SOME REFLECTIONS
ON
THE PERSIAN LETTERS 1
Nothing in the Persian Letters
has been found more attractive than the unexpected discovered of a sort
of story, which can be followed easily from beginning to end. A chain
of circumstance connects the various characters. In proportion as
their stay in Europe is extended, the morals and manners of that part of
the world appear to them less wonderful and odd; and the degree in which
they are affected by the marvelous and the eccentric depends upon the difference
in their dispositions. On the other hand, the Asiatic seraglio2
becomes more disorderly the long Usbek remains away—that is to say, in
proportion as frenzy increases and love abates.
Another cause of the
success of romances of this kind lies in the fact that events are described
by the characters themselves as actually happening. This produces a sensational
effect unattainable in the narrative of an outsider; and it is to this
that the popularity of certain works which have appeared since the publication
of the “Persian Letters” is mainly due.
Although in the regular
novel, digressions are inadmissible unless they themselves constitute a
fresh romance, and argumentative discussion is altogether beside the mark,
since the characters are not brought together for the purpose of chopping
logic; yet, in the epistolary form, where accident selects the characters,
and the subjects dealt with are independent of any design or preconceived
plan, the author is enabled to mingle philosophy, politics, and morality
with a romance, and to connect the whole by a hidden, and somewhat novel,
bond.
So great was the sale
of the “Persian Letters” when they came out that publishers did their utmost
to obtain sequels. They button-holed every author they met, and entreated
him to write “Persian Letters.
What I have just stated,
however, should convince the reader that they do not admit of a sequel
3,
still less of any admixture from the hand of another.4
Some remarks have
been found by many people sufficiently audacious; but I beg them to consider
the nature of the work. The Persians, who were to play so important a part
in it, found themselves, transported, to all intents and purposes, into
another world. It was therefore necessary for some time to represent them
as ignorant and full of prejudices: attention was bestowed exclusively
on the formation and development of their ideas. Their first thoughts must
have been exceptional.5
It seemed to the author that all he had to do was to endow them with singularity
in as spirited a manner as he could; and to this end what was more necessary
than to depict their state of mind in presence of whatever appeared to
them extraordinary? Nothing was further from his thoughts than the idea
of compromising any principle of our religion—he did not even suspect himself
of the simplest indiscretion. What questionable remarks there are
on religion will always be found united with feelings of surprise and astonishment,
and not with any critical intention, still less with that of censure.
Why should these Persians appear better informed when speaking of our religion,
than when they discuss our manners and customs? And if they do sometimes
find our dogmas singular, it is always a proof of their entire ignorance
of the connection between those dogmas and other religious truths.
The author advances
this justification out of his love for these great truths, independently
of his respect for the human race, whose tenderest feelings he certainly
did not intend to wound. The reader is, therefore, requested not
for one moment to regard the remarks referred to as other than the result
of amazement in people who could not fail to be amazed, or as the paradoxes
of men who were in no condition to be paradoxical. The reader should
also observe that the whole charm of the work lies in the continuous contrast
between the existing state of things and the remarkable, artless, or odd
manner in which they are regarded. Beyond a doubt, the nature and
design of the “Persian Letters” are so obvious that they can only deceive
those who are inclined to deceive themselves.
1These reflections
first appeared as an introduction to the quarto edition of the "Persian
Letters" (1754), and have always been ascribed to Montesquieu himself.
2 A
seraglio
is a royal dwelling. Montesquieu used the world as if were synonymous with
harem,
the name of the portion of an oriental mansion in which the women are sequestered.
3 Probably
an allusion to Lord Lyttleton's "Letters of Selim," publised in English
in 1735, and shortly afterwards translated into French.
4 A reference
to the "Lettres Turques" of Sainte-Foix, which in the edition of 1740 appeared
collectively with the "Persian Letters."
5 At one time
Montesquieu intended to remove what he called "certain juvenilia"
from the "Persian Letters;" but the intention was never carried out.