Chapter 11: The Pyre

The Pyre.

Delighted, Sétoc made his slave his closest friend. He could no more do without him than the king of Babylon had been able to; and Zadig was fortunate that Sétoc had no wife. In his master he discovered a disposition toward goodness, great integrity, and sound sense. He was sorry to see that, following the ancient custom of Arabia, Sétoc worshiped the host of heaven—that is, the sun, moon, and stars. He sometimes spoke to him about it with great tact. At last he told him that these were bodies like any others and deserved his homage no more than a tree or a rock. “But,” Sétoc said, “they are eternal beings from which all our blessings come. They give life to nature; they govern the seasons; besides, they are so far from us that we cannot help revering them.” “You receive greater benefits,” Zadig answered, “from the waters of the Red Sea, which carries your merchandise to India. Why should it not be as ancient as the stars? And if you worship what is far away, you ought to worship the land of the Gangarides, at the ends of the earth.” “No,” Sétoc said, “the stars are too brilliant for me not to worship them.” When evening came, Zadig lit a great many candles in the tent where he was to dine with Sétoc; and as soon as his master appeared, he fell to his knees before the burning tapers and said, “Eternal, brilliant lights, always look kindly upon me!” Having spoken these words, he sat down to dinner without looking at Sétoc. “What are you doing?” Sétoc asked in astonishment. “What you do,” Zadig replied. “I worship these candles and neglect their master and mine.” Sétoc understood the profound meaning of this fable. His slave’s wisdom entered his soul; he no longer lavished incense upon created things, but worshiped the eternal Being who had made them.

There was then a dreadful custom in Arabia, originally brought from Scythia, which, having established itself in India through the influence of the Brahmins, threatened to spread throughout the East. When a married man died and his beloved wife wished to become a saint, she burned herself in public upon her husband’s body. This was a solemn festival called the widowhood pyre. The tribe in which the most women had burned was held in the highest esteem. An Arab of Sétoc’s tribe died, and his widow, named Almona, who was very devout, announced the day and hour when she would throw herself into the flames to the sound of drums and trumpets. Zadig pointed out to Sétoc how contrary this horrible custom was to the welfare of the human race: every day young widows were allowed to burn who could have given children to the state, or at least raised their own. He made Sétoc agree that, if possible, so barbarous a practice should be abolished. Sétoc answered, “For more than a thousand years women have enjoyed the right to burn themselves. Which of us will dare change a law that time has consecrated? Is anything more respectable than an ancient abuse?” “Reason is older still,” Zadig replied. “Speak to the chiefs of the tribes, and I will go to the young widow.”

He had himself introduced to her; after winning her favor with praise of her beauty and telling her what a pity it was to consign so many charms to the flames, he also praised her constancy and courage. “You must have loved your husband enormously?” he said. “I? Not at all,” the Arab woman answered. “He was a brute, a jealous, unbearable man; but I am firmly resolved to throw myself onto his pyre.” “There must, apparently,” Zadig said, “be some exquisite pleasure in being burned alive.” “Oh, nature shudders at it,” said the woman, “but it has to be done. I am devout; my reputation would be ruined, and everyone would laugh at me if I did not burn myself.” Having made her admit that she was burning herself for other people and out of vanity, Zadig spoke to her at length in a way that made her a little fonder of life; he even succeeded in inspiring some affection for the man who was speaking to her. “What would you do, after all,” he asked, “if the vanity of burning yourself did not have such a hold on you?” “Alas,” said the woman, “I think I would ask you to marry me.”

Zadig was too full of thoughts of Astarté not to evade this declaration; but he went at once to the chiefs of the tribes, told them what had happened, and advised them to pass a law forbidding any widow to burn herself until she had conversed alone with a young man for a full hour. From that time on, no woman in Arabia burned herself. To Zadig alone they owed the destruction, in a single day, of so cruel a custom, which had endured for so many centuries. He was therefore Arabia’s benefactor.

The Pyre.

Sétoc was delighted and made his slave his close friend. He could no more do without him than the king of Babylon had, and Zadig was glad Sétoc had no wife. He found his master naturally inclined to do good, with plenty of honesty and common sense. He was sorry to see that Sétoc worshiped the host of heaven—the sun, the moon, and the stars—as the Arabs had done since ancient times. He sometimes discussed this with him very tactfully. At last he told him these were bodies like any others. They deserved his worship no more than a tree or a rock did. "But," Sétoc said, "they are eternal beings that give us everything we need. They bring nature to life and govern the seasons. Besides, they are so far from us that we can't help honoring them." "You get more benefit," Zadig answered, "from the waters of the Red Sea, which carries your goods to India. Why shouldn't it be as old as the stars? And if you worship what is far away, you should worship the land of the Gangarides, at the ends of the earth." "No," Sétoc said. "The stars shine too brightly for me not to worship them." That evening Zadig lit a great many candles in the tent where he was to have supper with Sétoc. As soon as his master appeared, he dropped to his knees before the burning candles and said, "Eternal, shining lights, always look kindly on me!" After saying this, he sat down to eat without looking at Sétoc. "What are you doing?" Sétoc asked in surprise. "The same as you," Zadig answered. "I worship these candles and ignore their master and mine." Sétoc understood the deeper meaning of this little fable. His slave's wisdom entered his soul. He stopped lavishing incense on created things and worshiped the eternal Being who had made them.

At that time there was a terrible custom in Arabia. It had originally come from Scythia and had taken hold in India through the influence of the Brahmins. Now it threatened to spread throughout the East. When a married man died, if his beloved wife wanted to become a saint, she burned herself in public on her husband's body. It was a solemn festival called the widow's pyre. The tribe in which the most women had been burned was the most respected. An Arab of Sétoc's tribe died. His widow, named Almona, was very devout and announced the day and hour when she would throw herself into the fire to the sound of drums and trumpets. Zadig pointed out to Sétoc how much this horrible custom harmed humanity. Every day young widows were allowed to burn themselves when they could have given the state children, or at least raised their own. He made Sétoc agree that they should abolish such a barbaric practice if they could. Sétoc answered, "Women have enjoyed the right to burn themselves for more than a thousand years. Which of us will dare change a law that time has made sacred? Is anything more worthy of respect than an ancient abuse?" "Reason is older still," Zadig replied. "Speak to the tribal chiefs. I'll go and see the young widow."

He had himself introduced to her. He won her over by praising her beauty and telling her what a shame it was to put so many charms into the fire. Then he praised her firmness and courage as well. "You must have loved your husband enormously?" he asked. "Me? Not at all," the Arab lady answered. "He was a brute, a jealous man, impossible to live with. But I'm firmly determined to throw myself onto his pyre." "Apparently," Zadig said, "there must be some exquisite pleasure in being burned alive." "Oh! The thought makes human nature shudder," the lady said. "But it has to be done. I'm devout. My reputation would be ruined, and everyone would laugh at me if I didn't burn myself." Zadig got her to admit that she was burning herself for other people and out of vanity. He talked to her for a long time in a way that made her a little fonder of life. He even managed to inspire some fondness for the man speaking to her. "What would you do, then," he asked, "if the vanity of burning yourself didn't have such a hold on you?" "Oh!" the lady said. "I think I'd ask you to marry me."

Zadig was too absorbed in thoughts of Astarté not to sidestep this declaration. But he went straight to the tribal chiefs, told them what had happened, and advised them to pass a law. A widow would be allowed to burn herself only after she had talked alone with a young man for a full hour. From then on, no lady burned herself in Arabia. It was Zadig alone they had to thank for ending, in a single day, a cruel custom that had lasted so many centuries. He had become Arabia's benefactor.