Chapter: Candide, yet more moved with compassion than with horror, gave to this
shocking beggar the two florins which he had received from the honest
Anabaptist James. The spectre looked at him very earnestly, dropped a
few tears, and fell upon his neck. Candide recoiled in disgust.

"Alas!" said one wretch to the other, "do you no longer know your dear
Pangloss?"

"What do I hear? You, my dear master! you in this terrible plight! What
misfortune has happened to you? Why are you no longer in the most
magnificent of castles? What has become of Miss Cunegonde, the pearl of
girls, and nature's masterpiece?"

"I am so weak that I cannot stand," said Pangloss.

Upon which Candide carried him to the Anabaptist's stable, and gave him
a crust of bread. As soon as Pangloss had refreshed himself a little:

"Well," said Candide, "Cunegonde?"

"She is dead," replied the other.

Candide fainted at this word; his friend recalled his senses with a
little bad vinegar which he found by chance in the stable. Candide
reopened his eyes.

"Cunegonde is dead! Ah, best of worlds, where art thou? But of what
illness did she die? Was it not for grief, upon seeing her father kick
me out of his magnificent castle?"

"No," said Pangloss, "she was ripped open by the Bulgarian soldiers,
after having been violated by many; they broke the Baron's head for
attempting to defend her; my lady, her mother, was cut in pieces; my
poor pupil was served just in the same manner as his sister; and as for
the castle, they have not left one stone upon another, not a barn, nor a
sheep, nor a duck, nor a tree; but we have had our revenge, for the
Abares have done the very same thing to a neighbouring barony, which
belonged to a Bulgarian lord."

At this discourse Candide fainted again; but coming to himself, and
having said all that it became him to say, inquired into the cause and
effect, as well as into the _sufficient reason_ that had reduced
Pangloss to so miserable a plight.

"Alas!" said the other, "it was love; love, the comfort of the human
species, the preserver of the universe, the soul of all sensible beings,
love, tender love."

"Alas!" said Candide, "I know this love, that sovereign of hearts, that
soul of our souls; yet it never cost me more than a kiss and twenty
kicks on the backside. How could this beautiful cause produce in you an
effect so abominable?"

Pangloss made answer in these terms: "Oh, my dear Candide, you remember
Paquette, that pretty wench who waited on our noble Baroness; in her
arms I tasted the delights of paradise, which produced in me those hell
torments with which you see me devoured; she was infected with them, she
is perhaps dead of them. This present Paquette received of a learned
Grey Friar, who had traced it to its source; he had had it of an old
countess, who had received it from a cavalry captain, who owed it to a
marchioness, who took it from a page, who had received it from a Jesuit,
who when a novice had it in a direct line from one of the companions of
Christopher Columbus.[3] For my part I shall give it to nobody, I am
dying."

"Oh, Pangloss!" cried Candide, "what a strange genealogy! Is not the
Devil the original stock of it?"

"Not at all," replied this great man, "it was a thing unavoidable, a
necessary ingredient in the best of worlds; for if Columbus had not in
an island of America caught this disease, which contaminates the source
of life, frequently even hinders generation, and which is evidently
opposed to the great end of nature, we should have neither chocolate nor
cochineal. We are also to observe that upon our continent, this
distemper is like religious controversy, confined to a particular spot.
The Turks, the Indians, the Persians, the Chinese, the Siamese, the
Japanese, know nothing of it; but there is a sufficient reason for
believing that they will know it in their turn in a few centuries. In
the meantime, it has made marvellous progress among us, especially in
those great armies composed of honest well-disciplined hirelings, who
decide the destiny of states; for we may safely affirm that when an army
of thirty thousand men fights another of an equal number, there are
about twenty thousand of them p-x-d on each side."

"Well, this is wonderful!" said Candide, "but you must get cured."

"Alas! how can I?" said Pangloss, "I have not a farthing, my friend, and
all over the globe there is no letting of blood or taking a glister,
without paying, or somebody paying for you."

These last words determined Candide; he went and flung himself at the
feet of the charitable Anabaptist James, and gave him so touching a
picture of the state to which his friend was reduced, that the good man
did not scruple to take Dr. Pangloss into his house, and had him cured
at his expense. In the cure Pangloss lost only an eye and an ear. He
wrote well, and knew arithmetic perfectly. The Anabaptist James made him
his bookkeeper. At the end of two months, being obliged to go to Lisbon
about some mercantile affairs, he took the two philosophers with him in
his ship. Pangloss explained to him how everything was so constituted
that it could not be better. James was not of this opinion.

"It is more likely," said he, "mankind have a little corrupted nature,
for they were not born wolves, and they have become wolves; God has
given them neither cannon of four-and-twenty pounders, nor bayonets; and
yet they have made cannon and bayonets to destroy one another. Into this
account I might throw not only bankrupts, but Justice which seizes on
the effects of bankrupts to cheat the creditors."

"All this was indispensable," replied the one-eyed doctor, "for private
misfortunes make the general good, so that the more private misfortunes
there are the greater is the general good."

While he reasoned, the sky darkened, the winds blew from the four
quarters, and the ship was assailed by a most terrible tempest within
sight of the port of Lisbon.

 Soon thereafter, Candide takes a walk through the town when he meets a "ghastly beggar" who reveals to his pupil that he is Pangloss. Candide is shocked and horrified to see his teacher in such a state, but immediately asks about his beloved Cunegonde. When Pangloss explains that she has been killed, Candide passes out. Upon awakening, he muses, "Ah, best of worlds, what's become of you now. Obviously, Candide's belief in Pangloss' optimistic philosophy is waning, as Voltaire continues his ruthless indictment of Leibniz, Pope and others. Pangloss, next, begins to explain the events, including the murder of Cunegonde, that occurred at the castle after Candide had been thrown out. He says that the beautiful Cunegonde was brutally and repeatedly raped by Bulgar soldiers who attacked the family fortress, finally killing both Cunegonde and the rest of her family before destroying the castle. Yet it seems the Abares were no less hostile to their enemies, as Pangloss notes their similar treatment of a nearby Bulgar castle. Hearing this, Candide attempts to understand such seemingly needless suffering by asking his teacher about the "cause and effect" and the "sufficient reason" for such tragedies, specifically his own sorry state. Pangloss masterfully crafts a brilliant explanation of his disease, which he explains was sexually transmitted from the servant girl, Paquette, to whom the reader may recall he gave "physics lessons" in the opening scene. The doctor gives a detailed, yet brief account of the STD's path, explaining how it transcended through a Franciscan, and Jesuit, and even through the men of Christopher Columbus himself, who received it from the New World natives. The devil, however, isn't at the root of such a mess, Pangloss asserts, because such suffering is only a small aspect of a larger good. For example, if Columbus had never sailed to America, chocolate wouldn't exist to tantalize the taste buds of cultured Europeans. Fortunately for Pangloss, Jacques, the "charitable anabaptist," pays to cure the teacher of his disease, though the philosopher loses one eye and one ear in the process. When Jacques confronts Pangloss' systemic philosophy, however, he responds, ". private misfortunes make for public welfare

