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."




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."

 Candide and Martin, as the old man identified himself, set sail for Bordeaux, and the topic of moral and physical evil was the dominant one discussed by the two during the voyage, for both had suffered much. But Candide had one thing to sustain him: the hope of seeing Cunegonde again, and he still had some Eldoradoan gold and diamonds. Especially at the end of a meal, he inclined toward Pangloss' philosophy once more. Candide and Martin, as the old man identified himself, set sail for Bordeaux, and the topic of moral and physical evil was the dominant one discussed by the two during the voyage, for both had suffered much. But Candide had one thing to sustain him: the hope of seeing Cunegonde again, and he still had some Eldoradoan gold and diamonds. Especially at the end of a meal, he inclined toward Pangloss' philosophy once more. In the course of their discussion, Martin told Candide that he was not a Socinian but a Manichean . He conceded that in view of what he had seen, God must have abandoned the world to some malevolent being -- with the exception of Eldorado. Martin then summed up the miseries of the world -- personal injustice and cruelties; a million regimented assassins sweeping over Europe as one nation warred against another; the envies, cares, and anxieties even in supposedly cultured cities. Candide insisted that there was some good in the world, but the pessimistic Martin only replied that he had never seen it. In the midst of their discussion, they heard the sound of gunfire and, along with others aboard the ship, saw two ships, one French, fighting about three miles away. One of the ships was sunk; Candide and Martin saw a good hundred men implore the Heavens for help and then go to their deaths. Martin pointed out that this incident illustrated how men treated each other, and Candide conceded that there was something diabolical in what they had seen. As he spoke, a red object was seen moving toward their ship. To the great joy of Candide, it turned out to be one of his big sheep. It was then revealed that the Dutch captain's ship was the one that had been sunk. The enormous wealth the captain had stolen had gone to the bottom of the sea. Candide was sure that all this proved that crime was sometimes punished. But, asked Martin, why should so many blameless creatures have had to die? God, he concluded, punished the guilty captain, but the devil drowned the others. The two continued their discussion. Despite the pessimism of Martin, Candide did not lose hope; he had found one of his sheep; now he was sure that he would be reunited with Cunegonde. When they sighted France, Candide inquired whether Martin had ever been there. The latter answered affirmatively and then provided an unflattering description of the French and especially of the citizens of Paris. In some parts of the country, he said, half the people were mad; elsewhere they were too crafty; still others were rather gentle and stupid. And in every province the chief occupations were love making, malicious gossip, and talking nonsense. As for Paris, it was a mixture of everything found in the provinces. Martin had heard that the Parisians were a very refined people but was not yet convinced that they were. Candide at first had no desire to tarry in France; he wanted to take the shortest route to Venice. Martin accepted his invitation to accompany him. Martin's logic was impeccable: Candide had money; Martin had none; he had heard that Venice welcomed the rich. And then their philosophical discussion was continued. Nothing that Candide had experienced surprised the old scholar. He had lived too long and seen too much. He believed that man had always been bloodthirsty, greedy, lecherous, hypocritical, and foolish, and he insisted that man no more changed his character than does a predatory bird. Candide objected, as he introduced the subject of free will. When the ship reached Bordeaux, the discussion was still in progress. At Bordeaux, Candide remained long enough only to sell some Eldorado pebbles and purchase a good two-seated carriage, for he could no longer do without Martin. Since he could not take the sheep along, he regretfully gave it to the Academy of Science, which was particularly interested in sheep with red wool. He had intended to leave France as quickly as possible, but since all the travelers he met on the road said they were going to Paris, he decided to visit that famous city. Candide had just put up at an inn when he became ill from fatigue. Two doctors, many "intimate friends," and two pious and charitable ladies gave him every attention, for they had noticed his big diamond ring and his strongbox. Martin observed that once in Paris, he fell ill but had no one to attend him. "I recovered," he concluded. Thanks to the medicine and blood lettings, Candide became worse. A clergyman who was a regular visitor asked him for a "note payable to the bearer in the next world"; that is, a document signed by a non-Jansenist priest certifying that he was not a Jansenist. . Candide became incensed, and the two began to quarrel, whereupon Martin took the clergyman by the shoulders and shoved him out of the room. A police report was made of the commotion. Fortunately, Candide recovered. A number of distinguished people came to supper during his convalescence and gambled with him for high stakes. It was no surprise to Martin that his young friend never held any aces. Among those who showed him Paris was an abbe, a scheming, parasitic individual who sought out strangers, told them scandalous gossip, and offered them pleasure at any price. First he took Candide to see a tragedy and the two were seated near several wits. One of these quibblers insisted that Candide should not have wept because the play was impossible. Tomorrow, he said, he would bring Candide twenty pamphlets written against the dramatist. Candide was informed by the abbe that five or six thousand plays had been written in France, but that only fifteen or sixteen were any good. "That's a lot," said Martin. Since an actress who had played the role of Queen Elizabeth reminded Candide of his Cunegonde, the young man was attracted to her. The abbe offered to take him to her residence. In response to Candide's inquiry as to how queens of England were treated in France, the abbe told him that they were respected when they are beautiful and thrown into the garbage dump when they are dead. The youth was shocked, especially when Martin confirmed what the abbe had said. The abbe continued his critical description of Paris and its citizens with characteristic malice. Because the abbe knew that one of his obscure station was not welcome at the home of the actress, he made an excuse and suggested that Candide come with him to visit a lady of quality in whose house he would learn much about Paris. And the abbe did conduct Candide and Martin to the lady's house, where a faro game was in progress. Voltaire described the play in sufficient detail -- the tenseness of the players, the attempts to cheat, the characters of the players. So occupied were these people that no one greeted Candide and his companions. Meanwhile the abbe had secured the attention of the self-styled Marquise de Parolignac. . She smiled at Candide and gave Martin a nod, and then she offered the youth a seat at the gambling table. Only two draws were required for him to lose 50,000 francs, but he appeared so unconcerned that the servants took him to be an English milord. Supper followed, with the usual unintelligible chatter, witticisms, false rumors, bad reasoning, a little politics, a great deal of slander, and even some discourse on literature, most of it adversely critical, reference being made to the "enormous mass of abominable books." Particularly there was a fairly long discussion of what constituted a good tragedy by one especially impressive and apparently well-informed scholar. Candide thought that he must be another Pangloss, and he asked the man if he subscribed to the optimistic philosophy. The scholar did not -- quite the contrary, for everything was going wrong in the country. He referred to widespread ignorance of rank and responsibility and the senseless quarrels -- an endless war. "Jansenist against Molinist, Parliament against the Church, men of letters against their fellow writers, courtiers against courtiers, financiers against the people, wives against their husbands, relatives against relatives." The naive Candide again invoked the name of Pangloss and voiced his confidence that all was for the best, arguing that the apparent evil was no more than shadows in a beautiful picture. Martin could not restrain himself. "Your hanged philosopher was an arrogant jester," he exclaimed. After supper, the marquise invited Candide to her boudoir, where, in the course of their conversation, he was properly courteous, but he had his difficulties. The lady told him that now he should no longer love Cunegonde since he had now seen the marquise. "Your passion for Cunegonde began when you picked up her handkerchief; I want you to pick up my garter." Candide complied and at her further request put it on her. The marquise pointed out that she was according him unusual privileges, for she usually made her lovers languish for two weeks. When she praised the diamonds on his hands, the gallant Candide gave them to her. As he left the house, he was conscious-stricken for having been unfaithful to Cunegonde, and he received the consolations of the abbe. As for the latter, he could have fared better. He had received only a small share of the 50,000 francs Candide had lost at cards and of the diamonds Candide had given to the marquise. But determined to get more at the expense of the youth, he redoubled his amiable attentions. Particularly did he manifest an appreciative interest in Cunegonde. Candide lamented the fact that he had never received a letter from her, whereupon the abbe, having listened attentively, took his leave. Surprisingly enough, on the next morning, Candide did receive a letter from his beloved. She was in Paris! The Governor of Buenos Aires had taken everything, but she still had his heart. When he read that she had been ill, Candide was greatly concerned, torn as he was between inexpressible joy at having heard from her and then learning that she was not well. Candide and Martin went to the hotel where Cunegonde was supposed to be staying. When the young man tried to draw back the bed curtains and asked for light, he was restrained by the maid. He addressed Cunegonde but was informed that she could not speak. The lady behind the curtains did put forth her hand, which Candide bathed in tears and filled with diamonds. Moreover, he left a bag full of gold on the arm chair. At this tender moment, two officers appeared and arrested Candide and Martin on suspicion. "This isn't the way travelers are treated in Eldorado," said Candide. And Martin declared that he was more a Manichean than ever. The two were taken to a dungeon. Candide provided a bribe of sufficient size to secure their release. "Ah, sir," said one of the officers, "if you'd committed every crime imaginable, you'd still be the most honest man in the world!" But why, asked Candide, were all strangers arrested? The abbe provided the answer. It was all because a beggar from Artois heard some people talking nonsense, which was enough to make him try to commit parricide. Candide was shocked at the monstrosity of the people and was eager to get out of a country where monkeys harassed tigers. He pleaded to be taken to Venice, but the officer's brother, after receiving three diamonds, took them to Portsmouth, England. Candide was not in Venice, to be sure, but he felt that he had been delivered from hell. Voicing the names of Pangloss, Martin, and his dear Cunegonde, Candide vehemently asked what kind of a world this was. Martin replied that it was something insane and abominable. The English, he continued, had their own type of madness, and he made reference to the war between France and England in America . He described the English as being extremely moody and morose. When they arrived in Portsmouth, the two witnessed the execution of a rather stout man who, blindfolded, knelt on the deck of a naval vessel. Four soldiers each fired three bullets into his head, to the great satisfaction of the large crowd of spectators. Candide learned that the man was an admiral whose crime was that he had not killed enough men, that he had not closed with the French enemy. "Then why was not the French admiral killed?" asked Candide. He was informed that in England it was considered good to kill an admiral now and then "to encourage the others." So shocked was Candide that he immediately arranged passage to Venice. "God be praised," he exclaimed when they arrived in that city. Trusting Cacambo as he did, he was sure that he would see his Cunegonde again and that all would be well.

