A few days later, M. de Bonneval took me to dine at Ismail's house.
There I saw Asiatic luxury on a grand scale. Carpets, cushions, perfumes, dishes without number and countless servants moving silently. But there were many guests, and the conversation was almost entirely in Turkish. This annoyed me, and I saw that it annoyed Bonneval also.
Ismail noticed our constraint.
Before we left, he said to me, with great courtesy,
"You must come and breakfast with me whenever you are disposed. I shall receive you with pleasure."
I accepted the invitation, and I went ten or twelve days afterwards. When we reach that period my readers must kindly accompany me to the breakfast.
For the present I must return to Yusuf, who, during my second visit, showed me a character that increased both my esteem and affection for him.
We dined alone, as before.
The meal passed pleasantly, and after it our conversation turned to the fine arts. I spoke of painting and sculpture, and then touched upon that precept of the Koran which deprives the Mussulmans of the innocent enjoyment of paintings and statues.
Yusuf listened without displeasure.
"Mahomet," he said, "was a sagacious legislator. He was right to remove images from the sight of the faithful."
"You think so?"
"I am certain of it. Recollect, my son, that the nations to which the prophet brought the knowledge of the true God were all idolators. Men are weak; if the disciples of the prophet had continued to see the same objects, they might have fallen back into their former errors."
"No one ever worshipped an image as an image; the deity of which the image is a representation is what is worshipped."
"I may grant that," Yusuf said. "But God cannot be matter, and it is right to remove from the thoughts of the vulgar the idea of a material divinity. You are the only men, you Christians, who believe that you see God."
"It is true," I said. "We are sure of it, but observe that faith alone gives us that certainty."
"I know it; but you are idolators, for you see nothing but a material representation, and yet you have a complete certainty that you see God, unless you should tell me that faith disaffirms it."
"God forbid I should tell you such a thing! Faith, on the contrary, affirms our certainty."
"We thank God that we have no need of such self-delusion, and there is not one philosopher in the world who could prove to me that you require it."
"That would not be the province of philosophy, dear father, but of theology -a very superior science."
He smiled.
"You are now speaking the language of our theologians, who differ from yours only in this; they use their science to make clearer the truths we ought to know, whilst your theologians try to render those truths more obscure."
"Recollect, dear father, that they are mysteries."
"The existence of God is a sufficiently important mystery to prevent men from daring to add anything to it. God can only be simple; any kind of combination would destroy His essence; such is the God announced by our prophet, who must be the same for all men and in all times."
He leaned forward a little, his eyes calm and bright.
"Agree with me that we can add nothing to the simplicity of God. We say that God is one; that is the image of simplicity. You say that He is one and three at the same time, and such a definition strikes us as contradictory, absurd, and impious."
"It is a mystery."
"Do you mean God or the definition? I am speaking only of the definition, which ought not to be a mystery or absurd. Common sense, my son, must consider as absurd an assertion which substantially nonsensical. Prove to me that three is not a compound, that it cannot be a compound and I will become a Christian at once."
His tone remained gentle. But his reasoning was becoming more and more dangerous.
"My religion tells me to believe without arguing," I said, "and I shudder, my dear Yusuf, when I think that, through some specious reasoning, I might be led to renounce the creed of my fathers. I first must be convinced that they lived in error. Tell me whether, respecting my father's memory, I ought to have such a good opinion of myself as to sit in judgement over him, with the intention of giving my sentence against him?"
Yusuf was deeply moved.
For a few moments he remained silent. Then he took my hand.
"With such feelings, my son, you are sure to find grace in the eyes of God, and you are, therefore, one of the elect. If you are in error, God alone can convince you of it, for no just man on earth can refute the sentiment you have just given expression to."
We spoke of many other things that day in a friendly manner, and parted in the evening with repeated assurances of the warmest affection and of the most perfect devotion.
On my way back, I turned our conversation over again and again. I thought that Yusuf might be right in his opinion as to the essence of God.
It seemed evident that the Creator of all beings ought to be perfectly simple; but I thought at the same time how impossible it would be for me, because the Christian religion had made a mistake, to accept the Turkish creed, which might perhaps have a just conception of God, but which caused me to smile when I recollected that the man who had given birth to it had been an arrant imposter.
I did not suspect, however, that Yusuf wished to make a convert of me.
The third time I dined with him, religion returned naturally to our conversation.
"Dear father," I said, "do you believe that the religion of Mahomet is the only one in which salvation can be secured?"
"No, my dear son, I am not certain of it, and no man can have such a certainty."
That answer surprised me.
"But I am certain," he continued, "that the Christian religion is not the true one, because it cannot be universal."
"Why not?"
"Because there is neither bread nor wine to be found in three-fourths of the world. Observe that the precepts of the Koran can be followed everywhere."
I did not know how to answer, and I would not equivocate.
After a moment, I said,
"If God cannot be matter, then He must be a spirit?"
Yusuf shook his head.
"We know what He is not but we do not know what He is: man cannot affirm that God is a spirit, because he can only realize the idea in an abstract manner. God is immaterial; that is the extent of our knowledge and it can never be greater."
I remained silent.
The answer reminded me of Plato, who had said nearly the same thing and most certainly Yusuf never read Plato.
He added that the existence of God could be useful only to those who did not entertain a doubt of that existence, and that, as a natural consequence, Atheists must be the most miserable of men.
Yusuf continued, "God has made in man His own image in order that, amongst all the animals created by Him, there should be one that can understand and confess the existence of the Creator.
"Without man, God would have no witness of His own glory, and man must therefore understand that his first and highest duty is to glorify God by practising justice and trusting to His providence."
"Observe, my son, that God never abandons the man who, in the midst of misfortunes, falls down in prayer before Him, and that He often allows the wretch who has no faith in prayer to die miserably."
"Yet," I said, "we meet with Atheists who are fortunate and happy."
"True; but, in spite of their tranquility, I pity them because they have no hope beyond this life, and are on a level with animals. Besides, if they are philosophers, they must linger in dark ignorance, and, if they never think, they have no consolation, no resource, when adversity reaches them."
He raised his hand towards the garden, where the light lay quietly on the trees.
"God has made man in such a manner that he cannot be happy unless he entertains no doubt of the existence of his Divine Creator; in all stations of life man is naturally prone to believe in that existence, otherwise man would never have admitted one God, Creator of all beings and of all things."
"I should like to know," I said, "why Atheism has only existed in the systems of the learned, and never as a national creed."
"Because the poor feel their wants much more than the rich."
That answer struck me.
"There are among us," he continued, "a great many impious men who deride the true believers because they have faith in the pilgrimage to Mecca. Wretches that they are, they ought to respect the ancient customs which, exciting the devotion of fervent souls, feed religious principles, and impart courage under all misfortunes. Without such consolation, people would give way to all the excess of despair."
I listened with great attention to all he said.
That pleased him, and because it pleased him, he yielded more freely to the inclination to instruct me.
For my part, feeling myself drawn towards him by the charm which amiable goodness exerts upon all hearts, I would often go and spend the day with him, even without any previous invitation, and he always received me with the same calm affection.
Yusuf's friendship soon became one of my most precious treasures.
One morning, I told my janissary to take me to the palace of Ismail Effendi, so that I might keep my promise and breakfast with him.
He received me with every mark of friendship. The breakfast was excellent, the service delicate, and Ismail himself more attentive than I liked to see in a man whose politeness had no need to be so warm.
After the meal, he invited me to take a walk in his garden.
The garden was pleasant, shaded, and laid out with great luxury. We came to a pretty summerhouse and entered it.
There, Ismail allowed himself certain liberties which displeased me extremely. I rose at once.
He saw my face and understood that he had gone too far.
"My dear friend," he said, smiling, "you are severe. I was only jesting."
He affected to admire my reserve, praised my modesty, and tried to turn the matter into a compliment. I allowed him a few cold words, then took my leave.
I left his house resolved never to return, but I was compelled to do so, as I will explain by-and-by.
When I saw M. de Bonneval, I told him what had happened.
He listened without surprise.
"According to Turkish manners," he said, "Ismail intended to give you a great proof of his friendship."
"I could have wished him less generous."
"You need not fear that he will repeat the offence. He has seen that you are not disposed for such proofs."
"That is fortunate."
"Still, politeness requires that you visit him again. Ismail, despite this failing, is a perfect gentleman. Besides, he has at his disposal some of the most beautiful female slaves in Turkey."