawyer who’d come with me. He practiced in the parlement, where I had a case over clothes made for me in India. This was the Paris parlement, and I always wanted my lawyer beside me.
“She’s the king’s daughter,” he said. “She’s lovely and generous. What a pity she can never become queen of France, whatever happens.”
“What?” I asked. “Suppose we lost all her relatives and the princes of the blood—God forbid. Couldn’t she inherit her father’s kingdom?”
“No,” the lawyer said. “Salic law specifically rules that out.”
“Who made this Salic law?” I asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “They say an ancient people called the Salians had a written law. They couldn’t read or write, but it said daughters couldn’t inherit freehold land in Salic territory. People adopted that law outside Salic territory.”
“Well, I strike it down,” I told him. “You’ve told me this princess is lovely and generous. If, by misfortune, she were the last survivor of the royal family, her right to the crown would be beyond dispute. My mother inherited from her father. I want this princess to inherit from hers.”
The next day a chamber of the parlement decided my case. Every judge voted against me. My lawyer said every judge in another chamber would’ve voted for me. “That’s very funny,” I said. “A different law for every chamber, then?”
“Yes,” he said. “There are twenty-five commentaries on Paris’s customary law. That means people have proved twenty-five times that it isn’t clear. With twenty-five chambers of judges, we’d have twenty-five different interpretations of the law. There’s a province called Normandy fifteen leagues from Paris,” he continued. “Your case would’ve been judged quite differently there.” That made me want to visit Normandy. I went with one of my brothers. At our first inn, we met a young man in despair. I asked what was wrong. He said he had an older brother.
“What’s so terrible about having a brother?” I asked. “Mine’s older than me, and we get along very well.”
“Sadly, sir,” he said, “the law here gives older sons everything. It leaves younger sons nothing.”
“You’re right to be angry,” I told him. “At home, we divide things equally. Sometimes that doesn’t make brothers love each other any more.”
These little adventures prompted some fine, deep thoughts about laws. I saw that laws are like clothes. In Constantinople I had to wear a dolman; in Paris, a fitted coat.
“If all human laws are agreements,” I thought, “we just need to strike good bargains.” Delhi’s and Agra’s citizens say they struck a very bad bargain with Tamerlane. London’s citizens congratulate themselves on their very good bargain with King William of Orange. A Londoner once told me, “Need creates laws. Force makes people follow them.” I asked whether force sometimes created laws too. Hadn’t William the Bastard and Conqueror given them orders without striking a bargain?
“Yes,” he said. “We were oxen then. William yoked us and prodded us along. Since then we’ve become men, but we’ve kept our horns. We use them on anyone who tries to make us plow for him, not ourselves.”
With all these thoughts in mind, I took comfort in another idea. There’s a natural law that doesn’t depend on human agreements. What I earn by working should be mine. I must honor my father and mother. I’ve no right to take my neighbor’s life, nor has he any right to take mine, and so on. But then I thought of everyone from Chedorlaomer to Mentzel, the hussar colonel. With an official commission in his pocket, each lawfully kills and robs his neighbor. This distressed me deeply.
People told me that thieves had laws, and war had laws too. I asked what these laws of war were. “Hanging a brave officer,” they said, “who’s held a weak position without cannon against a royal army. Hanging a prisoner because someone hanged one of yours. Burning villages and slaughtering their people for failing to hand over all their food on the appointed day, as the gracious neighboring ruler ordered.”
“Good,” I said. “There’s the spirit of the laws.”
Once I’d learned all this, I discovered some wise laws. They send a shepherd to the galleys for nine years for feeding his sheep a little foreign salt. A lawsuit ruined my neighbor for cutting down two oak trees in his own woods. The trees were his. He couldn’t meet a requirement he couldn’t have known about. His wife died in poverty. His son struggles through an even unhappier life. I admit these laws are just, though they’re enforced a little harshly. But I resent laws allowing a hundred thousand men to go lawfully cut a hundred thousand neighbors’ throats. Nature seems to have given most people enough common sense to make laws. Not everyone has enough fairness to make good ones.
Gather ordinary, peaceful farmers from all over the earth. They’ll easily agree that people must be allowed to sell their neighbors their spare grain. A law against that is inhuman and absurd. Coins represent goods. Tampering with them is no more acceptable than tampering with the earth’s produce. A father must be in charge of his own household. Religion should bring people together, not make them fanatics and persecutors. Working people shouldn’t have to give up what they’ve earned to support superstition and idleness. In one hour, these farmers will make thirty such laws, all useful to humanity.
But let Tamerlane conquer India, and you’ll see only arbitrary laws. One will crush a province to enrich his tax collector. Another will make it high treason to speak ill of the mistress of a rajah’s chief valet. A third will seize half a farmer’s harvest and challenge his right to the rest. Finally, under these laws, a Tartar court officer will seize your children in their cradles. He’ll make the strongest a soldier and the weakest a eunuch. He’ll leave their parents with no help and no comfort.
Which is better, then: being Tamerlane’s dog or being his subject? His dog’s lot is plainly much better.
About this section
D — Des Loix 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 53 of 73 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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