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.




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.





"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."




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.




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.

 As they draw closer to the shore of France on their voyage, Martin pans France as a country where the "ruling passion is love, the next is slander, and the last is to talk nonsense." He describes Paris as "confused multitude, where everyone seeks for pleasure without being able to find it." Their discourse takes a philosophical turn. Candide asks the philosopher for what reason the world was formed. "To make us mad" is the response. Was mankind always so brutal to one another, guilty of "lies, fraud, treachery, ingratitude, inconstancy, envy, ambition, and cruelty"? If animals have not evolved in their nature, why should humans be expected to do so? The difference between animals and men is free will. Candide stops in Bordeaux to replenish his supply of cash by selling off a few of the recovered jewels. He heads toward Paris where he falls ill and meets the Abbe of Perigord, who brings Candide and Martin to a playhouse. The performance moves Candide to tears, but draws the acerbic ire of a critic, who excoriates Candide for falling prey to such false sentimentality. The Abbe of Perigord offers to introduce Candide to the lead actress, Miss Clairon, who reminds him of Miss Cunegonde. Candide, Martin and the Abbe of Perigord head to her house in Saint-Honore, a suburb of Paris, where they come upon a table of guests busy at a game of cards. Candide joins them and loves several thousand pieces without the slightest blink of an eye. Among the guests is the Marchioness of Parolignac, who trashes the latest romance written by Gauchat, Doctor of Divinity. A man of letters outlines what he considers to be the inviolable rules of good literature: "to dazzle the spectator the thoughts should be new, without being farfetched; frequently sublime, but always natural; the author should have a thorough knowledge of the human heart and make it speak properly; he should be a complete poet, without showing an affectation of it in any of the characters of his piece; he should be a perfect master of his language, speak it with all its purity, and with the utmost harmony, and yet so as not to make the sense a slave to the rhyme." Dazzled by his brilliance, Candide declares him the "second Pangloss." After dinner, Marchioness of Parolignac shows Candide into her dressing room, and attempts to seduce him. Candide obliges her by tying her garter and transferring the two diamond rings from his finger to hers, then leaves. He confesses his infidelity to Miss Cunegonde to the Abbe of Perigord, who assuages his sense of guilt. The next morning, he receives a missive from Miss Cunegonde, who has arrived at Bordeaux with Cacambo and the Old Woman. She has been released from the custody of the Governor and accordingly dispossessed of everything. Candide rushes to see her, but is told that she cannot bear light or speak. A maid uncovers Miss Cunegonde's hand from beneath a bedsheet. Candide bathes it in tears and diamonds. At that moment, an officer enters the room and drags Candide and Martin to a local prison. Martin realizes that they have been swindled. Candide, wishing to avoid legal entanglements, bribes an officer to escort him out of prison and to Dieppe, where he catches a ferryboat to Portsmouth. On the boat ride over, Candide and Martin in turn ridicule the English. As they near the shoreline, Candide is horrified to witness an English admiral being put to death on the deck of a ship, even more so when he learns that there is no legitimate reason for the execution. Horrified, he asks the captain of the ship to carry him directly to Venice. Upon his arrival in Venice, Candide looks in vain for Cacambo. Martin chastises Candide for his naivete, postulating that Cacambo probably made off with the jewels himself or, if he succeeded in getting Miss Cunegonde back, kept her for himself. He claims that "there is very little virtue or happiness in this world." Candide disputes Martin's claim by pointing out a seemingly happy couple passing in the street. They invite the couple to dinner and make a bet between themselves about the couple's happiness. The woman turns out to be Paquette, who recounts her own tale of mistreatment at the hands of a Franciscan priest, a doctor, and later a judge. Candide then turns to the man, Friar Giroflee, who lives a profoundly miserable existence in a monastery. Martin appears to have won the wager, but Candide clings to his faith that he will once again see Miss Cunegonde. They next visit Senator Pococurante, a wealthy man who dislikes everything he possesses. Candide immediately flatters the Raphael canvas hanging on the walls of his lavish villa, only to be met with the Senator's crude indifference. When they sit down to dinner, Pococurante dismisses opera as a mediocre art form. Candide takes great offense at his systematic trashing of such literary geniuses as Homer, whose work is little but the "continual repetition of battles"; Virgil, whose characters are "flat and disagreeable"; and finally Milton, "who writes a tedious commentary in ten books of rambling verse." Candide, despairing over the continued absence of Cacambo and Miss Cunegonde, keep hoping that he will be reunited with his beloved.

