The Portable Voltaire (Portable Library)

by Francois Voltaire

  Religion teaches the same principles of morality to all nations, without exception; the ceremonies of the Asiatics are ridiculous, their belief absurd, but their precepts are just; the dervish, the fakir, the bonze, and the talapoin, are always crying out: “Be just and beneficent.” The common people in China are accused of being great cheats in trade; they are perhaps encouraged to this vice by knowing that they can procure absolution for their crime of their bonzes for a trifling sum of money. The moral precepts taught them are good, the indulgence which is sold them is bad.

  We are not to credit those travelers and missionaries, who have represented the Eastern priests to us as persons who preach up iniquity; this is traducing human nature; it is not possible that there should ever exist a religious society instituted for the encouragement or propagation of vice.

  We should equally deceive ourselves, were we to believe that the Mohammedan religion owes its establishment wholly to the sword. The Mohammedans have had their missionaries in the Indies and in China; and the sects of Omar and Ali dispute with each other for proselytes, even on the coasts of Coromandel and Malabar.

  From all that we have observed in this sketch of universal history, it follows that whatever concerns human nature is the same from one end of the universe to the other, and that what is dependent upon custom differs, or, if there is any resemblance, it is the effect of chance. The dominion of custom is much more extensive than that of nature, and influences all manners and all usages. It diffuses variety over the face of the universe. Nature establishes unity, and everywhere settles a few invariable principles; the soil is still the same, but culture produces various fruits.

  As nature has placed in the heart of man interest, pride, and all the passions, it is no wonder that, during a period of about six centuries, we meet with almost a continual succession of crimes and disasters. If we go back to earlier ages, we shall find them no better. Custom has ordered it so that evil has everywhere operated in a different manner. Translation by W. F. Fleming

  The Lisbon Earthquake

  Author’s Preface

  IF THE question concerning physical evil ever deserves the attention of men, it is in those melancholy events which put us in mind of the weakness of our nature; such as plagues, which carry off a fourth of the inhabitants of the known world; the earthquake which swallowed up four hundred thousand of the Chinese in 1699, that of Lima and Callao, and, in the last place, that of Portugal and the kingdom of Fez. The maxim, “whatever is, is right,” appears somewhat extraordinary to those who have been eye-witnesses of such calamities. All things are doubtless arranged and set in order by Providence, but it has long been too evident, that its superintending power has not disposed them in such a manner as to promote our temporal happiness.

  When the celebrated Pope published his “Essay on Man,” and expounded in immortal verse the systems of Leibnitz, Lord Shaftesbury, and Lord Bolingbroke, his system was attacked by a multitude of divines of a variety of different communions. They were shocked at the novelty of the propositions, “whatever is, is right”; and that “man always enjoys that measure of happiness which is suited to his being.” There are few writings that may not be condemned, if considered in one light, or approved of, if considered in another. It would be much more reasonable to attend only to the beauties and improving parts of a work, than to endeavor to put an odious construction on it; but it is one of the imperfections of our nature to put a bad interpretation on whatever has a dubious sense, and to run down whatever has been successful.

  In a word, it was the opinion of many, that the axiom, “whatever is, is right,” was subversive of all our received ideas. If it be true, said they, that whatever is, is right, it follows that human nature is not degenerated. If the general order requires that everything should be as it is, human nature has not been corrupted, and consequently could have had no occasion for a Redeemer. If this world, such as it is, be the best of systems possible, we have no room to hope for a happy future state. If the various evils by which man is overwhelmed, end in general good, all civilized nations have been wrong in endeavoring to trace out the origin of moral and physical evil. If a man devoured by wild beasts, causes the well-being of those beasts, and contributes to promote the orders of the universe; if the misfortunes of individuals are only the consequence of this general and necessary order, we are nothing more than wheels which serve to keep the great machine in motion; we are not more precious in the eyes of God, than the animals by whom we are devoured.

  These are the inferences which were drawn from Mr. Pope’s poem; and these very conclusions increased the sale and success of the work. But it should have been seen from another point of view. Readers should have considered the reverence for the Deity, the resignation to His supreme will, the useful morality, and the spirit of toleration, which breathe through this excellent poem. This the public has done, and the work being translated by men equal to the task, has completely triumphed over critics, though it turned on matters of so delicate a nature.

  It is the nature of overviolent censurers to give importance to the opinions which they attack. A book is railed at on account of its success, and a thousand errors are imputed to it. What is the consequence of this? Men, disgusted with these invectives, take for truths the very errors which these critics think they have discovered. Cavillers raise phantoms on purpose to combat them, and indignant readers embrace these very phantoms.

  Critics have declared that Pope and Leibnitz maintain the doctrine of fatality; the partisans of Leibnitz and Pope have said on the other hand that, if Leibnitz and Pope have taught the doctrine of fatality, they were in the right, and all this invincible fatality we should believe.

  Pope had advanced that “whatever is, is right,” in a sense that might very well be admitted, and his followers maintain the same proposition in a sense that may very well be contested.

  The author of the poem, “The Lisbon Earthquake,” does not write against the illustrious Pope, whom he always loved and admired; he agrees with him in almost every particular, but compassionating the misery of man; he declares against the abuse of the new maxim, “whatever is, is right.” He maintains that ancient and sad truth acknowledged by all men, that there is evil upon earth; he acknowledges that the words “whatever is, is right,” if understood in a positive sense, and without any hopes of a happy future state, only insult us in our present misery.

  If, when Lisbon, Moquinxa, Tetuan, and other cities were swallowed up with a great number of their inhabitants in the month of November, 1759, philosophers had cried out to the wretches, who with difficulty escaped from the ruins, “all this is productive of general good; the heirs of those who have perished will increase their fortune; masons will earn money by rebuilding the houses, beasts will feed on the carcasses buried under the ruins; it is the necessary effect of necessary causes; your particular misfortune is nothing, it contributes to universal good,” such a harangue would doubtless have been as cruel as the earthquake was fatal, and all that the author of the poem upon the destruction of Lisbon has said amounts only to this.

  He acknowledges with all mankind that there is evil as well as good on the earth; he owns that no philosopher has ever been able to explain the nature of moral and physical evil. He asserts that Bayle, the greatest master of the art of reasoning that ever wrote, has only taught to doubt, and that he combats himself; he owns that man’s understanding is as weak as his life is miserable. He lays a concise abstract of the several different systems before his readers. He says that Revelation alone can untie the great knot which philosophers have only rendered more puzzling; and that nothing but the hope of our existence being continued in a future state can console us under our present misfortunes; that the goodness of Providence is the only asylum in which man can take refuge in the darkness of reason, and in the calamities to which his weak and frail nature is exposed.

  P. S.—Readers should always distinguish between the objections which an author proposes to himself and his answers to
those objections, and should not mistake what he refutes for what he adopts.

  The Lisbon Earthquake44

  AN INQUIRY INTO THE MAXIM, “WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT.»

  OH WRETCHED man, earth-fated to be cursed;

  Abyss of plagues, and miseries the worst!

  Horrors on horrors, griefs on griefs must show,

  That man’s the victim of unceasing woe,

  And lamentations which inspire my strain,

  Prove that philosophy is false and vain.

  Approach in crowds, and meditate awhile

  Yon shattered walls, and view each ruined pile,

  Women and children heaped up mountain high,

  Limbs crushed which under ponderous marble lie;

  Wretches unnumbered in the pangs of death,

  Who mangled, torn, and panting for their breath,

  Buried beneath their sinking roofs expire,

  And end their wretched lives in torments dire.

  Say, when you hear their piteous, half-formed cries,

  Or from their ashes see the smoke arise,

  Say, will you then eternal laws maintain,

  Which God to cruelties like these constrain?

  Whilst you these facts replete with horror view,

  Will you maintain death to their crimes was due?

  And can you then impute a sinful deed

  To babes who on their mothers’ bosoms bleed?

  Was then more vice in fallen Lisbon found,

  Than Paris, where voluptuous joys abound?

  Was less debauchery to London known,

  Where opulence luxurious holds her throne?

  Earth Lisbon swallows; the light sons of France

  Protract the feast, or lead the sprightly dance.

  Spectators who undaunted courage show,

  While you behold your dying brethren’s woe;

  With stoical tranquillity of mind

  You seek the causes of these ills to find;

  But when like us Fate’s rigors you have felt,

  Become humane, like us you’ll learn to melt.

  When the earth gapes my body to entomb,

  I justly may complain of such a doom.

  Hemmed round on every side by cruel fate,

  The snares of death, the wicked’s furious hate,

  Preyed on by pain and by corroding grief

  Suffer me from complaint to find relief.

  ‘Tis pride, you cry, seditious pride that still

  Asserts mankind should be exempt from ill.

  The awful truth on Tagus’ banks explore,

  Rummage the ruins on that bloody shore,

  Wretches interred alive in direful grave

  Ask if pride cries, “Good Heaven, thy creatures save.

  If ’tis presumption that makes mortals cry,

  ”Heav’n, on our sufferings cast a pitying eye.”

  All’s right, you answer, the eternal cause

  Rules not by partial, but by general laws.

  Say what advantage can result to all,

  From wretched Lisbon’s lamentable fall?

  Are you then sure, the power which could create

  The universe and fix the laws of fate,

  Could not have found for man a proper place,

  But earthquakes must destroy the human race?

  Will you thus limit the eternal mind?

  Should not our God to mercy be inclined?

  Cannot then God direct all nature’s course?

  Can power almighty be without resource?

  Humbly the great Creator I entreat,

  This gulf with sulphur and with fire replete,

  Might on the deserts spend its raging flame,

  God my respect, my love weak mortals claim;

  When man groans under such a load of woe,

  He is not proud, he only feels the blow.

  Would words like these to peace of mind restore

  The natives sad of that disastrous shore?

  Grieve not, that others’ bliss may overflow,

  Your sumptuous palaces are laid thus low;

  Your toppled towers shall other hands rebuild;

  With multitudes your walls one day be filled;

  Your ruin on the North shall wealth bestow,

  For general good from partial ills must flow;

  You seem as abject to the sovereign power,

  As worms which shall your carcasses devour.

  No comfort could such shocking words impart,

  But deeper wound the sad, afflicted heart.

  When I lament my present wretched state,

  Allege not the unchanging laws of fate;

  Urge not the links of the eternal chain,

  Tis false philosophy and wisdom vain.

  The God who holds the chain can’t be enchained;45

  By His blest will are all events ordained:

  He’s just, nor easily to wrath gives way,

  Why suffer we beneath so mild a sway:46

  This is the fatal knot you should untie,

  Our evils do you cure when you deny?

  Men ever strove into the source to pry,

  Of evil, whose existence you deny.

  If he whose hand the elements can wield,

  To the winds’ force makes rocky mountains yield;

  If thunder lays oaks level with the plain,

  From the bolts’ strokes they never suffer pain.

  But I can feel, my heart oppressed demands

  Aid of that God who formed me with His hands.

  Sons of the God supreme to suffer all

  Fated alike; we on our Father call.

  No vessel of the potter asks, we know,

  Why it was made so brittle, vile, and low?

  Vessels of speech as well as thought are void;

  The urn this moment formed and that destroyed,

  The potter never could with sense inspire,

  Devoid of thought it nothing can desire.

  The moralist still obstinate replies,

  Others’ enjoyments from your woes arise,

  To numerous insects shall my corpse give birth,

  When once it mixes with its mother earth:

  Small comfort ’tis that when Death’s ruthless power

  Closes my life, worms shall my flesh devour.

  Remembrances of misery refrain

  From consolation, you increase my pain:

  Complaint, I see, you have with care repressed,

  And proudly hid your sorrows in your breast.

  But a small part I no importance claim

  In this vast universe, this general frame;

  All other beings in this world below

  Condemned like me to lead a life of woe,

  Subject to laws as rigorous as I,

  Like me in anguish live and like me die.

  The vulture urged by an insatiate maw,

  Its trembling prey tears with relentless claw:

  This it finds right, endowed with greater powers

  The bird of Jove the vulture’s self devours.

  Man lifts his tube, he aims the fatal ball

  And makes to earth the towering eagle fall;

  Man in the field with wounds all covered o‘er,

  Midst heaps of dead lies weltering in his gore,

  While birds of prey the mangled limbs devour,

  Of Nature’s Lord who boasts his mighty power.

  Thus the world’s members equal ills sustain,

  And perish by each other born to pain:

  Yet in this direful chaos you’d compose

  A general bliss from individuals’ woes?

  Oh worthless bliss! in injured reason’s sight,

  With faltering voice you cry, “What is, is right”?

  The universe confutes your boasting vain,

  Your heart retracts the error you maintain.

  Men, beasts, and elements know no repose

  From dire contention; earth’s the seat of woes:

  We strive in vai
n its secret source to find.

  Is ill the gift of our Creator kind?

  Do then fell Typhon’s cursed laws ordain

  Our ill, or Arimanius doom to pain?

  Shocked at such dire chimeras, I reject

  Monsters which fear could into gods erect.

  But how conceive a God, the source of love,

  Who on man lavished blessings from above,

  Then would the race with various plagues confound

  Can mortals penetrate His views profound?

  Ill could not from a perfect being spring,

  Nor from another, since God’s sovereign king;

  And yet, sad truth! in this our world ’tis found,

  What contradictions here my soul confound!

  A God once dwelt on earth amongst mankind,

  Yet vices still lay waste the human mind;

  He could not do it, this proud sophist cries,

  He could, but he declined it, that replies;

  He surely will, ere these disputes have end,

  Lisbon’s foundations hidden thunders rend,

  And thirty cities’ shattered remnants fly,

  With ruin and combustion through the sky,

  From dismal Tagus’ ensanguined shore,

  To where of Cadiz’ sea the billows roar.

  Or man’s a sinful creature from his birth,

  And God to woe condemns the sons of earth;

  Or else the God who being rules and space,

  Untouched with pity for the human race,

  Indifferent, both from love and anger free,

  Still acts consistent to His first decree:

  Or matter has defects which still oppose

  God’s will, and thence all human evil flows;

  Or else this transient world by mortals trod,

  Is but a passage that conducts to God.

  Our transient sufferings here shall soon be o‘er,

  And death will land us on a happier shore.

  But when we rise from this accursed abyss,

  Who by his merit can lay claim to bliss?