Part 2 - Candide Audiobook by Voltaire (Chs 19-30)

CHAPTER XIX WHAT HAPPENED TO THEM AT SURINAM AND HOW
CANDIDE GOT ACQUAINTED WITH MARTIN.
Our travellers spent the first day very agreeably.
They were delighted with possessing more treasure than all Asia, Europe, and Africa
could scrape together.
Candide, in his raptures, cut Cunegonde's name on the trees.
The second day two of their sheep plunged into a morass, where they and their burdens
were lost; two more died of fatigue a few days after; seven or eight perished with
hunger in a desert; and others subsequently fell down precipices.
At length, after travelling a hundred days, only two sheep remained.
Said Candide to Cacambo:
"My friend, you see how perishable are the riches of this world; there is nothing
solid but virtue, and the happiness of seeing Cunegonde once more."
"I grant all you say," said Cacambo, "but we have still two sheep remaining, with
more treasure than the King of Spain will ever have; and I see a town which I take to
be Surinam, belonging to the Dutch.
We are at the end of all our troubles, and at the beginning of happiness."
As they drew near the town, they saw a negro stretched upon the ground, with only
one moiety of his clothes, that is, of his blue linen drawers; the poor man had lost
his left leg and his right hand.
"Good God!" said Candide in Dutch, "what art thou doing there, friend, in that
shocking condition?"
"I am waiting for my master, Mynheer Vanderdendur, the famous merchant,"
answered the negro. "Was it Mynheer Vanderdendur," said
Candide, "that treated thee thus?"
"Yes, sir," said the negro, "it is the custom.
They give us a pair of linen drawers for our whole garment twice a year.
When we work at the sugar-canes, and the mill snatches hold of a finger, they cut
off the hand; and when we attempt to run away, they cut off the leg; both cases have
happened to me.
This is the price at which you eat sugar in Europe.
Yet when my mother sold me for ten patagons on the coast of Guinea, she said to me: 'My
dear child, bless our fetiches, adore them for ever; they will make thee live happily;
thou hast the honour of being the slave of
our lords, the whites, which is making the fortune of thy father and mother.'
Alas!
I know not whether I have made their fortunes; this I know, that they have not
made mine. Dogs, monkeys, and parrots are a thousand
times less wretched than I.
The Dutch fetiches, who have converted me, declare every Sunday that we are all of us
children of Adam--blacks as well as whites.
I am not a genealogist, but if these preachers tell truth, we are all second
cousins.
Now, you must agree, that it is impossible to treat one's relations in a more
barbarous manner."
"Oh, Pangloss!" cried Candide, "thou hadst not guessed at this abomination; it is the
end. I must at last renounce thy optimism."
"What is this optimism?" said Cacambo.
"Alas!" said Candide, "it is the madness of maintaining that everything is right when
it is wrong." Looking at the negro, he shed tears, and
weeping, he entered Surinam.
The first thing they inquired after was whether there was a vessel in the harbour
which could be sent to Buenos Ayres.
The person to whom they applied was a Spanish sea-captain, who offered to agree
with them upon reasonable terms.
He appointed to meet them at a public- house, whither Candide and the faithful
Cacambo went with their two sheep, and awaited his coming.
Candide, who had his heart upon his lips, told the Spaniard all his adventures, and
avowed that he intended to elope with Miss Cunegonde.
"Then I will take good care not to carry you to Buenos Ayres," said the seaman.
"I should be hanged, and so would you. The fair Cunegonde is my lord's favourite
mistress."
This was a thunderclap for Candide: he wept for a long while.
At last he drew Cacambo aside. "Here, my dear friend," said he to him,
"this thou must do.
We have, each of us in his pocket, five or six millions in diamonds; you are more
clever than I; you must go and bring Miss Cunegonde from Buenos Ayres.
If the Governor makes any difficulty, give him a million; if he will not relinquish
her, give him two; as you have not killed an Inquisitor, they will have no suspicion
of you; I'll get another ship, and go and
wait for you at Venice; that's a free country, where there is no danger either
from Bulgarians, Abares, Jews, or Inquisitors."
Cacambo applauded this wise resolution.
He despaired at parting from so good a master, who had become his intimate friend;
but the pleasure of serving him prevailed over the pain of leaving him.
They embraced with tears; Candide charged him not to forget the good old woman.
Cacambo set out that very same day. This Cacambo was a very honest fellow.
Candide stayed some time longer in Surinam, waiting for another captain to carry him
and the two remaining sheep to Italy.
After he had hired domestics, and purchased everything necessary for a long voyage,
Mynheer Vanderdendur, captain of a large vessel, came and offered his services.
"How much will you charge," said he to this man, "to carry me straight to Venice--me,
my servants, my baggage, and these two sheep?"
The skipper asked ten thousand piastres.
Candide did not hesitate. "Oh! oh!" said the prudent Vanderdendur to
himself, "this stranger gives ten thousand piastres unhesitatingly!
He must be very rich."
Returning a little while after, he let him know that upon second consideration, he
could not undertake the voyage for less than twenty thousand piastres.
"Well, you shall have them," said Candide.
"Ay!" said the skipper to himself, "this man agrees to pay twenty thousand piastres
with as much ease as ten."
He went back to him again, and declared that he could not carry him to Venice for
less than thirty thousand piastres. "Then you shall have thirty thousand,"
replied Candide.
"Oh! oh!" said the Dutch skipper once more to himself, "thirty thousand piastres are a
trifle to this man; surely these sheep must be laden with an immense treasure; let us
say no more about it.
First of all, let him pay down the thirty thousand piastres; then we shall see."
Candide sold two small diamonds, the least of which was worth more than what the
skipper asked for his freight.
He paid him in advance. The two sheep were put on board.
Candide followed in a little boat to join the vessel in the roads.
The skipper seized his opportunity, set sail, and put out to sea, the wind
favouring him. Candide, dismayed and stupefied, soon lost
sight of the vessel.
"Alas!" said he, "this is a trick worthy of the old world!"
He put back, overwhelmed with sorrow, for indeed he had lost sufficient to make the
fortune of twenty monarchs.
He waited upon the Dutch magistrate, and in his distress he knocked over loudly at the
door. He entered and told his adventure, raising
his voice with unnecessary vehemence.
The magistrate began by fining him ten thousand piastres for making a noise; then
he listened patiently, promised to examine into his affair at the skipper's return,
and ordered him to pay ten thousand piastres for the expense of the hearing.
This drove Candide to despair; he had, indeed, endured misfortunes a thousand
times worse; the coolness of the magistrate and of the skipper who had robbed him,
roused his choler and flung him into a deep melancholy.
The villainy of mankind presented itself before his imagination in all its
deformity, and his mind was filled with gloomy ideas.
At length hearing that a French vessel was ready to set sail for Bordeaux, as he had
no sheep laden with diamonds to take along with him he hired a cabin at the usual
price.
He made it known in the town that he would pay the passage and board and give two
thousand piastres to any honest man who would make the voyage with him, upon
condition that this man was the most
dissatisfied with his state, and the most unfortunate in the whole province.
Such a crowd of candidates presented themselves that a fleet of ships could
hardly have held them.
Candide being desirous of selecting from among the best, marked out about one-
twentieth of them who seemed to be sociable men, and who all pretended to merit his
preference.
He assembled them at his inn, and gave them a supper on condition that each took an
oath to relate his history faithfully, promising to choose him who appeared to be
most justly discontented with his state, and to bestow some presents upon the rest.
They sat until four o'clock in the morning.
Candide, in listening to all their adventures, was reminded of what the old
woman had said to him in their voyage to Buenos Ayres, and of her wager that there
was not a person on board the ship but had met with very great misfortunes.
He dreamed of Pangloss at every adventure told to him.
"This Pangloss," said he, "would be puzzled to demonstrate his system.
I wish that he were here.
Certainly, if all things are good, it is in El Dorado and not in the rest of the
world."
At length he made choice of a poor man of letters, who had worked ten years for the
booksellers of Amsterdam. He judged that there was not in the whole
world a trade which could disgust one more.
This philosopher was an honest man; but he had been robbed by his wife, beaten by his
son, and abandoned by his daughter who got a Portuguese to run away with her.
He had just been deprived of a small employment, on which he subsisted; and he
was persecuted by the preachers of Surinam, who took him for a Socinian.
We must allow that the others were at least as wretched as he; but Candide hoped that
the philosopher would entertain him during the voyage.
All the other candidates complained that Candide had done them great injustice; but
he appeased them by giving one hundred piastres to each.
>
CHAPTER XX WHAT HAPPENED AT SEA TO CANDIDE AND MARTIN.
The old philosopher, whose name was Martin, embarked then with Candide for Bordeaux.
They had both seen and suffered a great deal; and if the vessel had sailed from
Surinam to Japan, by the Cape of Good Hope, the subject of moral and natural evil would
have enabled them to entertain one another during the whole voyage.
Candide, however, had one great advantage over Martin, in that he always hoped to see
Miss Cunegonde; whereas Martin had nothing at all to hope.
Besides, Candide was possessed of money and jewels, and though he had lost one hundred
large red sheep, laden with the greatest treasure upon earth; though the knavery of
the Dutch skipper still sat heavy upon his
mind; yet when he reflected upon what he had still left, and when he mentioned the
name of Cunegonde, especially towards the latter end of a repast, he inclined to
Pangloss's doctrine.
"But you, Mr. Martin," said he to the philosopher, "what do you think of all
this? what are your ideas on moral and natural evil?"
"Sir," answered Martin, "our priests accused me of being a Socinian, but the
real fact is I am a Manichean." "You jest," said Candide; "there are no
longer Manicheans in the world."
"I am one," said Martin. "I cannot help it; I know not how to think
otherwise." "Surely you must be possessed by the
devil," said Candide.
"He is so deeply concerned in the affairs of this world," answered Martin, "that he
may very well be in me, as well as in everybody else; but I own to you that when
I cast an eye on this globe, or rather on
this little ball, I cannot help thinking that God has abandoned it to some malignant
being. I except, always, El Dorado.
I scarcely ever knew a city that did not desire the destruction of a neighbouring
city, nor a family that did not wish to exterminate some other family.
Everywhere the weak execrate the powerful, before whom they cringe; and the powerful
beat them like sheep whose wool and flesh they sell.
A million regimented assassins, from one extremity of Europe to the other, get their
bread by disciplined depredation and murder, for want of more honest employment.
Even in those cities which seem to enjoy peace, and where the arts flourish, the
inhabitants are devoured by more envy, care, and uneasiness than are experienced
by a besieged town.
Secret griefs are more cruel than public calamities.
In a word I have seen so much, and experienced so much that I am a Manichean."
"There are, however, some things good," said Candide.
"That may be," said Martin; "but I know them not."
In the middle of this dispute they heard the report of cannon; it redoubled every
instant. Each took out his glass.
They saw two ships in close fight about three miles off.
The wind brought both so near to the French vessel that our travellers had the pleasure
of seeing the fight at their ease.
At length one let off a broadside, so low and so truly aimed, that the other sank to
the bottom.
Candide and Martin could plainly perceive a hundred men on the deck of the sinking
vessel; they raised their hands to heaven and uttered terrible outcries, and the next
moment were swallowed up by the sea.
"Well," said Martin, "this is how men treat one another."
"It is true," said Candide; "there is something diabolical in this affair."
While speaking, he saw he knew not what, of a shining red, swimming close to the
vessel. They put out the long-boat to see what it
could be: it was one of his sheep!
Candide was more rejoiced at the recovery of this one sheep than he had been grieved
at the loss of the hundred laden with the large diamonds of El Dorado.
The French captain soon saw that the captain of the victorious vessel was a
Spaniard, and that the other was a Dutch pirate, and the very same one who had
robbed Candide.
The immense plunder which this villain had amassed, was buried with him in the sea,
and out of the whole only one sheep was saved.
"You see," said Candide to Martin, "that crime is sometimes punished.
This rogue of a Dutch skipper has met with the fate he deserved."
"Yes," said Martin; "but why should the passengers be doomed also to destruction?
God has punished the knave, and the devil has drowned the rest."
The French and Spanish ships continued their course, and Candide continued his
conversation with Martin.
They disputed fifteen successive days, and on the last of those fifteen days, they
were as far advanced as on the first.
But, however, they chatted, they communicated ideas, they consoled each
other. Candide caressed his sheep.
"Since I have found thee again," said he, "I may likewise chance to find my
Cunegonde."
>
CHAPTER XXI CANDIDE AND MARTIN, REASONING, DRAW NEAR
THE COAST OF FRANCE.
At length they descried the coast of France.
"Were you ever in France, Mr. Martin?" said Candide.
"Yes," said Martin, "I have been in several provinces.
In some one-half of the people are fools, in others they are too cunning; in some
they are weak and simple, in others they affect to be witty; in all, the principal
occupation is love, the next is slander, and the third is talking nonsense."
"But, Mr. Martin, have you seen Paris?" "Yes, I have.
All these kinds are found there.
It is a chaos--a confused multitude, where everybody seeks pleasure and scarcely any
one finds it, at least as it appeared to me.
I made a short stay there.
On my arrival I was robbed of all I had by pickpockets at the fair of St. Germain.
I myself was taken for a robber and was imprisoned for eight days, after which I
served as corrector of the press to gain the money necessary for my return to
Holland on foot.
I knew the whole scribbling rabble, the party rabble, the fanatic rabble.
It is said that there are very polite people in that city, and I wish to believe
it."
"For my part, I have no curiosity to see France," said Candide.
"You may easily imagine that after spending a month at El Dorado I can desire to behold
nothing upon earth but Miss Cunegonde.
I go to await her at Venice. We shall pass through France on our way to
Italy. Will you bear me company?"
"With all my heart," said Martin.
"It is said that Venice is fit only for its own nobility, but that strangers meet with
a very good reception if they have a good deal of money.
I have none of it; you have, therefore I will follow you all over the world."
"But do you believe," said Candide, "that the earth was originally a sea, as we find
it asserted in that large book belonging to the captain?"
"I do not believe a word of it," said Martin, "any more than I do of the many
ravings which have been published lately." "But for what end, then, has this world
been formed?" said Candide.
"To plague us to death," answered Martin. "Are you not greatly surprised," continued
Candide, "at the love which these two girls of the Oreillons had for those monkeys, of
which I have already told you?"
"Not at all," said Martin. "I do not see that that passion was
strange. I have seen so many extraordinary things
that I have ceased to be surprised."
"Do you believe," said Candide, "that men have always massacred each other as they do
to-day, that they have always been liars, cheats, traitors, ingrates, brigands,
idiots, thieves, scoundrels, gluttons,
drunkards, misers, envious, ambitious, bloody-minded, calumniators, debauchees,
fanatics, hypocrites, and fools?"
"Do you believe," said Martin, "that hawks have always eaten pigeons when they have
found them?" "Yes, without doubt," said Candide.
"Well, then," said Martin, "if hawks have always had the same character why should
you imagine that men may have changed theirs?"
"Oh!" said Candide, "there is a vast deal of difference, for free will----"
And reasoning thus they arrived at Bordeaux.
>
CHAPTER XXII WHAT HAPPENED IN FRANCE TO CANDIDE AND
MARTIN.
Candide stayed in Bordeaux no longer than was necessary for the selling of a few of
the pebbles of El Dorado, and for hiring a good chaise to hold two passengers; for he
could not travel without his Philosopher Martin.
He was only vexed at parting with his sheep, which he left to the Bordeaux
Academy of Sciences, who set as a subject for that year's prize, "to find why this
sheep's wool was red;" and the prize was
awarded to a learned man of the North, who demonstrated by A plus B minus C divided by
Z, that the sheep must be red, and die of the rot.
Meanwhile, all the travellers whom Candide met in the inns along his route, said to
him, "We go to Paris."
This general eagerness at length gave him, too, a desire to see this capital; and it
was not so very great a detour from the road to Venice.
He entered Paris by the suburb of St. Marceau, and fancied that he was in the
dirtiest village of Westphalia.
Scarcely was Candide arrived at his inn, than he found himself attacked by a slight
illness, caused by fatigue.
As he had a very large diamond on his finger, and the people of the inn had taken
notice of a prodigiously heavy box among his baggage, there were two physicians to
attend him, though he had never sent for
them, and two devotees who warmed his broths.
"I remember," Martin said, "also to have been sick at Paris in my first voyage; I
was very poor, thus I had neither friends, devotees, nor doctors, and I recovered."
However, what with physic and bleeding, Candide's illness became serious.
A parson of the neighborhood came with great meekness to ask for a bill for the
other world payable to the bearer.
Candide would do nothing for him; but the devotees assured him it was the new
fashion. He answered that he was not a man of
fashion.
Martin wished to throw the priest out of the window.
The priest swore that they would not bury Candide.
Martin swore that he would bury the priest if he continued to be troublesome.
The quarrel grew heated.
Martin took him by the shoulders and roughly turned him out of doors; which
occasioned great scandal and a law-suit.
Candide got well again, and during his convalescence he had very good company to
sup with him. They played high.
Candide wondered why it was that the ace never came to him; but Martin was not at
all astonished.
Among those who did him the honours of the town was a little Abbe of Perigord, one of
those busybodies who are ever alert, officious, forward, fawning, and
complaisant; who watch for strangers in
their passage through the capital, tell them the scandalous history of the town,
and offer them pleasure at all prices. He first took Candide and Martin to La
Comedie, where they played a new tragedy.
Candide happened to be seated near some of the fashionable wits.
This did not prevent his shedding tears at the well-acted scenes.
One of these critics at his side said to him between the acts:
"Your tears are misplaced; that is a shocking actress; the actor who plays with
her is yet worse; and the play is still worse than the actors.
The author does not know a word of Arabic, yet the scene is in Arabia; moreover he is
a man that does not believe in innate ideas; and I will bring you, to-morrow,
twenty pamphlets written against him."
"How many dramas have you in France, sir?" said Candide to the Abbe.
"Five or six thousand." "What a number!" said Candide.
"How many good?"
"Fifteen or sixteen," replied the other. "What a number!" said Martin.
Candide was very pleased with an actress who played Queen Elizabeth in a somewhat
insipid tragedy sometimes acted.
"That actress," said he to Martin, "pleases me much; she has a likeness to Miss
Cunegonde; I should be very glad to wait upon her."
The Perigordian Abbe offered to introduce him.
Candide, brought up in Germany, asked what was the etiquette, and how they treated
queens of England in France.
"It is necessary to make distinctions," said the Abbe.
"In the provinces one takes them to the inn; in Paris, one respects them when they
are beautiful, and throws them on the highway when they are dead."
"Queens on the highway!" said Candide.
"Yes, truly," said Martin, "the Abbe is right.
I was in Paris when Miss Monime passed, as the saying is, from this life to the other.
She was refused what people call the honours of sepulture--that is to say, of
rotting with all the beggars of the neighbourhood in an ugly cemetery; she was
interred all alone by her company at the
corner of the Rue de Bourgogne, which ought to trouble her much, for she thought
nobly." "That was very uncivil," said Candide.
"What would you have?" said Martin; "these people are made thus.
Imagine all contradictions, all possible incompatibilities--you will find them in
the government, in the law-courts, in the churches, in the public shows of this droll
nation."
"Is it true that they always laugh in Paris?" said Candide.
"Yes," said the Abbe, "but it means nothing, for they complain of everything
with great fits of laughter; they even do the most detestable things while laughing."
"Who," said Candide, "is that great pig who spoke so ill of the piece at which I wept,
and of the actors who gave me so much pleasure?"
"He is a bad character," answered the Abbe, "who gains his livelihood by saying evil of
all plays and of all books.
He hates whatever succeeds, as the eunuchs hate those who enjoy; he is one of the
serpents of literature who nourish themselves on dirt and spite; he is a
folliculaire."
"What is a folliculaire?" said Candide. "It is," said the Abbe, "a pamphleteer--a
Freron."
Thus Candide, Martin, and the Perigordian conversed on the staircase, while watching
every one go out after the performance.
"Although I am eager to see Cunegonde again," said Candide, "I should like to sup
with Miss Clairon, for she appears to me admirable."
The Abbe was not the man to approach Miss Clairon, who saw only good company.
"She is engaged for this evening," he said, "but I shall have the honour to take you to
the house of a lady of quality, and there you will know Paris as if you had lived in
it for years."
Candide, who was naturally curious, let himself be taken to this lady's house, at
the end of the Faubourg St. Honore.
The company was occupied in playing faro; a dozen melancholy punters held each in his
hand a little pack of cards; a bad record of his misfortunes.
Profound silence reigned; pallor was on the faces of the punters, anxiety on that of
the banker, and the hostess, sitting near the unpitying banker, noticed with lynx-
eyes all the doubled and other increased
stakes, as each player dog's-eared his cards; she made them turn down the edges
again with severe, but polite attention; she showed no vexation for fear of losing
her customers.
The lady insisted upon being called the Marchioness of Parolignac.
Her daughter, aged fifteen, was among the punters, and notified with a covert glance
the cheatings of the poor people who tried to repair the cruelties of fate.
The Perigordian Abbe, Candide and Martin entered; no one rose, no one saluted them,
no one looked at them; all were profoundly occupied with their cards.
"The Baroness of Thunder-ten-Tronckh was more polite," said Candide.
However, the Abbe whispered to the Marchioness, who half rose, honoured
Candide with a gracious smile, and Martin with a condescending nod; she gave a seat
and a pack of cards to Candide, who lost
fifty thousand francs in two deals, after which they supped very gaily, and every one
was astonished that Candide was not moved by his loss; the servants said among
themselves, in the language of servants:--
"Some English lord is here this evening."
The supper passed at first like most Parisian suppers, in silence, followed by a
noise of words which could not be distinguished, then with pleasantries of
which most were insipid, with false news,
with bad reasoning, a little politics, and much evil speaking; they also discussed new
books.
"Have you seen," said the Perigordian Abbe, "the romance of Sieur Gauchat, doctor of
divinity?" "Yes," answered one of the guests, "but I
have not been able to finish it.
We have a crowd of silly writings, but all together do not approach the impertinence
of 'Gauchat, Doctor of Divinity.'
I am so satiated with the great number of detestable books with which we are
inundated that I am reduced to punting at faro."
"And the Melanges of Archdeacon Trublet, what do you say of that?" said the Abbe.
"Ah!" said the Marchioness of Parolignac, "the wearisome mortal!
How curiously he repeats to you all that the world knows!
How heavily he discusses that which is not worth the trouble of lightly remarking
upon!
How, without wit, he appropriates the wit of others!
How he spoils what he steals! How he disgusts me!
But he will disgust me no longer--it is enough to have read a few of the
Archdeacon's pages." There was at table a wise man of taste, who
supported the Marchioness.
They spoke afterwards of tragedies; the lady asked why there were tragedies which
were sometimes played and which could not be read.
The man of taste explained very well how a piece could have some interest, and have
almost no merit; he proved in few words that it was not enough to introduce one or
two of those situations which one finds in
all romances, and which always seduce the spectator, but that it was necessary to be
new without being odd, often sublime and always natural, to know the human heart and
to make it speak; to be a great poet
without allowing any person in the piece to appear to be a poet; to know language
perfectly--to speak it with purity, with continuous harmony and without rhythm ever
taking anything from sense.
"Whoever," added he, "does not observe all these rules can produce one or two
tragedies, applauded at a theatre, but he will never be counted in the ranks of good
writers.
There are very few good tragedies; some are idylls in dialogue, well written and well
rhymed, others political reasonings which lull to sleep, or amplifications which
repel; others demoniac dreams in barbarous
style, interrupted in sequence, with long apostrophes to the gods, because they do
not know how to speak to men, with false maxims, with bombastic commonplaces!"
Candide listened with attention to this discourse, and conceived a great idea of
the speaker, and as the Marchioness had taken care to place him beside her, he
leaned towards her and took the liberty of
asking who was the man who had spoken so well.
"He is a scholar," said the lady, "who does not play, whom the Abbe sometimes brings to
supper; he is perfectly at home among tragedies and books, and he has written a
tragedy which was hissed, and a book of
which nothing has ever been seen outside his bookseller's shop excepting the copy
which he dedicated to me." "The great man!" said Candide.
"He is another Pangloss!"
Then, turning towards him, he said: "Sir, you think doubtless that all is for
the best in the moral and physical world, and that nothing could be otherwise than it
is?"
"I, sir!" answered the scholar, "I know nothing of all that; I find that all goes
awry with me; that no one knows either what is his rank, nor what is his condition,
what he does nor what he ought to do; and
that except supper, which is always gay, and where there appears to be enough
concord, all the rest of the time is passed in impertinent quarrels; Jansenist against
Molinist, Parliament against the Church,
men of letters against men of letters, courtesans against courtesans, financiers
against the people, wives against husbands, relatives against relatives--it is eternal
war."
"I have seen the worst," Candide replied. "But a wise man, who since has had the
misfortune to be hanged, taught me that all is marvellously well; these are but the
shadows on a beautiful picture."
"Your hanged man mocked the world," said Martin.
"The shadows are horrible blots."
"They are men who make the blots," said Candide, "and they cannot be dispensed
with." "It is not their fault then," said Martin.
Most of the punters, who understood nothing of this language, drank, and Martin
reasoned with the scholar, and Candide related some of his adventures to his
hostess.
After supper the Marchioness took Candide into her boudoir, and made him sit upon a
sofa.
"Ah, well!" said she to him, "you love desperately Miss Cunegonde of Thunder-ten-
Tronckh?" "Yes, madame," answered Candide.
The Marchioness replied to him with a tender smile:
"You answer me like a young man from Westphalia.
A Frenchman would have said, 'It is true that I have loved Miss Cunegonde, but
seeing you, madame, I think I no longer love her.'"
"Alas! madame," said Candide, "I will answer you as you wish."
"Your passion for her," said the Marchioness, "commenced by picking up her
handkerchief.
I wish that you would pick up my garter." "With all my heart," said Candide.
And he picked it up. "But I wish that you would put it on," said
the lady.
And Candide put it on. "You see," said she, "you are a foreigner.
I sometimes make my Parisian lovers languish for fifteen days, but I give
myself to you the first night because one must do the honours of one's country to a
young man from Westphalia."
The lady having perceived two enormous diamonds upon the hands of the young
foreigner praised them with such good faith that from Candide's fingers they passed to
her own.
Candide, returning with the Perigordian Abbe, felt some remorse in having been
unfaithful to Miss Cunegonde.
The Abbe sympathised in his trouble; he had had but a light part of the fifty thousand
francs lost at play and of the value of the two brilliants, half given, half extorted.
His design was to profit as much as he could by the advantages which the
acquaintance of Candide could procure for him.
He spoke much of Cunegonde, and Candide told him that he should ask forgiveness of
that beautiful one for his infidelity when he should see her in Venice.
The Abbe redoubled his politeness and attentions, and took a tender interest in
all that Candide said, in all that he did, in all that he wished to do.
"And so, sir, you have a rendezvous at Venice?"
"Yes, monsieur Abbe," answered Candide. "It is absolutely necessary that I go to
meet Miss Cunegonde."
And then the pleasure of talking of that which he loved induced him to relate,
according to his custom, part of his adventures with the fair Westphalian.
"I believe," said the Abbe, "that Miss Cunegonde has a great deal of wit, and that
she writes charming letters?"
"I have never received any from her," said Candide, "for being expelled from the
castle on her account I had not an opportunity for writing to her.
Soon after that I heard she was dead; then I found her alive; then I lost her again;
and last of all, I sent an express to her two thousand five hundred leagues from
here, and I wait for an answer."
The Abbe listened attentively, and seemed to be in a brown study.
He soon took his leave of the two foreigners after a most tender embrace.
The following day Candide received, on awaking, a letter couched in these terms:
"My very dear love, for eight days I have been ill in this town.
I learn that you are here.
I would fly to your arms if I could but move.
I was informed of your passage at Bordeaux, where I left faithful Cacambo and the old
woman, who are to follow me very soon.
The Governor of Buenos Ayres has taken all, but there remains to me your heart.
Come! your presence will either give me life or kill me with pleasure."
This charming, this unhoped-for letter transported Candide with an inexpressible
joy, and the illness of his dear Cunegonde overwhelmed him with grief.
Divided between those two passions, he took his gold and his diamonds and hurried away,
with Martin, to the hotel where Miss Cunegonde was lodged.
He entered her room trembling, his heart palpitating, his voice sobbing; he wished
to open the curtains of the bed, and asked for a light.
"Take care what you do," said the servant- maid; "the light hurts her," and
immediately she drew the curtain again. "My dear Cunegonde," said Candide, weeping,
"how are you?
If you cannot see me, at least speak to me."
"She cannot speak," said the maid.
The lady then put a plump hand out from the bed, and Candide bathed it with his tears
and afterwards filled it with diamonds, leaving a bag of gold upon the easy chair.
In the midst of these transports in came an officer, followed by the Abbe and a file of
soldiers.
"There," said he, "are the two suspected foreigners," and at the same time he
ordered them to be seized and carried to prison.
"Travellers are not treated thus in El Dorado," said Candide.
"I am more a Manichean now than ever," said Martin.
"But pray, sir, where are you going to carry us?" said Candide.
"To a dungeon," answered the officer.
Martin, having recovered himself a little, judged that the lady who acted the part of
Cunegonde was a cheat, that the Perigordian Abbe was a knave who had imposed upon the
honest simplicity of Candide, and that the
officer was another knave whom they might easily silence.
Candide, advised by Martin and impatient to see the real Cunegonde, rather than expose
himself before a court of justice, proposed to the officer to give him three small
diamonds, each worth about three thousand pistoles.
"Ah, sir," said the man with the ivory baton, "had you committed all the
imaginable crimes you would be to me the most honest man in the world.
Three diamonds!
Each worth three thousand pistoles! Sir, instead of carrying you to jail I
would lose my life to serve you. There are orders for arresting all
foreigners, but leave it to me.
I have a brother at Dieppe in Normandy! I'll conduct you thither, and if you have a
diamond to give him he'll take as much care of you as I would."
"And why," said Candide, "should all foreigners be arrested?"
"It is," the Perigordian Abbe then made answer, "because a poor beggar of the
country of Atrebatie heard some foolish things said.
This induced him to commit a parricide, not such as that of 1610 in the month of May,
but such as that of 1594 in the month of December, and such as others which have
been committed in other years and other
months by other poor devils who had heard nonsense spoken."
The officer then explained what the Abbe meant.
"Ah, the monsters!" cried Candide.
"What horrors among a people who dance and sing!
Is there no way of getting quickly out of this country where monkeys provoke tigers?
I have seen no bears in my country, but men I have beheld nowhere except in El Dorado.
In the name of God, sir, conduct me to Venice, where I am to await Miss
Cunegonde."
"I can conduct you no further than lower Normandy," said the officer.
Immediately he ordered his irons to be struck off, acknowledged himself mistaken,
sent away his men, set out with Candide and Martin for Dieppe, and left them in the
care of his brother.
There was then a small Dutch ship in the harbour.
The Norman, who by the virtue of three more diamonds had become the most subservient of
men, put Candide and his attendants on board a vessel that was just ready to set
sail for Portsmouth in England.
This was not the way to Venice, but Candide thought he had made his way out of hell,
and reckoned that he would soon have an opportunity for resuming his journey.
>
CHAPTER XXIII CANDIDE AND MARTIN TOUCHED UPON THE COAST
OF ENGLAND, AND WHAT THEY SAW THERE.
"Ah, Pangloss! Pangloss!
Ah, Martin! Martin!
Ah, my dear Cunegonde, what sort of a world is this?" said Candide on board the Dutch
ship. "Something very foolish and abominable,"
said Martin.
"You know England? Are they as foolish there as in France?"
"It is another kind of folly," said Martin.
"You know that these two nations are at war for a few acres of snow in Canada, and that
they spend over this beautiful war much more than Canada is worth.
To tell you exactly, whether there are more people fit to send to a madhouse in one
country than the other, is what my imperfect intelligence will not permit.
I only know in general that the people we are going to see are very atrabilious."
Talking thus they arrived at Portsmouth.
The coast was lined with crowds of people, whose eyes were fixed on a fine man
kneeling, with his eyes bandaged, on board one of the men of war in the harbour.
Four soldiers stood opposite to this man; each of them fired three balls at his head,
with all the calmness in the world; and the whole assembly went away very well
satisfied.
"What is all this?" said Candide; "and what demon is it that exercises his empire in
this country?" He then asked who was that fine man who had
been killed with so much ceremony.
They answered, he was an Admiral. "And why kill this Admiral?"
"It is because he did not kill a sufficient number of men himself.
He gave battle to a French Admiral; and it has been proved that he was not near enough
to him." "But," replied Candide, "the French Admiral
was as far from the English Admiral."
"There is no doubt of it; but in this country it is found good, from time to
time, to kill one Admiral to encourage the others."
Candide was so shocked and bewildered by what he saw and heard, that he would not
set foot on shore, and he made a bargain with the Dutch skipper (were he even to rob
him like the Surinam captain) to conduct him without delay to Venice.
The skipper was ready in two days. They coasted France; they passed in sight
of Lisbon, and Candide trembled.
They passed through the Straits, and entered the Mediterranean.
At last they landed at Venice. "God be praised!" said Candide, embracing
Martin.
"It is here that I shall see again my beautiful Cunegonde.
I trust Cacambo as myself. All is well, all will be well, all goes as
well as possible."
>
CHAPTER XXIV OF PAQUETTE AND FRIAR GIROFLEE.
Upon their arrival at Venice, Candide went to search for Cacambo at every inn and
coffee-house, and among all the ladies of pleasure, but to no purpose.
He sent every day to inquire on all the ships that came in.
But there was no news of Cacambo.
"What!" said he to Martin, "I have had time to voyage from Surinam to Bordeaux, to go
from Bordeaux to Paris, from Paris to Dieppe, from Dieppe to Portsmouth, to coast
along Portugal and Spain, to cross the
whole Mediterranean, to spend some months, and yet the beautiful Cunegonde has not
arrived! Instead of her I have only met a Parisian
wench and a Perigordian Abbe.
Cunegonde is dead without doubt, and there is nothing for me but to die.
Alas! how much better it would have been for me to have remained in the paradise of
El Dorado than to come back to this cursed Europe!
You are in the right, my dear Martin: all is misery and illusion."
He fell into a deep melancholy, and neither went to see the opera, nor any of the other
diversions of the Carnival; nay, he was proof against the temptations of all the
ladies.
"You are in truth very simple," said Martin to him, "if you imagine that a mongrel
valet, who has five or six millions in his pocket, will go to the other end of the
world to seek your mistress and bring her to you to Venice.
If he find her, he will keep her to himself; if he do not find her he will get
another.
I advise you to forget your valet Cacambo and your mistress Cunegonde."
Martin was not consoling.
Candide's melancholy increased; and Martin continued to prove to him that there was
very little virtue or happiness upon earth, except perhaps in El Dorado, where nobody
could gain admittance.
While they were disputing on this important subject and waiting for Cunegonde, Candide
saw a young Theatin friar in St. Mark's Piazza, holding a girl on his arm.
The Theatin looked fresh coloured, plump, and vigorous; his eyes were sparkling, his
air assured, his look lofty, and his step bold.
The girl was very pretty, and sang; she looked amorously at her Theatin, and from
time to time pinched his fat cheeks. "At least you will allow me," said Candide
to Martin, "that these two are happy.
Hitherto I have met with none but unfortunate people in the whole habitable
globe, except in El Dorado; but as to this pair, I would venture to lay a wager that
they are very happy."
"I lay you they are not," said Martin. "We need only ask them to dine with us,"
said Candide, "and you will see whether I am mistaken."
Immediately he accosted them, presented his compliments, and invited them to his inn to
eat some macaroni, with Lombard partridges, and caviare, and to drink some
Montepulciano, Lachrymae Christi, Cyprus and Samos wine.
The girl blushed, the Theatin accepted the invitation and she followed him, casting
her eyes on Candide with confusion and surprise, and dropping a few tears.
No sooner had she set foot in Candide's apartment than she cried out:
"Ah! Mr. Candide does not know Paquette again."
Candide had not viewed her as yet with attention, his thoughts being entirely
taken up with Cunegonde; but recollecting her as she spoke.
"Alas!" said he, "my poor child, it is you who reduced Doctor Pangloss to the
beautiful condition in which I saw him?" "Alas! it was I, sir, indeed," answered
Paquette.
"I see that you have heard all. I have been informed of the frightful
disasters that befell the family of my lady Baroness, and the fair Cunegonde.
I swear to you that my fate has been scarcely less sad.
I was very innocent when you knew me. A Grey Friar, who was my confessor, easily
seduced me.
The consequences were terrible. I was obliged to quit the castle some time
after the Baron had sent you away with kicks on the backside.
If a famous surgeon had not taken compassion on me, I should have died.
For some time I was this surgeon's mistress, merely out of gratitude.
His wife, who was mad with jealousy, beat me every day unmercifully; she was a fury.
The surgeon was one of the ugliest of men, and I the most wretched of women, to be
continually beaten for a man I did not love.
You know, sir, what a dangerous thing it is for an ill-natured woman to be married to a
doctor.
Incensed at the behaviour of his wife, he one day gave her so effectual a remedy to
cure her of a slight cold, that she died two hours after, in most horrid
convulsions.
The wife's relations prosecuted the husband; he took flight, and I was thrown
into jail. My innocence would not have saved me if I
had not been good-looking.
The judge set me free, on condition that he succeeded the surgeon.
I was soon supplanted by a rival, turned out of doors quite destitute, and obliged
to continue this abominable trade, which appears so pleasant to you men, while to us
women it is the utmost abyss of misery.
I have come to exercise the profession at Venice.
Ah! sir, if you could only imagine what it is to be obliged to caress indifferently an
old merchant, a lawyer, a monk, a gondolier, an abbe, to be exposed to abuse
and insults; to be often reduced to
borrowing a petticoat, only to go and have it raised by a disagreeable man; to be
robbed by one of what one has earned from another; to be subject to the extortions of
the officers of justice; and to have in
prospect only a frightful old age, a hospital, and a dung-hill; you would
conclude that I am one of the most unhappy creatures in the world."
Paquette thus opened her heart to honest Candide, in the presence of Martin, who
said to his friend: "You see that already I have won half the
wager."
Friar Giroflee stayed in the dining-room, and drank a glass or two of wine while he
was waiting for dinner.
"But," said Candide to Paquette, "you looked so gay and content when I met you;
you sang and you behaved so lovingly to the Theatin, that you seemed to me as happy as
you pretend to be now the reverse."
"Ah! sir," answered Paquette, "this is one of the miseries of the trade.
Yesterday I was robbed and beaten by an officer; yet to-day I must put on good
humour to please a friar."
Candide wanted no more convincing; he owned that Martin was in the right.
They sat down to table with Paquette and the Theatin; the repast was entertaining;
and towards the end they conversed with all confidence.
"Father," said Candide to the Friar, "you appear to me to enjoy a state that all the
world might envy; the flower of health shines in your face, your expression makes
plain your happiness; you have a very
pretty girl for your recreation, and you seem well satisfied with your state as a
Theatin."
"My faith, sir," said Friar Giroflee, "I wish that all the Theatins were at the
bottom of the sea.
I have been tempted a hundred times to set fire to the convent, and go and become a
Turk.
My parents forced me at the age of fifteen to put on this detestable habit, to
increase the fortune of a cursed elder brother, whom God confound.
Jealousy, discord, and fury, dwell in the convent.
It is true I have preached a few bad sermons that have brought me in a little
money, of which the prior stole half, while the rest serves to maintain my girls; but
when I return at night to the monastery, I
am ready to dash my head against the walls of the dormitory; and all my fellows are in
the same case." Martin turned towards Candide with his
usual coolness.
"Well," said he, "have I not won the whole wager?"
Candide gave two thousand piastres to Paquette, and one thousand to Friar
Giroflee.
"I'll answer for it," said he, "that with this they will be happy."
"I do not believe it at all," said Martin; "you will, perhaps, with these piastres
only render them the more unhappy."
"Let that be as it may," said Candide, "but one thing consoles me.
I see that we often meet with those whom we expected never to see more; so that,
perhaps, as I have found my red sheep and Paquette, it may well be that I shall also
find Cunegonde."
"I wish," said Martin, "she may one day make you very happy; but I doubt it very
much." "You are very hard of belief," said
Candide.
"I have lived," said Martin. "You see those gondoliers," said Candide,
"are they not perpetually singing?" "You do not see them," said Martin, "at
home with their wives and brats.
The Doge has his troubles, the gondoliers have theirs.
It is true that, all things considered, the life of a gondolier is preferable to that
of a Doge; but I believe the difference to be so trifling that it is not worth the
trouble of examining."
"People talk," said Candide, "of the Senator Pococurante, who lives in that fine
palace on the Brenta, where he entertains foreigners in the politest manner.
They pretend that this man has never felt any uneasiness."
"I should be glad to see such a rarity," said Martin.
Candide immediately sent to ask the Lord Pococurante permission to wait upon him the
next day.
>
CHAPTER XXV THE VISIT TO LORD POCOCURANTE, A NOBLE
VENETIAN.
Candide and Martin went in a gondola on the Brenta, and arrived at the palace of the
noble Signor Pococurante. The gardens, laid out with taste, were
adorned with fine marble statues.
The palace was beautifully built. The master of the house was a man of sixty,
and very rich.
He received the two travellers with polite indifference, which put Candide a little
out of countenance, but was not at all disagreeable to Martin.
First, two pretty girls, very neatly dressed, served them with chocolate, which
was frothed exceedingly well. Candide could not refrain from commending
their beauty, grace, and address.
"They are good enough creatures," said the Senator.
"I make them lie with me sometimes, for I am very tired of the ladies of the town, of
their coquetries, of their jealousies, of their quarrels, of their humours, of their
pettinesses, of their prides, of their
follies, and of the sonnets which one must make, or have made, for them.
But after all, these two girls begin to weary me."
After breakfast, Candide walking into a long gallery was surprised by the beautiful
pictures. He asked, by what master were the two
first.
"They are by Raphael," said the Senator. "I bought them at a great price, out of
vanity, some years ago. They are said to be the finest things in
Italy, but they do not please me at all.
The colours are too dark, the figures are not sufficiently rounded, nor in good
relief; the draperies in no way resemble stuffs.
In a word, whatever may be said, I do not find there a true imitation of nature.
I only care for a picture when I think I see nature itself; and there are none of
this sort.
I have a great many pictures, but I prize them very little."
While they were waiting for dinner Pococurante ordered a concert.
Candide found the music delicious.
"This noise," said the Senator, "may amuse one for half an hour; but if it were to
last longer it would grow tiresome to everybody, though they durst not own it.
Music, to-day, is only the art of executing difficult things, and that which is only
difficult cannot please long.
Perhaps I should be fonder of the opera if they had not found the secret of making of
it a monster which shocks me.
Let who will go to see bad tragedies set to music, where the scenes are contrived for
no other end than to introduce two or three songs ridiculously out of place, to show
off an actress's voice.
Let who will, or who can, die away with pleasure at the sight of an eunuch
quavering the role of Caesar, or of Cato, and strutting awkwardly upon the stage.
For my part I have long since renounced those paltry entertainments which
constitute the glory of modern Italy, and are purchased so dearly by sovereigns."
Candide disputed the point a little, but with discretion.
Martin was entirely of the Senator's opinion.
They sat down to table, and after an excellent dinner they went into the
library.
Candide, seeing a Homer magnificently bound, commended the virtuoso on his good
taste.
"There," said he, "is a book that was once the delight of the great Pangloss, the best
philosopher in Germany." "It is not mine," answered Pococurante
coolly.
"They used at one time to make me believe that I took a pleasure in reading him.
But that continual repetition of battles, so extremely like one another; those gods
that are always active without doing anything decisive; that Helen who is the
cause of the war, and who yet scarcely
appears in the piece; that Troy, so long besieged without being taken; all these
together caused me great weariness. I have sometimes asked learned men whether
they were not as weary as I of that work.
Those who were sincere have owned to me that the poem made them fall asleep; yet it
was necessary to have it in their library as a monument of antiquity, or like those
rusty medals which are no longer of use in commerce."
"But your Excellency does not think thus of Virgil?" said Candide.
"I grant," said the Senator, "that the second, fourth, and sixth books of his
Aeneid are excellent, but as for his pious Aeneas, his strong Cloanthus, his friend
Achates, his little Ascanius, his silly
King Latinus, his bourgeois Amata, his insipid Lavinia, I think there can be
nothing more flat and disagreeable. I prefer Tasso a good deal, or even the
soporific tales of Ariosto."
"May I presume to ask you, sir," said Candide, "whether you do not receive a
great deal of pleasure from reading Horace?"
"There are maxims in this writer," answered Pococurante, "from which a man of the world
may reap great benefit, and being written in energetic verse they are more easily
impressed upon the memory.
But I care little for his journey to Brundusium, and his account of a bad
dinner, or of his low quarrel between one Rupilius whose words he says were full of
poisonous filth, and another whose language was imbued with vinegar.
I have read with much distaste his indelicate verses against old women and
witches; nor do I see any merit in telling his friend Maecenas that if he will but
rank him in the choir of lyric poets, his lofty head shall touch the stars.
Fools admire everything in an author of reputation.
For my part, I read only to please myself.
I like only that which serves my purpose." Candide, having been educated never to
judge for himself, was much surprised at what he heard.
Martin found there was a good deal of reason in Pococurante's remarks.
"Oh! here is Cicero," said Candide. "Here is the great man whom I fancy you are
never tired of reading."
"I never read him," replied the Venetian. "What is it to me whether he pleads for
Rabirius or Cluentius?
I try causes enough myself; his philosophical works seem to me better, but
when I found that he doubted of everything, I concluded that I knew as much as he, and
that I had no need of a guide to learn ignorance."
"Ha! here are four-score volumes of the Academy of Sciences," cried Martin.
"Perhaps there is something valuable in this collection."
"There might be," said Pococurante, "if only one of those rakers of rubbish had
shown how to make pins; but in all these volumes there is nothing but chimerical
systems, and not a single useful thing."
"And what dramatic works I see here," said Candide, "in Italian, Spanish, and French."
"Yes," replied the Senator, "there are three thousand, and not three dozen of them
good for anything.
As to those collections of sermons, which altogether are not worth a single page of
Seneca, and those huge volumes of theology, you may well imagine that neither I nor any
one else ever opens them."
Martin saw some shelves filled with English books.
"I have a notion," said he, "that a Republican must be greatly pleased with
most of these books, which are written with a spirit of freedom."
"Yes," answered Pococurante, "it is noble to write as one thinks; this is the
privilege of humanity.
In all our Italy we write only what we do not think; those who inhabit the country of
the Caesars and the Antoninuses dare not acquire a single idea without the
permission of a Dominican friar.
I should be pleased with the liberty which inspires the English genius if passion and
party spirit did not corrupt all that is estimable in this precious liberty."
Candide, observing a Milton, asked whether he did not look upon this author as a great
man.
"Who?" said Pococurante, "that barbarian, who writes a long commentary in ten books
of harsh verse on the first chapter of Genesis; that coarse imitator of the
Greeks, who disfigures the Creation, and
who, while Moses represents the Eternal producing the world by a word, makes the
Messiah take a great pair of compasses from the armoury of heaven to circumscribe His
work?
How can I have any esteem for a writer who has spoiled Tasso's hell and the devil, who
transforms Lucifer sometimes into a toad and other times into a pigmy, who makes him
repeat the same things a hundred times, who
makes him dispute on theology, who, by a serious imitation of Ariosto's comic
invention of firearms, represents the devils cannonading in heaven?
Neither I nor any man in Italy could take pleasure in those melancholy extravagances;
and the marriage of Sin and Death, and the snakes brought forth by Sin, are enough to
turn the stomach of any one with the least
taste, [and his long description of a pest- house is good only for a grave-digger].
This obscure, whimsical, and disagreeable poem was despised upon its first
publication, and I only treat it now as it was treated in its own country by
contemporaries.
For the matter of that I say what I think, and I care very little whether others think
as I do."
Candide was grieved at this speech, for he had a respect for Homer and was fond of
Milton.
"Alas!" said he softly to Martin, "I am afraid that this man holds our German poets
in very great contempt." "There would not be much harm in that,"
said Martin.
"Oh! what a superior man," said Candide below his breath.
"What a great genius is this Pococurante! Nothing can please him."
After their survey of the library they went down into the garden, where Candide praised
its several beauties. "I know of nothing in so bad a taste," said
the master.
"All you see here is merely trifling. After to-morrow I will have it planted with
a nobler design."
"Well," said Candide to Martin when they had taken their leave, "you will agree that
this is the happiest of mortals, for he is above everything he possesses."
"But do you not see," answered Martin, "that he is disgusted with all he
possesses?
Plato observed a long while ago that those stomachs are not the best that reject all
sorts of food."
"But is there not a pleasure," said Candide, "in criticising everything, in
pointing out faults where others see nothing but beauties?"
"That is to say," replied Martin, "that there is some pleasure in having no
pleasure."
"Well, well," said Candide, "I find that I shall be the only happy man when I am
blessed with the sight of my dear Cunegonde."
"It is always well to hope," said Martin.
However, the days and the weeks passed. Cacambo did not come, and Candide was so
overwhelmed with grief that he did not even reflect that Paquette and Friar Giroflee
did not return to thank him.
>
CHAPTER XXVI OF A SUPPER WHICH CANDIDE AND MARTIN TOOK
WITH SIX STRANGERS, AND WHO THEY WERE.
One evening that Candide and Martin were going to sit down to supper with some
foreigners who lodged in the same inn, a man whose complexion was as black as soot,
came behind Candide, and taking him by the arm, said:
"Get yourself ready to go along with us; do not fail."
Upon this he turned round and saw--Cacambo!
Nothing but the sight of Cunegonde could have astonished and delighted him more.
He was on the point of going mad with joy. He embraced his dear friend.
"Cunegonde is here, without doubt; where is she?
Take me to her that I may die of joy in her company."
"Cunegonde is not here," said Cacambo, "she is at Constantinople."
"Oh, heavens! at Constantinople! But were she in China I would fly thither;
let us be off."
"We shall set out after supper," replied Cacambo.
"I can tell you nothing more; I am a slave, my master awaits me, I must serve him at
table; speak not a word, eat, and then get ready."
Candide, distracted between joy and grief, delighted at seeing his faithful agent
again, astonished at finding him a slave, filled with the fresh hope of recovering
his mistress, his heart palpitating, his
understanding confused, sat down to table with Martin, who saw all these scenes quite
unconcerned, and with six strangers who had come to spend the Carnival at Venice.
Cacambo waited at table upon one of the strangers; towards the end of the
entertainment he drew near his master, and whispered in his ear:
"Sire, your Majesty may start when you please, the vessel is ready."
On saying these words he went out.
The company in great surprise looked at one another without speaking a word, when
another domestic approached his master and said to him:
"Sire, your Majesty's chaise is at Padua, and the boat is ready."
The master gave a nod and the servant went away.
The company all stared at one another again, and their surprise redoubled.
A third valet came up to a third stranger, saying:
"Sire, believe me, your Majesty ought not to stay here any longer.
I am going to get everything ready." And immediately he disappeared.
Candide and Martin did not doubt that this was a masquerade of the Carnival.
Then a fourth domestic said to a fourth master:
"Your Majesty may depart when you please."
Saying this he went away like the rest. The fifth valet said the same thing to the
fifth master. But the sixth valet spoke differently to
the sixth stranger, who sat near Candide.
He said to him: "Faith, Sire, they will no longer give
credit to your Majesty nor to me, and we may perhaps both of us be put in jail this
very night.
Therefore I will take care of myself. Adieu."
The servants being all gone, the six strangers, with Candide and Martin,
remained in a profound silence.
At length Candide broke it. "Gentlemen," said he, "this is a very good
joke indeed, but why should you all be kings?
For me I own that neither Martin nor I is a king."
Cacambo's master then gravely answered in Italian:
"I am not at all joking.
My name is Achmet III. I was Grand Sultan many years.
I dethroned my brother; my nephew dethroned me, my viziers were beheaded, and I am
condemned to end my days in the old Seraglio.
My nephew, the great Sultan Mahmoud, permits me to travel sometimes for my
health, and I am come to spend the Carnival at Venice."
A young man who sat next to Achmet, spoke then as follows:
"My name is Ivan. I was once Emperor of all the Russias, but
was dethroned in my cradle.
My parents were confined in prison and I was educated there; yet I am sometimes
allowed to travel in company with persons who act as guards; and I am come to spend
the Carnival at Venice."
The third said: "I am Charles Edward, King of England; my
father has resigned all his legal rights to me.
I have fought in defence of them; and above eight hundred of my adherents have been
hanged, drawn, and quartered.
I have been confined in prison; I am going to Rome, to pay a visit to the King, my
father, who was dethroned as well as myself and my grandfather, and I am come to spend
the Carnival at Venice."
The fourth spoke thus in his turn:
"I am the King of Poland; the fortune of war has stripped me of my hereditary
dominions; my father underwent the same vicissitudes; I resign myself to Providence
in the same manner as Sultan Achmet, the
Emperor Ivan, and King Charles Edward, whom God long preserve; and I am come to the
Carnival at Venice." The fifth said:
"I am King of Poland also; I have been twice dethroned; but Providence has given
me another country, where I have done more good than all the Sarmatian kings were ever
capable of doing on the banks of the
Vistula; I resign myself likewise to Providence, and am come to pass the
Carnival at Venice." It was now the sixth monarch's turn to
speak:
"Gentlemen," said he, "I am not so great a prince as any of you; however, I am a king.
I am Theodore, elected King of Corsica; I had the title of Majesty, and now I am
scarcely treated as a gentleman.
I have coined money, and now am not worth a farthing; I have had two secretaries of
state, and now I have scarce a valet; I have seen myself on a throne, and I have
seen myself upon straw in a common jail in London.
I am afraid that I shall meet with the same treatment here though, like your majesties,
I am come to see the Carnival at Venice."
The other five kings listened to this speech with generous compassion.
Each of them gave twenty sequins to King Theodore to buy him clothes and linen; and
Candide made him a present of a diamond worth two thousand sequins.
"Who can this private person be," said the five kings to one another, "who is able to
give, and really has given, a hundred times as much as any of us?"
Just as they rose from table, in came four Serene Highnesses, who had also been
stripped of their territories by the fortune of war, and were come to spend the
Carnival at Venice.
But Candide paid no regard to these newcomers, his thoughts were entirely
employed on his voyage to Constantinople, in search of his beloved Cunegonde.
>
CHAPTER XXVII CANDIDE'S VOYAGE TO CONSTANTINOPLE.
The faithful Cacambo had already prevailed upon the Turkish skipper, who was to
conduct the Sultan Achmet to Constantinople, to receive Candide and
Martin on his ship.
They both embarked after having made their obeisance to his miserable Highness.
"You see," said Candide to Martin on the way, "we supped with six dethroned kings,
and of those six there was one to whom I gave charity.
Perhaps there are many other princes yet more unfortunate.
For my part, I have only lost a hundred sheep; and now I am flying into Cunegonde's
arms.
My dear Martin, yet once more Pangloss was right: all is for the best."
"I wish it," answered Martin. "But," said Candide, "it was a very strange
adventure we met with at Venice.
It has never before been seen or heard that six dethroned kings have supped together at
a public inn."
"It is not more extraordinary," said Martin, "than most of the things that have
happened to us.
It is a very common thing for kings to be dethroned; and as for the honour we have
had of supping in their company, it is a trifle not worth our attention."
No sooner had Candide got on board the vessel than he flew to his old valet and
friend Cacambo, and tenderly embraced him. "Well," said he, "what news of Cunegonde?
Is she still a prodigy of beauty?
Does she love me still? How is she?
Thou hast doubtless bought her a palace at Constantinople?"
"My dear master," answered Cacambo, "Cunegonde washes dishes on the banks of
the Propontis, in the service of a prince, who has very few dishes to wash; she is a
slave in the family of an ancient sovereign
named Ragotsky, to whom the Grand Turk allows three crowns a day in his exile.
But what is worse still is, that she has lost her beauty and has become horribly
ugly."
"Well, handsome or ugly," replied Candide, "I am a man of honour, and it is my duty to
love her still.
But how came she to be reduced to so abject a state with the five or six millions that
you took to her?"
"Ah!" said Cacambo, "was I not to give two millions to Senor Don Fernando d'Ibaraa, y
Figueora, y Mascarenes, y Lampourdos, y Souza, Governor of Buenos Ayres, for
permitting Miss Cunegonde to come away?
And did not a corsair bravely rob us of all the rest?
Did not this corsair carry us to Cape Matapan, to Milo, to Nicaria, to Samos, to
Petra, to the Dardanelles, to Marmora, to Scutari?
Cunegonde and the old woman serve the prince I now mentioned to you, and I am
slave to the dethroned Sultan." "What a series of shocking calamities!"
cried Candide.
"But after all, I have some diamonds left; and I may easily pay Cunegonde's ransom.
Yet it is a pity that she is grown so ugly."
Then, turning towards Martin: "Who do you think," said he, "is most to be pitied--the
Sultan Achmet, the Emperor Ivan, King Charles Edward, or I?"
"How should I know!" answered Martin.
"I must see into your hearts to be able to tell."
"Ah!" said Candide, "if Pangloss were here, he could tell."
"I know not," said Martin, "in what sort of scales your Pangloss would weigh the
misfortunes of mankind and set a just estimate on their sorrows.
All that I can presume to say is, that there are millions of people upon earth who
have a hundred times more to complain of than King Charles Edward, the Emperor Ivan,
or the Sultan Achmet."
"That may well be," said Candide. In a few days they reached the Bosphorus,
and Candide began by paying a very high ransom for Cacambo.
Then without losing time, he and his companions went on board a galley, in order
to search on the banks of the Propontis for his Cunegonde, however ugly she might have
become.
Among the crew there were two slaves who rowed very badly, and to whose bare
shoulders the Levantine captain would now and then apply blows from a bull's pizzle.
Candide, from a natural impulse, looked at these two slaves more attentively than at
the other oarsmen, and approached them with pity.
Their features though greatly disfigured, had a slight resemblance to those of
Pangloss and the unhappy Jesuit and Westphalian Baron, brother to Miss
Cunegonde.
This moved and saddened him. He looked at them still more attentively.
"Indeed," said he to Cacambo, "if I had not seen Master Pangloss hanged, and if I had
not had the misfortune to kill the Baron, I should think it was they that were rowing."
At the names of the Baron and of Pangloss, the two galley-slaves uttered a loud cry,
held fast by the seat, and let drop their oars.
The captain ran up to them and redoubled his blows with the bull's pizzle.
"Stop! stop! sir," cried Candide. "I will give you what money you please."
"What! it is Candide!" said one of the slaves.
"What! it is Candide!" said the other. "Do I dream?" cried Candide; "am I awake?
or am I on board a galley?
Is this the Baron whom I killed? Is this Master Pangloss whom I saw hanged?"
"It is we! it is we!" answered they. "Well! is this the great philosopher?" said
Martin.
"Ah! captain," said Candide, "what ransom will you take for Monsieur de Thunder-ten-
Tronckh, one of the first barons of the empire, and for Monsieur Pangloss, the
profoundest metaphysician in Germany?"
"Dog of a Christian," answered the Levantine captain, "since these two dogs of
Christian slaves are barons and metaphysicians, which I doubt not are high
dignities in their country, you shall give me fifty thousand sequins."
"You shall have them, sir. Carry me back at once to Constantinople,
and you shall receive the money directly.
But no; carry me first to Miss Cunegonde." Upon the first proposal made by Candide,
however, the Levantine captain had already tacked about, and made the crew ply their
oars quicker than a bird cleaves the air.
Candide embraced the Baron and Pangloss a hundred times.
"And how happened it, my dear Baron, that I did not kill you?
And, my dear Pangloss, how came you to life again after being hanged?
And why are you both in a Turkish galley?" "And it is true that my dear sister is in
this country?" said the Baron.
"Yes," answered Cacambo. "Then I behold, once more, my dear
Candide," cried Pangloss.
Candide presented Martin and Cacambo to them; they embraced each other, and all
spoke at once. The galley flew; they were already in the
port.
Instantly Candide sent for a Jew, to whom he sold for fifty thousand sequins a
diamond worth a hundred thousand, though the fellow swore to him by Abraham that he
could give him no more.
He immediately paid the ransom for the Baron and Pangloss.
The latter threw himself at the feet of his deliverer, and bathed them with his tears;
the former thanked him with a nod, and promised to return him the money on the
first opportunity.
"But is it indeed possible that my sister can be in Turkey?" said he.
"Nothing is more possible," said Cacambo, "since she scours the dishes in the service
of a Transylvanian prince."
Candide sent directly for two Jews and sold them some more diamonds, and then they all
set out together in another galley to deliver Cunegonde from slavery.
>
CHAPTER XXVIII WHAT HAPPENED TO CANDIDE, CUNEGONDE,
PANGLOSS, MARTIN, ETC.
"I ask your pardon once more," said Candide to the Baron, "your pardon, reverend
father, for having run you through the body."
"Say no more about it," answered the Baron.
"I was a little too hasty, I own, but since you wish to know by what fatality I came to
be a galley-slave I will inform you.
After I had been cured by the surgeon of the college of the wound you gave me, I was
attacked and carried off by a party of Spanish troops, who confined me in prison
at Buenos Ayres at the very time my sister was setting out thence.
I asked leave to return to Rome to the General of my Order.
I was appointed chaplain to the French Ambassador at Constantinople.
I had not been eight days in this employment when one evening I met with a
young Ichoglan, who was a very handsome fellow.
The weather was warm.
The young man wanted to bathe, and I took this opportunity of bathing also.
I did not know that it was a capital crime for a Christian to be found naked with a
young Mussulman.
A cadi ordered me a hundred blows on the soles of the feet, and condemned me to the
galleys. I do not think there ever was a greater act
of injustice.
But I should be glad to know how my sister came to be scullion to a Transylvanian
prince who has taken shelter among the Turks."
"But you, my dear Pangloss," said Candide, "how can it be that I behold you again?"
"It is true," said Pangloss, "that you saw me hanged.
I should have been burnt, but you may remember it rained exceedingly hard when
they were going to roast me; the storm was so violent that they despaired of lighting
the fire, so I was hanged because they could do no better.
A surgeon purchased my body, carried me home, and dissected me.
He began with making a crucial incision on me from the navel to the clavicula.
One could not have been worse hanged than I was.
The executioner of the Holy Inquisition was a sub-deacon, and knew how to burn people
marvellously well, but he was not accustomed to hanging.
The cord was wet and did not slip properly, and besides it was badly tied; in short, I
still drew my breath, when the crucial incision made me give such a frightful
scream that my surgeon fell flat upon his
back, and imagining that he had been dissecting the devil he ran away, dying
with fear, and fell down the staircase in his flight.
His wife, hearing the noise, flew from the next room.
She saw me stretched out upon the table with my crucial incision.
She was seized with yet greater fear than her husband, fled, and tumbled over him.
When they came to themselves a little, I heard the wife say to her husband: 'My
dear, how could you take it into your head to dissect a heretic?
Do you not know that these people always have the devil in their bodies?
I will go and fetch a priest this minute to exorcise him.'
At this proposal I shuddered, and mustering up what little courage I had still
remaining I cried out aloud, 'Have mercy on me!'
At length the Portuguese barber plucked up his spirits.
He sewed up my wounds; his wife even nursed me.
I was upon my legs at the end of fifteen days.
The barber found me a place as lackey to a knight of Malta who was going to Venice,
but finding that my master had no money to pay me my wages I entered the service of a
Venetian merchant, and went with him to Constantinople.
One day I took it into my head to step into a mosque, where I saw an old Iman and a
very pretty young devotee who was saying her paternosters.
Her bosom was uncovered, and between her breasts she had a beautiful bouquet of
tulips, roses, anemones, ranunculus, hyacinths, and auriculas.
She dropped her bouquet; I picked it up, and presented it to her with a profound
reverence.
I was so long in delivering it that the Iman began to get angry, and seeing that I
was a Christian he called out for help.
They carried me before the cadi, who ordered me a hundred lashes on the soles of
the feet and sent me to the galleys. I was chained to the very same galley and
the same bench as the young Baron.
On board this galley there were four young men from Marseilles, five Neapolitan
priests, and two monks from Corfu, who told us similar adventures happened daily.
The Baron maintained that he had suffered greater injustice than I, and I insisted
that it was far more innocent to take up a bouquet and place it again on a woman's
bosom than to be found stark naked with an Ichoglan.
We were continually disputing, and received twenty lashes with a bull's pizzle when the
concatenation of universal events brought you to our galley, and you were good enough
to ransom us."
"Well, my dear Pangloss," said Candide to him, "when you had been hanged, dissected,
whipped, and were tugging at the oar, did you always think that everything happens
for the best?"
"I am still of my first opinion," answered Pangloss, "for I am a philosopher and I
cannot retract, especially as Leibnitz could never be wrong; and besides, the pre-
established harmony is the finest thing in
the world, and so is his plenum and materia subtilis."
>
CHAPTER XXIX HOW CANDIDE FOUND CUNEGONDE AND THE OLD
WOMAN AGAIN.
While Candide, the Baron, Pangloss, Martin, and Cacambo were relating their several
adventures, were reasoning on the contingent or non-contingent events of the
universe, disputing on effects and causes,
on moral and physical evil, on liberty and necessity, and on the consolations a slave
may feel even on a Turkish galley, they arrived at the house of the Transylvanian
prince on the banks of the Propontis.
The first objects which met their sight were Cunegonde and the old woman hanging
towels out to dry. The Baron paled at this sight.
The tender, loving Candide, seeing his beautiful Cunegonde embrowned, with blood-
shot eyes, withered neck, wrinkled cheeks, and rough, red arms, recoiled three paces,
seized with horror, and then advanced out of good manners.
She embraced Candide and her brother; they embraced the old woman, and Candide
ransomed them both.
There was a small farm in the neighbourhood which the old woman proposed to Candide to
make a shift with till the company could be provided for in a better manner.
Cunegonde did not know she had grown ugly, for nobody had told her of it; and she
reminded Candide of his promise in so positive a tone that the good man durst not
refuse her.
He therefore intimated to the Baron that he intended marrying his sister.
"I will not suffer," said the Baron, "such meanness on her part, and such insolence on
yours; I will never be reproached with this scandalous thing; my sister's children
would never be able to enter the church in Germany.
No; my sister shall only marry a baron of the empire."
Cunegonde flung herself at his feet, and bathed them with her tears; still he was
inflexible.
"Thou foolish fellow," said Candide; "I have delivered thee out of the galleys, I
have paid thy ransom, and thy sister's also; she was a scullion, and is very ugly,
yet I am so condescending as to marry her; and dost thou pretend to oppose the match?
I should kill thee again, were I only to consult my anger."
"Thou mayest kill me again," said the Baron, "but thou shalt not marry my sister,
at least whilst I am living."
>
CHAPTER XXX THE CONCLUSION.
At the bottom of his heart Candide had no wish to marry Cunegonde.
But the extreme impertinence of the Baron determined him to conclude the match, and
Cunegonde pressed him so strongly that he could not go from his word.
He consulted Pangloss, Martin, and the faithful Cacambo.
Pangloss drew up an excellent memorial, wherein he proved that the Baron had no
right over his sister, and that according to all the laws of the empire, she might
marry Candide with her left hand.
Martin was for throwing the Baron into the sea; Cacambo decided that it would be
better to deliver him up again to the captain of the galley, after which they
thought to send him back to the General
Father of the Order at Rome by the first ship.
This advice was well received, the old woman approved it; they said not a word to
his sister; the thing was executed for a little money, and they had the double
pleasure of entrapping a Jesuit, and punishing the pride of a German baron.
It is natural to imagine that after so many disasters Candide married, and living with
the philosopher Pangloss, the philosopher Martin, the prudent Cacambo, and the old
woman, having besides brought so many
diamonds from the country of the ancient Incas, must have led a very happy life.
But he was so much imposed upon by the Jews that he had nothing left except his small
farm; his wife became uglier every day, more peevish and unsupportable; the old
woman was infirm and even more fretful than Cunegonde.
Cacambo, who worked in the garden, and took vegetables for sale to Constantinople, was
fatigued with hard work, and cursed his destiny.
Pangloss was in despair at not shining in some German university.
For Martin, he was firmly persuaded that he would be as badly off elsewhere, and
therefore bore things patiently.
Candide, Martin, and Pangloss sometimes disputed about morals and metaphysics.
They often saw passing under the windows of their farm boats full of Effendis, Pashas,
and Cadis, who were going into banishment to Lemnos, Mitylene, or Erzeroum.
And they saw other Cadis, Pashas, and Effendis coming to supply the place of the
exiles, and afterwards exiled in their turn.
They saw heads decently impaled for presentation to the Sublime Porte.
Such spectacles as these increased the number of their dissertations; and when
they did not dispute time hung so heavily upon their hands, that one day the old
woman ventured to say to them:
"I want to know which is worse, to be ravished a hundred times by negro pirates,
to have a buttock cut off, to run the gauntlet among the Bulgarians, to be
whipped and hanged at an auto-da-fe, to be
dissected, to row in the galleys--in short, to go through all the miseries we have
undergone, or to stay here and have nothing to do?"
"It is a great question," said Candide.
This discourse gave rise to new reflections, and Martin especially
concluded that man was born to live either in a state of distracting inquietude or of
lethargic disgust.
Candide did not quite agree to that, but he affirmed nothing.
Pangloss owned that he had always suffered horribly, but as he had once asserted that
everything went wonderfully well, he asserted it still, though he no longer
believed it.
What helped to confirm Martin in his detestable principles, to stagger Candide
more than ever, and to puzzle Pangloss, was that one day they saw Paquette and Friar
Giroflee land at the farm in extreme misery.
They had soon squandered their three thousand piastres, parted, were reconciled,
quarrelled again, were thrown into gaol, had escaped, and Friar Giroflee had at
length become Turk.
Paquette continued her trade wherever she went, but made nothing of it.
"I foresaw," said Martin to Candide, "that your presents would soon be dissipated, and
only make them the more miserable.
You have rolled in millions of money, you and Cacambo; and yet you are not happier
than Friar Giroflee and Paquette."
"Ha!" said Pangloss to Paquette, "Providence has then brought you amongst us
again, my poor child! Do you know that you cost me the tip of my
nose, an eye, and an ear, as you may see?
What a world is this!" And now this new adventure set them
philosophising more than ever.
In the neighbourhood there lived a very famous Dervish who was esteemed the best
philosopher in all Turkey, and they went to consult him.
Pangloss was the speaker.
"Master," said he, "we come to beg you to tell why so strange an animal as man was
made." "With what meddlest thou?" said the
Dervish; "is it thy business?"
"But, reverend father," said Candide, "there is horrible evil in this world."
"What signifies it," said the Dervish, "whether there be evil or good?
When his highness sends a ship to Egypt, does he trouble his head whether the mice
on board are at their ease or not?" "What, then, must we do?" said Pangloss.
"Hold your tongue," answered the Dervish.
"I was in hopes," said Pangloss, "that I should reason with you a little about
causes and effects, about the best of possible worlds, the origin of evil, the
nature of the soul, and the pre-established harmony."
At these words, the Dervish shut the door in their faces.
During this conversation, the news was spread that two Viziers and the Mufti had
been strangled at Constantinople, and that several of their friends had been impaled.
This catastrophe made a great noise for some hours.
Pangloss, Candide, and Martin, returning to the little farm, saw a good old man taking
the fresh air at his door under an orange bower.
Pangloss, who was as inquisitive as he was argumentative, asked the old man what was
the name of the strangled Mufti.
"I do not know," answered the worthy man, "and I have not known the name of any
Mufti, nor of any Vizier.
I am entirely ignorant of the event you mention; I presume in general that they who
meddle with the administration of public affairs die sometimes miserably, and that
they deserve it; but I never trouble my
head about what is transacting at Constantinople; I content myself with
sending there for sale the fruits of the garden which I cultivate."
Having said these words, he invited the strangers into his house; his two sons and
two daughters presented them with several sorts of sherbet, which they made
themselves, with Kaimak enriched with the
candied-peel of citrons, with oranges, lemons, pine-apples, pistachio-nuts, and
Mocha coffee unadulterated with the bad coffee of Batavia or the American islands.
After which the two daughters of the honest Mussulman perfumed the strangers' beards.
"You must have a vast and magnificent estate," said Candide to the Turk.
"I have only twenty acres," replied the old man; "I and my children cultivate them; our
labour preserves us from three great evils- -weariness, vice, and want."
Candide, on his way home, made profound reflections on the old man's conversation.
"This honest Turk," said he to Pangloss and Martin, "seems to be in a situation far
preferable to that of the six kings with whom we had the honour of supping."
"Grandeur," said Pangloss, "is extremely dangerous according to the testimony of
philosophers.
For, in short, Eglon, King of Moab, was assassinated by Ehud; Absalom was hung by
his hair, and pierced with three darts; King Nadab, the son of Jeroboam, was killed
by Baasa; King Ela by Zimri; Ahaziah by
Jehu; Athaliah by Jehoiada; the Kings Jehoiakim, Jeconiah, and Zedekiah, were led
into captivity.
You know how perished Croesus, Astyages, Darius, Dionysius of Syracuse, Pyrrhus,
Perseus, Hannibal, Jugurtha, Ariovistus, Caesar, Pompey, Nero, Otho, Vitellius,
Domitian, Richard II. of England, Edward
II., Henry VI., Richard III., Mary Stuart, Charles I., the three Henrys of France, the
Emperor Henry IV.! You know----"
"I know also," said Candide, "that we must cultivate our garden."
"You are right," said Pangloss, "for when man was first placed in the Garden of Eden,
he was put there ut operaretur eum, that he might cultivate it; which shows that man
was not born to be idle."
"Let us work," said Martin, "without disputing; it is the only way to render
life tolerable."
The whole little society entered into this laudable design, according to their
different abilities. Their little plot of land produced
plentiful crops.
Cunegonde was, indeed, very ugly, but she became an excellent pastry cook; Paquette
worked at embroidery; the old woman looked after the linen.
They were all, not excepting Friar Giroflee, of some service or other; for he
made a good joiner, and became a very honest man.
Pangloss sometimes said to Candide:
"There is a concatenation of events in this best of all possible worlds: for if you had
not been kicked out of a magnificent castle for love of Miss Cunegonde: if you had not
been put into the Inquisition: if you had
not walked over America: if you had not stabbed the Baron: if you had not lost all
your sheep from the fine country of El Dorado: you would not be here eating
preserved citrons and pistachio-nuts."
"All that is very well," answered Candide, "but let us cultivate our garden."
>