prompt:
Chapter: 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[20] 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: After one hundred days of travel, Candide and Cacambo have lost the majority of their sheep and riches. Nevertheless, the two remaining sheep carry more jewels than they could ever need. The men encounter a destitute slave in the road, who reveals that his master's name is Vanderdendur . His horrid state makes Candide renounce Optimism. Candide sends Cacambo with immense riches to Buenos Aires to reclaim Cunegonde. He plans to travel to Venice where he will await their arrival. Candide encounters a man who agrees to take him directly to Venice. Vanderdendur twice increases his asking price for the trip when he realizes the extent of Candide's wealth. Candide pays the fare in advance, and as he is about to board the ship, Vanderdendur sets sail, taking off with Candide's riches. Candide complains to a judge, who charges him a fee, but meets his story with indifference. Candide pays for a reasonably priced passage to Bordeaux and stages a competition to find the most miserable and downtrodden companion possible for his journey. Candide selects a candidate named Martin who is an old scholar and they set sail.


prompt:
Chapter: 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."[21]

"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."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Although Candide feels displeased with his misfortune, he still has sufficient wealth and therefore figures Cunegonde will marry him eventually. Martin, on the other hand, is hopeless. He believes that people are inherently evil. Martin reveals that he is a Manichaeist. Manichaeism was an antiquated religion that believed in light and darkness, good and evil. As Martin continues his argument that the world's dark side has taken over, they witness a battle taking place between a Spanish ship and a Dutch pirate ship. This supports his argument. Turns out, the pirate ship belongs to that jerk Vanderdendur who stole Candide's jewel-laden sheep. Just then, Candide spots one of those sheep floating toward his boat in the water. Candide, in an outburst of logic, suggests that, since he found the sheep, he will definitely find Cunegonde again.


prompt:
Chapter: 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: As they approach the coast of France, Candide asks Martin about his travels. Martin expounds rather humorously on the different places of the world: France is full of fools and lovesick madmen, and Venice is no good unless you're from Venice. He also declares that the world was created "to make us mad." He makes a fantastic argument that men have always been evil and horrible to one another. Candide's tries rather poorly to negate this argument with free will.


prompt:
Chapter: 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."[22]

"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[23] 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."[24]

"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."[25]

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?"[26]

"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,[27] 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[28] heard some foolish things said. This
induced him to commit a parricide, not such as that of 1610 in the month
of May,[29] but such as that of 1594 in the month of December,[30] 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Candide and Martin travel toward Venice. Candide wants to make a detour to Paris since he has heard it praised . Candide feels a little sick from his journey. Because everyone can see that he's rich, attendees quickly surround him to treat his illness. Because their medicine involves making Candide vomit and bleed, he becomes gradually sicker before ultimately recovering. Candide gambles and is astounded when he loses. Martin is not at all surprised. Candide goes to the theater and meets an Abbe . He asks him how many "theatrical pieces" exist in France. The Abbe tells him there are about five or six thousand and that about fifteen are good . Meanwhile, one of the actresses, a Mademoiselle Clairon, reminds Candide of Cunegonde. The Cunegonde look-alike impresses him, and the Abbe offers to introduce him to her. When that doesn't work , the Abbe arranges for Candide and Martin to meet another woman called the Marchioness of Parolignac. Candide gambles and is not concerned with his substantial loss of money. Over dinner, a scholar discusses literature and, in particular, tragedies. He tells us what makes great literature so great. This is interesting, and we suggest you flag this page in your book. Candide, after some inquiry, finds out that the scholar is brilliant and wrote a book that didn't sell so well. Candide declares him a wonderful man, a "second Pangloss." Candide asks the scholar his opinion on the goodness of the universe. The scholar responds that he finds that things exist in a perpetual state of annoyance and disagreement with one another. Martin and Candide exchange more philosophical banter about whether absolute necessity is compatible with free will. The Marchioness of Parolignac seduces Candide, despite his stated dedication to Cunegonde. Sex follows. After the sex, the Marchioness praises Candide's rings ; Candide allows her to keep them. The Abbe, who is a conniving fraud, pries Candide for information about Cunegonde. He forges a letter from Cunegonde to Candide, informing Candide that she is in France. When Candide receives the letter, he immediately leaves for her supposed hotel. Once in Cunegonde's room, an officer arrives and threatens to arrest them. Quickly, Martin and Candide realize they've been set up. Candide bribes the officer with some diamonds. Since bribes seem to be working, he gets the officer's brother to arrange a ship to England.


prompt:
Chapter: "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,[31] 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.[32]

"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."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Candide and Martin discuss the relative horrors of France and Britain while aboard a ship on the way to England. Martin can't decide which country is worse. While docked temporarily in Portsmouth, England, Candide and Martin observe the execution of an admiral. They inquire as to why the man is being executed and discover that he didn't win enough battles. They are making an example of him. Disgusted yet again with the horrors of the world, Candide gets the captain to sail for Venice directly.


prompt:
Chapter: 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."[33]

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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Candide and Martin arrive in Venice. For several months, Candide searches for word of Cacambo and Cunegonde, but is unable to find them. He assumes the worst and becomes depressed. He wishes he had stayed in El Dorado. Martin, ever the pessimist, suggests that Candide has too much faith in Cacambo. Most likely, he says, Cacambo took the fortune and is enjoying himself, not searching the world for the beautiful Cunegonde. Candide and Martin observe a happy looking couple, a woman and a monk, walking down the street. Martin bets Candide that they are in fact very unhappy. In order to settle the bet, Martin asks the couple to dinner. They accept, and the woman turns out to be Paquette, the servant from Thunder-ten-tronckh who infected Pangloss with syphilis. We are not remotely kidding. Candide finds that Paquette has indeed been very unhappy. After a series of unfortunate events, she was forced to become a prostitute to support herself. The monk is not Paquette's lover, but merely her client. Candide asks the monk if he is happy, and contrary to his expectation, the monk says he is miserable. Candide and Martin make an appointment to see Count Pococurante, who is supposedly a very happy man.


prompt:
Chapter: 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Candide and Martin arrive at Count Pococurante's magnificent home. Although he is without want, the count expresses discontent with his relationships with women, the Raphael paintings that decorate his home, the music being played for him, opera, philosophy, and almost all of the great literature housed in his extensive library. He even knocks Homer for his "repetition," Virgil for being "flat and disagreeable," and Horace for his "indelicate verses." Candide tries to tell Martin that this man is happy, since he is superior to all that he owns. Martin tells Candide he's wrong.


prompt:
Chapter: 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: While dining at an inn one evening, Cacambo shows up. Cacambo explains that he has become a slave and that Cunegonde is in Constantinople. He then suggests that they peace the hell out, sooner rather than later. Candide dines with Martin and six strangers, all of whom are revealed to be dethroned kings. As expected, they all tell their stories.


prompt:
Chapter: 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,[35] 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The ship captain responsible for one of the former kings, Sultan Achmet, agrees to take Candide and Martin to Constantinople. Cacambo tells Candide that Cunegonde works alongside the Old Woman as a servant for a Turkish prince. Also, Cunegonde is now ugly. Cacambo reveals that he is a slave of the dethroned Sultan Achmet. Candide learns that most of the money he gave to Cacambo was stolen by pirates. When they dock, Candide buys Cacambo's freedom and sets out in pursuit of Cunegonde. Candide takes a close look at two of the galley slaves and identifies one as Pangloss and the other as Cunegonde's Jesuit brother , whom Candide thought he stabbed to death. Candide buys the two men their freedom.


prompt:
Chapter: "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_."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Candide learns that after recovering from the stab wound and a series of other dramatic events, the Baron was ordered to the galleys by a judge for bathing with a Muslim man. Pangloss was incompetently hanged, so it didn't so much kill him as give him a brutal crick in the neck. He was revived by a man who originally intended to dissect him. Pangloss ended up employed in Constantinople, where he had the indiscretion to place a flower on a woman's breast at a Mosque. Like the Jesuit, Pangloss was ordered to the galleys for this act. Despite his terrible misfortune, Pangloss maintains his Optimism.


prompt:
Chapter: 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."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Candide, Martin, Cacambo, Pangloss, and the Baron eventually find Cunegonde and the Old Woman. Because no one has informed her, Cunegonde doesn't know she has lost her beauty. Candide goes to hug her and tries to hide his grimace. The Baron refuses to let Candide marry his sister. Still. Not because of the stabbing incident, but rather because Candide doesn't have a fancy family tree.


prompt:
Chapter: 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."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Candide returns the Baron to his slavery in the galleys. Although the thought of making love to Cunegonde in her current state is really unappealing to Candide, he marries her as a matter of principle. Candide and his friends acquire a farm where they live together. Despite having finally achieved his goal, Candide is unhappy. Cunegonde isn't attractive anymore, and she and the Old Woman are grumpy. Everyone suffers from profound boredom. Pangloss maintains his "best of all worlds" stance, but it seems like his heart just isn't in it anymore. One day, Paquette and the monk show up in utter despair. The entire gang seeks the knowledge of a dervish. They basically say, "We are the most unenlightened group ever. Help." The dervish says something like, "Yes, you are. I cannot help you." But he does toss out an interesting question: "When his highness sends a ship to Egypt, does he trouble his head whether the mice on board are at their ease or not?" He then says the best thing to do is stop talking. Pangloss tries to argue about cause and effect, and has the door promptly slammed in his face. Confused, the gang returns to their farm. On the way, they encounter another farmer who invites them into his home. The farmer, also referred to as "an honest Turk," remarks that he has found that working helps him to overcome "the three evils": boredom, vice, and poverty. Candide and his gang take the farmer's advice and dedicate themselves to working. Life seem to go better for everyone. Pangloss starts to philosophize, but Candide responds by saying they must "cultivate garden." Pangloss tries to philosophize about that, too, but Martin tells them all to stop talking and do their work. Just when you think it's over, Candide has to cut Pangloss off yet again and tell him to cultivate the garden already.