Chapter 12: The Supper

The Supper.

Sétoc, unable to part from this man in whom wisdom dwelt, took him to the great fair at Basra, where the foremost merchants of the inhabited world were to gather. It was a deep consolation to Zadig to see so many men from different countries assembled in one place. It seemed to him that the universe was one great family coming together at Basra. On the very second day he found himself dining with an Egyptian, an Indian of the Gangarides, a man from Cathay, a Greek, a Celt, and several other foreigners who, in their frequent journeys to the Arabian Gulf, had learned enough Arabic to make themselves understood. The Egyptian seemed very angry. “What an abominable country Basra is!” he said. “They refuse to lend me a thousand ounces of gold on the best security in the world.” “How so?” said Sétoc. “On what security have they refused you this sum?” “On my aunt’s body,” the Egyptian answered. “She was the finest woman in Egypt. She always accompanied me; she died on the journey. I have made her into one of the most beautiful mummies we possess, and in my own country I could get anything I wanted by pawning her. It is very strange that here they will not even give me a thousand ounces of gold on such solid security.” Still fuming, he was about to eat some excellent boiled chicken when the Indian took him by the hand and cried in distress, “Oh! What are you going to do?” “Eat this chicken,” said the man with the mummy. “Take care not to,” said the Gangaride. “The soul of the departed woman may have passed into this chicken’s body, and you would not want to risk eating your aunt. Cooking chickens is an obvious outrage against nature.” “What do you mean by your nature and your chickens?” the angry Egyptian retorted. “We worship an ox, yet we eat oxen readily enough.” “You worship an ox! Is that possible?” said the man from the Ganges. “Nothing could be more possible,” the other replied. “We have done so for a hundred and thirty-five thousand years, and none of us sees any fault in it.” “Oh! A hundred and thirty-five thousand years!” said the Indian. “That reckoning is a little exaggerated. India has been inhabited for only eighty thousand years, and we are certainly older than you; Brahma had forbidden us to eat oxen before you ever thought of putting them on altars and spits.” “A fine creature your Brahma must be, to compare him with Apis!” said the Egyptian. “What has your Brahma done that is so fine?” The Brahmin answered, “He taught human beings to read and write, and the whole earth owes him the game of chess.” “You are mistaken,” said a Chaldean sitting beside him. “It is to the fish Oannès that we owe such great blessings, and it is only just to pay homage to him alone. Everyone will tell you that he was a divine being, with a golden tail and a handsome human head, and that he came out of the water to preach on land for three hours a day. He had several children, who all became kings, as everyone knows. I have his portrait at home, and revere it as I should. One may eat as much beef as one pleases, but cooking fish is certainly a very great impiety. Besides, both of you are of origins too ignoble and too recent to dispute anything with me. The Egyptian nation counts only a hundred and thirty-five thousand years, and the Indians boast of only eighty thousand, whereas we have almanacs going back four thousand centuries. Believe me, give up your follies, and I will give each of you a fine portrait of Oannès.”

The man from Cambalu spoke up. “I have great respect for the Egyptians, the Chaldeans, the Greeks, the Celts, Brahma, the ox Apis, and the handsome fish Oannès; but perhaps Li or Tienᵃ, whichever you choose to call it, is quite as good as oxen and fish. I will say nothing of my country; it is as large as the lands of Egypt, Chaldea, and India put together. I do not dispute antiquity, because it is enough to be happy, and being ancient amounts to very little. But if we must speak of almanacs, I would say that all Asia uses ours, and that we had very good ones before arithmetic was known in Chaldea.”

ᵃ Chinese words whose proper meanings are: li, natural light, reason; and tien, heaven; both also mean God.

“You are all profoundly ignorant!” the Greek cried. “Do you not know that chaos is the father of everything, and that form and matter have brought the world to its present state?” This Greek spoke at length, but at last the Celt interrupted him. Having drunk heavily while the others argued, he now thought himself more learned than all of them. Swearing, he said that only Teutath and oak mistletoe were worth talking about; that he, for his part, always carried mistletoe in his pocket; that his ancestors the Scythians were the only good people who had ever existed in the world; that, admittedly, they had sometimes eaten human beings, but that was no reason not to show great respect for his nation; and that, finally, if anyone spoke ill of Teutath, he would teach him some manners. The quarrel then grew heated, and Sétoc saw the moment coming when the table would run with blood. Zadig, who had remained silent throughout the dispute, rose at last. He first addressed the Celt, as the most furious, told him he was right, and asked him for some mistletoe; he praised the Greek’s eloquence and soothed all the heated spirits. He said very little to the man from Cathay, because he had been the most reasonable of them all. Then he told them, “My friends, you were about to quarrel over nothing, for you are all of the same opinion.” At this they all cried out. “Is it not true,” he said to the Celt, “that you worship not this mistletoe but the one who made the mistletoe and the oak?” “Certainly,” answered the Celt. “And you, my Egyptian friend, surely you revere in a particular ox the one who gave you oxen?” “Yes,” said the Egyptian. “The fish Oannès,” he continued, “must give way to the one who made the sea and the fish.” “Agreed,” said the Chaldean. “The Indian,” he added, “and the man from Cathay acknowledge, as you do, a first principle. I did not altogether understand the admirable things the Greek said, but I am sure he too admits a higher Being, on whom form and matter depend.” The Greek, finding himself admired, said that Zadig had understood his thought very well. “Then you are all of the same opinion,” Zadig replied, “and there is nothing here to quarrel about.” Everyone embraced him. Having sold his wares at a very high price, Sétoc took his friend Zadig back to his tribe. On arriving, Zadig learned that he had been tried in his absence and was about to be burned over a slow fire.

The Supper.

Sétoc could not bear to be apart from this man who embodied wisdom. He took him to the great fair at Basra, where the leading merchants of the inhabited world were to meet. It was a real comfort to Zadig to see so many men from different countries gathered in one place. He felt that the universe was one big family coming together at Basra. On the second day he dined with an Egyptian, an Indian from the land of the Gangarides, a man from Cathay, a Greek, a Celt, and several other foreigners. On their frequent journeys to the Arabian Gulf, they had learned enough Arabic to make themselves understood. The Egyptian seemed very angry. "What a dreadful place Basra is!" he said. "They won't lend me a thousand ounces of gold against the best security in the world." "Really?" Sétoc said. "What security did they refuse to lend you that sum against?" "My aunt's body," the Egyptian answered. "She was the finest woman in Egypt. She always traveled with me. She died on the way, and I made her into one of the most beautiful mummies we have. In my own country I could get anything I wanted by putting her up as collateral. It's very strange that here they won't even give me a thousand ounces of gold against such solid security." Still raging, he was about to eat some excellent boiled chicken when the Indian seized his hand and cried out in distress, "Oh! What are you about to do?" "Eat some of this chicken," said the man with the mummy. "Don't do it!" said the Gangaride. "The dead woman's soul may have passed into this chicken's body. Surely you wouldn't want to risk eating your aunt. Cooking chickens is an outright insult to nature." "What are you talking about with your nature and your chickens?" the angry Egyptian replied. "We worship an ox, and we certainly eat beef." "You worship an ox! Is that possible?" said the man from the Ganges. "Perfectly possible," the other answered. "We've done so for a hundred and thirty-five thousand years, and no one among us finds anything wrong with it." "Oh! A hundred and thirty-five thousand years!" the Indian said. "That's a little exaggerated. India has only been inhabited for eighty thousand years, and we're certainly older than you. Brahma forbade us to eat oxen before you ever thought of putting them on altars and roasting spits." "Your Brahma is a funny sort of animal to compare with Apis!" the Egyptian said. "What has your Brahma done that's so wonderful?" The Brahmin answered, "He taught people to read and write, and the whole world owes the game of chess to him." "You're wrong," said a Chaldean sitting beside him. "We owe such great gifts to the fish Oannès, and it's only right to worship him alone. Everyone will tell you he was a divine being. He had a golden tail and a handsome human head. He came out of the water to preach on land for three hours a day. He had several children, all of whom became kings, as everyone knows. I have a picture of him at home, which I honor as I should. You can eat all the beef you want, but cooking fish is certainly a very great sin. Besides, both of you come from peoples too lowborn and too recent to dispute anything with me. The Egyptian nation counts only a hundred and thirty-five thousand years, and the Indians boast of only eighty thousand, while we have almanacs going back four thousand centuries. Take my advice. Give up your foolish ideas, and I'll give each of you a beautiful picture of Oannès."

The man from Cambalu spoke up. "I have great respect for the Egyptians, the Chaldeans, the Greeks, the Celts, Brahma, the ox Apis, and the beautiful fish Oannès. But perhaps Li or Tienᵃ, whichever you choose to call it, is as good as oxen and fish. I won't say anything about my country. It's as large as Egypt, Chaldea, and India put together. I don't argue about antiquity, because it's enough to be happy, and being ancient counts for very little. But if we had to discuss almanacs, I'd say all Asia uses ours. We had very good ones before people in Chaldea knew arithmetic."

ᵃ Chinese words whose precise meanings are: li, natural light, reason; and tien, heaven; they also mean God.

"You're all completely ignorant!" the Greek shouted. "Don't you know that chaos is the father of everything, and that form and matter have made the world what it is?" This Greek spoke for a long time. At last the Celt interrupted him. He had drunk a great deal during the argument and now thought he knew more than all the others. Swearing, he said that only Teutath and mistletoe growing on oak trees were worth talking about. He always had mistletoe in his pocket. The Scythians, his ancestors, were the only decent people who had ever lived. True, they had sometimes eaten human beings, but that was no reason not to have great respect for his nation. Finally, if anyone spoke badly of Teutath, he would teach him some manners. The quarrel grew heated, and Sétoc thought blood was about to flow across the table. Zadig had stayed silent throughout the argument. At last he stood up. He spoke first to the Celt, who was the most furious, told him he was right, and asked him for some mistletoe. He praised the Greek's eloquence and soothed everyone's temper. He said very little to the man from Cathay, because he had been the most reasonable of them all. Then he said, "My friends, you were about to quarrel over nothing. You all agree." At this, they all protested. "Isn't it true," he said to the Celt, "that you don't worship this mistletoe, but the one who made the mistletoe and the oak?" "Certainly," the Celt answered. "And you, my Egyptian friend, surely what you honor in a particular ox is the one who gave you oxen?" "Yes," the Egyptian said. "The fish Oannès," he continued, "must give way to the one who made the sea and the fish." "Agreed," said the Chaldean. "The Indian," he added, "and the man from Cathay acknowledge a first cause, just as you do. I didn't quite understand the wonderful things the Greek said, but I'm sure he too accepts a higher Being, on whom form and matter depend." The Greek, whose ideas were being admired, said Zadig had understood his thought very well. "So you all agree," Zadig replied, "and there's nothing here to quarrel about." Everyone embraced him. After selling his goods at a very high price, Sétoc took his friend Zadig back to his tribe. When Zadig arrived, he learned that he had been tried in his absence and was going to be burned over a slow fire.