Chapter IV: The Satiric Group (2)

Among the translations from the French showing mingled social and literary satire, Voltaire’s tales[236] take precedence, notably _The Black and the White_; _The White Bull_; _The Princess of Babylon_; _Memnon the Philosopher_; and _Bababec_. The scenes of part of Voltaire’s _Travels of Scarmentado_ are laid in the East. _The Princess of Babylon_ may be taken to illustrate Voltaire’s method. The aged Belus, so the story begins, “thought himself the first man upon earth; for all his courtiers told him so, and his historians proved it.” An oracle had ordained that the hand of his daughter, the surpassingly beautiful Formosanta, should be given only to the prince who could bend the bow of Nimrod and kill a ferocious lion. At a gorgeous tournament three kings strove in vain. Suddenly a handsome youth appeared, riding on an unicorn and bearing a phœnix on his wrist. He bent the bow, saved the life of one of his rivals, sent a love poem to the princess, cut off the lion’s head, gracefully drew its teeth, replaced them with magnificent diamonds, and gave the trophy to his phœnix. “Beautiful bird,” said he, “carry this small homage and lay it at the feet of Formosanta.” The great admiration and curiosity aroused, were increased by his sudden departure on receiving news of his father’s mortal illness. After this opening scene, the rest of the story recounts the wanderings of the princess through almost all the known countries of Asia and Europe in search of the stranger, until they are finally reunited. The extravagant plot, incident, and diction of the earlier oriental tales are entertainingly parodied, and the travels of the princess and her lover give a good opportunity for keen satire on European customs and ideas. For instance, in one country the princess finds that birds also meet in a grove to worship God, and that they have some parrots that preach wonderfully well. Voltaire’s satire strikes the hypocrisy of self-seeking clergy, the frivolity of “at least one hundred thousand” Parisians, and the wickedness of inquisitors who burned their victims “for the love of God.” With satire in one hand and praise in the other, he commends reason in the Germans, good government among the English, and ideal government in Russia, which he calls the Cimmerians’ land, probably meaning that ideal government is yet in Cimmerian darkness.

_The Black and the White_, a distinct and clever parody on oriental stories and fairy tales, recounts the passion of Rustan for a princess of Cashmere, who proves to be imaginary. He goes through marvelous adventures under the guidance of a good genius, “the White,” and an evil genius, “the Black.” But in the end he awakes out of an hour’s sleep to find that he has dreamed all his adventures, including the death of his princess and his own mortal wound. “Take heart,” said Topaz; “you never were at Kaboul; ... the princess cannot be dead, because she never was born; and you are in perfect health.” _The White Bull_ is a similar satire on oriental stories and fairy tales, and also on the miracles of the Old Testament and ignorant worship. The White Bull is the metamorphosed Nebuchadnezzar, who receives human form at the last and marries the princess of Egypt. Other characters are the Witch of Endor, Jonah’s whale, Balaam’s ass, and the serpent of Eden. _Memnon the Philosopher_ is a satire on the vanity of attempting to be a perfect philosopher. _Bababec_ is a sketch, mocking the folly of religious fanatics by describing the Fakir who becomes famous and thinks himself religious because he tortures himself with nails, in contrast with the wisdom of men who live useful, sensible lives.[237] _The Travels of Scarmentado_, a satire on persecution for conscience’ sake, recounts one incident that recalls _The Female Captive_ (cf. p. 50, _ante_). The hero hears a fair Circassian say “Alla, Illa, Alla” so tenderly that he thinks the words are expressions of love, and repeats them in his turn. He is accused of having become a Turk by saying those words, and escapes only with a fine. He flees to Persia. In his own words: “On my arrival at Ispahan, the people asked me whether I was for white or black mutton? I told them that it was a matter of indifference to me, provided it was tender. It must be observed that the Persian empire was at that time split into two factions, that of the white mutton and that of the black. The two parties imagined that I had made a jest of them both; so that I found myself engaged in a very troublesome affair at the gates of the city, and it cost me a great number of sequins to get rid of the white and the black mutton.”

In all these tales—even those that are apparently written for mere amusement—Voltaire’s genius, masterly command of his material, and intense hatred of hypocrisy and injustice give to his satire a keen and penetrating quality which at once differentiates it from the comparatively care-free and superficial fun of Marmontel, Caylus, Bougeant, and Hamilton.

The three last named are the only other French satirists of any consequence whose works were translated into English in this period. _The Oriental Tales_ (1745)[238] of Caylus is a good parody of the collections of oriental stories. The frame-tale, itself a satire upon the interminable method of story within story, is briefly as follows: Hudjadge, King of Persia, though gentle by nature, grows tyrannical from insomnia. He commands his jailer on pain of death to find a story-teller who can lull him to sleep. The jailer’s beautiful daughter Moradbak offers herself somewhat as Scheherazade does in the _Arabian Nights_, and succeeds so admirably that the sultan sleeps in peace, regains his temper, and marries her. The first tale she tells is the appropriate _History of Dakianos and the Seven Sleepers_, and the king, “whose eyes had begun to close during the recital, ... came to himself when she had ceased speaking. ‘I am satisfied,’ said he; ... ‘I listened with some attention to the beginning of the history, but I did not interest myself much for thy little dog, and I was almost asleep with Jemlikha, as if I had been in his cavern; therefore, I know not much of what passed afterwards.’—‘If your majesty has the least curiosity ... I will begin ... again.’—‘No, no,’ said the king, ‘I have enough for the first time.’” After another tale “the sultan ... had appeared very wide awake all the time, though he might with reason have dropt asleep at some parts of it.” Caylus succeeded only too well with his parody; most of his stories are decidedly soporific. A few familiar tales, such as the _Seven Sleepers_, and some entertaining stories like _Jahia and Meimoune_, break the otherwise uniform monotony. For oriental colouring we find the usual references to Mohametan legend: the mountain of Kaf, which surrounds the world and is composed of one emerald; the angel Israphil; magical flights; genii and monsters; devout heroes; Solomon’s ring; a treasure-cave accessible to an old dervish by means of his magic candlestick; and curious riddles like those in the _Persian Tales_. The descriptions are fantastic, extravagant, and occasionally coarse. Though the _Oriental Tales_ is said to have been based upon genuine oriental manuscripts, it shows few traces of any such source, and is of value chiefly as exemplifying the tendency towards parody.

_The Wonderful Travels of Prince Fan-Feredin, in the country of Arcadia, interspersed with observations historical, geographical, physical, critical, and moral. Translated from the original French of Guillaume Hyacinthe Bougeant_, Northampton, n. d.,[239] is an entertaining parody on the heroic romances by name, _e.g._ _Astrea_, _Palmerin_, etc., and on the fairy tales, with occasional satirical remarks on the oriental tales as well.

One of the most popular of all the parodies and satires that followed so rapidly on the heels of the extravagant pseudo-translations in France was _Fleur d’Epine_, by Count Anthony Hamilton, the author of the _Memoirs of Count Grammont_. The English version, _Thorn-Flower_, 1760,[240] lost much of the wit and charm of Hamilton’s style, and yet kept, of course, the humour of situation and narrative. How Hamilton began to write these tales, half earnest, half satirical, is quite in keeping with their light and entertaining character. “The conversation happened to turn in a company in which he was present on the _Arabian Nights’ Entertainments_, which were just published; every one highly commended the book; many seemed to hint at the difficulty of writing that species of composition. ‘Nothing can be more easy,’ replied Count Hamilton, ‘and as a proof of it I will venture to write a Circassian tale after the manner of the _Arabian Nights’ Entertainments_ on any subject which you can mention.’—‘Fiddlesticks!’ (Tarare) replied the other.—‘You have hit it,’ said Count Hamilton; ‘and I promise you that I shall produce a tale in which Fiddlestick shall be the principal hero.’ In a few days he finished this tale, which he called _Fleur d’Epine_. It was much read and admired in Paris.”[241] The popularity is not surprising, for the story is an exceedingly clever imitation—and parody—of its extravagant predecessors. The author pretends that it is one of the _Arabian Nights’ Entertainments_, and in the introductory scene puts into the mouth of Dinarzade some capital mockery of the long-winded confusion of some of her sister Scheherazade’s tales. Throughout, as in Hamilton’s other tales, the interruptions and comments by the audience form comic interludes. Hamilton has caught the manner of the earlier stories admirably, and heightens it in ostensible seriousness just enough to bring it within the pale of ridicule. To say that his story is located far in the East is not sufficient. He proceeds to say exactly how far: “two thousand four hundred and fifty leagues from here.” His princess, like her prototypes, is superlatively fair; but, moreover, her eyes are so brilliant that men die from her glance as if struck by lightning, and the artist who paints her portrait is obliged to wear smoked glasses. The introduction of the hero is farcical. He is a disguised prince, and when asked by the caliph what his name is, startles the whole court by replying, “‘Tarare!’ (Fiddlestick!) ‘Tarare!’ says the caliph; ‘Tarare!’ say all the counselors; ‘Tarare!’ says the Chancellor. ‘I ask you,’ says the caliph, ‘what is your name?’—‘I know it well, Sire,’ he replies.—‘Well, then,’ says the caliph.—‘Tarare!’ says the other, making a bow.... ‘And why are you named Tarare?’—‘Because that is not my name.’ ‘And how so?’ says the caliph.—‘It is because I have dropped my name to assume this one,’ says he.—‘Nothing could be clearer,’ says the caliph, ‘and yet it would have taken me more than a month to find it out.’” The characterization is purposely colourless, as in the parodied tales. Yet there is occasionally a clever bit of character analysis, such as the account of May-Flower’s sudden interest in her rival. In the use of magic, Hamilton’s fancy runs riot side by side with his keen sense of the ridiculous; here his parody reaches its highest point. One of the tasks set the hero is the theft from an old witch of the “sounding mare.” That remarkable creature carried a golden bell on every hair, and thus made “ravishing music.” The ingenious Tarare silenced this music by filling each bell with a kind of glue, mounted the mare with May-Flower, and fled from the pursuing sorceress. The latter nearly succeeded in coming up with them, when at the last desperate moment, “Sonante,” the mare, shook her left ear three times. The prince found in it a little stone, which he threw over his left shoulder. Instantly and just in time to save them there arose out of the ground a protecting wall, only sixty feet high, but so long that one could see neither the beginning nor the end. Other difficulties in the hero’s path consisted of the animals that opposed his passage through the forest. “One would say that these accursed beasts knew his purpose, for in place of taking pains to come at him, they merely spread out to right and left; three hydras, ten rhinoceroses, and some half dozen of griffons, gazed upon his progress. He knew the rules of war well enough; so, after having examined the situation and their appearance, he saw their design, and since the sides were not equal, he had recourse to stratagem.” One marvelous event is piled upon another until the author breaks out into an apostrophe: “Oh! how great a help are enchantments in the dénouement of an intrigue or end of a tale!”

Another of Count Hamilton’s stories, _Le Bélier_,[242] half parody, half imitation of the fairy tales, incidentally pokes fun at the oriental tales, too. The fair heroine, Alie, insane with love, imagines that she is Scheherazade in the _Thousand and One Nights_, and that she must at once tell a tale. In the midst of her soliloquy she falls asleep, to be awakened by her father, who is somewhat startled to have her address him as “Great Commander of the Faithful!” The Ram is an enchanted prince who tells a tale to his master, the giant, beginning abruptly: “‘After the white fox was wounded, the queen did not fail to visit him.’ ‘Friend Ram,’ said the giant, interrupting him, ‘I do not understand that at all. If you would begin at the beginning, you would give me pleasure; these tales that begin in the middle only confuse[243] my imagination.’—‘Very well,’ said the Ram. ‘I consent, against the usual custom, to put each event in its place; the beginning of my story shall be at the commencement of my recital.’” Later, when the story-teller follows the conventional method in leaving some of his personages on a magic island at a critical juncture, the giant again objects, and forbids him to leave the island until he has quite finished their story. Of talismans, Hamilton says: “Great was the virtue of ancient talismans, and even greater the faith of those that believed in them.” He describes extravagant emotions thus: “Joy, astonishment, and anxiety were simultaneously depicted on the face of the druid, though it is rather difficult to depict them all at once on the same face.”

_Les Quatre Facardins_,[244] the last in order of composition of Hamilton’s tales, is the least interesting. As the author confesses, in his rhymed preface, one who like himself sets out jokingly to imitate and to make fun of such absurdities ends by becoming equally absurd. That is true of _The Four Facardins_. No oriental tale could be more extravagant in plot and incident. The various adventures of the four princes of the same name, Facardin, are so utterly tangled that the reader, like the giant in _Le Bélier_, feels as if his imagination were becoming “embrouillée.” It is not surprising that the author left the story unfinished. The frame-tale begins hopefully to recount how Prince Facardin of Trebizonde tells his adventures to Sultan Schariar, Scheherazade, and Dinarzade; but, after the other Facardins begin their own stories, the main thread would be hard to follow, were that necessary. Their various adventures include encounters with lions, enchanters, giants, and fair ladies, and are enlivened with fanciful descriptions,—sometimes in questionable taste,—and occasional humour. On the whole _The Four Facardins_ is not nearly so entertaining as Hamilton’s other tales.

The only English writer who made a deliberate attempt to parody the structure of the oriental tales was Horace Walpole. His _Hieroglyphic Tales_ (1785)[245] are, as the postscript says, “mere whimsical trifles, written chiefly for private amusement; half a dozen copies only are printed.” But even though a mere skit, the book is interesting as a straw to show which way the wind was blowing. The Preface is a rather clever satire on the pretentious, highly moralistic, and would-be scholarly prefaces to oriental tales; and informs the reader that “the Hieroglyphic Tales were undoubtedly written a little before the creation of the world ... and preserved by oral tradition in the mountains of Crampcraggi, an uninhabited island not yet discovered.” The seven short stories which make up the book are somewhat similar to Hamilton’s. The scene of the first, _A New Arabian Nights’ Entertainment_, is laid in the kingdom of Larbidel. “The other side of the mountain was inhabited by a nation of whom the Larbidellians knew no more than the French nobility do of Great Britain, which they think is an island that somehow or other may be approached by land.” The other stories are also parodies: _The King and his Three Daughters_; _The Dice-box_; _The Peach in Brandy, a Milesian Tale_; _Mi Li, a Chinese Fairy Tale_; and a _Venetian Love-story_ of two black slaves who prove to be dogs.

Walpole’s tone of supercilious mockery toward the oriental tales was typical of critical opinion generally between the middle of the century and the end of our period (c. 1786). Preluded by Pope’s ridicule of Ambrose Philips as

“The bard whom pilfer’d Pastorals renown,
Who Turns a Persian Tale for half-a-crown,”

such criticism found its best expression in Goldsmith. _The Citizen of the World_ (_Letter_ XXXIII.) ridicules authors who attempt “to write in the true Eastern style, where nothing is required but sublimity.” Lien Chi is amused to hear an English lady say: “Oh, for a history of Aboulfaouris [_sic_], the grand voyager, of genii, magicians, rocs, bags of bullets, giants, and enchanters, where all is great, obscure, magnificent, and unintelligible;” and even more amused when an author in the company rejoins: “I have written many a sheet of Eastern tale myself ... and I defy the severest critic to say but that I have stuck close to the true manner. I have compared a lady’s chin to the snow upon the mountains of Bomek; a soldier’s sword to the clouds that obscure the face of heaven. If riches are mentioned, I compare them to the flocks that graze the verdant Tefflis; if poverty, to the mists that veil the brow of mount Baku. I have used _thee_ and _thou_ upon all occasions, I have described fallen stars, and splitting mountains, not forgetting the little Houris who make a pretty figure in every description. But you shall hear how I generally begin. ‘Eben-ben-bolo, who was the son of Ban, was born on the foggy summits of Benderabassi. His beard was whiter than the feathers which veil the breast of the Penguin; his eyes were like the eyes of doves, when washed by the dews of the morning; his hair, which hung like the willow weeping over the glassy stream, was so beautiful that it seemed to reflect its own brightness; and his feet were as the feet of a wild deer, which fleeth to the tops of the mountains.’ There, there, is the true Eastern taste for you; every advance made towards sense is only a deviation from sound. Eastern tales should always be sonorous, lofty, musical, and unmeaning.”

Except for the _Arabian Nights_, many of the oriental tales that had appeared up to 1760–1761, when Goldsmith wrote, or even up to the date of Walpole’s parody (1785), gave considerable provocation for such criticism. Indeed, to a certain extent, the vogue of these tales was another expression of the tendency more grotesquely manifested in the current craze, likewise ridiculed, for Chinese domestic architecture and house furnishings. “A few years ago,” William Whitehead writes (_World_, No. 12, 1753), “everything was Gothic, now it is Chinese.” In 1754 William Lloyd describes a country place decorated by “Chinese artists”:—

“The trav’ler with amazement sees
A temple, Gothic or Chinese;
With many a bell and tawdry rag on,
And crested with a wooden dragon.”[246]

The _World_, No. 117, ridicules the “applause so fondly given to Chinese decorations or to the barbarous productions of a Gothic genius which seems once more to threaten the ruin of ... [Greek] ... simplicity ... [which is so] ... superior.” The same essay describes a visit to Lady Fiddlefaddle’s Chinese dressing-room. She had thrown aside her grandfather’s fine Italian pictures for the sake of red dragons, “pagods,” and ugly monsters. Just as “the Greek and Roman architecture are discarded for the novelties of China ... [so] Correggio is neglected for gothic designs ... and the tinsel of a Burletta has more admirers than the gold of Shakespeare.”[247] It may be, Warton goes on to say, that an attempt to improve this state of learning and taste will be thought “romantic ... and chimerical.” The _Connoisseur_, No. 122, ridicules the faults of a man of fashion who goes so far as to think the Bible to be “as romantic as the Alcoran.” To a writer in the _World_, No. 70, one redeeming quality in the craze for oriental tales is the fact that some of them “contain useful morals and well-drawn pictures from common life.” A later contributor to the same periodical, No. 121, writes to the editor: “Among the many visions related by your predecessors and contemporaries, the writers of periodical essays, I remember few but what have been in the oriental style.” And he adds a sentence which may be taken as epitomizing the critical opinion of his contemporaries: “For my own part, I am neither Dervise nor Brachman, but a poet and a true Christian.”