Chapter 6: The Minister
Original French
Le ministre.
Le roi avait perdu son premier ministre. Il choisit Zadig pour remplir cette place. Toutes les belles dames de Babylone applaudirent à ce choix, car depuis la fondation de l'empire il n'y avait jamais eu de ministre si jeune. Tous les courtisans furent fâchés; l'Envieux en eut un crachement de sang, et le nez lui enfla prodigieusement. Zadig ayant remercié le roi et la reine, alla remercier aussi le perroquet: Bel oiseau, lui dit-il, c'est vous qui m'avez sauvé la vie, et qui m'avez fait premier ministre: la chienne et le cheval de leurs majestés m'avaient fait beaucoup de mal, mais vous m'avez fait du bien. Voilà donc de quoi dépendent les destins des hommes! Mais, ajouta-t-il, un bonheur si étrange sera peut-être bientôt évanoui. Le perroquet répondit, Oui. Ce mot frappe Zadig. Cependant, comme il était bon physicien, et qu'il ne croyait pas que les perroquets fussent prophètes, il se rassura bientôt; il se mit à exercer son ministère de son mieux.
Il fit sentir à tout le monde le pouvoir sacré des lois, et ne fit sentir à personne le poids de sa dignité. Il ne gêna point les voix du divan, et chaque vizir pouvait avoir un avis sans lui déplaire. Quand il jugeait une affaire, ce n'était pas lui qui jugeait, c'était la loi; mais quand elle était trop sévère, il la tempérait; et quand on manquait de lois, son équité en fesait qu'on aurait prises pour celles de Zoroastre.
C'est de lui que les nations tiennent ce grand principe, Qu'il vaut mieux hasarder de sauver un coupable que de condamner un innocent. Il croyait que les lois étaient faites pour secourir les citoyens autant que pour les intimider. Son principal talent était de démêler la vérité, que tous les hommes cherchent à obscurcir. Dès les premiers jours de son administration il mit ce grand talent en usage. Un fameux négociant de Babylone était mort aux Indes; il avait fait ses héritiers ses deux fils par portions égales, après avoir marié leur soeur, et il laissait un présent de trente mille pièces d'or à celui de ses deux fils qui serait jugé l'aimer davantage. L'aîné lui bâtit un tombeau, le second augmenta d'une partie de son héritage la dot de sa soeur; chacun disait: C'est l'aîné qui aime le mieux son père, le cadet aime mieux sa soeur; c'est à l'aîné qu'appartiennent les trente mille pièces.
Zadig les fit venir tous deux l'un après l'autre. Il dit à l'aîné: Votre père n'est point mort, il est guéri de sa dernière maladie, il revient à Babylone. Dieu soit loué, répondit le jeune homme; mais voilà un tombeau qui m'a coûté bien cher! Zadig dit ensuite la même chose au cadet. Dieu soit loué! répondit-il, je vais rendre à mon père tout ce que j'ai; mais je voudrais qu'il laissât à ma soeur ce que je lui ai donné. Vous ne rendrez rien, dit Zadig, et vous aurez les trente mille pièces; c'est vous qui aimez le mieux votre père.
Une fille fort riche avait fait une promesse de mariage à deux mages, et, après avoir reçu quelques mois des instructions de l'un et de l'autre, elle se trouva grosse. Ils voulaient tous deux l'épouser. Je prendrai pour mon mari, dit-elle, celui des deux qui m'a mise en état de donner un citoyen à l'empire. C'est moi qui ai fait cette bonne oeuvre, dit l'un. C'est moi qui ai eu cet avantage, dit l'autre. Eh bien! répondit-elle, je reconnais pour père de l'enfant celui des deux qui lui pourra donner la meilleure éducation. Elle accoucha d'un fils. Chacun des mages veut l'élever. La cause est portée devant Zadig. Il fait venir les deux mages. Qu'enseigneras-tu à ton pupille? dit-il au premier. Je lui apprendrai, dit le docteur, les huit parties d'oraison, la dialectique, l'astrologie, la démonomanie; ce que c'est que la substance et l'accident, l'abstrait et le concret, les monades et l'harmonie préétablie. Moi, dit le second, je tâcherai de le rendre juste et digne d'avoir des amis. Zadig prononça: Que tu sois son père ou non, tu épouseras sa mère.
Il venait tous les jours des plaintes à la cour contre l'itimadoulet de Médie, nommé Irax. C'était un grand seigneur dont le fonds n'était pas mauvais, mais qui était corrompu par la vanité et par la volupté. Il souffrait rarement qu'on lui parlât, et jamais qu'on l'osât contredire. Les paons ne sont pas plus vains, les colombes ne sont pas plus voluptueuses, les tortues ont moins de paresse; il ne respirait que la fausse gloire et les faux plaisirs: Zadig entreprit de le corriger.
Il lui envoya de la part du roi un maître de musique avec douze voix et vingt-quatre violons, un maître-d'hôtel avec six cuisiniers et quatre chambellans, qui ne devaient pas le quitter. L'ordre du roi portait que l'étiquette suivante serait inviolablement observée; et voici comme les choses se passèrent.
Le premier jour, dès que le voluptueux Irax fut éveillé, le maître de musique entra, suivi des voix et des violons: on chanta une cantate qui dura deux heures, et, de trois minutes en trois minutes, le refrain était:
Que son mérite est extrême!Que de grâces! que de grandeur!Ah! combien monseigneurDoit être content de lui-même!
Après l'exécution de la cantate un chambellan lui fit une harangue de trois quarts d'heure, dans laquelle on le louait expressément de toutes les bonnes qualités qui lui manquaient. La harangue finie, on le conduisit à table au son des instruments. Le dîner dura trois heures; dès qu'il ouvrit la bouche pour parler, le premier chambellan dit: Il aura raison. A peine eut-il prononcé quatre paroles que le second chambellan s'écria: Il a raison! Les deux autres chambellans firent de grands éclats de rire des bons mots qu'Irax avait dits ou qu'il avait dû dire. Après dîner on lui répéta la cantate.
Cette première journée lui parut délicieuse, il crut que le roi des rois l'honorait selon ses mérites; la seconde lui parut moins agréable; la troisième fut gênante; la quatrième fut insupportable; la cinquième fut un supplice: enfin, outré d'entendre toujours chanter,
Ah! combien monseigneurDoit être content de lui-même!
d'entendre toujours dire qu'il avait raison, et d'être harangué chaque jour à la même heure, il écrivit en cour pour supplier le roi qu'il daignât rappeler ses chambellans, ses musiciens, son maître-d'hôtel; il promit d'être désormais moins vain et plus appliqué; il se fit moins encenser, eut moins de fêtes, et fut plus heureux; car, comme dit le Sadder, toujours du plaisir n'est pas du plaisir.
Musean translation
Complete machine-assisted Musean translation made directly from Voltaire’s French in Beuchot’s 1829 edition: Approbation, dedicatory epistle and all twenty-one chapters, including The Dance and Blue Eyes. Voltaire’s notes are retained; later editors’ notes are omitted. Source-language review is recorded with the source witness.
The Minister.
The king had lost his prime minister. He chose Zadig to fill the post. All the beautiful ladies of Babylon applauded the choice, for since the empire's founding there had never been so young a minister. All the courtiers were angry; the Envious Man coughed blood, and his nose swelled prodigiously. After thanking the king and queen, Zadig went to thank the parrot as well. “Beautiful bird,” he said, “you saved my life and made me prime minister. Their Majesties' bitch and horse did me much harm, but you have done me good. So this is what human destinies depend on! But,” he added, “such strange happiness may soon vanish.” The parrot answered, “Yes.” The word struck Zadig. Yet as he was a good natural philosopher and did not believe parrots were prophets, he soon recovered his composure and began to discharge his ministry as well as he could.
He made everyone feel the sacred power of the laws, and no one feel the weight of his rank. He did not restrict the council's freedom to speak, and every vizier could hold an opinion without displeasing him. When he judged a case, it was not he who judged but the law; yet when the law was too harsh, he tempered it, and where laws were lacking, his fairness supplied ones that might have been taken for Zoroaster's.
It is from him that nations derive this great principle: it is better to risk saving a guilty person than to condemn an innocent one. He believed laws were made to help citizens as much as to frighten them. His chief talent was for disentangling the truth, which everyone seeks to obscure. In the first days of his administration he put this great talent to use. A famous merchant of Babylon had died in India. Having married off his daughter, he had made his two sons equal heirs, and left a gift of thirty thousand gold pieces to whichever son was judged to love him more. The elder built him a tomb; the younger added part of his inheritance to his sister's dowry. Everyone said, “The elder loves his father more; the younger loves his sister more. The thirty thousand pieces belong to the elder.”
Zadig summoned the two in turn. He told the elder, “Your father is not dead. He has recovered from his last illness and is returning to Babylon.” “God be praised,” the young man replied, “but that tomb cost me very dearly!” Zadig then told the younger the same thing. “God be praised!” he answered. “I shall give my father back everything I have, but I wish he would let my sister keep what I gave her.” “You will give nothing back,” Zadig said, “and you will have the thirty thousand pieces. You are the one who loves your father more.”
A very rich girl had promised marriage to two magi, and after receiving several months' instruction from both, found herself pregnant. Both wished to marry her. “I shall take as my husband,” she said, “whichever of you has enabled me to give the empire a citizen.” “I performed that good work,” said one. “I had that advantage,” said the other. “Well,” she replied, “I shall acknowledge as the child's father whichever of you can give it the better education.” She gave birth to a son. Each magus wants to raise him. The case is brought before Zadig, who summons both magi. “What will you teach your pupil?” he asks the first. “I shall teach him,” the doctor says, “the eight parts of speech, dialectic, astrology, demonology; the nature of substance and accident, the abstract and the concrete, monads and pre-established harmony.” “I,” says the second, “shall try to make him just and worthy of having friends.” Zadig pronounced: “Whether you are his father or not, you shall marry his mother.”
Every day complaints reached the court against the governor of Media, named Irax. He was a great lord, not bad at heart, but corrupted by vanity and sensuality. He rarely allowed anyone to speak to him, and never to dare contradict him. Peacocks are no vainer, doves no more sensual, tortoises less lazy; he lived for false glory and false pleasures. Zadig undertook to correct him.
In the king's name he sent him a music master with twelve singers and twenty-four violinists, a steward with six cooks, and four chamberlains, who were never to leave him. The king ordered that the following ceremonial be observed without fail; and this is how matters went.
On the first day, as soon as the pleasure-loving Irax awoke, the music master entered with the singers and violinists. They sang a cantata lasting two hours, with this refrain every three minutes:
How boundless is his merit!What grace! What grandeur!Ah, how pleased with himselfMy lord must be!
After the cantata a chamberlain delivered a speech lasting three-quarters of an hour, expressly praising him for every good quality he lacked. When it was over, he was led to the table to the sound of instruments. Dinner lasted three hours; the moment he opened his mouth to speak, the first chamberlain said, “He will be right.” Scarcely had he uttered four words when the second chamberlain cried, “He is right!” The other two chamberlains roared with laughter at the witty things Irax had said or ought to have said. After dinner they repeated the cantata.
He found this first day delightful, believing the king of kings was honoring him as he deserved. The second seemed less pleasant; the third was awkward; the fourth unbearable; the fifth a torment. At last, exasperated by always hearing them sing,
Ah, how pleased with himselfMy lord must be!
by always hearing that he was right, and by being addressed in a speech every day at the same hour, he wrote to court, begging the king to recall his chamberlains, his musicians, and his steward. He promised to be less vain and more diligent in future. He had less incense burned before him, gave fewer entertainments, and was happier; for, as the Sadder says, perpetual pleasure is no pleasure.
Plain English translation
Complete machine-assisted Plain English translation made independently and directly from the French, in separate source-only translation tasks, not from the Musean edition or a published English translation. Same complete scope and author’s notes; later editors’ notes are omitted. Source-language review is recorded with the source witness.
The Minister.
The king had lost his prime minister. He chose Zadig to fill the position. All the beautiful women in Babylon applauded the choice. Since the empire was founded, it had never had such a young minister. All the courtiers were upset. The Envious Man coughed up blood, and his nose swelled enormously. After thanking the king and queen, Zadig went to thank the parrot too. "Beautiful bird," he told it, "you saved my life and made me prime minister. Their Majesties' dog and horse did me a great deal of harm, but you have done me good. So this is what human destinies depend on! But," he added, "such strange good luck may soon disappear." The parrot answered, "Yes." This word struck Zadig. But he had a good knowledge of natural science and did not believe parrots were prophets, so he soon felt reassured. He set about doing his job as well as he could.
He made everyone feel the sacred power of the laws, but he made no one feel the weight of his high position. He let people speak freely in the council. Each minister could express an opinion without displeasing him. When he ruled on a case, it was not he who judged, but the law. Yet when the law was too harsh, he softened it. When no law existed, his sense of fairness supplied laws that could have been mistaken for Zoroaster's.
Nations owe this great principle to him: it is better to risk letting a guilty person go free than to condemn an innocent one. He believed laws were made to help citizens as much as to frighten them. His chief talent was finding the truth that everyone tries to hide. He used this great talent in the first days of his administration. A famous merchant of Babylon had died in India. After marrying off his daughter, he had left his two sons equal shares of his estate. He also left a gift of thirty thousand gold pieces to whichever son was judged to love him more. The older son built him a tomb. The younger added part of his inheritance to his sister's dowry. Everyone said, "The older son loves his father more. The younger one loves his sister more. The thirty thousand pieces belong to the older son."
Zadig had the two sons come to see him, one after the other. He told the older one, "Your father is not dead. He has recovered from his recent illness and is coming back to Babylon." "Thank God," the young man answered, "but that tomb cost me a great deal!" Zadig then told the younger son the same thing. "Thank God!" he answered. "I'll give my father back everything I have. But I would like him to let my sister keep what I gave her." "You won't give anything back," said Zadig, "and you'll have the thirty thousand pieces. You're the one who loves your father more."
A very rich girl had promised to marry two priests. After taking lessons from both for a few months, she found herself pregnant. Both wanted to marry her. "I'll take as my husband," she said, "whichever one of you has put me in a position to give the empire a citizen." "I'm the one who did that good deed," said one. "I'm the one who had that advantage," said the other. "Well," she answered, "I'll recognize as the child's father whichever one can give it the best education." She gave birth to a son. Each priest wanted to raise him. The case came before Zadig. He sent for both priests. "What will you teach the boy in your care?" he asked the first. "I'll teach him," said the scholar, "the eight parts of speech, logic, astrology, the study of demons, substance and accident, the abstract and the concrete, monads and pre-established harmony." "As for me," said the second, "I'll try to make him fair and worthy of having friends." Zadig ruled, "Whether you're his father or not, you'll marry his mother."
Every day, complaints reached the court about the governor of Media, named Irax. He was a great lord who was not bad at heart, but vanity and sensual pleasure had corrupted him. He rarely let anyone speak to him and never let anyone dare to disagree with him. Peacocks were no vainer, doves no more sensual, and tortoises less lazy. He lived for nothing but false glory and false pleasures. Zadig set out to reform him.
On the king's behalf, he sent Irax a music director with twelve singers and twenty-four violinists, a steward with six cooks, and four chamberlains. They were not to leave him. The king's order said the following ceremony must be strictly observed. Here is what happened.
On the first day, as soon as the pleasure-loving Irax woke up, the music director came in, followed by the singers and violinists. They sang a cantata that lasted two hours. Every three minutes, they repeated this chorus:
How great his worth is!What grace! What greatness!Oh, how our lordMust be pleased with himself!
After the cantata, a chamberlain gave him a forty-five-minute speech. It specifically praised him for every good quality he lacked. When the speech ended, they led him to the table as the instruments played. Dinner lasted three hours. As soon as he opened his mouth to speak, the first chamberlain said, "He'll be right." He had barely said four words when the second chamberlain cried, "He's right!" The other two chamberlains burst out laughing at the witty things Irax had said or should have said. After dinner, they repeated the cantata.
He found this first day delightful. He thought the king of kings was honoring him as he deserved. The second day seemed less pleasant, the third was a strain, the fourth was unbearable, and the fifth was torture. At last, sick of always hearing them sing,
Oh, how our lordMust be pleased with himself!
of always hearing that he was right, and of having a speech made to him at the same time every day, he wrote to the court. He begged the king to be kind enough to recall his chamberlains, musicians, and steward. He promised to be less vain and more hardworking from then on. He had himself praised less, held fewer parties, and was happier. For, as the Sadder says, constant pleasure is no pleasure.
About this section
Chapter 6: The Minister is part of Zadig, or Destiny by Voltaire. This page sets the French original beside 2 direct-source translations, so any line can be checked against the source. It is chapter 8 of 23 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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