{"schema_version":1,"access":"public","rights":"Public-domain or compatibly licensed source editions; provenance is retained per record.","work":{"slug":"candide","title":"Candide, ou l’Optimisme","author":"Voltaire","tradition":"european","language":"fr","genre":"philosophical tale","period":"1759","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4650","original":{"text":"### Chapter I\n\nComment Candide fut élevé dans un beau château, et comment il fut chassé d’icelui.\n\nIl y avait en Vestphalie, dans le château de M. le baron de Thunder-ten-tronckh, un jeune garçon à qui la nature avait donné les moeurs les plus douces. Sa physionomie annonçait son âme. Il avait le jugement assez droit, avec l’esprit le plus simple; c’est, je crois, pour cette raison qu’on le nommait Candide. Les anciens domestiques de la maison soupçonnaient qu’il était fils de la soeur de monsieur le baron et d’un bon et honnête gentilhomme du voisinage, que cette demoiselle ne voulut jamais épouser parce qu’il n’avait pu prouver que soixante et onze quartiers, et que le reste de son arbre généalogique avait été perdu par l’injure du temps.\n\nMonsieur le baron était un des plus puissants seigneurs de la Westphalie, car son château avait une porte et des fenêtres. Sa grande salle même était ornée d’une tapisserie. Tous les chiens de ses basses-cours composaient une meute dans le besoin; ses palefreniers étaient ses piqueurs; le vicaire du village était son grand-aumônier. Ils l’appelaient tous monseigneur, et ils riaient quand il fesait des contes.\n\nMadame la baronne, qui pesait environ trois cent cinquante livres, s’attirait par là une très grande considération, et fesait les honneurs de la maison avec une dignité qui la rendait encore plus respectable. Sa fille Cunégonde, âgée de dix-sept ans, était haute en couleur, fraîche, grasse, appétissante. Le fils du baron paraissait en tout digne de son père. Le précepteur Pangloss était l’oracle de la maison, et le petit Candide écoutait ses leçons avec toute la bonne foi de son âge et de son caractère.\n\nPangloss enseignait la métaphysico-théologo-cosmolonigologie. Il prouvait admirablement qu’il n’y a point d’effet sans cause, et que, dans ce meilleur des mondes possibles, le château de monseigneur le baron était le plus beau des châteaux, et madame la meilleure des baronnes possibles.\n\nIl est démontré, disait-il, que les choses ne peuvent être autrement; car tout étant fait pour une fin, tout est nécessairement pour la meilleure fin. Remarquez bien que les nez ont été faits pour porter des lunettes; aussi avons-nous des lunettes. Les jambes sont visiblement instituées pour être chaussées, et nous avons des chausses. Les pierres ont été formées pour être taillées et pour en faire des châteaux; aussi monseigneur a un très beau château: le plus grand baron de la province doit être le mieux logé; et les cochons étant faits pour être mangés, nous mangeons du porc toute l’année: par conséquent, ceux qui ont avancé que tout est bien ont dit une sottise; il fallait dire que tout est au mieux.\n\nCandide écoutait attentivement, et croyait innocemment; car il trouvait mademoiselle Cunégonde extrêmement belle, quoiqu’il ne prît jamais la hardiesse de le lui dire. Il concluait qu’après le bonheur d’être né baron de Thunder-ten-tronckh, le second degré de bonheur était d’être mademoiselle Cunégonde; le troisième, de la voir tous les jours; et le quatrième, d’entendre maître Pangloss, le plus grand philosophe de la province, et par conséquent de toute la terre.\n\nUn jour Cunégonde, en se promenant auprès du château, dans le petit bois qu’on appelait parc, vit entre des broussailles le docteur Pangloss qui donnait une leçon de physique expérimentale à la femme de chambre de sa mère, petite brune très jolie et très docile. Comme mademoiselle Cunégonde avait beaucoup de disposition pour les sciences, elle observa, sans souffler, les expériences réitérées dont elle fut témoin; elle vit clairement la raison suffisante du docteur, les effets et les causes, et s’en retourna tout agitée, toute pensive, toute remplie du désir d’être savante, songeant qu’elle pourrait bien être la raison suffisante du jeune Candide, qui pouvait aussi être la sienne.\n\nElle rencontra Candide en revenant au château, et rougit: Candide rougit aussi. Elle lui dit bonjour d’une voix entrecoupée; et Candide lui parla sans savoir ce qu’il disait. Le lendemain, après le dîner, comme on sortait de table, Cunégonde et Candide se trouvèrent derrière un paravent; Cunégonde laissa tomber son mouchoir, Candide le ramassa; elle lui prit innocemment la main; le jeune homme baisa innocemment la main de la jeune demoiselle avec une vivacité, une sensibilité, une grâce toute particulière; leurs bouches se rencontrèrent, leurs yeux s’enflammèrent, leurs genoux tremblèrent, leurs mains s’égarèrent. M. le baron de Thunder-ten-tronckh passa auprès du paravent, et voyant cette cause et cet effet, chassa Candide du château à grands coups de pied dans le derrière. Cunégonde s’évanouit: elle fut souffletée par madame la baronne dès qu’elle fut revenue à elle-même; et tout fut consterné dans le plus beau et le plus agréable des châteaux possibles.\n\n### Chapter II\n\nCe que devint Candide parmi les Bulgares.\n\nCandide, chassé du paradis terrestre, marcha longtemps sans savoir où, pleurant, levant les yeux au ciel, les tournant souvent vers le plus beau des châteaux qui renfermait la plus belle des baronnettes; il se coucha sans souper au milieu des champs entre deux sillons; la neige tombait à gros flocons. Candide, tout transi, se traîna le lendemain vers la ville voisine, qui s’appelle Valdberghoff-trarbk-dikdorff, n’ayant point d’argent, mourant de faim et de lassitude. Il s’arrêta tristement à la porte d’un cabaret. Deux hommes habillés de bleu le remarquèrent: Camarade, dit l’un, voilà un jeune homme très bien fait, et qui a la taille requise; ils s’avancèrent vers Candide et le prièrent à dîner très civilement.—Messieurs, leur dit Candide avec une modestie charmante, vous me faites beaucoup d’honneur, mais je n’ai pas de quoi payer mon écot.—Ah! monsieur, lui dit un des bleus, les personnes de votre figure et de votre mérite ne paient jamais rien: n’avez-vous pas cinq pieds cinq pouces de haut?—Oui, messieurs, c’est ma taille, dit-il en fesant la révérence.—Ah! monsieur, mettez-vous à table; non seulement nous vous défraierons, mais nous ne souffrirons jamais qu’un homme comme vous manque d’argent; les hommes ne sont faits que pour se secourir les uns les autres.—Vous avez raison, dit Candide; c’est ce que M. Pangloss m’a toujours dit, et je vois bien que tout est au mieux. On le prie d’accepter quelques écus, il les prend et veut faire son billet; on n’en veut point, on se met à table. N’aimez-vous pas tendrement?….—Oh! oui, répond-il, j’aime tendrement mademoiselle Cunégonde.—Non, dit l’un de ces messieurs, nous vous demandons si vous n’aimez pas tendrement le roi des Bulgares?—Point du tout, dit-il, car je ne l’ai jamais vu.—Comment! c’est le plus charmant des rois, et il faut boire à sa santé.—Oh! très volontiers, messieurs. Et il boit. C’en est assez, lui dit-on, vous voilà l’appui, le soutien, le défenseur, le héros des Bulgares; votre fortune est faite, et votre gloire est assurée. On lui met sur-le-champ les fers aux pieds, et on le mène au régiment. On le fait tourner à droite, à gauche, hausser la baguette, remettre la baguette, coucher en joue, tirer, doubler le pas, et on lui donne trente coups de bâton; le lendemain, il fait l’exercice un peu moins mal, et il ne reçoit que vingt coups; le surlendemain, on ne lui en donne que dix, et il est regardé par ses camarades comme un prodige.\n\nCandide, tout stupéfait, ne démêlait pas encore trop bien comment il était un héros. Il s’avisa un beau jour de printemps de s’aller promener, marchant tout droit devant lui, croyant que c’était un privilège de l’espèce humaine, comme de l’espèce animale, de se servir de ses jambes à son plaisir. Il n’eut pas fait deux lieues que voilà quatre autres héros de six pieds qui l’atteignent, qui le lient, qui le mènent dans un cachot. On lui demanda juridiquement ce qu’il aimait le mieux d’être fustigé trente-six fois par tout le régiment, ou de recevoir à-la-fois douze balles de plomb dans la cervelle. Il eut beau dire que les volontés sont libres, et qu’il ne voulait ni l’un ni l’autre, il fallut faire un choix; il se détermina, en vertu du don de Dieu qu’on nomme liberté, à passer trente-six fois par les baguettes; il essuya deux promenades. Le régiment était composé de deux mille hommes; cela lui composa quatre mille coups de baguette, qui, depuis la nuque du cou jusqu’au cul, lui découvrirent les muscles et les nerfs. Comme on allait procéder à la troisième course, Candide, n’en pouvant plus, demanda en grâce qu’on voulût bien avoir la bonté de lui casser la tête; il obtint cette faveur; on lui bande les yeux; on le fait mettre à genoux. Le roi des Bulgares passe dans ce moment, s’informe du crime du patient; et comme ce roi avait un grand génie, il comprit, par tout ce qu’il apprit de Candide, que c’était un jeune métaphysicien fort ignorant des choses de ce monde, et il lui accorda sa grâce avec une clémence qui sera louée dans tous les journaux et dans tous les siècles. Un brave chirurgien guérit Candide en trois semaines avec les émollients enseignés par Dioscoride. Il avait déjà un peu de peau et pouvait marcher, quand le roi des Bulgares livra bataille au roi des Abares.\n\n### Chapter III\n\nComment Candide se sauva d’entre les Bulgares, et ce qu’il devint.\n\nRien n’était si beau, si leste, si brillant, si bien ordonné que les deux armées. Les trompettes, les fifres, les hautbois, les tambours, les canons; formaient une harmonie telle qu’il n’y en eut jamais en enfer. Les canons renversèrent d’abord à peu près six mille hommes de chaque côté; ensuite la mousqueterie ôta du meilleur des mondes environ neuf à dix mille coquins qui en infectaient la surface. La baïonnette fut aussi la raison suffisante de la mort de quelques milliers d’hommes. Le tout pouvait bien se monter à une trentaine de mille âmes. Candide, qui tremblait comme un philosophe, se cacha du mieux qu’il put pendant cette boucherie héroïque.\n\nEnfin, tandis que les deux rois fesaient chanter des Te Deum, chacun dans son camp, il prit le parti d’aller raisonner ailleurs des effets et des causes. Il passa par-dessus des tas de morts et de mourants, et gagna d’abord un village voisin; il était en cendres: c’était un village abare que les Bulgares avaient brûlé, selon les lois du droit public. Ici des vieillards criblés de coups regardaient mourir leurs femmes égorgées, qui tenaient leurs enfants à leurs mamelles sanglantes; là des filles éventrées après avoir assouvi les besoins naturels de quelques héros, rendaient les derniers soupirs; d’autres à demi brûlées criaient qu’on achevât de leur donner la mort. Des cervelles étaient répandues sur la terre à côté de bras et de jambes coupés.\n\nCandide s’enfuit au plus vite dans un autre village: il appartenait à des Bulgares, et les héros abares l’avaient traité de même. Candide, toujours marchant sur des membres palpitants ou à travers des ruines, arriva enfin hors du théâtre de la guerre, portant quelques petites provisions dans son bissac, et n’oubliant jamais mademoiselle Cunégonde. Ses provisions lui manquèrent quand il fut en Hollande; mais ayant entendu dire que tout le monde était riche dans ce pays-là, et qu’on y était chrétien, il ne douta pas qu’on ne le traitât aussi bien qu’il l’avait été dans le château de M. le baron, avant qu’il en eût été chassé pour les beaux yeux de mademoiselle Cunégonde.\n\nIl demanda l’aumône à plusieurs graves personnages, qui lui répondirent tous que, s’il continuait à faire ce métier, on l’enfermerait dans une maison de correction pour lui apprendre à vivre.\n\nIl s’adressa ensuite à un homme qui venait de parler tout seul une heure de suite sur la charité dans une grande assemblée. Cet orateur le regardant de travers lui dit: Que venez-vous faire ici? y êtes-vous pour la bonne cause? Il n’y a point d’effet sans cause, répondit modestement Candide; tout est enchaîné nécessairement et arrangé pour le mieux. Il a fallu que je fusse chassé d’auprès de mademoiselle Cunégonde, que j’aie passé par les baguettes, et il faut que je demande mon pain, jusqu’à ce que je puisse en gagner; tout cela ne pouvait être autrement. Mon ami, lui dit l’orateur, croyez-vous que le pape soit l’antechrist? Je ne l’avais pas encore entendu dire, répondit Candide: mais qu’il le soit, ou qu’il ne le soit pas, je manque de pain. Tu ne mérites pas d’en manger, dit l’autre: va, coquin, va, misérable, ne m’approche de ta vie. La femme de l’orateur ayant mis la tête à la fenêtre, et avisant un homme qui doutait que le pape fût antechrist, lui répandit sur le chef un plein….. O ciel! à quel excès se porte le zèle de la religion dans les dames!\n\nUn homme qui n’avait point été baptisé, un bon anabaptiste, nommé Jacques, vit la manière cruelle et ignominieuse dont on traitait ainsi un de ses frères, un être à deux pieds sans plumes, qui avait une âme; il l’amena chez lui, le nettoya, lui donna du pain et de la bière, lui fit présent de deux florins, et voulut même lui apprendre à travailler dans ses manufactures aux étoffes de Perse qu’on fabrique en Hollande. Candide se prosternant presque devant lui, s’écriait: Maître Pangloss me l’avait bien dit que tout est au mieux dans ce monde, car je suis infiniment plus touché de votre extrême générosité que de la dureté de ce monsieur à manteau noir, et de madame son épouse.\n\nLe lendemain, en se promenant, il rencontra un gueux tout couvert de pustules, les yeux morts, le bout du nez rongé, la bouche de travers, les dents noires, et parlant de la gorge, tourmenté d’une toux violente, et crachant une dent à chaque effort.\n\n### Chapter IV\n\nComment Candide rencontra son ancien maître de philosophie, le docteur Pangloss, et ce qui en advint.\n\nCandide, plus ému encore de compassion que d’horreur, donna à cet épouvantable gueux les deux florins qu’il avait reçus de son honnête anabaptiste Jacques. Le fantôme le regarda fixement, versa des larmes, et sauta à son cou. Candide effrayé recule. Hélas! dit le misérable à l’autre misérable, ne reconnaissez-vous plus votre cher Pangloss? Qu’entends-je? vous, mon cher maître! vous, dans cet état horrible! quel malheur vous est-il donc arrivé? pourquoi n’êtes-vous plus dans le plus beau des châteaux? qu’est devenue mademoiselle Cunégonde, la perle des filles, le chef-d’oeuvre de la nature? Je n’en peux plus, dit Pangloss. Aussitôt Candide le mena dans l’étable de l’anabaptiste, où il lui fit manger un peu de pain; et quand Pangloss fut refait: Eh bien! lui dit-il, Cunégonde? Elle est morte, reprit l’autre. Candide s’évanouit à ce mot: son ami rappela ses sens avec un peu de mauvais vinaigre qui se trouva par hasard dans l’étable. Candide rouvre les yeux. Cunégonde est morte! Ah! meilleur des mondes, où êtes-vous? Mais de quelle maladie est-elle morte? ne serait-ce point de m’avoir vu chasser du beau château de monsieur son père à grands coups de pied? Non, dit Pangloss, elle a été éventrée par des soldats bulgares, après avoir été violée autant qu’on peut l’être; ils ont cassé la tête à monsieur le baron qui voulait la défendre; madame la baronne a été coupée en morceaux; mon pauvre pupille traité précisément comme sa soeur; et quant au château, il n’est pas resté pierre sur pierre, pas une grange, pas un mouton, pas un canard, pas un arbre; mais nous avons été bien vengés, car les Abares en ont fait autant dans une baronnie voisine qui appartenait à un seigneur bulgare.\n\nA ce discours, Candide s’évanouit encore; mais revenu à soi, et ayant dit tout ce qu’il devait dire, il s’enquit de la cause et de l’effet, et de la raison suffisante qui avait mis Pangloss dans un si piteux état. Hélas! dit l’autre, c’est l’amour: l’amour, le consolateur du genre humain, le conservateur de l’univers, l’âme de tous les êtres sensibles, le tendre amour. Hélas! dit Candide, je l’ai connu cet amour, ce souverain des coeurs, cette âme de notre âme; il ne m’a jamais valu qu’un baiser et vingt coups de pied au cul. Comment cette belle cause a-t-elle pu produire en vous un effet si abominable?\n\nPangloss répondit en ces termes: O mon cher Candide! vous avez connu Paquette, cette jolie suivante de notre auguste baronne: j’ai goûté dans ses bras les délices du paradis, qui ont produit ces tourments d’enfer dont vous me voyez dévoré; elle en était infectée, elle en est peut-être morte. Paquette tenait ce présent d’un cordelier très savant qui avait remonté à la source, car il l’avait eu d’une vieille comtesse, qui l’avait reçu d’un capitaine de cavalerie, qui le devait à une marquise, qui le tenait d’un page, qui l’avait reçu d’un jésuite, qui, étant novice, l’avait eu en droite ligne d’un des compagnons de Christophe Colomb. Pour moi, je ne le donnerai à personne, car je me meurs.\n\nO Pangloss! s’écria Candide, voilà une étrange généalogie! n’est-ce pas le diable qui en fut la souche? Point du tout, répliqua ce grand homme; c’était une chose indispensable dans le meilleur des mondes, un ingrédient nécessaire; car si Colomb n’avait pas attrapé dans une île de l’Amérique cette maladie qui empoisonne la source de la génération, qui souvent même empêche la génération, et qui est évidemment l’opposé du grand but de la nature, nous n’aurions ni le chocolat ni la cochenille; il faut encore observer que jusqu’aujourd’hui, dans notre continent, cette maladie nous est particulière, comme la controverse. Les Turcs, les Indiens, les Persans, les Chinois, les Siamois, les Japonais, ne la connaissent pas encore; mais il y a une raison suffisante pour qu’ils la connaissent à leur tour dans quelques siècles. En attendant elle a fait un merveilleux progrès parmi nous, et surtout dans ces grandes armées composées d’honnêtes stipendiaires bien élevés, qui décident du destin des états; on peut assurer que, quand trente mille hommes combattent en bataille rangée contre des troupes égales en nombre, il y a environ vingt mille vérolés de chaque côté.\n\nVoilà qui est admirable, dit Candide; mais il faut vous faire guérir. Et comment le puis-je? dit Pangloss; je n’ai pas le sou, mon ami, et dans toute l’étendue de ce globe on ne peut ni se faire saigner, ni prendre un lavement sans payer, ou sans qu’il y ait quelqu’un qui paie pour nous.\n\nCe dernier discours détermina Candide; il alla se jeter aux pieds de son charitable anabaptiste Jacques, et lui fit une peinture si touchante de l’état où son ami était réduit, que le bon-homme n’hésita pas à recueillir le docteur Pangloss; il le fit guérir à ses dépens. Pangloss, dans la cure, ne perdit qu’un oeil et une oreille. Il écrivait bien, et savait parfaitement l’arithmétique. L’anabaptiste Jacques en fit son teneur de livres. Au bout de deux mois, étant obligé d’aller à Lisbonne pour les affaires de son commerce, il mena dans son vaisseau ses deux philosophes. Pangloss lui expliqua comment tout était on ne peut mieux. Jacques n’était pas de cet avis. Il faut bien, disait-il, que les hommes aient un peu corrompu la nature, car ils ne sont point nés loups, et ils sont devenus loups. Dieu ne leur a donné ni canons de vingt-quatre, ni baïonnettes, et ils se sont fait des baïonnettes et des canons pour se détruire. Je pourrais mettre en ligne de compte les banqueroutes, et la justice qui s’empare des biens des banqueroutiers pour en frustrer les créanciers. Tout cela était indispensable, répliquait le docteur borgne, et les malheurs particuliers font le bien général; de sorte que plus il y a de malheurs particuliers, et plus tout est bien. Tandis qu’il raisonnait, l’air s’obscurcit, les vents soufflèrent des quatre coins du monde, et le vaisseau fut assailli de la plus horrible tempête, à la vue du port de Lisbonne.\n\n### Chapter V\n\nTempête, naufrage, tremblement de terre, et ce qui advint du docteur Pangloss, de Candide, et de l’anabaptiste Jacques.\n\nLa moitié des passagers affaiblis, expirants de ces angoisses inconcevables que le roulis d’un vaisseau porte dans les nerfs et dans toutes les humeurs du corps agitées en sens contraires, n’avait pas même la force de s’inquiéter du danger. L’autre moitié jetait des cris et fesait des prières; les voiles étaient déchirées, les mâts brisés, le vaisseau entr’ouvert. Travaillait qui pouvait, personne ne s’entendait, personne ne commandait. L’anabaptiste aidait un peu à la manoeuvre; il était sur le tillac; un matelot furieux le frappe rudement et l’étend sur les planches; mais du coup qu’il lui donna, il eut lui-même une si violente secousse, qu’il tomba hors du vaisseau, la tête la première. Il restait suspendu et accroché à une partie de mât rompu. Le bon Jacques court à son secours, l’aide à remonter, et de l’effort qu’il fait, il est précipité dans la mer à la vue du matelot, qui le laissa périr sans daigner seulement le regarder. Candide approche, voit son bienfaiteur qui reparaît un moment, et qui est englouti pour jamais. Il veut se jeter après lui dans la mer: le philosophe Pangloss l’en empêche, en lui prouvant que la rade de Lisbonne avait été formée exprès pour que cet anabaptiste s’y noyât. Tandis qu’il le prouvait à priori, le vaisseau s’entr’ouvre, tout périt à la réserve de Pangloss, de Candide, et de ce brutal de matelot qui avait noyé le vertueux anabaptiste; le coquin nagea heureusement jusqu’au rivage, où Pangloss et Candide furent portés sur une planche.\n\nQuand ils furent revenus un peu à eux, ils marchèrent vers Lisbonne; il leur restait quelque argent, avec lequel ils espéraient se sauver de la faim après avoir échappé à la tempête.\n\nA peine ont-ils mis le pied dans la ville, en pleurant la mort de leur bienfaiteur, qu’ils sentent la terre trembler sous leurs pas; la mer s’élève en bouillonnant dans le port, et brise les vaisseaux qui sont à l’ancre. Des tourbillons de flammes et de cendres couvrent les rues et les places publiques; les maisons s’écroulent, les toits sont renversés sur les fondements, et les fondements se dispersent; trente mille habitants de tout âge et de tout sexe sont écrasés sous des ruines. Le matelot disait en sifflant et en jurant: il y aura quelque chose à gagner ici. Quelle peut être la raison suffisante de ce phénomène? disait Pangloss. Voici le dernier jour du monde! s’écriait Candide. Le matelot court incontinent au milieu des débris, affronte la mort pour trouver de l’argent, en trouve, s’en empare, s’enivre, et ayant cuvé son vin, achète les faveurs de la première fille de bonne volonté qu’il rencontre sur les ruines des maisons détruites, et au milieu des mourants et des morts. Pangloss le tirait cependant par la manche: Mon ami, lui disait-il, cela n’est pas bien, vous manquez à la raison universelle, vous prenez mal votre temps. Tête et sang, répondit l’autre, je suis matelot et né à Batavia; j’ai marché quatre fois sur le crucifix dans quatre voyages au Japon; tu as bien trouvé ton homme avec ta raison universelle!\n\nQuelques éclats de pierre avaient blessé Candide; il était étendu dans la rue et couvert de débris. Il disait à Pangloss: Hélas! procure-moi un peu de vin et d’huile; je me meurs. Ce tremblement de terre n’est pas une chose nouvelle, répondit Pangloss; la ville de Lima éprouva les mêmes secousses en Amérique l’année passée; mêmes causes, mêmes effets; il y a certainement une traînée de soufre sous terre depuis Lima jusqu’à Lisbonne. Rien n’est plus probable, dit Candide; mais, pour Dieu, un peu d’huile et de vin. Comment probable? répliqua le philosophe, je soutiens que la chose est démontrée. Candide perdit connaissance, et Pangloss lui apporta un peu d’eau d’une fontaine voisine.\n\nLe lendemain, ayant trouvé quelques provisions de bouche en se glissant à travers des décombres, ils réparèrent un peu leurs forces. Ensuite ils travaillèrent comme les autres à soulager les habitants échappés à la mort. Quelques citoyens, secourus par eux, leur donnèrent un aussi bon dîner qu’on le pouvait dans un tel désastre: il est vrai que le repas était triste; les convives arrosaient leur pain de leurs larmes; mais Pangloss les consola, en les assurant que les choses ne pouvaient être autrement: Car, dit-il, tout ceci est ce qu’il y a de mieux; car s’il y a un volcan à Lisbonne, il ne pouvait être ailleurs; car il est impossible que les choses ne soient pas où elles sont, car tout est bien.\n\nUn petit homme noir, familier de l’inquisition, lequel était à côté de lui, prit poliment la parole et dit: Apparemment que monsieur ne croit pas au péché originel; car si tout est au mieux, il n’y a donc eu ni chute ni punition.\n\nJe demande très humblement pardon à votre excellence, répondit Pangloss encore plus poliment, car la chute de l’homme et la malédiction entraient nécessairement dans le meilleur des mondes possibles. Monsieur ne croit donc pas à la liberté? dit le familier. Votre excellence m’excusera, dit Pangloss; la liberté peut subsister avec la nécessité absolue; car il était nécessaire que nous fussions libres; car enfin la volonté déterminée…… Pangloss était au milieu de sa phrase, quand le familier fit un signe de tête à son estafier qui lui servait à boire du vin de Porto ou d’Oporto.\n\n### Chapter VI\n\nComment on fit un bel auto-da-fé pour empêcher les tremblements de terre, et comment Candide fut fessé.\n\nAprès le tremblement de terre qui avait détruit les trois quarts de Lisbonne, les sages du pays n’avaient pas trouvé un moyen plus efficace pour prévenir une ruine totale que de donner au peuple un bel auto-da-fé; il était décidé par l’université de Coïmbre que le spectacle de quelques personnes brûlées à petit feu, en grande cérémonie, est un secret infaillible pour empêcher la terre de trembler.\n\nOn avait en conséquence saisi un Biscayen convaincu d’avoir épousé sa commère, et deux Portugais qui en mangeant un poulet en avaient arraché le lard: on vint lier après le dîner le docteur Pangloss et son disciple Candide, l’un pour avoir parlé, et l’autre pour l’avoir écouté avec un air d’approbation: tous deux furent menés séparément dans des appartements d’une extrême fraîcheur, dans lesquels on n’était jamais incommodé du soleil: huit jours après ils furent tous deux revêtus d’un san-benito, et on orna leurs têtes de mitres de papier: la mitre et le san-benito de Candide étaient peints de flammes renversées, et de diables qui n’avaient ni queues ni griffes; mais les diables de Pangloss portaient griffes et queues, et les flammes étaient droites. Ils marchèrent en procession ainsi vêtus, et entendirent un sermon très pathétique, suivi d’une belle musique en faux-bourdon. Candide fut fessé en cadence, pendant qu’on chantait; le Biscayen et les deux hommes qui n’avaient point voulu manger de lard furent brûlés, et Pangloss fut pendu, quoique ce ne soit pas la coutume. Le même jour la terre trembla de nouveau avec un fracas épouvantable.\n\nCandide épouvanté, interdit, éperdu, tout sanglant, tout palpitant, se disait à lui-même: Si c’est ici le meilleur des mondes possibles, que sont donc les autres? passe encore si je n’étais que fessé, je l’ai été chez les Bulgares; mais, ô mon cher Pangloss! le plus grand des philosophes, faut-il vous avoir vu pendre, sans que je sache pourquoi! ô mon cher anabaptiste! le meilleur des hommes, faut-il que vous ayez été noyé dans le port! ô mademoiselle Cunégonde! la perle des filles, faut-il qu’on vous ait fendu le ventre!\n\nIl s’en retournait, se soutenant à peine, prêché, fessé, absous, et béni, lorsqu’une vieille l’aborda, et lui dit: Mon fils, prenez courage, suivez-moi.\n\n### Chapter VII\n\nComment une vieille prit soin de Candide, et comment il retrouva ce qu’il aimait.\n\nCandide ne prit point courage, mais il suivit la vieille dans une masure: elle lui donna un pot de pommade pour se frotter, lui laissa à manger et à boire; elle lui montra un petit lit assez propre; il y avait auprès du lit un habit complet. Mangez, buvez, dormez, lui dit-elle, et que Notre-Dame d’Atocha, monseigneur saint Antoine de Padoue, et monseigneur saint Jacques de Compostelle prennent soin de vous! je reviendrai demain. Candide, toujours étonné de tout ce qu’il avait vu, de tout ce qu’il avait souffert, et encore plus de la charité de la vieille, voulut lui baiser la main. Ce n’est pas ma main qu’il faut baiser, dit la vieille; je reviendrai demain. Frottez-vous de pommade, mangez et dormez.\n\nCandide, malgré tant de malheurs, mangea et dormit. Le lendemain la vieille lui apporte à déjeuner, visite son dos, le frotte elle-même d’une autre pommade: elle lui apporte ensuite à dîner: elle revient sur le soir et apporte à souper. Le surlendemain elle fit encore les mêmes cérémonies. Qui êtes-vous? lui disait toujours Candide; qui vous a inspiré tant de bonté? quelles grâces puis-je vous rendre? La bonne femme ne répondait jamais rien. Elle revint sur le soir, et n’apporta point à souper: Venez avec moi, dit-elle, et ne dites mot. Elle le prend sous le bras, et marche avec lui dans la campagne environ un quart de mille: ils arrivent à une maison isolée, entourée de jardins et de canaux. La vieille frappe à une petite porte. On ouvre; elle mène Candide, par un escalier dérobé, dans un cabinet doré, le laisse sur un canapé de brocart, referme la porte, et s’en va. Candide croyait rêver, et regardait toute sa vie comme un songe funeste, et le moment présent comme un songe agréable.\n\nLa vieille reparut bientôt; elle soutenait avec peine une femme tremblante, d’une taille majestueuse, brillante de pierreries, et couverte d’un voile. Otez ce voile, dit la vieille à Candide. Le jeune homme approche; il lève le voile d’une main timide. Quel moment! quelle surprise! il croit voir mademoiselle Cunégonde; il la voyait en effet, c’était elle-même. La force lui manque, il ne peut proférer une parole, il tombe à ses pieds. Cunégonde tombe sur le canapé. La vieille les accable d’eaux spiritueuses, ils reprennent leurs sens, ils se parlent: ce sont d’abord des mots entrecoupés, des demandes et des réponses qui se croisent, des soupirs, des larmes, des cris. La vieille leur recommande de faire moins de bruit, et les laisse en liberté. Quoi! c’est vous, lui dit Candide, vous vivez! je vous retrouve en Portugal! On ne vous a donc pas violée? on ne vous a point fendu le ventre, comme le philosophe Pangloss me l’avait assuré? Si fait, dit la belle Cunégonde; mais on ne meurt pas toujours de ces deux accidents.—Mais votre père et votre mère ont-ils été tués?—Il n’est que trop vrai, dit Cunégonde en pleurant.—Et votre frère?—Mon frère a été tué aussi.—Et pourquoi êtes-vous en Portugal? et comment avez-vous su que j’y étais? et par quelle étrange aventure m’avez-vous fait conduire dans cette maison?—Je vous dirai tout cela, répliqua la dame; mais il faut auparavant que vous m’appreniez tout ce qui vous est arrivé depuis le baiser innocent que vous me donnâtes, et les coups de pied que vous reçûtes.\n\nCandide lui obéit avec un profond respect; et quoiqu’il fût interdit, quoique sa voix fût faible et tremblante, quoique l’échine lui fît encore un peu mal, il lui raconta de la manière la plus naïve tout ce qu’il avait éprouvé depuis le moment de leur séparation. Cunégonde levait les yeux au ciel: elle donna des larmes à la mort du bon anabaptiste et de Pangloss; après quoi elle parla en ces termes à Candide, qui ne perdait pas une parole, et qui la dévorait des yeux.\n\n### Chapter VIII\n\nHistoire de Cunégonde.\n\nJ’étais dans mon lit et je dormais profondément, quand il plut au ciel d’envoyer les Bulgares dans notre beau château de Thunder-ten-tronckh; ils égorgèrent mon père et mon frère, et coupèrent ma mère par morceaux. Un grand Bulgare, haut de six pieds, voyant qu’à ce spectacle j’avais perdu connaissance, se mit à me violer; cela me fit revenir, je repris mes sens, je criai, je me débattis, je mordis, j’égratignai, je voulais arracher les yeux à ce grand Bulgare, ne sachant pas que tout ce qui arrivait dans le château de mon père était une chose d’usage: le brutal me donna un coup de couteau dans le flanc gauche dont je porte encore la marque. Hélas! j’espère bien la voir, dit le naïf Candide. Vous la verrez, dit Cunégonde; mais continuons. Continuez, dit Candide.\n\nElle reprit ainsi le fil de son histoire: Un capitaine bulgare entra, il me vit toute sanglante, et le soldat ne se dérangeait pas. Le capitaine se mit en colère du peu de respect que lui témoignait, ce brutal, et le tua sur mon corps. Ensuite il me fit panser, et m’emmena prisonnière de guerre dans son quartier. Je blanchissais le peu de chemises qu’il avait, je fesais sa cuisine; il me trouvait fort jolie, il faut l’avouer; et je ne nierai pas qu’il ne fût très bien fait, et qu’il n’eût la peau blanche et douce; d’ailleurs peu d’esprit, peu de philosophie: on voyait bien qu’il n’avait pas été élevé par le docteur Pangloss. Au bout de trois mois, ayant perdu tout son argent, et s’étant dégoûté de moi, il me vendit à un Juif nommé don Issachar, qui trafiquait en Hollande et en Portugal, et qui aimait passionnément les femmes. Ce Juif s’attacha beaucoup à ma personne, mais il ne pouvait en triompher; je lui ai mieux résisté qu’au soldat bulgare: une personne d’honneur peut être violée une fois, mais sa vertu s’en affermit. Le Juif, pour m’apprivoiser, me mena dans cette maison de campagne que vous voyez. J’avais cru jusque-là qu’il n’y avait rien sur la terre de si beau que le château de Thunder-ten-tronckh; j’ai été détrompée.\n\nLe grand-inquisiteur m’aperçut un jour à la messe; il me lorgna beaucoup, et me fit dire qu’il avait à me parler pour des affaires secrètes. Je fus conduite à son palais; je lui appris ma naissance; il me représenta combien il était au-dessous de mon rang d’appartenir à un Israélite. On proposa de sa part à don Issachar de me céder à monseigneur. Don Issachar, qui est le banquier de la cour, et homme de crédit, n’en voulut rien faire. L’inquisiteur le menaça d’un auto-da-fé. Enfin mon Juif intimidé conclut un marché par lequel la maison et moi leur appartiendraient à tous deux en commun; que le Juif aurait pour lui les lundis, mercredis, et le jour du sabbat, et que l’inquisiteur aurait les autres jours de la semaine. Il y a six mois que cette convention subsiste. Ce n’a pas été sans querelles; car souvent il a été indécis si la nuit du samedi au dimanche appartenait à l’ancienne loi ou à la nouvelle. Pour moi, j’ai résisté jusqu’à présent à toutes les deux; et je crois que c’est pour cette raison que j’ai toujours été aimée.\n\nEnfin, pour détourner le fléau des tremblements de terre, et pour intimider don Issachar, il plut à monseigneur l’inquisiteur de célébrer un auto-da-fé. Il me fit l’honneur de m’y inviter. Je fus très bien placée; on servit aux dames des rafraîchissements entre la messe et l’exécution. Je fus, à la vérité, saisie d’horreur en voyant brûler ces deux Juifs et cet honnête Biscayen qui avait épousé sa commère: mais quelle fut ma surprise, mon effroi, mon trouble, quand je vis dans un san-benito, et sous une mitre, une figure qui ressemblait à celle de Pangloss! Je me frottai les yeux, je regardai attentivement, je le vis pendre; je tombai en faiblesse. A peine reprenais-je mes sens, que je vous vis dépouillé tout nu; ce fut là le comble de l’horreur, de la consternation, de la douleur, du désespoir. Je vous dirai, avec vérité, que votre peau est encore plus blanche, et d’un incarnat plus parfait que celle de mon capitaine des Bulgares. Cette vue redoubla tous les sentiments qui m’accablaient, qui me dévoraient. Je m’écriai, je voulus dire, Arrêtez, barbares! mais la voix me manqua, et mes cris auraient été inutiles. Quand vous eûtes été bien fessé: Comment se peut-il faire, disais-je, que l’aimable Candide et le sage Pangloss se trouvent à Lisbonne, l’un pour recevoir cent coups de fouet, et l’autre pour être pendu par l’ordre de monseigneur l’inquisiteur, dont je suis la bien-aimée? Pangloss m’a donc bien cruellement trompée, quand il me disait que tout va le mieux du monde!\n\nAgitée, éperdue, tantôt hors de moi-même, et tantôt prête de mourir de faiblesse, j’avais la tête remplie du massacre de mon père, de ma mère, de mon frère, de l’insolence de mon vilain soldat bulgare, du coup de couteau qu’il me donna, de ma servitude, de mon métier de cuisinière, de mon capitaine bulgare, de mon vilain don Issachar, de mon abominable inquisiteur, de la pendaison du docteur Pangloss, de ce grand miserere en faux-bourdon pendant lequel on vous fessait, et surtout du baiser que je vous avais donné derrière un paravent, le jour que je vous avais vu pour la dernière fois. Je louai Dieu, qui vous ramenait à moi par tant d’épreuves. Je recommandai à ma vieille d’avoir soin de vous, et de vous amener ici dès qu’elle le pourrait. Elle a très bien exécuté ma commission; j’ai goûté le plaisir inexprimable de vous revoir, de vous entendre, de vous parler. Vous devez avoir une faim dévorante; j’ai grand appétit; commençons par souper.\n\nLes voilà qui se mettent tous deux à table; et, après le souper, ils se replacent sur ce beau canapé dont on a déjà parlé; ils y étaient quand le signor don Issachar, l’un des maîtres de la maison, arriva. C’était le jour du sabbat. Il venait jouir de ses droits, et expliquer son tendre amour.\n\n### Chapter IX\n\nCe qui advint de Cunégonde, de Candide, du grand-inquisiteur, et d’un Juif.\n\nCet Issachar était le plus colérique Hébreu qu’on eût vu dans Israël, depuis la captivité en Babylone. Quoi! dit-il, chienne de galiléenne, ce n’est pas assez de monsieur l’inquisiteur? il faut que ce coquin partage aussi avec moi? En disant cela il tire un long poignard dont il était toujours pourvu, et, ne croyant pas que son adverse partie eût des armes, il se jette sur Candide; mais notre bon Vestphalien avait reçu une belle épée de la vieille avec l’habit complet. Il tire son épée, quoiqu’il eût les moeurs fort douces, et vous étend l’Israélite roide mort sur le carreau, aux pieds de la belle Cunégonde.\n\nSainte Vierge! s’écria-t-elle, qu’allons-nous devenir? un homme tué chez moi! si la justice vient, nous sommes perdus. Si Pangloss n’avait pas été pendu, dit Candide, il nous donnerait un bon conseil dans cette extrémité, car c’était un grand philosophe. A son défaut, consultons la vieille. Elle était fort prudente, et commençait à dire son avis quand une autre petite porte s’ouvrit. Il était une heure après minuit, c’était le commencement du dimanche. Ce jour appartenait à monseigneur l’inquisiteur. Il entre et voit le fessé Candide, l’épée à la main, un mort étendu par terre, Cunégonde effarée, et la vieille donnant des conseils.\n\nVoici dans ce moment ce qui se passa dans l’âme de Candide, et comment il raisonna: Si ce saint homme appelle du secours, il me fera infailliblement brûler, il pourra en faire autant de Cunégonde; il m’a fait fouetter impitoyablement; il est mon rival; je suis en train de tuer; il n’y a pas à balancer. Ce raisonnement fut net et rapide; et, sans donner le temps à l’inquisiteur de revenir de sa surprise, il le perce d’outre en outre, et le jette à côté du Juif. En voici bien d’une autre, dit Cunégonde; il n’y a plus de rémission; nous sommes excommuniés, notre dernière heure est venue! Comment avez-vous fait, vous qui êtes né si doux, pour tuer en deux minutes un Juif et un prélat? Ma belle demoiselle, répondit Candide, quand on est amoureux, jaloux, et fouetté par l’inquisition, on ne se connaît plus.\n\nLa vieille prit alors la parole, et dit: Il y a trois chevaux andalous dans l’écurie, avec leurs selles et leurs brides, que le brave Candide les prépare; madame a des moyadors et des diamants, montons vite à cheval, quoique je ne puisse me tenir que sur une fesse, et allons à Cadix; il fait le plus beau temps du monde, et c’est un grand plaisir de voyager pendant la fraîcheur de la nuit.\n\nAussitôt Candide selle les trois chevaux; Cunégonde, la vieille, et lui, font trente milles d’une traite. Pendant qu’ils s’éloignaient, la sainte hermandad arrive dans la maison, on enterre monseigneur dans une belle église, on jette Issachar à la voirie.\n\nCandide, Cunégonde, et la vieille, étaient déjà dans la petite ville d’Avacéna, au milieu des montagnes de la Sierra-Morena; et ils parlaient ainsi dans un cabaret.\n\n### Chapter X\n\nDans quelle détresse Candide, Cunégonde, et la vieille, arrivent à Cadix, et leur embarquement.\n\nQui a donc pu me voler mes pistoles et mes diamants? disait en pleurant Cunégonde; de quoi vivrons-nous? comment ferons-nous? où trouver des inquisiteurs et des Juifs qui m’en donnent d’autres? Hélas! dit la vieille, je soupçonne fort un révérend père cordelier, qui coucha hier dans la même auberge que nous à Badajos; Dieu me garde de faire un jugement téméraire! mais il entra deux fois dans notre chambre, et il partit long-temps avant nous. Hélas! dit Candide, le bon Pangloss m’avait souvent prouvé que les biens de la terre sont communs à tous les hommes, que chacun y a un droit égal. Ce cordelier devait bien, suivant ces principes, nous laisser de quoi achever notre voyage. Il ne vous reste donc rien du tout, ma belle Cunégonde? Pas un maravédis, dit-elle. Quel parti prendre? dit Candide. Vendons un des chevaux, dit la vieille; je monterai en croupe derrière mademoiselle, quoique je ne puisse me tenir que sur une fesse, et nous arriverons à Cadix.\n\nIl y avait dans la même hôtellerie un prieur de bénédictins; il acheta le cheval bon marché. Candide, Cunégonde, et la vieille, passèrent par Lucena, par Chillas, par Lebrixa, et arrivèrent enfin à Cadix. On y équipait une flotte, et on y assemblait des troupes pour mettre à la raison les révérends pères jésuites du Paraguai, qu’on accusait d’avoir fait révolter une de leurs hordes contre les rois d’Espagne et de Portugal, auprès de la ville du Saint-Sacrement. Candide, ayant servi chez les Bulgares, fit l’exercice bulgarien devant le général de la petite armée avec tant de grâce, de célérité, d’adresse, de fierté, d’agilité, qu’on lui donna une compagnie d’infanterie à commander. Le voilà capitaine; il s’embarque avec mademoiselle Cunégonde, la vieille, deux valets, et les deux chevaux andalous qui avaient appartenu à M. le grand-inquisiteur de Portugal.\n\nPendant toute la traversée ils raisonnèrent beaucoup sur la philosophie du pauvre Pangloss. Nous allons dans un autre univers, disait Candide; c’est dans celui-là, sans doute, que tout est bien: car il faut avouer qu’on pourrait gémir un peu de ce qui se passe dans le nôtre en physique et en morale. Je vous aime de tout mon coeur, disait Cunégonde; mais j’ai encore l’âme tout effarouchée de ce que j’ai vu, de ce que j’ai éprouvé. Tout ira bien, répliquait Candide; la mer de ce nouveau monde vaut déjà mieux que les mers de notre Europe; elle est plus calme, les vents plus constants. C’est certainement le Nouveau-Monde qui est le meilleur des univers possibles. Dieu le veuille! disait Cunégonde: mais j’ai été si horriblement malheureuse dans le mien, que mon coeur est presque fermé à l’espérance. Vous vous plaignez, leur dit la vieille; hélas! vous n’avez pas éprouvé des infortunes telles que les miennes. Cunégonde se mit presque à rire, et trouva cette bonne femme fort plaisante de prétendre être plus malheureuse qu’elle. Hélas! lui dit-elle, ma bonne, à moins que vous n’ayez été violée par deux Bulgares, que vous n’ayez reçu deux coups de couteau dans le ventre, qu’on n’ait démoli deux de vos châteaux, qu’on n’ait égorgé à vos yeux deux mères et deux pères, et que vous n’ayez vu deux de vos amants fouettés dans un auto-da-fé, je ne vois pas que vous puissiez l’emporter sur moi; ajoutez que je suis née baronne avec soixante et douze quartiers, et que j’ai été cuisinière. Mademoiselle, répondit la vieille, vous ne savez pas quelle est ma naissance; et si je vous montrais mon derrière, vous ne parleriez pas comme vous faites, et vous suspendriez votre jugement. Ce discours fit naître une extrême curiosité dans l’esprit de Cunégonde et de Candide. La vieille leur parla en ces termes.\n\n### Chapter XI\n\nHistoire de la vieille.\n\nJe n’ai pas eu toujours les yeux éraillés et bordés d’écarlate; mon nez n’a pas toujours touché à mon menton, et je n’ai pas toujours été servante. Je suis la fille du pape Urbain X et de la princesse de Palestrine[a]. On m’éleva jusqu’à quatorze ans dans un palais auquel tous les châteaux de vos barons allemands n’auraient pas servi d’écurie; et une de mes robes valait mieux que toutes les magnificences de la Vestphalie. Je croissais en beauté, en grâces, en talents, au milieu des plaisirs, des respects, et des espérances: j’inspirais déjà de l’amour; ma gorge se formait; et quelle gorge! blanche, ferme, taillée comme celle de la Vénus de Médicis; et quels yeux! quelles paupières! quels sourcils noirs! quelles flammes brillaient dans mes deux prunelles, et effaçaient la scintillation des étoiles! comme me disaient les poètes du quartier. Les femmes qui m’habillaient et qui me déshabillaient tombaient en extase en me regardant par-devant et par-derrière; et tous les hommes auraient voulu être à leur place.\n\n[a] Voyez l’extrême discrétion de l’auteur; il n’y eut jusqu’à présent aucun pape nommé Urbain X; il craint de donner une bâtarde à un pape connu. Quelle circonspection! quelle délicatesse de conscience!—Cette note de Voltaire est posthume. Elle n’était même pas dans les éditions de Kehl. Je la tiens de feu Décrois. Le dernier pape du nom d’Urbain est Urbain VIII, mort en 1644. B.\n\nJe fus fiancée à un prince souverain de Massa-Carrara: quel prince! aussi beau que moi, pétri de douceur et d’agréments, brillant d’esprit et brûlant d’amour; je l’aimais comme on aime pour la première fois, avec idolâtrie, avec emportement. Les noces furent préparées: c’était une pompe, une magnificence inouïe; c’étaient des fêtes, des carrousels, des opéra-buffa continuels; et toute l’Italie fit pour moi des sonnets dont il n’y eut pas un seul de passable. Je touchais au moment de mon bonheur, quand une vieille marquise, qui avait été maîtresse de mon prince, l’invita à prendre du chocolat chez elle; il mourut en moins de deux heures avec des convulsions épouvantables; mais ce n’est qu’une bagatelle. Ma mère au désespoir, et bien moins affligée que moi, voulut s’arracher pour quelque temps à un séjour si funeste. Elle avait une très belle terre auprès de Gaïète: nous nous embarquâmes sur une galère du pays, dorée comme l’autel de Saint-Pierre de Rome. Voilà qu’un corsaire de Salé fond sur nous et nous aborde: nos soldats se défendirent comme des soldats du pape; ils se mirent tous à genoux en jetant leurs armes, et en demandant au corsaire une absolution in articulo mortis.\n\nAussitôt on les dépouilla nus comme des singes, et ma mère aussi, nos filles d’honneur aussi, et moi aussi. C’est une chose admirable que la diligence avec laquelle ces messieurs déshabillent le monde; mais ce qui me surprit davantage, c’est qu’ils nous mirent à tous le doigt dans un endroit où nous autres femmes nous ne nous laissons mettre d’ordinaire que des canules. Cette cérémonie me paraissait bien étrange: voilà comme on juge de tout quand on n’est pas sorti de son pays. J’appris bientôt que c’était pour voir si nous n’avions pas caché là quelques diamants; c’est un usage établi de temps immémorial parmi les nations policées qui courent sur mer. J’ai su que messieurs les religieux chevaliers de Malte n’y manquent jamais quand ils prennent des Turcs et des Turques; c’est une loi du droit des gens à laquelle on n’a jamais dérogé.\n\nJe ne vous dirai point combien il est dur pour une jeune princesse d’être menée esclave à Maroc avec sa mère: vous concevez assez tout ce que nous eûmes à souffrir dans le vaisseau corsaire. Ma mère était encore très belle: nos filles d’honneur, nos simples femmes de chambre avaient plus de charmes qu’on n’en peut trouver dans toute l’Afrique: pour moi, j’étais ravissante, j’étais la beauté, la grâce même, et j’étais pucelle: je ne le fus pas long-temps; cette fleur, qui avait été réservée pour le beau prince de Massa-Carrara, me fut ravie par le capitaine corsaire; c’était un nègre abominable, qui croyait encore me faire beaucoup d’honneur. Certes il fallait que madame la princesse de Palestrine et moi fussions bien fortes pour résister à tout ce que nous éprouvâmes jusqu’à notre arrivée à Maroc! Mais passons; ce sont des choses si communes, qu’elles ne valent pas la peine qu’on en parle.\n\nMaroc nageait dans le sang quand nous arrivâmes. Cinquante fils de l’empereur Muley Ismael avaient chacun leur parti; ce qui produisait en effet cinquante guerres civiles, de noirs contre noirs, de noirs contre basanés, de basanés contre basanés, de mulâtres contre mulâtres: c’était un carnage continuel dans toute l’étendue de l’empire.\n\nA peine fûmes-nous débarquées, que des noirs d’une faction ennemie de celle de mon corsaire se présentèrent pour lui enlever son butin. Nous étions, après les diamants et l’or, ce qu’il avait de plus précieux. Je fus témoin d’un combat tel que vous n’en voyez jamais dans vos climats d’Europe. Les peuples septentrionaux n’ont pas le sang assez ardent; ils n’ont pas la rage des femmes au point où elle est commune en Afrique. Il semble que vos Européans aient du lait dans les veines; c’est du vitriol, c’est du feu qui coule dans celles des habitants du mont Atlas et des pays voisins. On combattit avec la fureur des lions, des tigres, et des serpents de la contrée, pour savoir qui nous aurait. Un Maure saisit ma mère par le bras droit, le lieutenant de mon capitaine la retint par le bras gauche; un soldat maure la prit par une jambe, un de nos pirates la tenait par l’autre. Nos filles se trouvèrent presque toutes en un moment tirées ainsi à quatre soldats. Mon capitaine me tenait cachée derrière lui; il avait le cimeterre au poing, et tuait tout ce qui s’opposait à sa rage. Enfin je vis toutes nos Italiennes et ma mère déchirées, coupées, massacrées par les monstres qui se les disputaient. Les captifs, mes compagnons, ceux qui les avaient pris, soldats, matelots, noirs, basanés, blancs, mulâtres, et enfin mon capitaine, tout fut tué, et je demeurai mourante sur un tas de morts. Des scènes pareilles se passaient, comme on sait, dans l’étendue de plus de trois cents lieues, sans qu’on manquât aux cinq prières par jour ordonnées par Mahomet.\n\nJe me débarrassai avec beaucoup de peine de la foule de tant de cadavres sanglants entassés, et je me traînai sous un grand oranger au bord d’un ruisseau voisin; j’y tombai d’effroi, de lassitude, d’horreur, de désespoir, et de faim. Bientôt après mes sens accablés se livrèrent à un sommeil qui tenait plus de l’évanouissement que du repos. J’étais dans cet état de faiblesse et d’insensibilité, entre la mort et la vie, quand je me sentis pressée de quelque chose qui s’agitait sur mon corps; j’ouvris les yeux, je vis un homme blanc et de bonne mine qui soupirait, et qui disait entre ses dents: O che sciagura d’essere senza coglioni!\n\n### Chapter XII\n\nSuite des malheurs de la vieille.\n\nÉtonnée et ravie d’entendre la langue de ma patrie, et non moins surprise des paroles que proférait cet homme, je lui répondis qu’il y avait de plus grands malheurs que celui dont il se plaignait; je l’instruisis en peu de mots des horreurs que j’avais essuyées, et je retombai en faiblesse. Il m’emporta dans une maison voisine, me fit mettre au lit, me fit donner à manger, me servit, me consola, me flatta, me dit qu’il n’avait rien vu de si beau que moi, et que jamais il n’avait tant regretté ce que personne ne pouvait lui rendre. Je suis né à Naples, me dit-il; on y chaponne deux ou trois mille enfants tous les ans; les uns en meurent, les autres acquièrent une voix plus belle que celle des femmes, les autres vont gouverner des états. On me fit cette opération avec un très grand succès, et j’ai été musicien de la chapelle de madame la princesse de Palestrine. De ma mère! m’écriai-je. De votre mère! s’écria-t-il en pleurant: quoi! vous seriez cette jeune princesse que j’ai élevée jusqu’à l’âge de six ans, et qui promettait déjà d’être aussi belle que vous êtes?—C’est moi-même; ma mère est à quatre cents pas d’ici coupée en quartiers sous un tas de morts…..\n\nJe lui contai tout ce qui m’était arrivé; il me conta aussi ses aventures, et m’apprit comment il avait été envoyé chez le roi de Maroc par une puissance chrétienne, pour conclure avec ce monarque un traité par lequel on lui fournirait de la poudre, des canons, et des vaisseaux, pour l’aider à exterminer le commerce des autres chrétiens. Ma mission est faite, dit cet honnête eunuque; je vais m’embarquer à Ceuta, et je vous ramènerai en Italie. Ma che sciagura d’essere senza coglioni!\n\nJe le remerciai avec des larmes d’attendrissement; et au lieu de me mener en Italie, il me conduisit à Alger, et me vendit au dey de cette province. A peine fus-je vendue, que cette peste qui a fait le tour de l’Afrique, de l’Asie, de l’Europe, se déclara dans Alger avec fureur. Vous avez vu des tremblements de terre; mais, mademoiselle, avez-vous jamais eu la peste? Jamais, répondit la baronne.\n\nSi vous l’aviez eue, reprit la vieille, vous avoueriez qu’elle est bien au-dessus d’un tremblement de terre. Elle est fort commune en Afrique; j’en fus attaquée. Figurez-vous quelle situation pour la fille d’un pape, âgée de quinze ans, qui en trois mois de temps avait éprouvé la pauvreté, l’esclavage, avait été violée presque tous les jours, avait vu couper sa mère en quatre, avait essuyé la faim et la guerre, et mourait pestiférée dans Alger! Je n’en mourus pourtant pas; mais mon eunuque et le dey, et presque tout le sérail d’Alger périrent.\n\nQuand les premiers ravages de cette épouvantable peste furent passés, on vendit les esclaves du dey. Un marchand m’acheta, et me mena à Tunis; il me vendit à un autre marchand qui me revendit à Tripoli; de Tripoli je fus revendue à Alexandrie, d’Alexandrie revendue à Smyrne; de Smyrne à Constantinople. J’appartins enfin à un aga des janissaires, qui fut bientôt commandé pour aller défendre Azof contre les Russes qui l’assiégeaient.\n\nL’aga, qui était un très galant homme, mena avec lui tout son sérail, et nous logea dans un petit fort sur les Palus-Méotides, gardé par deux eunuques noirs et vingt soldats. On tua prodigieusement de Russes, mais ils nous le rendirent bien: Azof fut mis à feu et à sang, et on ne pardonna ni au sexe, ni à l’âge; il ne resta que notre petit fort; les ennemis voulurent nous prendre par famine. Les vingt janissaires avaient juré de ne se jamais rendre. Les extrémités de la faim où ils furent réduits les contraignirent à manger nos deux eunuques, de peur de violer leur serment. Au bout de quelques jours ils résolurent de manger les femmes.\n\nNous avions un iman très pieux et très compatissant, qui leur fit un beau sermon par lequel il leur persuada de ne nous pas tuer tout-à-fait. Coupez, dit-il, seulement une fesse à chacune de ces dames, vous ferez très bonne chère; s’il faut y revenir, vous en aurez encore autant dans quelques jours; le ciel vous saura gré d’une action si charitable, et vous serez secourus.\n\nIl avait beaucoup d’éloquence; il les persuada: on nous fit cette horrible opération; l’iman nous appliqua le même baume qu’on met aux enfants qu’on vient de circoncire: nous étions toutes à la mort.\n\nA peine les janissaires eurent-ils fait le repas que nous leur avions fourni, que les Russes arrivent sur des bateaux plats; pas un janissaire ne réchappa. Les Russes ne firent aucune attention à l’état où nous étions. Il y a partout des chirurgiens français: un d’eux qui était fort adroit prit soin de nous, il nous guérit; et je me souviendrai toute ma vie, que quand mes plaies furent bien fermées, il me fit des propositions. Au reste, il nous dit à toutes de nous consoler; il nous assura que dans plusieurs sièges pareille chose était arrivée, et que c’était la loi de la guerre.\n\nDès que mes compagnes purent marcher, on les fit aller à Moscou; j’échus en partage à un boïard qui me fit sa jardinière, et qui me donnait vingt coups de fouet par jour; mais ce seigneur ayant été roué au bout de deux ans avec une trentaine de boïards pour quelque tracasserie de cour, je profitai de cette aventure; je m’enfuis; je traversai toute la Russie; je fus long-temps servante de cabaret à Riga, puis à Rostock, à Vismar, à Leipsick, à Cassel, à Utrecht, à Leyde, à la Haye, à Rotterdam: j’ai vieilli dans la misère et dans l’opprobre, n’ayant que la moitié d’un derrière, me souvenant toujours que j’étais fille d’un pape; je voulus cent fois me tuer, mais j’aimais encore la vie. Cette faiblesse ridicule est peut-être un de nos penchants les plus funestes; car y a-t-il rien de plus sot que de vouloir porter continuellement un fardeau qu’on veut toujours jeter par terre; d’avoir son être en horreur, et de tenir à son être; enfin de caresser le serpent qui nous dévore, jusqu’à ce qu’il nous ait mangé le coeur?\n\nJ’ai vu dans les pays que le sort m’a fait parcourir, et dans les cabarets où j’ai servi, un nombre prodigieux de personnes qui avaient leur existence en exécration; mais je n’en ai vu que douze qui aient mis volontairement fin à leur misère, trois nègres, quatre Anglais, quatre Genevois, et un professeur allemand nommé Robeck. J’ai fini par être servante chez le Juif don Issachar; il me mit auprès de vous, ma belle demoiselle; je me suis attachée à votre destinée, et j’ai été plus occupée de vos aventures que des miennes. Je ne vous aurais même jamais parlé de mes malheurs, si vous ne m’aviez pas un peu piquée, et s’il n’était d’usage, dans un vaisseau, de conter des histoires pour se désennuyer. Enfin, mademoiselle, j’ai de l’expérience, je connais le monde; donnez-vous un plaisir, engagez chaque passager à vous conter son histoire, et s’il s’en trouve un seul qui n’ait souvent maudit sa vie, qui ne se soit souvent dit à lui-même qu’il était le plus malheureux des hommes, jetez-moi dans la mer la tête la première.\n\n### Chapter XIII\n\nComment Candide fut obligé de se séparer de la belle Cunégonde et de la vieille.\n\nLa belle Cunégonde, ayant entendu l’histoire de la vieille, lui fit toutes les politesses qu’on devait à une personne de son rang et de son mérite. Elle accepta la proposition; elle engagea tous les passagers, l’un après l’autre, à lui conter leurs aventures. Candide et elle avouèrent que la vieille avait raison. C’est bien dommage, disait Candide, que le sage Pangloss ait été pendu contre la coutume dans un auto-da-fé; il nous dirait des choses admirables sur le mal physique et sur le mal moral qui couvrent la terre et la mer, et je me sentirais assez de force pour oser lui faire respectueusement quelques objections.\n\nA mesure que chacun racontait son histoire, le vaisseau avançait. On aborda dans Buénos-Ayres. Cunégonde, le capitaine Candide, et la vieille, allèrent chez le gouverneur don Fernando d’Ibaraa, y Figueora, y Mascarenes, y Lampourdos, y Souza. Ce seigneur avait une fierté convenable à un homme qui portait tant de noms. Il parlait aux hommes avec le dédain le plus noble, portant le nez si haut, élevant si impitoyablement la voix, prenant un ton si imposant, affectant une démarche si altière, que tous ceux qui le saluaient étaient tentés de le battre. Il aimait les femmes à la fureur. Cunégonde lui parut ce qu’il avait jamais vu de plus beau. La première chose qu’il fit fut de demander si elle n’était point la femme du capitaine. L’air dont il fit cette question alarma Candide: il n’osa pas dire qu’elle était sa femme, parcequ’en effet elle ne l’était point; il n’osait pas dire que c’était sa soeur, parcequ’elle ne l’était pas non plus; et quoique ce mensonge officieux eût été autrefois très à la mode chez les anciens, et qu’il pût être utile aux modernes, son âme était trop pure pour trahir la vérité. Mademoiselle Cunégonde, dit-il, doit me faire l’honneur de m’épouser, et nous supplions votre excellence de daigner faire notre noce.\n\nDon Fernando d’Ibaraa, y Figueora, y Mascarenes, y Lampourdos, y Souza, relevant sa moustache, sourit amèrement, et ordonna au capitaine Candide d’aller faire la revue de sa compagnie. Candide obéit; le gouverneur demeura avec mademoiselle Cunégonde. Il lui déclara sa passion, lui protesta que le lendemain il l’épouserait à la face de l’Église, ou autrement, ainsi qu’il plairait à ses charmes. Cunégonde lui demanda un quart d’heure pour se recueillir, pour consulter la vieille, et pour se déterminer.\n\nLa vieille dit à Cunégonde: Mademoiselle, vous avez soixante et douze quartiers et pas une obole; il ne tient qu’à vous d’être la femme du plus grand seigneur de l’Amérique méridionale, qui a une très belle moustache; est-ce à vous de vous piquer d’une fidélité à toute épreuve? Vous avez été violée par les Bulgares; un Juif et un inquisiteur ont eu vos bonnes grâces: les malheurs donnent des droits. J’avoue que si j’étais à votre place, je ne ferais aucun scrupule d’épouser monsieur le gouverneur, et de faire la fortune de monsieur le capitaine Candide. Tandis que la vieille parlait avec toute la prudence que l’âge et l’expérience donnent, on vit entrer dans le port un petit vaisseau; il portait un alcade et des alguazils, et voici ce qui était arrivé.\n\nLa vieille avait très bien deviné que ce fut un cordelier à la grande manche qui vola l’argent et les bijoux de Cunégonde dans la ville de Badajos, lorsqu’elle fuyait en hâte avec Candide. Ce moine voulut vendre quelques unes des pierreries à un joaillier. Le marchand les reconnut pour celles du grand-inquisiteur. Le cordelier, avant d’être pendu, avoua qu’il les avait volées: il indiqua les personnes, et la route qu’elles prenaient. La fuite de Cunégonde et de Candide était déjà connue. On les suivit à Cadix: on envoya, sans perdre de temps, un vaisseau à leur poursuite. Le vaisseau était déjà dans le port de Buénos-Ayres. Le bruit se répandit qu’un alcade allait débarquer, et qu’on poursuivait les meurtriers de monseigneur le grand-inquisiteur. La prudente vieille vit dans l’instant tout ce qui était à faire. Vous ne pouvez fuir, dit-elle à Cunégonde, et vous n’avez rien à craindre; ce n’est pas vous qui avez tué monseigneur, et d’ailleurs le gouverneur, qui vous aime, ne souffrira pas qu’on vous maltraite; demeurez. Elle court sur-le-champ à Candide: Fuyez, dit-elle, ou dans une heure vous allez être brûlé. Il n’y avait pas un moment à perdre; mais comment se séparer de Cunégonde, et où se réfugier?\n\n### Chapter XIV\n\nComment Candide et Cacambo furent reçus chez les jésuites du Paraguai.\n\nCandide avait amené de Cadix un valet tel qu’on en trouve beaucoup sur les côtes d’Espagne et dans les colonies. C’était un quart d’Espagnol, né d’un métis dans le Tucuman; il avait été enfant de choeur, sacristain, matelot, moine, facteur, soldat, laquais. Il s’appelait Cacambo, et aimait fort son maître, parceque son maître était un fort bon homme. Il sella au plus vite les deux chevaux andalous. Allons, mon maître, suivons le conseil de la vieille, partons, et courons sans regarder derrière nous. Candide versa des larmes: O ma chère Cunégonde! faut-il vous abandonner dans le temps que monsieur le gouverneur va faire nos noces! Cunégonde amenée de si loin, que deviendrez-vous? Elle deviendra ce qu’elle pourra, dit Cacambo; les femmes ne sont jamais embarrassées d’elles; Dieu y pourvoit; courons. Où me mènes-tu? où allons-nous? que ferons-nous sans Cunégonde? disait Candide. Par saint Jacques de Compostelle, dit Cacambo, vous alliez faire la guerre aux jésuites, allons la faire pour eux; je sais assez les chemins, je vous mènerai dans leur royaume, ils seront charmés d’avoir un capitaine qui fasse l’exercice à la bulgare; vous ferez une fortune prodigieuse; quand on n’a pas son compte dans un monde, on le trouve dans un autre. C’est un très grand plaisir de voir et de faire des choses nouvelles.\n\nTu as donc été déjà dans le Paraguai? dit Candide. Eh vraiment oui! dit Cacambo; j’ai été cuistre dans le collège de l’Assomption, et je connais le gouvernement de los padres comme je connais les rues de Cadix. C’est une chose admirable que ce gouvernement. Le royaume a déjà plus de trois cents lieues de diamètre; il est divisé en trente provinces. Los padres y ont tout, et les peuples rien; c’est le chef-d’oeuvre de la raison et de la justice. Pour moi, je ne vois rien de si divin que los padres, qui font ici la guerre au roi d’Espagne et au roi de Portugal, et qui en Europe confessent ces rois; qui tuent ici des Espagnols, et qui à Madrid les envoient au ciel; cela me ravit; avançons: vous allez être le plus heureux de tous les hommes. Quel plaisir auront los padres, quand ils sauront qu’il leur vient un capitaine qui sait l’exercice bulgare!\n\nDès qu’ils furent arrivés à la première barrière, Cacambo dit à la garde avancée qu’un capitaine demandait à parler à monseigneur le commandant. On alla avertir la grande garde. Un officier paraguain courut aux pieds du commandant lui donner part de la nouvelle. Candide et Cacambo furent d’abord désarmés; on se saisit de leurs deux chevaux andalous. Les deux étrangers sont introduits au milieu de deux files de soldats; le commandant était au bout, le bonnet à trois cornes en tête, la robe retroussée, l’épée au côté, l’esponton à la main. Il fit un signe; aussitôt vingt-quatre soldats entourent les deux nouveaux venus. Un sergent leur dit qu’il faut attendre, que le commandant ne peut leur parler, que le révérend père provincial ne permet pas qu’aucun Espagnol ouvre la bouche qu’en sa présence, et demeure plus de trois heures dans le pays. Et où est le révérend père provincial? dit Cacambo. Il est à la parade après avoir dit sa messe, répondit le sergent, et vous ne pourrez baiser ses éperons que dans trois heures. Mais, dit Cacambo, monsieur le capitaine, qui meurt de faim comme moi, n’est point Espagnol, il est Allemand; ne pourrions-nous point déjeuner en attendant sa révérence?\n\nLe sergent alla sur-le-champ rendre compte de ce discours au commandant. Dieu soit béni! dit ce seigneur, puisqu’il est Allemand, je peux lui parler; qu’on le mène dans ma feuillée. Aussitôt on conduit Candide dans un cabinet de verdure, orné d’une très jolie colonnade de marbre vert et or, et de treillages qui renfermaient des perroquets, des colibris, des oiseaux-mouches, des pintades, et tous les oiseaux les plus rares. Un excellent déjeuner était préparé dans des vases d’or; et tandis que les Paraguains mangèrent du maïs dans des écuelles de bois, en plein champ, à l’ardeur du soleil, le révérend père commandant entra dans la feuillée.\n\nC’était un très beau jeune homme, le visage plein, assez blanc, haut en couleur, le sourcil relevé, l’oeil vif, l’oreille rouge, les lèvres vermeilles, l’air fier, mais d’une fierté qui n’était ni celle d’un Espagnol ni celle d’un jésuite. On rendit à Candide et à Cacambo leurs armes, qu’on leur avait saisies, ainsi que les deux chevaux andalous; Cacambo leur fit manger l’avoine auprès de la feuillée, ayant toujours l’oeil sur eux, crainte de surprise.\n\nCandide baisa d’abord le bas de la robe du commandant, ensuite ils se mirent à table. Vous êtes donc Allemand? lui dit le jésuite en cette langue. Oui, mon révérend père, dit Candide. L’un et l’autre, en prononçant ces paroles, se regardaient avec une extrême surprise, et une émotion dont ils n’étaient pas les maîtres. Et de quel pays d’Allemagne êtes-vous? dit le jésuite. De la sale province de Vestphalie, dit Candide: je suis né dans le château de Thunder-ten-tronckh. O ciel! est-il possible! s’écria le commandant. Quel miracle! s’écria Candide. Serait-ce vous? dit le commandant. Cela n’est pas possible, dit Candide. Ils se laissent tomber tous deux à la renverse, ils s’embrassent, ils versent des ruisseaux de larmes. Quoi! serait-ce vous, mon révérend père? vous, le frère de la belle Cunégonde! vous qui fûtes tué par les Bulgares! vous le fils de monsieur le baron! vous jésuite au Paraguai! Il faut avouer que ce monde est une étrange chose. O Pangloss! Pangloss! que vous sériez aise si vous n’aviez pas été pendu!\n\nLe commandant fit retirer les esclaves nègres et les Paraguains qui servaient à boire dans des gobelets de cristal de roche. Il remercia Dieu et saint Ignace mille fois; il serrait Candide entre ses bras, leurs visages étaient baignés de pleurs. Vous seriez bien plus étonné, plus attendri, plus hors de vous-même, dit Candide, si je vous disais que mademoiselle Cunégonde, votre soeur, que vous avez crue éventrée, est pleine de santé.—Où?—Dans votre voisinage, chez M. le gouverneur de Buénos-Ayres; et je venais pour vous faire la guerre. Chaque mot qu’ils prononcèrent dans cette longue conversation accumulait prodige sur prodige. Leur âme tout entière volait sur leur langue, était attentive dans leurs oreilles, et étincelante dans leurs yeux. Comme ils étaient Allemands, ils tinrent table long-temps, en attendant le révérend père provincial; et le commandant parla ainsi à son cher Candide.\n\n### Chapter XV\n\nComment Candide tua le frère de sa chère Cunégonde.\n\nJ’aurai toute ma vie présent à la mémoire le jour horrible où je vis tuer mon père et ma mère, et violer ma soeur. Quand les Bulgares furent retirés, on ne trouva point cette soeur adorable, et on mit dans une charrette ma mère, mon père, et moi, deux servantes et trois petits garçons égorgés, pour nous aller enterrer dans une chapelle de jésuites, à deux lieues du château de mes pères. Un jésuite nous jeta de l’eau bénite; elle était horriblement salée; il en entra quelques gouttes dans mes yeux: le père s’aperçut que ma paupière fesait un petit mouvement: il mit la main sur mon coeur, et le sentit palpiter; je fus secouru, et au bout de trois semaines il n’y paraissait pas. Vous savez, mon cher Candide, que j’étais fort joli; je le devins encore davantage; aussi le révérend père Croust, supérieur de la maison, prit pour moi la plus tendre amitié: il me donna l’habit de novice: quelque temps après je fus envoyé à Rome. Le père général avait besoin d’une recrue de jeunes jésuites allemands. Les souverains du Paraguai reçoivent le moins qu’ils peuvent de jésuites espagnols; ils aiment mieux les étrangers, dont ils se croient plus maîtres. Je fus jugé propre par le révérend père général pour aller travailler dans cette vigne. Nous partîmes, un Polonais, un Tyrolien, et moi. Je fus honoré, en arrivant, du sous-diaconat et d’une lieutenance: je suis aujourd’hui colonel et prêtre. Nous recevrons vigoureusement les troupes du roi d’Espagne; je vous réponds qu’elles seront excommuniées et battues. La Providence vous envoie ici pour nous seconder. Mais est-il bien vrai que ma chère soeur Cunégonde soit dans le voisinage, chez le gouverneur de Buénos-Ayres? Candide l’assura par serment que rien n’était plus vrai. Leurs larmes recommencèrent à couler.\n\nLe baron ne pouvait se lasser d’embrasser Candide; il l’appelait son frère, son sauveur. Ah! peut-être, lui dit-il, nous pourrons ensemble, mon cher Candide, entrer en vainqueurs dans la ville, et reprendre ma soeur Cunégonde. C’est tout ce que je souhaite, dit Candide; car je comptais l’épouser, et je l’espère encore. Vous, insolent! répondit le baron, vous auriez l’impudence d’épouser ma soeur qui a soixante et douze quartiers! Je vous trouve bien effronté d’oser me parler d’un dessein si téméraire! Candide, pétrifié d’un tel discours, lui répondit: Mon révérend père, tous les quartiers du monde n’y font rien; j’ai tiré votre soeur des bras d’un Juif et d’un inquisiteur; elle m’a assez d’obligations, elle veut m’épouser. Maître Pangloss m’a toujours dit que les hommes sont égaux; et assurément je l’épouserai. C’est ce que nous verrons, coquin! dit le jésuite baron de Thunder-ten-tronckh; et en même temps il lui donna un grand coup du plat de son épée sur le visage. Candide dans l’instant tire la sienne, et l’enfonce jusqu’à la garde dans le ventre du baron jésuite; mais en la retirant toute fumante, il se mit à pleurer: Hélas! mon Dieu! dit-il, j’ai tué mon ancien maître, mon ami, mon beau-frère; je suis le meilleur homme du monde, et voilà déjà trois hommes que je tue; et dans ces trois il y a deux prêtres.\n\nCacambo, qui fesait sentinelle à la porte de la feuillée, accourut. Il ne nous reste qu’à vendre cher notre vie, lui dit son maître; on va, sans doute, entrer dans la feuillée; il faut mourir les armes à la main. Cacambo, qui en avait bien vu d’autres, ne perdit point la tête; il prit la robe de jésuite que portait le baron, la mit sur le corps de Candide, lui donna le bonnet carré du mort, et le fit monter à cheval. Tout cela se fit en un clin d’oeil. Galopons, mon maître; tout le monde vous prendra pour un jésuite qui va donner des ordres; et nous aurons passé les frontières avant qu’on puisse courir après nous. Il volait déjà en prononçant ces paroles, et en criant en espagnol: Place, place pour le révérend père colonel!\n\n### Chapter XVI\n\nCe qui advint aux deux voyageurs avec deux filles, deux singes, et les sauvages nommés Oreillons.\n\nCandide et son valet furent au-delà des barrières, et personne ne savait encore dans le camp la mort du jésuite allemand. Le vigilant Cacambo avait eu soin de remplir sa valise de pain, de chocolat, de jambon, de fruits, et de quelques mesures de vin. Ils s’enfoncèrent avec leurs chevaux andalous dans un pays inconnu où ils ne découvrirent aucune route. Enfin une belle prairie entrecoupée de ruisseaux se présenta devant eux. Nos deux voyageurs font repaître leurs montures. Cacambo propose à son maître de manger, et lui en donne l’exemple. Comment veux-tu, disait Candide, que je mange du jambon, quand j’ai tué le fils de monsieur le baron, et que je me vois condamné à ne revoir la belle Cunégonde de ma vie? à quoi me servira de prolonger mes misérables jours, puisque je dois les traîner loin d’elle dans les remords et dans le désespoir? et que dira le Journal de Trévoux?\n\nEn parlant ainsi, il ne laissa pas de manger. Le soleil se couchait. Les deux égarés entendirent quelques petits cris qui paraissaient poussés par des femmes. Ils ne savaient si ces cris étaient de douleur ou de joie; mais ils se levèrent précipitamment avec cette inquiétude et cette alarme que tout inspire dans un pays inconnu. Ces clameurs partaient de deux filles toutes nues qui couraient légèrement au bord de la prairie, tandis que deux singes les suivaient en leur mordant les fesses. Candide fut touché de pitié; il avait appris à tirer chez les Bulgares, et il aurait abattu une noisette dans un buisson sans toucher aux feuilles. Il prend son fusil espagnol à deux coups, tire, et tue les deux singes. Dieu soit loué, mon cher Cacambo! j’ai délivré d’un grand péril ces deux pauvres créatures: si j’ai commis un péché en tuant un inquisiteur et un jésuite, je l’ai bien réparé en sauvant la vie à deux filles. Ce sont peut-être deux demoiselles de condition, et cette aventure nous peut procurer de très grands avantages dans le pays.\n\nIl allait continuer, mais sa langue devint percluse quand il vit ces deux filles embrasser tendrement les deux singes, fondre en larmes sur leurs corps, et remplir l’air des cris les plus douloureux. Je ne m’attendais pas à tant de bonté d’âme, dit-il enfin à Cacambo; lequel lui répliqua: Vous avez fait là un beau chef d’oeuvre, mon maître; vous avez tué les deux amants de ces demoiselles. Leurs amants! serait-il possible? vous vous moquez de moi, Cacambo; le moyen de vous croire? Mon cher maître, repartit Cacambo, vous êtes toujours étonné de tout; pourquoi trouvez-vous si étrange que dans quelques pays il y ait des singes qui obtiennent les bonnes grâces des dames? ils sont des quarts d’homme, comme je suis un quart d’Espagnol. Hélas! reprit Candide, je me souviens d’avoir entendu dire à maître Pangloss qu’autrefois pareils accidents étaient arrivés, et que ces mélanges avaient produit des égypans, des faunes, des satyres; que plusieurs grands personnages de l’antiquité en avaient vu; mais je prenais cela pour des fables. Vous devez être convaincu à présent, dit Cacambo, que c’est une vérité, et vous voyez comment en usent les personnes qui n’ont pas reçu une certaine éducation; tout ce que je crains, c’est que ces dames ne nous fassent quelque méchante affaire.\n\nCes réflexions solides engagèrent Candide à quitter la prairie, et à s’enfoncer dans un bois. Il y soupa avec Cacambo; et tous deux, après avoir maudit l’inquisiteur de Portugal, le gouverneur de Buénos-Ayres, et le baron, s’endormirent sur de la mousse. A leur réveil, ils sentirent qu’ils ne pouvaient remuer; la raison en était que pendant la nuit les Oreillons, habitants du pays, à qui les deux dames les avaient dénoncés, les avaient garrottés avec des cordes d’écorces d’arbre.\n\nIls étaient entourés d’une cinquantaine d’Oreillons tout nus, armés de flèches, de massues, et de haches de caillou: les uns fesaient bouillir une grande chaudière; les autres préparaient des broches, et tous criaient: C’est un jésuite, c’est un jésuite! nous serons vengés, et nous ferons bonne chère; mangeons du jésuite, mangeons du jésuite!\n\nJe vous l’avais bien dit, mon cher maître, s’écria tristement Cacambo, que ces deux filles nous joueraient d’un mauvais tour. Candide apercevant la chaudière et les broches s’écria: Nous allons certainement être rôtis ou bouillis. Ah! que dirait maître Pangloss, s’il voyait comme la pure nature est faite? Tout est bien; soit, mais j’avoue qu’il est bien cruel, d’avoir perdu mademoiselle Cunégonde, et d’être mis à la broche par des Oreillons. Cacambo ne perdait jamais la tête. Ne désespérez de rien, dit-il au désolé Candide; j’entends un peu le jargon de ces peuples, je vais leur parler. Ne manquez pas, dit Candide, de leur représenter quelle est l’inhumanité affreuse de faire cuire des hommes, et combien cela est peu chrétien.\n\nMessieurs, dit Cacambo, vous comptez donc manger aujourd’hui un jésuite? c’est très bien fait; rien n’est plus juste que de traiter ainsi ses ennemis. En effet le droit naturel nous enseigne à tuer notre prochain, et c’est ainsi qu’on en agit dans toute la terre. Si nous n’usons pas du droit de le manger, c’est que nous avons d’ailleurs de quoi faire bonne chère; mais vous n’avez pas les mêmes ressources que nous: certainement il vaut mieux manger ses ennemis que d’abandonner aux corbeaux et aux corneilles le fruit de sa victoire. Mais, messieurs, vous ne voudriez pas manger vos amis. Vous croyez aller mettre un jésuite en broche, et c’est votre défenseur, c’est l’ennemi de vos ennemis que vous allez rôtir. Pour moi, je suis né dans votre pays; monsieur que vous voyez est mon maître, et bien loin d’être jésuite, il vient de tuer un jésuite, il en porte les dépouilles; voilà le sujet de votre méprise. Pour vérifier ce que je vous dis, prenez sa robe, portez-la à la première barrière du royaume de los padres; informez-vous si mon maître n’a pas tué un officier jésuite. Il vous faudra peu de temps; vous pourrez toujours nous manger, si vous trouvez que je vous ai menti. Mais, si je vous ai dit la vérité, vous connaissez trop les principes du droit public, les moeurs, et les lois, pour ne nous pas faire grâce.\n\nLes Oreillons trouvèrent ce discours très raisonnable; ils députèrent deux notables pour aller en diligence s’informer de la vérité; les deux députés s’acquittèrent de leur commission en gens d’esprit, et revinrent bientôt apporter de bonnes nouvelles. Les Oreillons délièrent leurs deux prisonniers, leur firent toutes sortes de civilités, leur offrirent des filles, leur donnèrent des rafraîchissements, et les reconduisirent jusqu’aux confins de leurs états, en criant avec allégresse: Il n’est point jésuite, il n’est point jésuite!\n\nCandide ne se lassait point d’admirer le sujet de sa délivrance. Quel peuple! disait-il, quels hommes! quelles moeurs! si je n’avais pas eu le bonheur de donner un grand coup d’épée au travers du corps du frère de mademoiselle Cunégonde, j’étais mangé sans rémission. Mais, après tout, la pure nature est bonne, puisque ces gens-ci, au lieu de me manger, m’ont fait mille honnêtetés, dès qu’ils ont su que je n’étais pas jésuite.\n\n### Chapter XVII\n\nArrivée de Candide et de son valet au pays d’Eldorado, et ce qu’ils y virent.\n\nQuand ils furent aux frontières des Oreillons: Vous voyez, dit Cacambo à Candide, que cet hémisphère-ci ne vaut pas mieux que l’autre; croyez-moi, retournons en Europe par le plus court chemin. Comment y retourner, dit Candide; et où aller? Si je vais dans mon pays, les Bulgares et les Abares y égorgent tout; si je retourne en Portugal, j’y suis brûlé; si nous restons dans ce pays-ci, nous risquons à tout moment d’être mis en broche. Mais comment se résoudre à quitter la partie du monde que mademoiselle Cunégonde habite?\n\n—Tournons vers la Cayenne, dit Cacambo, nous y trouverons des Français qui vont par tout le monde; ils pourront nous aider. Dieu aura peut-être pitié de nous.»\n\nIl n’était pas facile d’aller à la Cayenne: ils savaient bien à peu près de quel côté il fallait marcher; mais des montagnes, des fleuves, des précipices, des brigands, des sauvages, étaient partout de terribles obstacles. Leurs chevaux moururent de fatigue; leurs provisions furent consumées; ils se nourrirent un mois entier de fruits sauvages, et se trouvèrent enfin auprès d’une petite rivière bordée de cocotiers qui soutinrent leur vie et leurs espérances.\n\nCacambo, qui donnait toujours d’aussi bons conseils que la vieille, dit à Candide: Nous n’en pouvons plus, nous avons assez marché; j’aperçois un canot vide sur le rivage, emplissons-le de cocos, jetons-nous dans cette petite barque, laissons-nous aller au courant; une rivière mène toujours à quelque endroit habité. Si nous ne trouvons pas des choses agréables, nous trouverons du moins des choses nouvelles. Allons, dit Candide, recommandons-nous à la Providence.\n\nIls voguèrent quelques lieues entre des bords, tantôt fleuris, tantôt arides, tantôt unis, tantôt escarpés. La rivière s’élargissait toujours; enfin elle se perdait sous une voûte de rochers épouvantables qui s’élevaient jusqu’au ciel. Les deux voyageurs eurent la hardiesse de s’abandonner aux flots sous cette voûte. Le fleuve resserré en cet endroit les porta avec une rapidité et un bruit horrible. Au bout de vingt-quatre heures ils revirent le jour; mais leur canot se fracassa contre les écueils; il fallut se traîner de rocher en rocher pendant une lieue entière; enfin ils découvrirent un horizon immense, bordé de montagnes inaccessibles. Le pays était cultivé pour le plaisir comme pour le besoin; partout l’utile était agréable: les chemins étaient couverts ou plutôt ornés de voitures d’une forme et d’une matière brillante, portant des hommes et des femmes d’une beauté singulière, traînés rapidement par de gros moutons rouges qui surpassaient en vitesse les plus beaux chevaux d’Andalousie, de Tétuan, et de Méquinez.\n\nVoilà pourtant, dit Candide, un pays qui vaut mieux que la Vestphalie. Il mit pied à terre avec Cacambo auprès du premier village qu’il rencontra. Quelques enfants du village, couverts de brocarts d’or tout déchirés, jouaient au palet à l’entrée du bourg; nos deux hommes de l’autre monde s’amusèrent à les regarder: leurs palets étaient d’assez larges pièces rondes, jaunes, rouges, vertes, qui jetaient un éclat singulier. Il prit envie aux voyageurs d’en ramasser quelques uns; c’était de l’or, c’était des émeraudes, des rubis, dont le moindre aurait été le plus grand ornement du trône du Mogol. Sans doute, dit Cacambo, ces enfants sont les fils du roi du pays qui jouent au petit palet. Le magister du village parut dans ce moment pour les faire rentrer à l’école. Voilà, dit Candide, le précepteur de la famille royale.\n\nLes petits gueux quittèrent aussitôt le jeu, en laissant à terre leurs palets, et tout ce qui avait servi à leurs divertissements. Candide les ramasse, court au précepteur et les lui présente humblement, lui fesant entendre par signes que leurs altesses royales avaient oublié leur or et leurs pierreries. Le magister du village, en souriant, les jeta par terre, regarda un moment la figure de Candide avec beaucoup de surprise, et continua son chemin.\n\nLes voyageurs ne manquèrent pas de ramasser l’or, les rubis, et les émeraudes. Où sommes-nous? s’écria Candide. Il faut que les enfants des rois de ce pays soient bien élevés, puisqu’on leur apprend à mépriser l’or et les pierreries. Cacambo était aussi surpris que Candide. Ils approchèrent enfin de la première maison du village; elle était bâtie comme un palais d’Europe. Une foule de monde s’empressait à la porte, et encore plus dans le logis; une musique très agréable se fesait entendre, et une odeur délicieuse de cuisine se fesait sentir. Cacambo s’approcha de la porte, et entendit qu’on parlait péruvien; c’était sa langue maternelle; car tout le monde sait que Cacambo était né au Tucuman, dans un village où l’on ne connaissait que cette langue. Je vous servirai d’interprète, dit-il à Candide; entrons, c’est ici un cabaret.\n\nAussitôt deux garçons et deux filles de l’hôtellerie, vêtus de drap d’or, et les cheveux renoués avec des rubans, les invitent à se mettre à la table de l’hôte. On servit quatre potages garnis chacun de deux perroquets, un contour bouilli qui pesait deux cents livres, deux singes rôtis d’un goût excellent, trois cents colibris dans un plat, et six cents oiseaux-mouches dans un autre; des ragoûts exquis, des pâtisseries délicieuses; le tout dans des plats d’une espèce de cristal de roche. Les garçons et les filles de l’hôtellerie versaient plusieurs liqueurs faites de cannes de sucre.\n\nLes convives étaient pour la plupart des marchands et des voituriers, tous d’une politesse extrême, qui firent quelques questions à Cacambo avec la discrétion la plus circonspecte, et qui répondirent aux siennes d’une manière à le satisfaire.\n\nQuand le repas fut fini, Cacambo crut, ainsi que Candide, bien payer son écot, en jetant sur la table de l’hôte deux de ces larges pièces d’or qu’il avait ramassées; l’hôte et l’hôtesse éclatèrent de rire, et se tinrent long-temps les côtés. Enfin ils se remirent. Messieurs, dit l’hôte, nous voyons bien que vous êtes des étrangers; nous ne sommes pas accoutumés à en voir. Pardonnez-nous si nous nous sommes mis à rire quand vous nous avez offert en paiement les cailloux de nos grands chemins. Vous n’avez pas sans doute de la monnaie du pays, mais il n’est pas nécessaire d’en avoir pour dîner ici. Toutes les hôtelleries établies pour la commodité du commerce sont payées par le gouvernement. Vous avez fait mauvaise chère ici, parceque c’est un pauvre village, mais partout ailleurs vous serez reçus comme vous méritez de l’être. Cacambo expliquait à Candide tous les discours de l’hôte, et Candide les écoutait avec la même admiration et le même égarement que son ami Cacambo les rendait. Quel est donc ce pays, disaient-ils l’un et l’autre, inconnu à tout le reste de la terre, et où toute la nature est d’une espèce si différente de la nôtre? C’est probablement le pays où tout va bien; car il faut absolument qu’il y en ait un de cette espèce. Et, quoi qu’en dît maître Pangloss, je me suis souvent aperçu que tout allait assez mal en Vestphalie.\n\n### Chapter XVIII\n\nCe qu’ils virent dans le pays d’Eldorado.\n\nCacambo témoigna à son hôte toute sa curiosité; l’hôte lui dit: Je suis fort ignorant, et je m’en trouve bien; mais nous avons ici un vieillard retiré de la cour qui est le plus savant homme du royaume, et le plus communicatif. Aussitôt il mène Cacambo chez le vieillard. Candide ne jouait plus que le second personnage, et accompagnait son valet. Ils entrèrent dans une maison fort simple, car la porte n’était que d’argent, et les lambris des appartements n’étaient que d’or, mais travaillés avec tant de goût, que les plus riches lambris ne l’effaçaient pas. L’antichambre n’était à la vérité incrustée que de rubis et d’émeraudes; mais l’ordre dans lequel tout était arrangé réparait bien cette extrême simplicité.\n\nLe vieillard reçut les deux étrangers sur un sofa matelassé de plumes de colibri, et leur fit présenter des liqueurs dans des vases de diamant; après quoi il satisfit à leur curiosité en ces termes:\n\nJe suis âgé de cent soixante et douze ans, et j’ai appris de feu mon père, écuyer du roi, les étonnantes révolutions du Pérou dont il avait été témoin. Le royaume où nous sommes est l’ancienne patrie des incas, qui en sortirent très imprudemment pour aller subjuguer une partie du monde, et qui furent enfin détruits par les Espagnols.\n\nLes princes de leur famille qui restèrent dans leur pays natal furent plus sages; ils ordonnèrent, du consentement de la nation, qu’aucun habitant ne sortirait jamais de notre petit royaume; et c’est ce qui nous a conservé notre innocence et notre félicité. Les Espagnols ont eu une connaissance confuse de ce pays, ils l’ont appelé Eldorado; et un Anglais, nommé le chevalier Raleigh, en a même approché il y a environ cent années; mais, comme nous sommes entourés de rochers inabordables et de précipices, nous avons toujours été jusqu’à présent à l’abri de la rapacité des nations de l’Europe, qui ont une fureur inconcevable pour les cailloux et pour la fange de notre terre, et qui, pour en avoir, nous tueraient tous jusqu’au dernier.\n\nLa conversation fut longue; elle roula sur la forme du gouvernement, sur les moeurs, sur les femmes, sur les spectacles publics, sur les arts. Enfin Candide, qui avait toujours du goût pour la métaphysique, fit demander par Cacambo si dans le pays il y avait une religion.\n\nLe vieillard rougit un peu. Comment donc! dit-il, en pouvez-vous douter? Est-ce que vous nous prenez pour des ingrats? Cacambo demanda humblement quelle était la religion d’Eldorado. Le vieillard rougit encore: Est-ce qu’il peut y avoir deux religions? dit-il. Nous avons, je crois, la religion de tout le monde; nous adorons Dieu du soir jusqu’au matin. N’adorez vous qu’un seul Dieu? dit Cacambo, qui servait toujours d’interprète aux doutes de Candide. Apparemment, dit le vieillard, qu’il n’y en a ni deux, ni trois, ni quatre. Je vous avoue que les gens de votre monde font des questions bien singulières. Candide ne se lassait pas de faire interroger ce bon vieillard; il voulut savoir comment on priait Dieu dans Eldorado. Nous ne le prions point, dit le bon et respectable sage; nous n’avons rien à lui demander, il nous a donné tout ce qu’il nous faut; nous le remercions sans cesse. Candide eut la curiosité de voir des prêtres; il fit demander où ils étaient. Le bon vieillard sourit. Mes amis, dit-il, nous sommes tous prêtres; le roi et tous les chefs de famille chantent des cantiques d’actions de grâces solennellement tous les matins, et cinq ou six mille musiciens les accompagnent.—Quoi! vous n’avez point de moines qui enseignent, qui disputent, qui gouvernent, qui cabalent, et qui font brûler les gens qui ne sont pas de leur avis?—Il faudrait que nous fussions fous, dit le vieillard; nous sommes tous ici du même avis, et nous n’entendons pas ce que vous voulez dire avec vos moines. Candide à tous ces discours demeurait en extase, et disait en lui-même: Ceci est bien différent de la Vestphalie et du château de monsieur le baron: si notre ami Pangloss avait vu Eldorado, il n’aurait plus dit que le château de Thunder-ten-tronckh était ce qu’il y avait de mieux sur la terre; il est certain qu’il faut voyager.\n\nAprès cette longue conversation, le bon vieillard fit atteler un carrosse à six moutons, et donna douze de ses domestiques aux deux voyageurs pour les conduire à la cour. Excusez-moi, leur dit-il, si mon âge me prive de l’honneur de vous accompagner. Le roi vous recevra d’une manière dont vous ne serez pas mécontents, et vous pardonnerez sans doute aux usages du pays, s’il y en a quelques uns qui vous déplaisent.\n\nCandide et Cacambo montent en carrosse; les six moutons volaient, et en moins de quatre heures on arriva au palais du roi, situé à un bout de la capitale. Le portail était de deux cent vingt pieds de haut, et de cent de large; il est impossible d’exprimer quelle en était la matière. On voit assez quelle supériorité prodigieuse elle devait avoir sur ces cailloux et sur ce sable que nous nommons or et pierreries.\n\nVingt belles filles de la garde reçurent Candide et Cacambo à la descente du carrosse, les conduisirent aux bains, les vêtirent de robes d’un tissu de duvet de colibri; après quoi les grands officiers et les grandes officières de la couronne les menèrent à l’appartement de sa majesté au milieu de deux files, chacune de mille musiciens, selon l’usage ordinaire. Quand ils approchèrent de la salle du trône, Cacambo demanda à un grand officier comment il fallait s’y prendre pour saluer sa majesté: si on se jetait à genoux ou ventre à terre; si on mettait les mains sur la tête ou sur le derrière; si on léchait la poussière de la salle: en un mot, quelle était la cérémonie. L’usage, dit le grand-officier, est d’embrasser le roi et de le baiser des deux côtés. Candide et Cacambo sautèrent au cou de sa majesté, qui les reçut avec toute la grâce imaginable, et qui les pria poliment à souper.\n\nEn attendant, on leur fit voir la ville, les édifices publics élevés jusqu’aux nues, les marchés ornés de mille colonnes, les fontaines d’eau pure, les fontaines d’eau-rose, celles de liqueurs de cannes de sucre qui coulaient continuellement dans de grandes places pavées d’une espèce de pierreries qui répandaient une odeur semblable à celle du girofle et de la cannelle. Candide demanda à voir la cour de justice, le parlement; on lui dit qu’il n’y en avait point, et qu’on ne plaidait jamais. Il s’informa s’il y avait des prisons, et on lui dit que non. Ce qui le surprit davantage, et qui lui fit le plus de plaisir, ce fut le palais des sciences, dans lequel il vit une galerie de deux mille pas, toute pleine d’instruments de mathématiques et de physique.\n\nAprès avoir parcouru toute l’après-dinée à peu près la millième partie de la ville, on les remena chez le roi. Candide se mit à table entre sa majesté, son valet Cacambo, et plusieurs dames. Jamais on ne fit meilleure chère, et jamais on n’eut plus d’esprit à souper qu’en eut sa majesté. Cacambo expliquait les bons mots du roi à Candide, et quoique traduits, ils paraissaient toujours des bons mots. De tout ce qui étonnait Candide, ce n’était pas ce qui l’étonna le moins.\n\nIls passèrent un mois dans cet hospice. Candide ne cessait de dire à Cacambo: Il est vrai, mon ami, encore une fois, que le château où je suis né ne vaut pas le pays où nous sommes; mais enfin mademoiselle Cunégonde n’y est pas, et vous avez sans doute quelque maîtresse en Europe. Si nous restons ici, nous n’y serons que comme les autres; au lieu que si nous retournons dans notre monde, seulement avec douze moutons chargés de cailloux d’Eldorado, nous serons plus riches que tous les rois ensemble, nous n’aurons plus d’inquisiteurs à craindre, et nous pourrons aisément reprendre mademoiselle Cunégonde.\n\nCe discours plut à Cacambo; on aime tant à courir, à se faire valoir chez les siens, à faire parade de ce qu’on a vu dans ses voyages, que les deux heureux résolurent de ne plus l’être, et de demander leur congé à sa majesté.\n\nVous faites une sottise, leur dit le roi: je sais bien que mon pays est peu de chose; mais, quand on est passablement quelque part, il faut y rester. Je n’ai pas assurément le droit de retenir des étrangers; c’est une tyrannie qui n’est ni dans nos moeurs ni dans nos lois; tous les hommes sont libres; partez quand vous voudrez, mais la sortie est bien difficile. Il est impossible de remonter la rivière rapide sur laquelle vous êtes arrivés par miracle, et qui court sous des voûtes de rochers. Les montagnes qui entourent tout mon royaume ont dix mille pieds de hauteur, et sont droites comme des murailles: elles occupent chacune en largeur un espace de plus de dix lieues; on ne peut en descendre que par des précipices. Cependant, puisque vous voulez absolument partir, je vais donner ordre aux intendants des machines d’en faire une qui puisse vous transporter commodément. Quand on vous aura conduits au revers des montagnes, personne ne pourra vous accompagner; car mes sujets ont fait voeu de ne jamais sortir de leur enceinte, et ils sont trop sages pour rompre leur voeu. Demandez-moi d’ailleurs tout ce qu’il vous plaira. Nous ne demandons à votre majesté, dit Cacambo, que quelques moutons chargés de vivres, de cailloux, et de la boue du pays. Le roi rit: Je ne conçois pas, dit-il, quel goût vos gens d’Europe ont pour notre boue jaune: mais emportez-en tant que vous voudrez, et grand bien vous fasse.\n\nIl donna l’ordre sur-le-champ à ses ingénieurs de faire une machine pour guinder ces deux hommes extraordinaires hors du royaume. Trois mille bons physiciens y travaillèrent; elle fut prête au bout de quinze jours, et ne coûta pas plus de vingt millions de livres sterling, monnaie du pays. On mit sur la machine Candide et Cacambo; il y avait deux grands moutons rouges sellés et bridés pour leur servir de monture quand ils auraient franchi les montagnes, vingt moutons de bât chargés de vivres, trente qui portaient des présents de ce que le pays a de plus curieux, et cinquante chargés d’or, de pierreries, et de diamants. Le roi embrassa tendrement les deux vagabonds.\n\nCe fut un beau spectacle que leur départ, et la manière ingénieuse dont ils furent hissés eux et leurs moutons au haut des montagnes. Les physiciens prirent congé d’eux après les avoir mis en sûreté, et Candide n’eut plus d’autre désir et d’autre objet que d’aller présenter ses moutons à mademoiselle Cunégonde. Nous avons, dit-il, de quoi payer le gouverneur de Buénos-Ayres, si mademoiselle Cunégonde peut être mise à prix. Marchons vers la Cayenne, embarquons-nous, et nous verrons ensuite quel royaume nous pourrons acheter.\n\n### Chapter XIX\n\nCe qui leur arriva à Surinam, et comment Candide fit connaissance avec Martin.\n\nLa première journée de nos deux voyageurs fut assez agréable. Ils étaient encouragés par l’idée de se voir possesseurs de plus de trésors que l’Asie, l’Europe, et l’Afrique, n’en pouvaient rassembler. Candide transporté écrivit le nom de Cunégonde sur les arbres. A la seconde journée deux de leurs moutons s’enfoncèrent dans des marais, et y furent abîmés avec leurs charges; deux autres moutons moururent de fatigue quelques jours après; sept ou huit périrent ensuite de faim dans un désert; d’autres tombèrent au bout de quelques jours dans des précipices. Enfin, après cent jours de marche, il ne leur resta que deux moutons. Candide dit à Cacambo: Mon ami, vous voyez comme les richesses de ce monde sont périssables; il n’y a rien de solide que la vertu et le bonheur de revoir mademoiselle Cunégonde. Je l’avoue, dit Cacambo; mais il nous reste encore deux moutons avec plus de trésors que n’en aura jamais le roi d’Espagne; et je vois bien de loin une ville que je soupçonne être Surinam, appartenante aux Hollandais. Nous sommes au bout de nos peines et au commencement de notre félicité.\n\nEn approchant de la ville, ils rencontrèrent un nègre étendu par terre, n’ayant plus que la moitié de son habit, c’est-à-dire d’un caleçon de toile bleue; il manquait à ce pauvre homme la jambe gauche et la main droite. Eh! mon Dieu! lui dit Candide en hollandais, que fais-tu là, mon ami, dans l’état horrible où je te vois? J’attends mon maître, M. Vanderdendur, le fameux négociant, répondit le nègre. Est-ce M. Vanderdendur, dit Candide, qui t’a traité ainsi? Oui, monsieur, dit le nègre, c’est l’usage. On nous donne un caleçon de toile pour tout vêtement deux fois l’année. Quand nous travaillons aux sucreries, et que la meule nous attrape le doigt, on nous coupe la main: quand nous voulons nous enfuir, on nous coupe la jambe: je me suis trouvé dans les deux cas. C’est à ce prix que vous mangez du sucre en Europe. Cependant, lorsque ma mère me vendit dix écus patagons sur la côte de Guinée, elle me disait: Mon cher enfant, bénis nos fétiches, adore-les toujours, ils te feront vivre heureux; tu as l’honneur d’être esclave de nos seigneurs les blancs, et tu fais par là la fortune de ton père et de ta mère. Hélas! je ne sais pas si j’ai fait leur fortune, mais ils n’ont pas fait la mienne. Les chiens, les singes, et les perroquets, sont mille fois moins malheureux que nous: les fétiches hollandais qui m’ont converti me disent tous les dimanches que nous sommes tous enfants d’Adam, blancs et noirs. Je ne suis pas généalogiste; mais si ces prêcheurs disent vrai, nous sommes tous cousins issus de germain. Or vous m’avouerez qu’on ne peut pas en user avec ses parents d’une manière plus horrible.\n\nO Pangloss! s’écria Candide, tu n’avais pas deviné cette abomination; c’en est fait, il faudra qu’à la fin je renonce à ton optimisme. Qu’est-ce qu’optimisme? disait Cacambo. Hélas! dit Candide, c’est la rage de soutenir que tout est bien quand on est mal; et il versait des larmes en regardant son nègre; et en pleurant, il entra dans Surinam.\n\nLa première chose dont ils s’informent, c’est s’il n’y a point au port quelque vaisseau qu’on pût envoyer à Buénos-Ayres. Celui à qui ils s’adressèrent était justement un patron espagnol qui s’offrit à faire avec eux un marché honnête. Il leur donna rendez-vous dans un cabaret. Candide et le fidèle Cacambo allèrent l’y attendre avec leurs deux moutons.\n\nCandide, qui avait le coeur sur les lèvres, conta à l’Espagnol toutes ses aventures, et lui avoua qu’il voulait enlever mademoiselle Cunégonde. Je me garderai bien de vous passer à Buénos-Ayres, dit le patron: je serais pendu, et vous aussi; la belle Cunégonde est la maîtresse favorite de monseigneur. Ce fut un coup de foudre pour Candide, il pleura longtemps; enfin il tira à part Cacambo. Voici, mon cher ami, lui dit-il, ce qu’il faut que tu fasses. Nous avons chacun dans nos poches pour cinq ou six millions de diamants, tu es plus habile que moi; va prendre mademoiselle Cunégonde à Buénos-Ayres. Si le gouverneur fait quelque difficulté, donne-lui un million: s’il ne se rend pas, donne-lui-en deux; tu n’as point tué d’inquisiteur, on ne se défiera point de toi. J’équiperai un autre vaisseau, j’irai t’attendre à Venise: c’est un pays libre où l’on n’a rien à craindre ni des Bulgares, ni des Abares, ni des Juifs, ni des inquisiteurs. Cacambo applaudit, à cette sage résolution. Il était au désespoir de se séparer d’un bon maître devenu son ami intime; mais le plaisir de lui être utile l’emporta sur la douleur de le quitter. Ils s’embrassèrent en versant des larmes: Candide lui recommanda de ne point oublier la bonne vieille. Cacambo partit dès le jour même: c’était un très bon homme que ce Cacambo.\n\nCandide resta encore quelque temps à Surinam, et attendit qu’un autre patron voulût le mener en Italie lui et les deux moutons qui lui restaient. Il prit des domestiques, et acheta tout ce qui lui était nécessaire pour un long voyage; enfin M. Vanderdendur, maître d’un gros vaisseau, vint se présenter à lui. Combien voulez-vous, demanda-t-il à cet homme, pour me mener en droiture à Venise, moi, mes gens, mon bagage, et les deux moutons que voilà? Le patron s’accorda à dix mille piastres: Candide n’hésita pas.\n\nOh! oh! dit à part soi le prudent Vanderdendur, cet étranger donne dix mille piastres tout d’un coup! il faut qu’il soit bien riche. Puis revenant un moment après, il signifia qu’il ne pouvait partir à moins de vingt mille. Eh bien! vous les aurez, dit Candide.\n\nOuais, se dit tout bas le marchand, cet homme donne vingt mille piastres aussi aisément que dix mille. Il revint encore, et dit qu’il ne pouvait le conduire à Venise à moins de trente mille piastres. Vous en aurez donc trente mille, répondit Candide.\n\nOh! oh! se dit encore le marchand hollandais, trente mille piastres ne coûtent rien à cet homme-ci; sans doute les deux moutons portent des trésors immenses; n’insistons pas davantage: faisons-nous d’abord payer les trente mille piastres, et puis nous verrons. Candide, vendit deux petits diamants, dont le moindre valait plus que tout l’argent que demandait le patron. Il le paya d’avance. Les deux moutons furent embarqués. Candide suivait dans un petit bateau pour joindre le vaisseau à la rade; le patron prend son temps, met à la voile, démarre; le vent le favorise. Candide éperdu et stupéfait le perd bientôt de vue. Hélas! cria-t-il, voilà un tour digne de l’Ancien Monde. Il retourne au rivage, abîmé dans la douleur; car enfin il avait perdu de quoi faire la fortune de vingt monarques.\n\nIl se transporte chez le juge hollandais; et, comme il était un peu troublé, il frappe rudement à la porte; il entre, expose son aventure, et crie un peu plus haut qu’il ne convenait. Le juge commença par lui faire payer dix mille piastres pour le bruit qu’il avait fait: ensuite il l’écouta patiemment, lui promit d’examiner son affaire sitôt que le marchand serait revenu, et se fit payer dix mille autres piastres pour les frais de l’audience.\n\nCe procédé acheva de désespérer Candide; il avait à la vérité essuyé des malheurs mille fois plus douloureux; mais le sang froid du juge, et celui du patron dont il était volé, alluma sa bile, et le plongea dans une noire mélancolie. La méchanceté des hommes se présentait à son esprit dans toute sa laideur, il ne se nourrissait que d’idées tristes. Enfin un vaisseau français étant sur le point de partir pour Bordeaux, comme il n’avait plus de moutons chargés de diamants à embarquer, il loua une chambre du vaisseau à juste prix, et fit signifier dans la ville qu’il paierait le passage, la nourriture, et donnerait deux mille piastres à un honnête homme qui voudrait faire le voyage avec lui, à condition que cet homme serait le plus dégoûté de son état, et le plus malheureux de la province.\n\nIl se présenta une foule de prétendants qu’une flotte n’aurait pu contenir. Candide, voulant choisir entre les plus apparents, il distingua une vingtaine de personnes qui lui paraissaient sociables, et qui toutes prétendaient mériter la préférence. Il les assembla dans son cabaret, et leur donna à souper, à condition que chacun ferait serment de raconter fidèlement son histoire, promettant de choisir celui qui lui paraîtrait le plus à plaindre et le plus mécontent de son état, à plus juste titre, et de donner aux autres quelques gratifications.\n\nLa séance dura jusqu’à quatre heures du matin. Candide, en écoutant toutes leurs aventures, se ressouvenait de ce que lui avait dit la vieille en allant à Buénos-Ayres, et de la gageure qu’elle avait faite, qu’il n’y avait personne sur le vaisseau à qui il ne fût arrivé de très grands malheurs. Il songeait à Pangloss à chaque aventure qu’on lui contait. Ce Pangloss, disait-il, serait bien embarrassé à démontrer son système. Je voudrais qu’il fût ici. Certainement si tout va bien, c’est dans Eldorado, et non pas dans le reste de la terre. Enfin il se détermina en faveur d’un pauvre savant qui avait travaillé dix ans pour les libraires à Amsterdam. Il jugea qu’il n’y avait point de métier au monde dont on dût être plus dégoûté.\n\nCe savant, qui était d’ailleurs un bon-homme, avait été volé par sa femme, battu par son fils, et abandonné de sa fille, qui s’était fait enlever par un Portugais. Il venait d’être privé d’un petit emploi duquel il subsistait; et les prédicants de Surinam le persécutaient, parcequ’ils le prenaient pour un socinien. Il faut avouer que les autres étaient pour le moins aussi malheureux que lui; mais Candide espérait que le savant le désennuierait dans le voyage. Tous ses autres rivaux trouvèrent que Candide leur fesait une grande injustice; mais il les apaisa en leur donnant à chacun cent piastres.\n\n### Chapter XX\n\nCe qui arriva sur mer à Candide et à Martin.\n\nLe vieux savant, qui s’appelait Martin, s’embarqua donc pour Bordeaux avec Candide. L’un et l’autre avaient beaucoup vu et beaucoup souffert; et quand le vaisseau aurait dû faire voile de Surinam au Japon par le cap de Bonne-Espérance, ils auraient eu de quoi s’entretenir du mal moral et du mal physique pendant tout le voyage.\n\nCependant Candide avait un grand avantage sur Martin, c’est qu’il espérait toujours revoir mademoiselle Cunégonde, et que Martin n’avait rien à espérer; de plus il avait de l’or et des diamants; et, quoiqu’il eût perdu cent gros moutons rouges chargés des plus grands trésors de la terre, quoiqu’il eût toujours sur le coeur la friponnerie du patron hollandais; cependant quand il songeait à ce qui lui restait dans ses poches, et quand il parlait de Cunégonde, surtout à la fin du repas, il penchait alors pour le système de Pangloss.\n\nMais vous, monsieur Martin, dit-il au savant, que pensez-vous de tout cela? quelle est votre idée sur le mal moral et le mal physique? Monsieur, répondit Martin, mes prêtres m’ont accusé d’être socinien; mais la vérité du fait est que je suis manichéen. Vous vous moquez de moi, dit Candide; il n’y a plus de manichéens dans le monde. Il y a moi, dit Martin: je ne sais qu’y faire; mais je ne peux penser autrement. Il faut que vous ayez le diable au corps, dit Candide. Il se mêle si fort des affaires de ce monde, dit Martin, qu’il pourrait bien être dans mon corps, comme partout ailleurs: mais je vous avoue qu’en jetant la vue sur ce globe, ou plutôt sur ce globule, je pense que Dieu l’a abandonné à quelque être malfaisant; j’en excepte toujours Eldorado. Je n’ai guère vu de ville qui ne désirât la ruine de la ville voisine, point de famille qui ne voulût exterminer quelque autre famille. Partout les faibles ont en exécration les puissants devant lesquels ils rampent, et les puissants les traitent comme des troupeaux dont on vend la laine et la chair. Un million d’assassins enrégimentés, courant d’un bout de l’Europe à l’autre, exerce le meurtre et le brigandage avec discipline pour gagner son pain, parcequ’il n’a pas de métier plus honnête; et dans les villes qui paraissent jouir de la paix, et où les arts fleurissent, les hommes sont dévorés de plus d’envie, de soins, et d’inquiétudes, qu’une ville assiégée n’éprouve de fléaux. Les chagrins secrets sont encore plus cruels que les misères publiques. En un mot j’en ai tant vu et tant éprouvé, que je suis manichéen.\n\nIl y a pourtant du bon, répliquait Candide. Cela peut être, disait Martin; mais je ne le connais pas.\n\nAu milieu de cette dispute, on entendit un bruit de canon. Le bruit redouble de moment en moment. Chacun prend sa lunette. On aperçoit deux vaisseaux qui combattaient à la distance d’environ trois milles: le vent les amena l’un et l’autre si près du vaisseau français, qu’on eut le plaisir de voir le combat tout à son aise. Enfin l’un des deux vaisseaux lâcha à l’autre une bordée si bas et si juste, qu’il le coula à fond. Candide et Martin aperçurent distinctement une centaine d’hommes sur le tillac du vaisseau qui s’enfonçait; ils levaient tous les mains au ciel, et jetaient des clameurs effroyables: en un moment tout fut englouti.\n\nEh bien! dit Martin, voilà comme les hommes se traitent les uns les autres. Il est vrai, dit Candide, qu’il y a quelque chose de diabolique dans cette affaire. En parlant ainsi, il aperçut je ne sais quoi d’un rouge éclatant, qui nageait auprès de son vaisseau. On détacha la chaloupe pour voir ce que ce pouvait être; c’était un de ses moutons. Candide eut plus de joie de retrouver ce mouton, qu’il n’avait été affligé d’en perdre cent tous chargés de gros diamants d’Eldorado.\n\nLe capitaine français aperçut bientôt que le capitaine du vaisseau submergeant était espagnol, et que celui du vaisseau submergé était un pirate hollandais; c’était celui-là même qui avait volé Candide. Les richesses immenses dont ce scélérat s’était emparé furent ensevelies avec lui dans la mer, et il n’y eut qu’un mouton de sauvé. Vous voyez, dit Candide à Martin, que le crime est puni quelquefois; ce coquin de patron hollandais a eu le sort qu’il méritait. Oui, dit Martin; mais fallait-il que les passagers qui étaient sur son vaisseau périssent aussi? Dieu a puni ce fripon, le diable a noyé les autres.\n\nCependant le vaisseau français et l’espagnol continuèrent leur route, et Candide continua ses conversations avec Martin. Ils disputèrent quinze jours de suite, et au bout de quinze jours ils étaient aussi avancés que le premier. Mais enfin ils parlaient, ils se communiquaient des idées, ils se consolaient. Candide caressait son mouton. Puisque je t’ai retrouvé, dit-il, je pourrai bien retrouver Cunégonde.\n\n### Chapter XXI\n\nCandide et Martin approchent des côtes de France, et raisonnent.\n\nOn aperçut enfin les côtes de France. Avez-vous jamais été en France, monsieur Martin? dit Candide. Oui, dit Martin, j’ai parcouru plusieurs provinces. Il y en a où la moitié des habitants est folle, quelques unes où l’on est trop rusé, d’autres où l’on est communément assez doux et assez bête: d’autres où l’on fait le bel esprit; et, dans toutes, la principale occupation est l’amour; la seconde, de médire; et la troisième, de dire des sottises. Mais, monsieur Martin, avez-vous vu Paris? Oui, j’ai vu Paris; il tient de toutes ces espèces-là; c’est un chaos, c’est une presse dans laquelle tout le monde cherche le plaisir, et où presque personne ne le trouve, du moins à ce qu’il m’a paru. J’y ai séjourné peu; j’y fus volé, en arrivant, de tout ce que j’avais, par des filous, à la foire Saint-Germain; on me prit moi-même pour un voleur, et je fus huit jours en prison; après quoi je me fis correcteur d’imprimerie pour gagner de quoi retourner à pied en Hollande. Je connus la canaille écrivante, la canaille cabalante, et la canaille convulsionnaire. On dit qu’il y a des gens fort polis dans cette ville-là: je le veux croire.\n\nPour moi, je n’ai nulle curiosité de voir la France, dit Candide; vous devinez aisément que quand on a passé un mois dans Eldorado, on ne se soucie plus de rien voir sur la terre que mademoiselle Cunégonde: je vais l’attendre à Venise; nous traverserons la France pour aller en Italie; ne m’accompagnerez-vous pas? Très volontiers, dit Martin: on dit que Venise n’est bonne que pour les nobles vénitiens, mais que cependant on y reçoit très bien les étrangers quand ils ont beaucoup d’argent; je n’en ai point; vous en avez, je vous suivrai partout. A propos, dit Candide, pensez-vous que la terre ait été originairement une mer, comme on l’assure dans ce gros livre qui appartient au capitaine du vaisseau? Je n’en crois rien du tout, dit Martin, non plus que de toutes les rêveries qu’on nous débite depuis quelque temps. Mais à quelle fin ce monde a-t-il donc été formé? dit Candide. Pour nous faire enrager, répondit Martin. N’êtes-vous pas bien étonné, continua Candide, de l’amour que ces deux filles du pays des Oreillons avaient pour ces deux singes, et dont je vous ai conté l’aventure? Point du tout, dit Martin, je ne vois pas ce que cette passion a d’étrange; j’ai tant vu de choses extraordinaires, qu’il n’y a plus rien d’extraordinaire pour moi. Croyez-vous, dit Candide, que les hommes se soient toujours mutuellement massacrés comme ils font aujourd’hui? qu’ils aient toujours été menteurs, fourbes, perfides, ingrats, brigands, faibles, volages, lâches, envieux, gourmands, ivrognes, avares, ambitieux, sanguinaires, calomniateurs, débauchés, fanatiques, hypocrites, et sots? Croyez-vous, dit Martin, que les éperviers aient toujours mangé des pigeons quand ils en ont trouvé? Oui, sans doute, dit Candide. Eh bien! dit Martin, si les éperviers ont toujours eu le même caractère, pourquoi voulez-vous que les hommes aient changé le leur? Oh! dit Candide, il y a bien de la différence, car le libre arbitre…. En raisonnant ainsi, ils arrivèrent à Bordeaux.\n\n«Quaque erat et tellus, illic et pontus et aer.»\n\nVoyez la première journée de Telliamed, où il est dit que la mer a été supérieure d’an grand nombre de coudées à la plus haute de toutes nos montagnes. Voltaire parle souvent de De Maillet et de son Telliamed. Voyez entre autres, dans les Mélanges, année 1768, le chapitre XVIII des Singularités de la nature; et année 1777, le onzième des Dialogues d’Evhémère. B.\n\n### Chapter XXII\n\nCe qui arriva en France à Candide et à Martin.\n\nCandide ne s’arrêta dans Bordeaux qu’autant de temps qu’il en fallait pour vendre quelques cailloux du Dorado, et pour s’accommoder d’une bonne chaise à deux places; car il ne pouvait plus se passer de son philosophe Martin; il fut seulement très fâché de se séparer de son mouton, qu’il laissa à l’académie des sciences de Bordeaux, laquelle proposa pour le sujet du prix de cette année de trouver pourquoi la laine de ce mouton était rouge; et le prix fut adjugé à un savant du Nord, qui démontra par A, plus B, moins C divisé par Z, que le mouton devait être rouge, et mourir de la clavelée.\n\nCependant tous les voyageurs que Candide rencontra dans les cabarets de la route lui disaient: Nous allons à Paris. Cet empressement général lui donna enfin l’envie de voir cette capitale; ce n’était pas beaucoup se détourner du chemin de Venise.\n\nIl entra par le faubourg Saint-Marceau, et crut être dans le plus vilain village de la Vestphalie.\n\nA peine Candide fut-il dans son auberge, qu’il fut attaqué d’une maladie légère, causée par ses fatigues. Comme il avait au doigt un diamant énorme, et qu’on avait aperçu dans son équipage une cassette prodigieusement pesante, il eut aussitôt auprès de lui deux médecins qu’il n’avait pas mandés, quelques amis intimes qui ne le quittèrent pas, et deux dévotes qui fesaient chauffer ses bouillons. Martin disait: Je me souviens d’avoir été malade aussi à Paris dans mon premier voyage; j’étais fort pauvre: aussi n’eus-je ni amis, ni dévotes, ni médecins, et je guéris.\n\nCependant, à force de médecines et de saignées, la maladie de Candide devint sérieuse. Un habitué du quartier vint avec douceur lui demander un billet payable au porteur pour l’autre monde: Candide n’en voulut rien faire; les dévotes l’assurèrent que c’était une nouvelle mode: Candide répondit qu’il n’était point homme à la mode. Martin voulut jeter l’habitué par les fenêtres. Le clerc jura qu’on n’enterrerait point Candide. Martin jura qu’il enterrerait le clerc, s’il continuait à les importuner. La querelle s’échauffa: Martin le prit par les épaules, et le chassa rudement; ce qui causa un grand scandale, dont on fit un procès-verbal.\n\nCandide guérit; et pendant sa convalescence il eut très bonne compagnie à souper chez lui. On jouait gros jeu. Candide était tout étonné que jamais les as ne lui vinssent; et Martin ne s’en étonnait pas.\n\nParmi ceux qui lui fesaient les honneurs de la ville, il y avait un petit abbé périgourdin, l’un de ces gens empressés, toujours alertes, toujours serviables, effrontés, caressants, accommodants, qui guettent les étrangers à leur passage, leur content l’histoire scandaleuse de la ville, et leur offrent des plaisirs à tout prix. Celui-ci mena d’abord Candide et Martin à la comédie. On y jouait une tragédie nouvelle. Candide se trouva placé auprès de quelques beaux esprits. Cela ne l’empêcha pas de pleurer à des scènes jouées parfaitement. Un des raisonneurs qui étaient à ses côtés lui dit dans un entr’acte: Vous avez grand tort de pleurer, cette actrice est fort mauvaise; l’acteur qui joue avec elle est plus mauvais acteur encore; la pièce est encore plus mauvaise que les acteurs; l’auteur ne sait pas un mot d’arabe, et cependant la scène est en Arabie; et, de plus, c’est un homme qui ne croit pas aux idées innées; je vous apporterai demain vingt brochures contre lui. Monsieur, combien avez-vous de pièces de théâtre en France? dit Candide à l’abbé; lequel répondit: Cinq ou six mille. C’est beaucoup, dit Candide: combien y en a-t-il de bonnes? Quinze ou seize, répliqua l’autre. C’est beaucoup, dit Martin.\n\nQue ton exactitude à dépeindre les moeurs S’étende jusqu’aux noms de tes moindres acteurs, Et qu’en les prononçant ils nous fassent connaître Les pays et les temps où tu les fais renaître. Je vois avec dépit, pour ne produire rien, Chez le Thébain Oedipe, Hidaspe l’Indien.\n\nVoltaire profita de la critique, et mit Araspe au lieu de Hidaspe. C’est peut-être à ces vers de La Grange Chancel que Voltaire fait ici allusion. B.\n\n«… contre lui. Monsieur, lui dit l’abbé périgourdin, avez-vous remarqué cette jeune personne qui a un visage si piquant et une taille si fine? Il ne vous en coûtera que dix mille francs par mois, et pour cinquante mille écus de diamants. Je n’ai qu’un jour ou deux à lui donner, répondit Candide, parceque j’ai un rendez-vous à Venise, qui presse.\n\nLe soir, après souper, l’insinuant Périgourdin redoubla de politesses et d’attentions. Vous avez donc, monsieur, lui dit-il, un rendez-vous à Venise, etc.» (Voyez page 306.)\n\nLe texte actuel existe dès 1761. B.\n\nCandide fut très content d’une actrice qui fesait la reine Élizabeth, dans une assez plate tragédie, que l’on joue quelquefois. Cette actrice, dit-il à Martin, me plaît beaucoup; elle a un faux air de mademoiselle Cunégonde; je serais bien aise de la saluer. L’abbé périgourdin s’offrit à l’introduire chez elle. Candide, élevé en Allemagne, demanda quelle était l’étiquette, et comment on traitait en France les reines d’Angleterre. Il faut distinguer, dit l’abbé: en province, on les mène au cabaret; à Paris, on les respecte quand elles sont belles, et on les jette à la voirie quand elles sont mortes. Des reines à la voirie! dit Candide. Oui vraiment, dit Martin; monsieur l’abbé a raison; j’étais à Paris quand mademoiselle Monime passa, comme on dit, de cette vie à l’autre; on lui refusa, ce que ces gens-ci appellent les honneurs de la sépulture, c’est-à-dire de pourrir avec tous les gueux du quartier dans un vilain cimetière; elle fut enterrée toute seule de sa bande au coin de la rue de Bourgogne; ce qui dut lui faire une peine extrême, car elle pensait très noblement. Cela est bien impoli, dit Candide. Que voulez-vous? dit Martin; ces gens-ci sont ainsi faits. Imaginez toutes les contradictions, toutes les incompatibilités possibles, vous les verrez dans le gouvernement, dans les tribunaux, dans les églises, dans les spectacles de cette drôle de nation. Est-il vrai qu’on rit toujours à Paris? dit Candide. Oui, dit l’abbé, mais c’est en enrageant; car on s’y plaint de tout avec de grands éclats de rire; même on y fait en riant les actions les plus détestables.\n\nQuel est, dit Candide, ce gros cochon qui me disait tant de mal de la pièce où j’ai tant pleuré, et des acteurs qui m’ont fait tant de plaisir? C’est un mal-vivant, répondit l’abbé, qui gagne sa vie à dire du mal de toutes les pièces et de tous les livres; il hait quiconque réussit, comme les eunuques haïssent les jouissants; c’est un de ces serpents de la littérature qui se nourrissent de fange et de venin; c’est un folliculaire. Qu’appelez-vous folliculaire? dit Candide. C’est, dit l’abbé, un feseur de feuilles, un Fréron.\n\nC’est ainsi que Candide, Martin, et le Périgourdin, raisonnaient sur l’escalier, en voyant défiler le monde au sortir de la pièce. Quoique je sois très empressé de revoir mademoiselle Cunégonde, dit Candide, je voudrais pourtant souper avec mademoiselle Clairon, car elle m’a paru admirable.\n\nL’abbé n’était pas homme à approcher de mademoiselle Clairon, qui ne voyait que bonne compagnie. Elle est engagée pour ce soir, dit-il; mais j’aurai l’honneur de vous mener chez une dame de qualité, et là vous connaîtrez Paris comme si vous y aviez été quatre ans.\n\nCandide, qui était naturellement curieux, se laissa mener chez la dame, au fond du faubourg Saint-Honoré; on y était occupé d’un pharaon; douze tristes pontes tenaient chacun en main un petit livre de cartes, registre cornu de leurs infortunes. Un profond silence régnait, la pâleur était sur le front des pontes, l’inquiétude sur celui du banquier; et la dame du logis, assise auprès de ce banquier impitoyable, remarquait avec des yeux de lynx tous les parolis, tous les sept-et-le-va de campagne, dont chaque joueur cornait ses cartes; elle les fesait décorner avec une attention sévère, mais polie, et ne se fâchait point, de peur de perdre ses pratiques. La dame se fesait appeler la marquise de Parolignac. Sa fille, âgée de quinze ans, était au nombre des pontes, et avertissait d’un clin d’oeil des friponneries de ces pauvres gens qui tâchaient de réparer les cruautés du sort. L’abbé périgourdin, Candide, et Martin, entrèrent; personne ne se leva, ni les salua, ni les regarda; tous étaient profondément occupés de leurs cartes. Madame la baronne de Thunder-ten-tronckh était plus civile, dit Candide.\n\nCependant l’abbé s’approcha de l’oreille de la marquise, qui se leva à moitié, honora Candide d’un sourire gracieux, et Martin d’un air de tête tout-à-fait noble; elle fit donner un siège et un jeu de cartes à Candide, qui perdit cinquante mille francs en deux tailles: après quoi on soupa très gaiement; et tout le monde était étonné que Candide ne fût pas ému de sa perte; les laquais disaient entre eux, dans leur langage de laquais: Il faut que ce soit quelque milord anglais. Le souper fut comme la plupart des soupers de Paris, d’abord du silence, ensuite un bruit de paroles qu’on ne distingue point, puis des plaisanteries dont la plupart sont insipides, de fausses nouvelles, de mauvais raisonnements, un peu de politique, et beaucoup de médisance; on parla même de livres nouveaux. Avez-vous vu, dit l’abbé périgourdin, le roman du sieur Gauchat, docteur en théologie? Oui, répondit un des convives, mais je n’ai pu l’achever. Nous avons une foule d’écrits impertinents; mais tous ensemble n’approchent pas de l’impertinence de Gauchat, docteur en théologie; je suis si rassasié de cette immensité de détestables livres qui nous inondent, que je me suis mis à ponter au pharaon. Et les Mélanges de l’archidiacre Trublet, qu’en dites-vous? dit l’abbé. Ah! dit madame de Parolignac, l’ennuyeux mortel! comme il vous dit curieusement ce que tout le monde sait! comme il discute pesamment ce qui ne vaut pas la peine d’être remarqué légèrement! comme il s’approprie, sans esprit, l’esprit des autres! comme il gâte ce qu’il pille! comme il me dégoûte! mais il ne me dégoûtera plus; c’est assez d’avoir lu quelques pages de l’archidiacre.\n\nIl y avait à table un homme savant et de goût qui appuya ce que disait la marquise. On parla ensuite de tragédies; la dame demanda pourquoi il y avait des tragédies qu’on jouait quelquefois, et qu’on ne pouvait lire. L’homme de goût expliqua très bien comment une pièce pouvait avoir quelque intérêt, et n’avoir presque aucun mérite; il prouva en peu de mots que ce n’était pas assez d’amener une ou deux de ces situations qu’on trouve dans tous les romans, et qui séduisent toujours les spectateurs; mais qu’il faut être neuf sans être bizarre, souvent sublime et toujours naturel, connaître le coeur humain et le faire parler; être grand poëte, sans que jamais aucun personnage de la pièce paraisse poëte; savoir parfaitement sa langue, la parler avec pureté, avec une harmonie continue, sans que jamais la rime coûte rien au sens. Quiconque, ajouta-t-il, n’observe pas toutes ces règles, peut faire une ou deux tragédies applaudies au théâtre, mais il ne sera jamais compté au rang des bons écrivains; il y a très peu de bonnes tragédies: les unes sont des idylles en dialogues bien écrits et bien rimés; les autres, des raisonnements politiques qui endorment, ou des amplifications qui rebutent; les autres, des rêves d’énergumène, en style barbare, des propos interrompus, de longues apostrophes aux dieux, parcequ’on ne sait point parler aux hommes, des maximes fausses, des lieux communs ampoulés.\n\nCandide écouta ce propos avec attention, et conçut une grande idée du discoureur; et, comme la marquise avait eu soin de le placer à côté d’elle, il s’approcha de son oreille, et prit la liberté de lui demander qui était cet homme qui parlait si bien. C’est un savant, dit la dame, qui ne ponte point, et que l’abbé m’amène quelquefois à souper; il se connaît parfaitement en tragédies et en livres, et il a fait une tragédie sifflée, et un livre dont on n’a jamais vu hors de la boutique de son libraire qu’un exemplaire qu’il m’a dédié. Le grand homme! dit Candide, c’est un autre Pangloss.\n\nAlors se tournant vers lui, il lui dit: Monsieur, vous pensez, sans doute, que tout est au mieux dans le monde physique et dans le moral, et que rien ne pouvait être autrement? Moi, monsieur, lui répondit le savant, je ne pense rien de tout cela; je trouve que tout va de travers chez nous; que personne ne sait ni quel est son rang, ni quelle est sa charge, ni ce qu’il fait, ni ce qu’il doit faire, et qu’excepté le souper, qui est assez gai, et où il paraît assez d’union, tout le reste du temps se passe en querelles impertinentes; jansénistes contre molinistes, gens du parlement contre gens d’église, gens de lettres contre gens de lettres, courtisans contre courtisans, financiers contre le peuple, femmes contre maris, parents contre parents; c’est une guerre éternelle.\n\nCandide lui répliqua: J’ai vu pis; mais un sage, qui depuis a eu le malheur d’être pendu, m’apprit que tout cela est à merveille; ce sont des ombres à un beau tableau. Votre pendu se moquait du monde, dit Martin; vos ombres sont des taches horribles. Ce sont les hommes qui font les taches, dit Candide, et ils ne peuvent pas s’en dispenser. Ce n’est donc pas leur faute, dit Martin. La plupart des pontes, qui n’entendaient rien à ce langage, buvaient; et Martin raisonna avec le savant, et Candide raconta une partie de ses aventures à la dame du logis.\n\nAprès souper, la marquise mena Candide dans son cabinet, et le fit asseoir sur un canapé. Eh bien! lui dit-elle, vous aimez donc toujours éperdument mademoiselle Cunégonde de Thunder-ten-tronckh? Oui, madame, répondit Candide. La marquise lui répliqua avec un souris tendre: Vous me répondez comme un jeune homme de Vestphalie; un Français m’aurait dit: Il est vrai que j’ai aimé mademoiselle Cunégonde; mais en vous voyant, madame, je crains de ne la plus aimer. Hélas! madame, dit Candide, je répondrai comme vous voudrez. Votre passion pour elle, dit la marquise, a commencé en ramassant son mouchoir; je veux que vous ramassiez ma jarretière. De tout mon coeur, dit Candide; et il la ramassa. Mais je veux que vous me la remettiez, dit la dame; et Candide la lui remit. Voyez-vous, dit la dame, vous êtes étranger; je fais quelquefois languir mes amants de Paris quinze jours, mais je me rends à vous dès la première nuit, parcequ’il faut faire les honneurs de son pays à un jeune homme de Vestphalie. La belle ayant aperçu deux énormes diamants aux deux mains de son jeune étranger, les loua de si bonne foi, que des doigts de Candide ils passèrent aux doigts de la marquise.\n\nCandide, en s’en retournant avec son abbé périgourdin, sentit quelques remords d’avoir fait une infidélité à mademoiselle Cunégonde. M. l’abbé entra dans sa peine; il n’avait qu’une légère part aux cinquante mille livres perdues au jeu par Candide, et à la valeur des deux brillants moitié donnés, moitié extorqués. Son dessein était de profiter, autant qu’il le pourrait, des avantages que la connaissance de Candide pouvait lui procurer. Il lui parla beaucoup de Cunégonde; et Candide lui dit qu’il demanderait bien pardon à cette belle de son infidélité, quand il la verrait à Venise.\n\nLe Périgourdin redoublait de politesses et d’attentions, et prenait un intérêt tendre à tout ce que Candide disait, à tout ce qu’il fesait, à tout ce qu’il voulait faire.\n\nVous avez donc, monsieur, lui dit-il, un rendez-vous à Venise? Oui, monsieur l’abbé, dit Candide; il faut absolument que j’aille trouver mademoiselle Cunégonde. Alors, engagé par le plaisir de parler de ce qu’il aimait, il conta, selon son usage, une partie de ses aventures avec cette illustre Vestphalienne.\n\nJe crois, dit l’abbé, que mademoiselle Cunégonde a bien de l’esprit, et qu’elle écrit des lettres charmantes. Je n’en ai jamais reçu, dit Candide; car, figurez-vous qu’ayant été chassé du château pour l’amour d’elle, je ne pus lui écrire; que bientôt après j’appris qu’elle était morte, qu’ensuite je la retrouvai, et que je la perdis, et que je lui ai envoyé à deux mille cinq cents lieues d’ici un exprès dont j’attends la réponse.\n\nL’abbé écoutait attentivement, et paraissait un peu rêveur. Il prit bientôt congé des deux étrangers, après les avoir tendrement embrassés. Le lendemain Candide reçut à son réveil une lettre conçue en ces termes:\n\n«Monsieur mon très cher amant, il y a huit jours que je suis malade en cette ville; j’apprends que vous y êtes. Je volerais dans vos bras si je pouvais remuer. J’ai su votre passage à Bordeaux; j’y ai laissé le fidèle Cacambo et la vieille, qui doivent bientôt me suivre. Le gouverneur de Buénos-Ayres a tout pris, mais il me reste votre coeur. Venez; votre présence me rendra la vie ou me fera mourir de plaisir.»\n\nCette lettre charmante, cette lettre inespérée, transporta Candide d’une joie inexprimable; et la maladie de sa chère Cunégonde l’accabla de douleur. Partagé entre ces deux sentiments, il prend son or et ses diamants, et se fait conduire avec Martin à l’hôtel où mademoiselle Cunégonde demeurait. Il entre en tremblant d’émotion, son coeur palpite, sa voix sanglote; il veut ouvrir les rideaux du lit; il veut faire apporter de la lumière. Gardez-vous-en bien, lui dit la suivante; la lumière la tue; et soudain elle referme le rideau. Ma chère Cunégonde, dit Candide en pleurant, comment vous portez-vous? si vous ne pouvez me voir, parlez-moi du moins. Elle ne peut parler, dit la suivante, la dame alors tire du lit une main potelée que Candide arrose long-temps de ses larmes, et qu’il remplit ensuite de diamants, en laissant un sac plein d’or sur le fauteuil.\n\nAu milieu de ses transports arrive un exempt suivi de l’abbé périgourdin et d’une escouade. Voilà donc, dit-il, ces deux étrangers suspects? Il les fait incontinent saisir, et ordonne à ses braves de les traîner en prison. Ce n’est pas ainsi qu’on traite les voyageurs dans Eldorado, dit Candide. Je suis plus manichéen que jamais, dit Martin. Mais, monsieur, où nous menez-vous? dit Candide. Dans un cul de basse-fosse, dit l’exempt.\n\nMartin, ayant repris son sang froid, jugea que la dame qui se prétendait Cunégonde était une friponne, monsieur l’abbé périgourdin un fripon, qui avait abusé au plus vite de l’innocence de Candide, et l’exempt un autre fripon dont on pouvait aisément se débarrasser.\n\nPlutôt que de s’exposer aux procédures de la justice, Candide, éclairé par son conseil, et d’ailleurs toujours impatient de revoir la véritable Cunégonde, propose à l’exempt trois petits diamants d’environ trois mille pistoles chacun. Ah! monsieur, lui dit l’homme au bâton d’ivoire, eussiez-vous commis tous les crimes imaginables, vous êtes le plus honnête homme du monde; trois diamants! chacun de trois mille pistoles! Monsieur! je me ferais tuer pour vous, au lieu de vous mener dans un cachot. On arrête tous les étrangers, mais laissez-moi faire; j’ai un frère à Dieppe en Normandie; je vais vous y mener; et si vous avez quelque diamant à lui donner, il aura soin de vous comme moi-même.\n\nEt pourquoi arrête-t-on tous les étrangers? dit Candide. L’abbé périgourdin prit alors la parole, et dit: C’est parcequ’un gueux du pays d’Atrébatie a entendu dire des sottises; cela seul lui a fait commettre un parricide, non pas tel que celui de 1610 au mois de mai, mais tel que celui de 1594 au mois de décembre, et tel que plusieurs autres commis dans d’autres années et dans d’autres mois par d’autres gueux qui avaient entendu dire des sottises.\n\nL’exempt alors expliqua de quoi il s’agissait. Ah! les monstres! s’écria Candide; quoi! de telles horreurs chez un peuple qui danse et qui chante! Ne pourrai-je sortir au plus vite de ce pays où des singes agacent des tigres? J’ai vu des ours dans mon pays; je n’ai vu des hommes que dans le Dorado. Au nom de Dieu, monsieur l’exempt, menez-moi à Venise, où je dois attendre mademoiselle Cunégonde. Je ne peux vous mener qu’en Basse-Normandie, dit le barigel. Aussitôt il lui fait ôter ses fers, dit qu’il s’est mépris, renvoie ses gens, emmène à Dieppe Candide et Martin, et les laisse entre les mains de son frère. Il y avait un petit vaisseau hollandais à la rade. Le Normand, à l’aide de trois autres diamants, devenu le plus serviable des hommes, embarque Candide et ses gens dans le vaisseau qui allait faire voile pour Portsmouth en Angleterre. Ce n’était pas le chemin de Venise; mais Candide croyait être délivré de l’enfer; et il comptait bien reprendre la route de Venise à la première occasion.\n\n### Chapter XXIII\n\nCandide et Martin vont sur les côtes d’Angleterre; ce qu’ils y voient.\n\nAh! Pangloss! Pangloss! Ah! Martin! Martin! Ah! ma chère Cunégonde! qu’est-ce que ce monde-ci? disait Candide sur le vaisseau hollandais. Quelque chose de bien fou et de bien abominable, répondait Martin.—Vous connaissez l’Angleterre; y est-on aussi fou qu’en France? C’est une autre espèce de folie, dit Martin. Vous savez que ces deux nations sont en guerre pour quelques arpents de neige vers le Canada, et qu’elles dépensent pour cette belle guerre beaucoup plus que tout le Canada ne vaut. De vous dire précisément s’il y a plus de gens à lier dans un pays que dans un autre, c’est ce que mes faibles lumières ne me permettent pas; je sais seulement qu’en général les gens que nous allons voir sont fort atrabilaires.\n\nEn causant ainsi ils abordèrent à Portsmouth; une multitude de peuple couvrait le rivage, et regardait attentivement un assez gros homme qui était à genoux, les yeux bandés, sur le tillac d’un des vaisseaux de la flotte; quatre soldats, postés vis-à-vis de cet homme, lui tirèrent chacun trois balles dans le crâne, le plus paisiblement du monde; et toute l’assemblée s’en retourna extrêmement satisfaite. Qu’est-ce donc que tout ceci? dit Candide; et quel démon exerce partout son empire? Il demanda qui était ce gros homme qu’on venait de tuer en cérémonie. C’est un amiral, lui répondit-on. Et pourquoi tuer cet amiral? C’est, lui dit-on, parcequ’il n’a pas fait tuer assez de monde; il a livré un combat à un amiral français, et on a trouvé qu’il n’était pas assez près de lui. Mais, dit Candide, l’amiral français était aussi loin de l’amiral anglais que celui-ci l’était de l’autre! Cela est incontestable, lui répliqua-t-on; mais dans ce pays-ci il est bon de tuer de temps en temps un amiral pour encourager les autres.\n\nCandide fut si étourdi et si choqué de ce qu’il voyait et de ce qu’il entendait, qu’il ne voulut pas seulement mettre pied à terre, et qu’il fit son marché avec le patron hollandais (dût-il le voler comme celui de Surinam), pour le conduire sans délai à Venise.\n\nLe patron fut prêt au bout de deux jours. On côtoya la France; on passa à la vue de Lisbonne, et Candide frémit. On entra dans le détroit et dans la Méditerranée, enfin on aborda à Venise. Dieu soit loué! dit Candide, en embrassant Martin; c’est ici que je reverrai la belle Cunégonde. Je compte sur Cacambo comme sur moi-même. Tout est bien, tout va bien, tout va le mieux qu’il soit possible.\n\n### Chapter XXIV\n\nDe Paquette, et de frère Giroflée.\n\nDès qu’il fut à Venise, il fit chercher Cacambo dans tous les cabarets, dans tous les cafés, chez toutes les filles de joie, et ne le trouva point. Il envoyait tous les jours à la découverte de tous les vaisseaux et de toutes les barques: nulles nouvelles de Cacambo. Quoi! disait-il à Martin, j’ai eu le temps de passer de Surinam à Bordeaux, d’aller de Bordeaux à Paris, de Paris à Dieppe, de Dieppe à Portsmouth, de côtoyer le Portugal et l’Espagne, de traverser toute la Méditerranée, de passer quelques mois à Venise; et la belle Cunégonde n’est point venue! Je n’ai rencontré au lieu d’elle qu’une drôlesse et un abbé périgourdin! Cunégonde est morte, sans doute; je n’ai plus qu’à mourir. Ah! il valait mieux rester dans le paradis du Dorado que de revenir dans cette maudite Europe. Que vous avez raison, mon cher Martin! tout n’est qu’illusion et calamité.\n\nIl tomba dans une mélancolie noire, et ne prit aucune part à l’opéra alla moda, ni aux autres divertissements du carnaval; pas une dame ne lui donna la moindre tentation. Martin lui dit: Vous êtes bien simple, en vérité, de vous figurer qu’un valet métis, qui a cinq ou six millions dans ses poches, ira chercher votre maîtresse au bout du monde, et vous l’amènera à Venise. Il la prendra pour lui, s’il la trouve; s’il ne la trouve pas, il en prendra une autre: je vous conseille d’oublier votre valet Cacambo et votre maîtresse Cunégonde. Martin n’était pas consolant. La mélancolie de Candide augmenta, et Martin ne cessait de lui prouver qu’il y avait peu de vertu et peu de bonheur sur la terre; excepté peut-être dans Eldorado, où personne ne pouvait aller.\n\nEn disputant sur cette matière importante, et en attendant Cunégonde, Candide aperçut un jeune théatin dans la place Saint-Marc, qui tenait sous le bras une fille. Le théatin paraissait frais, potelé, vigoureux; ses yeux étaient brillants, son air assuré, sa mine haute, sa démarche fière. La fille était très jolie, et chantait; elle regardait amoureusement son théatin, et de temps en temps lui pinçait ses grosses joues. Vous m’avouerez du moins, dit Candide à Martin, que ces gens-ci sont heureux. Je n’ai trouvé jusqu’à présent dans toute la terre habitable, excepté dans Eldorado, que des infortunés; mais pour cette fille et ce théatin, je gage que ce sont des créatures très heureuses. Je gage que non, dit Martin. Il n’y a qu’à les prier à dîner, dit Candide, et vous verrez si je me trompe.\n\nAussitôt il les aborde, il leur fait son compliment, et les invite à venir à son hôtellerie manger des macaronis, des perdrix de Lombardie, des oeufs d’esturgeon, et à boire du vin de Montepulciano, du lacryma-christi, du chypre, et du samos. La demoiselle rougit, le théatin accepta la partie, et la fille le suivit en regardant Candide avec des yeux de surprise et de confusion, qui furent obscurcis de quelques larmes. A peine fut-elle entrée dans la chambre de Candide, qu’elle lui dit: Eh quoi! monsieur Candide ne reconnaît plus Paquette! A ces mots Candide, qui ne l’avait pas considérée jusque-là avec attention, parcequ’il n’était occupé que de Cunégonde, lui dit: Hélas! ma pauvre enfant, c’est donc vous qui avez mis le docteur Pangloss dans le bel état où je l’ai vu?\n\nHélas! monsieur, c’est moi-même, dit Paquette; je vois que vous êtes instruit de tout. J’ai su les malheurs épouvantables arrivés à toute la maison de madame la baronne et à la belle Cunégonde. Je vous jure que ma destinée n’a guère été moins triste. J’étais fort innocente quand vous m’avez vue. Un cordelier, qui était mon confesseur, me séduisit aisément. Les suites en furent affreuses; je fus obligée de sortir du château quelque temps après que M. le baron vous eut renvoyé à grands coups de pied dans le derrière. Si un fameux médecin n’avait pas pris pitié de moi, j’étais morte. Je fus quelque temps par reconnaissance la maîtresse de ce médecin. Sa femme, qui était jalouse à la rage, me battait tous les jours impitoyablement; c’était une furie. Ce médecin était le plus laid de tous les hommes, et moi la plus malheureuse de toutes les créatures d’être battue continuellement pour un homme que je n’aimais pas. Vous savez, monsieur, combien il est dangereux pour une femme acariâtre d’être l’épouse d’un médecin. Celui-ci, outré des procédés de sa femme, lui donna un jour, pour la guérir d’un petit rhume, une médecine si efficace, qu’elle en mourut en deux heures de temps dans des convulsions horribles. Les parents de madame intentèrent à monsieur un procès criminel; il prit la fuite, et moi je fus mise en prison. Mon innocence ne m’aurait pas sauvée, si je n’avais été un peu jolie. Le juge m’élargit à condition qu’il succéderait au médecin. Je fus bientôt supplantée par une rivale, chassée sans récompense, et obligée de continuer ce métier abominable qui vous paraît si plaisant à vous autres hommes, et qui n’est pour nous qu’un abîme de misère. J’allai exercer la profession à Venise. Ah! monsieur, si vous pouviez vous imaginer ce que c’est que d’être obligée de caresser indifféremment un vieux marchand, un avocat, un moine, un gondolier, un abbé; d’être exposée à toutes les insultes, à toutes les avanies; d’être souvent réduite à emprunter une jupe pour aller se la faire lever par un homme dégoûtant; d’être volée par l’un de ce qu’on a gagné avec l’autre; d’être rançonnée par les officiers de justice, et de n’avoir en perspective qu’une vieillesse affreuse, un hôpital, et un fumier, vous concluriez que je suis une des plus malheureuses créatures du monde.\n\nPaquette ouvrait ainsi son coeur au bon Candide, dans un cabinet, en présence de Martin, qui disait à Candide: Vous voyez que j’ai déjà gagné la moitié de la gageure.\n\nFrère Giroflée était resté dans la salle à manger, et buvait un coup en attendant le dîner. Mais, dit Candide à Paquette, vous aviez l’air si gai, si content, quand je vous ai rencontrée; vous chantiez, vous caressiez le théatin avec une complaisance naturelle; vous m’avez paru aussi heureuse que vous prétendez être infortunée. Ah! monsieur, répondit Paquette, c’est encore là une des misères du métier. J’ai été hier volée et battue par un officier, et il faut aujourd’hui que je paraisse de bonne humeur pour plaire à un moine.\n\nCandide n’en voulut pas davantage; il avoua que Martin avait raison. On se mit à table avec Paquette et le théatin; le repas fut assez amusant, et sur la fin on se parla avec quelque confiance. Mon père, dit Candide au moine, vous me paraissez jouir d’une destinée que tout le monde doit envier; la fleur de la santé brille sur votre visage, votre physionomie annonce le bonheur; vous avez une très jolie fille pour votre récréation, et vous paraissez très content de votre état de théatin.\n\nMa foi, monsieur, dit frère Giroflée, je voudrais que tous les théatins fussent au fond de la mer. J’ai été tenté cent fois de mettre le feu au couvent, et d’aller me faire turc. Mes parents me forcèrent, à l’âge de quinze ans, d’endosser cette détestable robe, pour laisser plus de fortune à un maudit frère aîné, que Dieu confonde! La jalousie, la discorde, la rage, habitent dans le couvent. Il est vrai que j’ai prêché quelques mauvais sermons qui m’ont valu un peu d’argent dont le prieur me vole la moitié; le reste me sert à entretenir des filles: mais quand je rentre le soir dans le monastère, je suis prêt à me casser la tête contre les murs du dortoir; et tous mes confrères sont dans le même cas.\n\nMartin se tournant vers Candide avec son sang froid ordinaire: Eh bien! lui dit-il, n’ai-je pas gagné la gageure tout entière? Candide donna deux mille piastres à Paquette, et mille piastres à frère Giroflée. Je vous réponds, dit-il, qu’avec cela ils seront heureux. Je n’en crois rien du tout, dit Martin; vous les rendrez peut-être avec ces piastres beaucoup plus malheureux encore. Il en sera ce qui pourra, dit Candide: mais une chose me console, je vois qu’on retrouve souvent les gens qu’on ne croyait jamais retrouver; il se pourra bien faire qu’ayant rencontré mon mouton rouge et Paquette, je rencontre aussi Cunégonde. Je souhaite, dit Martin, qu’elle fasse un jour votre bonheur; mais c’est de quoi je doute fort. Vous êtes bien dur, dit Candide. C’est que j’ai vécu, dit Martin. Mais regardez ces gondoliers, dit Candide: ne chantent-ils pas sans cesse? Vous ne les voyez pas dans leur ménage, avec leurs femmes et leurs marmots d’enfants, dit Martin. Le doge a ses chagrins, les gondoliers ont les leurs. Il est vrai qu’à tout prendre le sort d’un gondolier est préférable à celui d’un doge; mais je crois la différence si médiocre, que cela ne vaut pas la peine d’être examiné.\n\nOn parle, dit Candide, du sénateur Pococurante, qui demeure dans ce beau palais sur la Brenta, et qui reçoit assez bien les étrangers. On prétend que c’est un homme qui n’a jamais eu de chagrin. Je voudrais voir une espèce si rare, dit Martin. Candide aussitôt fit demander au seigneur Pococurante la permission de venir le voir le lendemain.\n\n### Chapter XXV\n\nVisite chez le seigneur Pococurante, noble vénitien.\n\nCandide et Martin allèrent en gondole sur la Brenta, et arrivèrent au palais du noble Pococurante. Les jardins étaient bien entendus, et ornés de belles statues de marbre; le palais d’une belle architecture. Le maître du logis, homme de soixante ans, fort riche, reçut très poliment les deux curieux, mais avec très peu d’empressement, ce qui déconcerta Candide, et ne déplut point à Martin.\n\nD’abord deux filles jolies et proprement mises servirent du chocolat, qu’elles firent très bien mousser. Candide ne put s’empêcher de les louer sur leur beauté, sur leur bonne grâce, et sur leur adresse. Ce sont d’assez bonnes créatures, dit le sénateur Pococurante; je les fais quelquefois coucher dans mon lit; car je suis bien las des dames de la ville, de leurs coquetteries, de leurs jalousies, de leurs querelles, de leurs humeurs, de leurs petitesses, de leur orgueil, de leurs sottises, et des sonnets qu’il faut faire ou commander pour elles; mais, après tout, ces deux filles commencent fort à m’ennuyer.\n\nCandide, après le déjeuner, se promenant dans une longue galerie, fut surpris de la beauté des tableaux. Il demanda de quel maître étaient les deux premiers. Ils sont de Raphaël, dit le sénateur; je les achetai fort cher par vanité, il y a quelques années; on dit que c’est ce qu’il y a de plus beau en Italie, mais ils ne me plaisent point du tout: la couleur en est très rembrunie, les figures ne sont pas assez arrondies, et ne sortent point assez; les draperies ne ressemblent en rien à une étoffe: en un mot, quoi qu’on en dise, je ne trouve point là une imitation vraie de la nature. Je n’aimerai un tableau que quand je croirai voir la nature elle-même: il n’y en a point de cette espèce. J’ai beaucoup de tableaux, mais je ne les regarde plus.\n\nPococurante, en attendant le dîner, se fit donner un concerto. Candide trouva la musique délicieuse. Ce bruit, dit Pococurante, peut amuser une demi-heure; mais s’il dure plus long-temps, il fatigue tout le monde, quoique personne n’ose l’avouer. La musique aujourd’hui n’est plus que l’art d’exécuter des choses difficiles, et ce qui n’est que difficile ne plaît point à la longue.\n\nJ’aimerais peut être mieux l’opéra, si on n’avait pas trouvé le secret d’en faire un monstre qui me révolte. Ira voir qui voudra de mauvaises tragédies en musique, où les scènes ne sont faites que pour amener très mal à propos deux ou trois chansons ridicules qui font valoir le gosier d’une actrice; se pâmera de plaisir qui voudra ou qui pourra, en voyant un châtré fredonner le rôle de César et de Caton, et se promener d’un air gauche sur des planches: pour moi, il y a long-temps que j’ai renoncé à ces pauvretés qui font aujourd’hui la gloire de l’Italie, et que des souverains paient si chèrement. Candide disputa un peu, mais avec discrétion. Martin fut entièrement de l’avis du sénateur.\n\nOn se mit à table; et, après un excellent dîner, on entra dans la bibliothèque. Candide, en voyant un Homère magnifiquement relié, loua l’illustrissime sur son bon goût. Voilà, dit-il, un livre qui fesait les délices du grand Pangloss, le meilleur philosophe de l’Allemagne. Il ne fait pas les miennes, dit froidement Pococurante: on me fit accroire autrefois que j’avais du plaisir en le lisant; mais cette répétition continuelle de combats qui se ressemblent tous, ces dieux qui agissent toujours pour ne rien faire de décisif, cette Hélène qui est le sujet de la guerre, et qui à peine est une actrice de la pièce; cette Troie qu’on assiège et qu’on ne prend point; tout cela me causait le plus mortel ennui. J’ai demandé quelquefois à des savants s’ils s’ennuyaient autant que moi à cette lecture: tous les gens sincères m’ont avoué que le livre leur tombait des mains, mais qu’il fallait toujours l’avoir dans sa bibliothèque, comme un monument de l’antiquité, et comme ces médailles rouillées qui ne peuvent être de commerce.\n\nVotre excellence ne pense pas ainsi de Virgile? dit Candide. Je conviens, dit Pococurante, que le second, le quatrième, et le sixième livre de son Énéide, sont excellents; mais pour son pieux Énée, et le fort Cloanthe, et l’ami Achates, et le petit Ascanius, et l’imbécile roi Latinus, et la bourgeoise Amata, et l’insipide Lavinia, je ne crois pas qu’il y ait rien de si froid et de plus désagréable. J’aime mieux le Tasse et les contes à dormir debout de l’Arioste.\n\nOserais-je vous demander, monsieur, dit Candide, si vous n’avez pas un grand plaisir à lire Horace? Il y a des maximes, dit Pococurante, dont un homme du monde peut faire son profit, et qui, étant resserrées dans des vers énergiques, se gravent plus aisément dans la mémoire: mais je me soucie fort peu de son voyage à Brindes, et de sa description d’un mauvais dîner, et de la querelle de crocheteurs entre je ne sais quel Pupilus dont les paroles, dit-il, étaient pleines de pus, et un autre dont les paroles étaient du vinaigre. Je n’ai lu qu’avec un extrême dégoût ses vers grossiers contre des vieilles et contre des sorcières; et je ne vois pas quel mérite il peut y avoir à dire à son ami Mecenas que, s’il est mis par lui au rang des poètes lyriques, il frappera les astres de son front sublime. Les sots admirent tout dans un auteur estimé. Je ne lis que pour moi; je n’aime que ce qui est à mon usage. Candide, qui avait été élevé à ne jamais juger de rien par lui-même, était fort étonné de ce qu’il entendait; et Martin trouvait la façon de penser de Pococurante assez raisonnable.\n\nRupili pus atque venenum. B.\n\nOh! voici un Cicéron, dit Candide: pour ce grand homme-là, je pense que vous ne vous lassez point de le lire. Je ne le lis jamais, répondit le Vénitien. Que m’importe qu’il ait plaidé pour Rabirius ou pour Cluentius? J’ai bien assez des procès que je juge; je me serais mieux accommodé de ses oeuvres philosophiques; mais quand j’ai vu qu’il doutait de tout, j’ai conclu que j’en savais autant que lui, et que je n’avais besoin de personne pour être ignorant.\n\nAh! voilà quatre-vingts volumes de recueils d’une académie des sciences, s’écria Martin; il se peut qu’il y ait là du bon. Il y en aurait, dit Pococurante, si un seul des auteurs de ces fatras avait inventé seulement l’art de faire des épingles; mais il n’y a dans tous ces livres que de vains systèmes, et pas une seule chose utile.\n\nQue de pièces de théâtre je vois là, dit Candide, en italien, en espagnol, en français! Oui, dit le sénateur, il y en a trois mille, et pas trois douzaines de bonnes. Pour ces recueils de sermons, qui tous ensemble ne valent pas une page de Sénèque, et tous ces gros volumes de théologie, vous pensez bien que je ne les ouvre jamais, ni moi, ni personne.\n\nMartin aperçut des rayons chargés de livres anglais. Je crois, dit-il, qu’un républicain doit se plaire à la plupart de ces ouvrages écrits si librement. Oui, répondit Pococurante, il est beau d’écrire ce qu’on pense; c’est le privilège de l’homme. Dans toute notre Italie, on n’écrit que ce qu’on ne pense pas; ceux qui habitent la patrie des Césars et des Antonins n’osent avoir une idée sans la permission d’un jacobin. Je serais content de la liberté qui inspire les génies anglais, si la passion et l’esprit de parti ne corrompaient pas tout ce que cette précieuse liberté a d’estimable.\n\nCandide apercevant un Milton, lui demanda s’il ne regardait pas cet auteur comme un grand homme. Qui? dit Pococurante, ce barbare, qui fait un long commentaire du premier chapitre de la Genèse, en dix livres de vers durs? ce grossier imitateur des Grecs, qui défigure la création, et qui, tandis que Moïse représente l’Etre éternel produisant le monde par la parole, fait prendre un grand compas par le Messiah dans une armoire du ciel pour tracer son ouvrage? Moi, j’estimerais celui qui a gâté l’enfer et le diable du Tasse; qui déguise Lucifer tantôt en crapaud, tantôt en pygmée; qui lui fait rebattre cent fois les mêmes discours; qui le fait disputer sur la théologie; qui, en imitant sérieusement l’invention comique des armes à feu de l’Arioste, fait tirer le canon dans le ciel par les diables? Ni moi ni personne en Italie n’a pu se plaire à toutes ces tristes extravagances. Le Mariage du Péché et de la Mort, et les couleuvres dont le Péché accouche, font vomir tout homme qui a le goût un peu délicat; et sa longue description d’un hôpital n’est bonne que pour un fossoyeur. Ce poëme obscur, bizarre, et dégoûtant, fut méprisé à sa naissance; je le traite aujourd’hui comme il fut traité dans sa patrie par les contemporains. Au reste je dis ce que je pense, et je me soucie fort peu que les autres pensent comme moi. Candide était affligé de ces discours; il respectait Homère, il aimait un peu Milton. Hélas! dit-il tout bas à Martin, j’ai bien peur que cet homme-ci n’ait un souverain mépris pour nos poètes allemands. Il n’y aurait pas grand mal à cela, dit Martin. Oh! quel homme supérieur! disait encore Candide entre ses dents, quel grand génie que ce Pococurante! rien ne peut lui plaire.\n\nAprès avoir fait ainsi la revue de tous les livres, ils descendirent dans le jardin. Candide en loua toutes les beautés. Je ne sais rien de si mauvais goût, dit le maître; nous n’avons ici que des colifichets: mais je vais dès demain en faire planter un d’un dessin plus noble.\n\nQuand les deux curieux eurent pris congé de son excellence: Or çà, dit Candide à Martin, vous conviendrez que voilà le plus heureux de tous les hommes, car il est au-dessus de tout ce qu’il possède. Ne voyez-vous pas, dit Martin, qu’il est dégoûté de tout ce qu’il possède? Platon a dit, il y a long-temps, que les meilleurs estomacs ne sont pas ceux qui rebutent tous les aliments. Mais, dit Candide, n’y a-t-il pas du plaisir à tout critiquer, à sentir des défauts où les autres hommes croient voir des beautés? C’est-à-dire, reprit Martin, qu’il y a du plaisir à n’avoir pas de plaisir? Oh bien! dit Candide, il n’y a donc d’heureux que moi, quand je reverrai mademoiselle Cunégonde. C’est toujours bien fait d’espérer, dit Martin.\n\nCependant les jours, les semaines, s’écoulaient; Cacambo ne revenait point, et Candide était si abîmé dans sa douleur, qu’il ne fit pas même réflexion que Paquette et frère Giroflée n’étaient pas venus seulement le remercier.\n\n### Chapter XXVI\n\nD’un souper que Candide et Martin firent avec six étrangers, et qui ils étaient.\n\nUn soir que Candide, suivi de Martin, allait se mettre à table avec les étrangers qui logeaient dans la même hôtellerie, un homme à visage couleur de suie l’aborda par derrière, et, le prenant par le bras, lui dit: Soyez prêt à partir avec nous, n’y manquez pas. Il se retourne, et voit Cacambo. Il n’y avait que la vue de Cunégonde qui pût l’étonner et lui plaire davantage. Il fut sur le point de devenir fou de joie. Il embrasse son cher ami. Cunégonde est ici, sans doute? où est-elle? Mène-moi vers elle, que je meure de joie avec elle. Cunégonde n’est point ici, dit Cacambo, elle est à Constantinople. Ah ciel! à Constantinople! mais fût-elle à la Chine, j’y vole, partons. Nous partirons après souper, reprit Cacambo; je ne peux vous en dire davantage; je suis esclave, mon maître m’attend; il faut que j’aille le servir à table: ne dites mot, soupez, et tenez-vous prêt.\n\nCandide, partagé entre la joie et la douleur, charmé d’avoir revu son agent fidèle, étonné de le voir esclave, plein de l’idée de retrouver sa maîtresse, le coeur agité, l’esprit bouleversé, se mit à table avec Martin, qui voyait de sang froid toutes ces aventures, et avec six étrangers, qui étaient venus passer le carnaval à Venise.\n\nCacambo, qui versait à boire à l’un de ces six étrangers, s’approcha de l’oreille de son maître, sur la fin du repas, et lui dit: Sire, votre majesté partira quand elle voudra, le vaisseau est prêt. Ayant dit ces mots, il sortit. Les convives étonnés se regardaient sans proférer une seule parole, lorsqu’un autre domestique s’approchant de son maître, lui dit: Sire, la chaise de votre majesté est à Padoue, et la barque est prête. Le maître fit un signe, et le domestique partit. Tous les convives se regardèrent encore, et la surprise commune redoubla. Un troisième valet s’approchant aussi d’un troisième étranger, lui dit: Sire, croyez-moi, votre majesté ne doit pas rester ici plus long-temps, je vais tout préparer; et aussitôt il disparut.\n\nCandide et Martin ne doutèrent pas alors que ce ne fût une mascarade du carnaval. Un quatrième domestique dit au quatrième maître: Votre majesté partira quand elle voudra, et sortit comme les autres. Le cinquième valet en dit autant au cinquième maître. Mais le sixième valet parla différemment au sixième étranger qui était auprès de Candide; il lui dit: Ma foi, sire, on ne veut plus faire crédit à votre majesté ni à moi non plus, et nous pourrions bien être coffrés cette nuit vous et moi; je vais pourvoir à mes affaires: adieu.\n\nTous les domestiques ayant disparu, les six étrangers, Candide, et Martin, demeurèrent dans un profond silence. Enfin Candide le rompit: Messieurs, dit-il, voilà une singulière plaisanterie. Pourquoi êtes-vous tous rois? pour moi, je vous avoue que ni moi ni Martin nous ne le sommes.\n\nLe maître de Cacambo prit alors gravement la parole, et dit en italien: Je ne suis point plaisant, je m’appelle Achmet III; j’ai été grand-sultan plusieurs années; je détrônai mon frère; mon neveu m’a détrôné; on a coupé le cou à mes vizirs; j’achève ma vie dans le vieux sérail; mon neveu le grand-sultan Mahmoud me permet de voyager quelquefois pour ma santé; et je suis venu passer le carnaval à Venise.\n\nUn jeune homme qui était auprès d’Achmet parla après lui, et dit: Je m’appelle Ivan; j’ai été empereur de toutes les Russies; j’ai été détrôné au berceau; mon père et ma mère ont été enfermés; on m’a élevé en prison; j’ai quelquefois la permission de voyager, accompagné de ceux qui me gardent; et je suis venu passer le carnaval à Venise.\n\nLe troisième dit: Je suis Charles-Édouard, roi d’Angleterre; mon père m’a cédé ses droits au royaume; j’ai combattu pour les soutenir; on a arraché le coeur à huit cents de mes partisans, et on leur en a battu les joues; j’ai été mis en prison; je vais à Rome faire une visite au roi mon père, détrôné ainsi que moi et mon grand-père; et je suis venu passer le carnaval à Venise.\n\nLe quatrième prit alors la parole et dit: Je suis roi des Polaques; le sort de la guerre m’a privé de mes états héréditaires; mon père a éprouvé les mêmes revers; je me résigne à la Providence comme le sultan Achmet, l’empereur Ivan, et le roi Charles-Édouard, à qui Dieu donne une longue vie; et je suis venu passer le carnaval à Venise.\n\nLe cinquième dit; Je suis aussi roi des Polaques; j’ai perdu mon royaume deux fois; mais la Providence m’a donné un autre état dans lequel j’ai fait plus de bien que tous les rois des Sarmates ensemble n’en ont jamais pu faire sur les bords de la Vistule. Je me résigne aussi à la Providence; et je suis venu passer le carnaval à Venise.\n\nIl restait au sixième monarque à parler. Messieurs, dit-il, je ne suis pas si grand seigneur que vous; mais enfin j’ai été roi tout comme un autre; je suis Théodore; on m’a élu roi en Corse; on m’a appelé Votre Majesté, et à présent à peine m’appelle-t-on Monsieur; j’ai fait frapper de la monnaie, et je ne possède pas un denier; j’ai eu deux secrétaires d’état, et j’ai à peine un valet; je me suis vu sur un trône, et j’ai long-temps été à Londres en prison sur la paille; j’ai bien peur d’être traité de même ici, quoique je sois venu, comme vos majestés, passer le carnaval à Venise.\n\nLes cinq autres rois écoutèrent ce discours avec une noble compassion. Chacun d’eux donna vingt sequins au roi Théodore pour avoir des habits et des chemises; Candide lui fit présent d’un diamant de deux mille sequins. Quel est donc, disaient les cinq rois, cet homme qui est en état de donner cent fois autant que chacun de nous, et qui le donne? Etes-vous roi aussi, monsieur?—Non, messieurs, et n’en ai nulle envie.\n\nDans l’instant qu’on sortait de table, il arriva dans la même hôtellerie quatre altesses sérénissimes qui avaient aussi perdu leurs états par le sort de la guerre, et qui venaient passer le reste du carnaval à Venise; mais Candide ne prit pas seulement garde à ces nouveaux venus. Il n’était occupé que d’aller trouver sa chère Cunégonde à Constantinople.\n\n### Chapter XXVII\n\nVoyage de Candide à Constantinople.\n\nLe fidèle Cacambo avait déjà obtenu du patron turc qui allait reconduire le sultan Achmet à Constantinople qu’il recevrait Candide et Martin sur son bord. L’un et l’autre s’y rendirent après s’être prosternés devant sa misérable hautesse. Candide, chemin fesant, disait à Martin: Voilà pourtant six rois détrônés avec qui nous avons soupé! et encore dans ces six rois il y en a un à qui j’ai fait l’aumône. Peut-être y a-t-il beaucoup d’autres princes plus infortunés. Pour moi, je n’ai perdu que cent moutons, et je vole dans les bras de Cunégonde. Mon cher Martin, encore une fois, Pangloss avait raison, tout est bien. Je le souhaite, dit Martin. Mais, dit Candide, voilà une aventure bien peu vraisemblable que nous avons eue à Venise. On n’avait jamais vu ni ouï conter que six rois détrônés soupassent ensemble au cabaret. Cela n’est pas plus extraordinaire, dit Martin, que la plupart des choses qui nous sont arrivées. Il est très commun que des rois soient détrônés; et à l’égard de l’honneur que nous avons eu de souper avec eux, c’est une bagatelle qui ne mérite pas notre attention. Qu’importé avec qui l’on soupe, pourvu qu’on fasse bonne chère?\n\nA peine Candide fut-il dans le vaisseau, qu’il sauta au cou de son ancien valet, de son ami Cacambo. Eh bien! lui dit-il, que fait Cunégonde? est-elle toujours un prodige de beauté? m’aime-t-elle toujours? comment se porte-t-elle? Tu lui as, sans doute, acheté un palais à Constantinople?\n\nMon cher maître, répondit Cacambo, Cunégonde lave les écuelles sur le bord de la Propontide, chez un prince qui a très peu d’écuelles; elle est esclave dans la maison d’un ancien souverain, nommé Ragotski, à qui le Grand-Turc donne trois écus par jour dans son asile; mais, ce qui est bien plus triste, c’est qu’elle a perdu sa beauté, et qu’elle est devenue horriblement laide. Ah! belle ou laide, dit Candide, je suis honnête homme, et mon devoir est de l’aimer toujours. Mais comment peut-elle être réduite à un état si abject avec les cinq ou six millions que tu avais emportés? Bon, dit Cacambo, ne m’en a-t-il pas fallu donner deux au senor don Fernando d’Ibaraa, y Figueora, y Mascarenès, y Lampourdos, y Souza, gouverneur de Buénos-Ayres, pour avoir la permission de reprendre mademoiselle Cunégonde? et un pirate ne nous a-t-il pas bravement dépouillés de tout le reste? Ce pirate ne nous a-t-il pas menés au cap de Matapan, à Milo, à Nicarie, à Samos, à Petra, aux Dardanelles, à Marmara, à Scutari? Cunégonde et la vieille servent chez ce prince dont je vous ai parlé, et moi je suis esclave du sultan détrôné. Que d’épouvantables calamités enchaînées les unes aux autres! dit Candide. Mais, après tout, j’ai encore quelques diamants; je délivrerai aisément Cunégonde. C’est bien dommage qu’elle soit devenue si laide.\n\nEnsuite, se tournant vers Martin: Que pensez-vous, dit-il, qui soit le plus à plaindre, de l’empereur Achmet, de l’empereur Ivan, du roi Charles-Édouard, ou de moi? Je n’en sais rien, dit Martin; il faudrait que je fusse dans vos coeurs pour le savoir. Ah! dit Candide, si Pangloss était ici, il le saurait, et nous l’apprendrait. Je ne sais, dit Martin, avec quelles balances votre Pangloss aurait pu peser les infortunes des hommes, et apprécier leurs douleurs. Tout ce que je présume c’est qu’il y a des millions d’hommes sur la terre cent fois plus à plaindre que le roi Charles-Édouard, l’empereur Ivan, et le sultan Achmet. Cela pourrait bien être, dit Candide.\n\nOn arriva en peu de jours sur le canal de la mer Noire. Candide commença par racheter Cacambo fort cher; et, sans perdre de temps, il se jeta dans une galère, avec ses compagnons, pour aller sur le rivage de la Propontide chercher Cunégonde, quelque laide qu’elle pût être.\n\nIl y avait dans la chiourme deux forçats qui ramaient fort mal, et à qui le levanti patron appliquait de temps en temps quelques coups de nerf de boeuf sur leurs épaules nues; Candide, par un mouvement naturel, les regarda plus attentivement que les autres galériens, et s’approcha d’eux avec pitié. Quelques traits de leurs visages défigurés lui parurent avoir un peu de ressemblance avec Pangloss et avec ce malheureux jésuite, ce baron, ce frère de mademoiselle Cunégonde. Cette idée l’émut et l’attrista. Il les considéra encore plus attentivement. En vérité, dit-il à Cacambo, si je n’avais pas vu pendre maître Pangloss, et si je n’avais pas eu le malheur de tuer le baron, je croirais que ce sont eux qui rament dans cette galère.\n\nAu nom du baron et de Pangloss les deux forçats poussèrent un grand cri, s’arrêtèrent sur leur banc, et laissèrent tomber leurs rames. Le levanti patron accourait sur eux, et les coups de nerf de boeuf redoublaient. Arrêtez! arrêtez! seigneur, s’écria Candide; je vous donnerai tant, d’argent que vous voudrez. Quoi! c’est Candide! disait l’un des forçats; quoi! c’est Candide! disait l’autre. Est-ce un songe? dit Candide; veille-je? suis-je dans cette galère? Est-ce là monsieur le baron, que j’ai tué? est-ce là maître Pangloss, que j’ai vu pendre?\n\nC’est nous-mêmes, c’est nous-mêmes, répondaient-ils. Quoi! c’est là ce grand philosophe? disait Martin. Eh! monsieur le levanti patron, dit Candide, combien voulez-vous d’argent pour la rançon de M. de Thunder-ten-tronckh, un des premiers barons de l’empire, et de M. Pangloss, le plus profond métaphysicien d’Allemagne? Chien de chrétien, répondit le levanti patron, puisque ces deux chiens de forçats chrétiens sont des barons et des métaphysiciens, ce qui est sans doute une grande dignité dans leur pays, tu m’en donneras cinquante mille sequins. Vous les aurez, monsieur; remenez-moi comme un éclair à Constantinople, et vous serez payé sur-le-champ. Mais non, menez-moi chez mademoiselle Cunégonde. Le levanti patron, sur la première offre de Candide, avait déjà tourné la proue vers la ville, et il fesait ramer plus vite qu’un oiseau ne fend les airs.\n\nCandide embrassa cent fois le baron et Pangloss. Et comment ne vous ai-je pas tué, mon cher baron? et mon cher Pangloss, comment êtes-vous en vie, après avoir été pendu? et pourquoi êtes-vous tous deux aux galères en Turquie? Est-il bien vrai que ma chère soeur soit dans ce pays? disait le baron. Oui, répondait Cacambo. Je revois donc mon cher Candide! s’écriait Pangloss. Candide leur présentait Martin et Cacambo. Ils s’embrassaient tous; ils parlaient tous à-la-fois. La galère volait, ils étaient déjà dans le port. On fit venir un Juif, à qui Candide vendit pour cinquante mille sequins un diamant de la valeur de cent mille, et qui lui jura par Abraham qu’il n’en pouvait donner davantage. Il paya incontinent la rançon du baron et de Pangloss. Celui-ci se jeta aux pieds de son libérateur, et les baigna de larmes; l’autre le remercia par un signe de tête, et lui promit de lui rendre cet argent à la première occasion. Mais est-il bien possible que ma soeur soit en Turquie? disait-il. Rien n’est si possible, reprit Cacambo, puisqu’elle écure la vaisselle chez un prince de Transylvanie. On fit aussitôt venir deux Juifs; Candide vendit encore des diamants; et ils repartirent tous dans une autre galère pour aller délivrer Cunégonde.\n\n### Chapter XXVIII\n\nCe qui arriva à Candide, à Cunégonde, à Pangloss, à Martin, etc.\n\nPardon, encore une fois, dit Candide au baron; pardon, mon révérend père, de vous avoir donné un grand coup d’épée au travers du corps. N’en parlons plus, dit le baron; je fus un peu trop vif, je l’avoue; mais puisque vous voulez savoir par quel hasard vous m’avez vu aux galères, je vous dirai qu’après avoir été guéri de ma blessure par le frère apothicaire du collège, je fus attaqué et enlevé par un parti espagnol; on me mit en prison à Buénos-Ayres dans le temps que ma soeur venait d’en partir. Je demandai à retourner à Rome auprès du père général. Je fus nommé pour aller servir d’aumônier à Constantinople auprès de monsieur l’ambassadeur de France. Il n’y avait pas huit jours que j’étais entré en fonction, quand je trouvai sur le soir un jeune icoglan très bien fait. Il fesait fort chaud: le jeune homme voulut se baigner; je pris cette occasion de me baigner aussi. Je ne savais pas que ce fût un crime capital pour un chrétien d’être trouvé tout nu avec un jeune musulman. Un cadi me fit donner cent coups de bâton sous la plante des pieds, et me condamna aux galères. Je ne crois pas qu’on ait fait une plus horrible injustice. Mais je voudrais bien savoir pourquoi ma soeur est dans la cuisine d’un souverain de Transylvanie réfugié chez les Turcs.\n\nMais vous, mon cher Pangloss, dit Candide, comment se peut-il que je vous revoie? Il est vrai, dit Pangloss, que vous m’avez vu pendre; je devais naturellement être brûlé mais vous vous souvenez qu’il plut à verse lorsqu’on allait me cuire: l’orage fut si violent qu’on désespéra d’allumer le feu; je fus pendu, parcequ’on ne put mieux faire: un chirurgien acheta mon corps, m’emporta chez lui, et me disséqua. Il me fit d’abord une incision cruciale depuis le nombril jusqu’à la clavicule. On ne pouvait pas avoir été plus mal pendu que je l’avais été. L’exécuteur des hautes oeuvres de la sainte inquisition, lequel était sous-diacre, brûlait à la vérité les gens à merveille, mais il n’était pas accoutumé à pendre: la corde était mouillée et glissa mal, elle fut mal nouée; enfin je respirais encore: l’incision cruciale me fit jeter un si grand cri, que mon chirurgien tomba à la renverse; et croyant qu’il disséquait le diable, il s’enfuit en mourant de peur, et tomba encore sur l’escalier en fuyant. Sa femme accourut au bruit d’un cabinet voisin: elle me vit sur la table étendu avec mon incision cruciale; elle eut encore plus de peur que son mari, s’enfuit, et tomba sur lui. Quand ils furent un peu revenus à eux, j’entendis la chirurgienne qui disait au chirurgien: Mon bon, de quoi vous avisez-vous aussi de disséquer un hérétique? ne savez-vous pas que le diable est toujours dans le corps de ces gens-là? je vais vite chercher un prêtre pour l’exorciser. Je frémis à ce propos, et je ramassai le peu de forces qui me restaient pour crier: Ayez pitié de moi! Enfin le barbier portugais s’enhardit: il recousit ma peau; sa femme même eut soin de moi; je fus sur pied au bout de quinze jours. Le barbier me trouva une condition, et me fit laquais d’un chevalier de Malte qui allait à Venise: mais mon maître n’ayant pas de quoi me payer, je me mis au service d’un marchand vénitien, et je le suivis à Constantinople.\n\nUn jour il me prit fantaisie d’entrer dans une mosquée; il n’y avait qu’un vieux iman et une jeune dévote très jolie qui disait ses patenôtres; sa gorge était toute découverte: elle avait entre ses deux tétons un beau bouquet de tulipes, de roses, d’anémones, de renoncules, d’hyacinthes, et d’oreilles d’ours: elle laissa tomber son bouquet; je le ramassai, et je le lui remis avec un empressement très respectueux. Je fus si long-temps à le lui remettre, que l’iman se mit en colère, et voyant que j’étais chrétien, il cria à l’aide. On me mena chez le cadi, qui me fit donner cent coups de latte sous la plante des pieds, et m’envoya aux galères. Je fus enchaîné précisément dans la même galère et au même banc que monsieur le baron. Il y avait dans cette galère quatre jeunes gens de Marseille, cinq prêtres napolitains, et deux moines de Corfou, qui nous dirent que de pareilles aventures arrivaient tous les jours. Monsieur le baron prétendait qu’il avait essuyé une plus grande injustice que moi: je prétendais, moi, qu’il était beaucoup plus permis de remettre un bouquet sur la gorge d’une femme que d’être tout nu avec un icoglan. Nous disputions sans cesse, et nous recevions vingt coups de nerf de boeuf par jour, lorsque l’enchaînement des événements de cet univers vous a conduit dans notre galère, et que vous nous avez rachetés.\n\nEh bien! mon cher Pangloss, lui dit Candide, quand vous avez été pendu, disséqué, roué de coups, et que vous avez ramé aux galères, avez-vous toujours pensé que tout allait le mieux du monde? Je suis toujours de mon premier sentiment, répondit Pangloss; car enfin je suis philosophe; il ne me convient pas de me dédire, Leibnitz ne pouvant pas avoir tort, et l’harmonie préétablie étant d’ailleurs la plus belle chose du monde, aussi bien que le plein et la matière subtile.\n\n### Chapter XXIX\n\nComment Candide retrouva Cunégonde et la vieille.\n\nPendant que Candide, le baron, Pangloss, Martin, et Cacambo, contaient leurs aventures, qu’ils raisonnaient sur les événements contingents ou non contingents de cet univers, qu’ils disputaient sur les effets et les causes, sur le mal moral et sur le mal physique, sur la liberté et la nécessité, sur les consolations que l’on peut éprouver lorsqu’on est aux galères en Turquie, ils abordèrent sur le rivage de la Propontide, à la maison du prince de Transylvanie. Les premiers objets qui se présentèrent furent Cunégonde et la vieille, qui étendaient des serviettes sur des ficelles pour les faire sécher.\n\nLe baron pâlit à cette vue. Le tendre amant Candide en voyant sa belle Cunégonde rembrunie, les yeux éraillés, la gorge sèche, les joues ridées, les bras rouges et écaillés, recula trois pas, saisi d’horreur, et avança ensuite par bon procédé. Elle embrassa Candide et son frère: on embrassa la vieille: Candide les racheta toutes deux.\n\nIl y avait une petite métairie dans le voisinage; la vieille proposa à Candide de s’en accommoder, en attendant que toute la troupe eût une meilleure destinée. Cunégonde ne savait pas qu’elle était enlaidie, personne ne l’en avait avertie: elle fit souvenir Candide de ses promesses avec un ton si absolu, que le bon Candide n’osa pas la refuser. Il signifia donc au baron qu’il allait se marier avec sa soeur. Je ne souffrirai jamais, dit le baron, une telle bassesse de sa part, et une telle insolence de la vôtre; cette infamie ne me sera jamais reprochée: les enfants de ma soeur ne pourraient entrer dans les chapitres d’Allemagne. Non, jamais ma soeur n’épousera qu’un baron de l’empire. Cunégonde se jeta à ses pieds, et les baigna de larmes; il fut inflexible. Maître fou, lui dit Candide, je t’ai réchappé des galères, j’ai payé ta rançon, j’ai payé celle de ta soeur; elle lavait ici des écuelles, elle est laide, j’ai la bonté d’en faire ma femme; et tu prétends encore t’y opposer! je te retuerais si j’en croyais ma colère. Tu peux me tuer encore, dit le baron, mais tu n’épouseras pas ma soeur de mon vivant.\n\n### Chapter XXX\n\nConclusion.\n\nCandide, dans le fond de son coeur, n’avait aucune envie d’épouser Cunégonde; mais l’impertinence extrême du baron le déterminait à conclure le mariage; et Cunégonde le pressait si vivement qu’il ne pouvait s’en dédire. Il consulta Pangloss, Martin, et le fidèle Cacambo. Pangloss fit un beau mémoire par lequel il prouvait que le baron n’avait nul droit sur sa soeur, et qu’elle pouvait, selon toutes les lois de l’empire, épouser Candide de la main gauche. Martin conclut à jeter le baron dans la mer; Cacambo décida qu’il fallait le rendre au levanti patron, et le remettre aux galères, après quoi on l’enverrait à Rome au père général par le premier vaisseau. L’avis fut trouvé fort bon; la vieille l’approuva; on n’en dit rien à sa soeur; la chose fut exécutée pour quelque argent, et on eut le plaisir d’attraper un jésuite, et de punir l’orgueil d’un baron allemand.\n\nIl était tout naturel d’imaginer qu’après tant de désastres, Candide marié avec sa maîtresse, et vivant avec le philosophe Pangloss, le philosophe Martin, le prudent Cacambo, et la vieille, ayant d’ailleurs rapporté tant de diamants de la patrie des anciens Incas, mènerait la vie du monde la plus agréable; mais il fut tant friponné par les Juifs, qu’il ne lui resta plus rien que sa petite métairie; sa femme devenant tous les jours plus laide devint acariâtre et insupportable: la vieille était infirme, et fut encore de plus mauvaise humeur que Cunégonde. Cacambo, qui travaillait au jardin, et qui allait vendre des légumes à Constantinople, était excédé de travail, et maudissait sa destinée. Pangloss était au désespoir de ne pas briller dans quelque université d’Allemagne. Pour Martin, il était fermement persuadé qu’on est également mal partout; il prenait les choses en patience. Candide, Martin, et Pangloss, disputaient quelquefois de métaphysique et de morale. On voyait souvent passer sous les fenêtres de la métairie des bateaux chargés d’effendis, de bachas, de cadis, qu’on envoyait en exil à Lemnos, à Mytilène, à Erzeroum: on voyait venir d’autres cadis, d’autres bachas, d’autres effendis, qui prenaient la place des expulsés, et qui étaient expulsés à leur tour: on voyait des têtes proprement empaillées qu’on allait présenter à la sublime Porte. Ces spectacles fesaient redoubler les dissertations; et quand on ne disputait pas, l’ennui était si excessif, que la vieille osa un jour leur dire: Je voudrais savoir lequel est le pire, ou d’être violée cent fois par des pirates nègres, d’avoir une fesse coupée, de passer par les baguettes chez les Bulgares, d’être fouetté et pendu dans un auto-da-fé, d’être disséqué, de ramer en galère, d’éprouver enfin toutes les misères par lesquelles nous avons tous passé, ou bien de rester ici à ne rien faire? C’est une grande question, dit Candide.\n\nCe discours fit naître de nouvelles réflexions, et Martin surtout conclut que l’homme était né pour vivre dans les convulsions de l’inquiétude, ou dans la léthargie de l’ennui. Candide n’en convenait pas, mais il n’assurait rien. Pangloss avouait qu’il avait toujours horriblement souffert; mais ayant soutenu une fois que tout allait à merveille, il le soutenait toujours, et n’en croyait rien.\n\nUne chose acheva de confirmer Martin dans ses détestables principes, de faire hésiter plus que jamais Candide et d’embarrasser Pangloss. C’est qu’ils virent un jour aborder dans leur métairie Paquette et le frère Giroflée, qui étaient dans la plus extrême misère; ils avaient bien vite mangé leurs trois mille piastres, s’étaient quittés, s’étaient raccommodés, s’étaient brouillés, avaient été mis en prison; s’étaient enfuis, et enfin frère Giroflée s’était fait turc. Paquette continuait son métier partout, et n’y gagnait plus rien. Je l’avais bien prévu, dit Martin à Candide, que vos présents seraient bientôt dissipés, et ne les rendraient que plus misérables. Vous avez regorgé de millions de piastres, vous et Cacambo, et vous n’êtes pas plus heureux que frère Giroflée et Paquette. Ah! ah! dit Pangloss à Paquette, le ciel vous ramène donc ici parmi nous. Ma pauvre enfant! savez-vous bien que vous m’avez coûté le bout du nez, un oeil, et une oreille? Comme vous voilà faite! eh! qu’est-ce que ce monde! Cette nouvelle aventure les engagea à philosopher plus que jamais.\n\nIl y avait dans le voisinage un derviche très fameux qui passait pour le meilleur philosophe de la Turquie; ils allèrent le consulter; Pangloss porta la parole, et lui dit: Maître, nous venons vous prier de nous dire pourquoi un aussi étrange animal que l’homme a été formé.\n\nDe quoi te mêles-tu? lui dit le derviche; est-ce là ton affaire? Mais, mon révérend père, dit Candide, il y a horriblement de mal sur la terre. Qu’importé, dit le derviche, qu’il y ait du mal ou du bien? quand sa hautesse envoie un vaisseau en Égypte, s’embarrasse-t-elle si les souris qui sont dans le vaisseau sont à leur aise ou non? Que faut-il donc faire? dit Pangloss. Te taire, dit le derviche. Je me flattais, dit Pangloss, de raisonner un peu avec vous des effets et des causes, du meilleur des mondes possibles, de l’origine du mal, de la nature de l’âme, et de l’harmonie préétablie. Le derviche, à ces mots, leur ferma la porte au nez.\n\nPendant cette conversation, la nouvelle s’était répandue qu’on venait d’étrangler à Constantinople deux vizirs du banc et le muphti, et qu’on avait empalé plusieurs de leurs amis. Cette catastrophe fesait partout un grand bruit pendant quelques heures. Pangloss, Candide, et Martin, en retournant à la petite métairie, rencontrèrent un bon vieillard qui prenait le frais à sa porte sous un berceau d’orangers. Pangloss, qui était aussi curieux que raisonneur, lui demanda comment se nommait le muphti qu’on venait d’étrangler. Je n’en sais rien, répondit le bon-homme, et je n’ai jamais su le nom d’aucun muphti ni d’aucun vizir. J’ignore absolument l’aventure dont vous me parlez; je présume qu’en général ceux qui se mêlent des affaires publiques périssent quelquefois misérablement, et qu’ils le méritent; mais je ne m’informe jamais de ce qu’on fait à Constantinople; je me contente d’y envoyer vendre les fruits du jardin que je cultive. Ayant dit ces mots, il fit entrer les étrangers dans sa maison; ses deux filles et ses deux fils leur présentèrent plusieurs sortes de sorbets qu’ils fesaient eux-mêmes, du kaïmak piqué d’écorces de cédrat confit, des oranges, des citrons, des limons, des ananas, des dattes, des pistaches, du café de Moka qui n’était point mêlé avec le mauvais café de Batavia et des îles. Après quoi les deux filles de ce bon musulman parfumèrent les barbes de Candide, de Pangloss, et de Martin.\n\nVous devez avoir, dit Candide au Turc, une vaste et magnifique terre? Je n’ai que vingt arpents, répondit le Turc; je les cultive avec mes enfants; le travail éloigne de nous trois grands maux, l’ennui, le vice, et le besoin.\n\nCandide en retournant dans sa métairie fit de profondes réflexions sur le discours du Turc. Il dit à Pangloss et à Martin: Ce bon vieillard me paraît s’être fait un sort bien préférable à celui des six rois avec qui nous avons eu l’honneur de souper. Les grandeurs, dit Pangloss, sont fort dangereuses, selon le rapport de tous les philosophes; car enfin Églon, roi des Moabites, fut assassiné par Aod; Absalon fut pendu par les cheveux et percé de trois dards; le roi Nadab, fils de Jéroboam, fut tué par Baasa; le roi Éla, par Zambri; Ochosias, par Jéhu; Athalie, par Joïada; les rois Joachim, Jéchonias, Sédécias, furent esclaves. Vous savez comment périrent Crésus, Astyage, Darius, Denys de Syracuse, Pyrrhus, Persée, Annibal, Jugurtha, Arioviste, César, Pompée, Néron, Othon, Vitellius, Domitien, Richard II d’Angleterre, Édouard II, Henri VI, Richard III, Marie Stuart, Charles Ier, les trois Henri de France, l’empereur Henri IV? Vous savez….. Je sais aussi, dit Candide, qu’il faut cultiver notre jardin. Vous avez raison, dit Pangloss; car, quand l’homme fut mis dans le jardin d’Éden, il y fut mis ut operaretur eum, pour qu’il travaillât; ce qui prouve que l’homme n’est pas né pour le repos. Travaillons sans raisonner, dit Martin, c’est le seul moyen de rendre la vie supportable.\n\nToute la petite société entra dans ce louable dessein; chacun se mit à exercer ses talents. La petite terre rapporta beaucoup. Cunégonde était, à la vérité, bien laide; mais elle devint une excellente pâtissière; Paquette broda; la vieille eut soin du linge. Il n’y eut pas jusqu’à frère Giroflée qui ne rendît service; il fut un très bon menuisier, et même devint honnête homme: et Pangloss disait quelquefois à Candide: Tous les événements sont enchaînés dans le meilleur des mondes possibles; car enfin si vous n’aviez pas été chassé d’un beau château à grands coups de pied dans le derrière pour l’amour de mademoiselle Cunégonde, si vous n’aviez pas été mis à l’inquisition, si vous n’aviez pas couru l’Amérique à pied, si vous n’aviez pas donné un bon coup d’épée au baron, si vous n’aviez pas perdu tous vos moutons du bon pays d’Eldorado, vous ne mangeriez pas ici des cédrats confits et des pistaches. Cela est bien dit, répondit Candide, mais il faut cultiver notre jardin.","download_url":"https://mouseia.org/api/works/candide/original.txt"},"translations":[{"id":"trn_candide_mouseia","translator":"Mouseia","kind":"curated","note":"Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the French text of all thirty chapters (Beuchot edition, 1829) for fidelity, the author’s force and cadence, and modern clarity. The editor’s notes are omitted.","text":"### Chapter I\n\nHow Candide Was Raised in a Fine Castle, and How He Was Driven from It.\n\nIn Westphalia, in the castle of the Baron of Thunder-ten-tronckh, there lived a young man whom nature had endowed with the gentlest manners. His face reflected his soul. His judgment was sound enough, though his mind was simplicity itself; that, I believe, is why they called him Candide. The old servants of the house suspected that he was the son of the baron's sister and a worthy and honorable gentleman of the neighborhood, whom the young lady had refused to marry because he could prove only seventy-one quarters of noble ancestry, the rest of his family tree having been lost to the ravages of time.\n\nThe baron was one of the most powerful lords in Westphalia, for his castle had a door and windows. His great hall was even adorned with a tapestry. All the dogs from his farmyards made up a hunting pack when needed; his stablehands served as his huntsmen; the village curate was his grand chaplain. They all called him my lord, and laughed when he told stories.\n\nThe baroness, who weighed about three hundred and fifty pounds, thereby commanded the greatest consideration, and presided over the household with a dignity that made her still more respected. Her daughter Cunégonde, aged seventeen, was rosy-cheeked, fresh, plump, and appetizing. The baron's son seemed in every way worthy of his father. The tutor Pangloss was the oracle of the household, and young Candide listened to his lessons with all the trustfulness of his age and temperament.\n\nPangloss taught metaphysico-theologo-cosmolonigology. He proved admirably that there is no effect without a cause, and that, in this best of all possible worlds, my lord the baron's castle was the finest of castles, and my lady the finest of all possible baronesses.\n\n“It has been demonstrated,” he said, “that things cannot be otherwise; for since everything is made for an end, everything must necessarily be for the best end. Observe that noses were made to carry spectacles; thus we have spectacles. Legs were plainly designed to wear stockings, and we have stockings. Stones were formed to be cut and made into castles; thus my lord has a very fine castle: the greatest baron in the province must have the finest lodging. And since pigs were made to be eaten, we eat pork all year round. Consequently, those who have declared that all is well have spoken foolishly; they should have said that all is for the best.”\n\nCandide listened closely and believed with innocent faith, for he found Cunégonde extraordinarily beautiful, though he never dared tell her so. He concluded that, after the happiness of being born the Baron of Thunder-ten-tronckh, the second degree of happiness was to be Cunégonde; the third was to see her every day; and the fourth was to hear Master Pangloss, the greatest philosopher in the province, and therefore on the whole earth.\n\nOne day, while walking near the castle in the little wood they called a park, Cunégonde saw Doctor Pangloss among the bushes giving a lesson in experimental physics to her mother's maid, a very pretty and very receptive little brunette. As Cunégonde had a considerable aptitude for the sciences, she watched, without breathing a word, the repeated experiments she witnessed. She saw clearly the doctor's sufficient reason, the effects and the causes, and returned in a flutter, deep in thought, filled with the desire for knowledge, reflecting that she might well be young Candide's sufficient reason, as he might be hers.\n\nOn her way back to the castle she met Candide and blushed; Candide blushed too. She greeted him in a faltering voice, and Candide answered without knowing what he said. The next day, after dinner, as everyone rose from the table, Cunégonde and Candide found themselves behind a screen. Cunégonde dropped her handkerchief; Candide picked it up. She innocently took his hand; the young man innocently kissed the young lady's hand with singular ardor, feeling, and grace. Their lips met, their eyes caught fire, their knees trembled, their hands wandered. The Baron of Thunder-ten-tronckh passed by the screen and, seeing this cause and this effect, drove Candide from the castle with a volley of kicks to the backside. Cunégonde fainted; the baroness slapped her as soon as she came to; and consternation filled the finest and most delightful of all possible castles.\n\n### Chapter II\n\nWhat Became of Candide Among the Bulgarians.\n\nDriven from his earthly paradise, Candide walked a long time without knowing where he was going, weeping, lifting his eyes to heaven, and often turning them toward the finest of castles, which held the fairest of young baronesses. He lay down without supper in the fields, between two furrows; snow fell in thick flakes. The next day Candide, frozen through, dragged himself to the nearby town of Valdberghoff-trarbk-dikdorff, penniless and dying of hunger and exhaustion. He stopped sadly at the door of an inn. Two men dressed in blue noticed him. “Comrade,” said one, “there's a well-built young man of the required height.” They approached Candide and invited him very civilly to dinner. “Gentlemen,” Candide told them with charming modesty, “you do me a great honor, but I have no money to pay my share.” “Ah, sir,” said one of the men in blue, “people of your appearance and merit never pay anything. Aren't you five feet five inches tall?” “Yes, gentlemen, that is my height,” he said, bowing. “Ah, sir, sit down to dinner. Not only will we pay your expenses, we will never allow a man like you to want for money; men were made solely to help one another.” “You are right,” said Candide. “That is what Pangloss always told me, and I see clearly that all is for the best.” They asked him to accept a few crowns; he took them and offered to sign a note, but they would hear none of it, and they sat down to eat. “Do you love tenderly?…” “Oh, yes,” he answered, “I love Cunégonde tenderly.” “No,” said one of the gentlemen, “we are asking whether you love the king of the Bulgarians tenderly.” “Not at all,” he said, “for I have never seen him.” “What! He is the most charming of kings, and we must drink his health.” “Oh, gladly, gentlemen.” And he drank. “That is enough,” they told him. “You are now the pillar, the support, the defender, the hero of the Bulgarians; your fortune is made, and your glory assured.” They immediately put him in leg irons and led him to the regiment. They made him turn right, turn left, raise his ramrod, lower his ramrod, take aim, fire, and march double time, and gave him thirty blows with a stick. The next day he drilled a little less badly and received only twenty blows; the day after that, only ten, and his comrades regarded him as a prodigy.\n\nCandide, utterly bewildered, still could not quite understand how he was a hero. One fine spring day he took it into his head to go for a walk, marching straight ahead, believing that the human species, like the animal species, had the privilege of using its legs as it pleased. He had not gone two leagues when four other heroes, six feet tall, caught him, bound him, and took him to a dungeon. He was asked, in proper legal form, whether he preferred to be flogged thirty-six times by the entire regiment or to receive twelve lead bullets in his brain all at once. He protested in vain that human wills are free, and that he wanted neither. He had to choose. By virtue of God's gift called freedom, he decided to pass through the gauntlet thirty-six times; he endured two marches. The regiment numbered two thousand men, making four thousand strokes of the rod, which laid bare the muscles and nerves from the nape of his neck to his backside. As they were about to begin the third passage, Candide, unable to bear any more, begged them to be so kind as to smash his head instead. This favor was granted. They blindfolded him and made him kneel. At that moment the king of the Bulgarians passed by and inquired into the prisoner's crime. Since this king was a great genius, he understood from what he learned of Candide that the young man was a metaphysician quite ignorant of worldly affairs, and pardoned him with a clemency that would be praised in all the newspapers and in every age. A brave surgeon cured Candide in three weeks with the soothing remedies taught by Dioscorides. He had already grown a little new skin and could walk when the king of the Bulgarians gave battle to the king of the Abares.\n\n### Chapter III\n\nHow Candide Escaped from the Bulgarians, and What Became of Him.\n\nNothing could be so beautiful, so brisk, so brilliant, so well ordered as the two armies. Trumpets, fifes, oboes, drums, and cannons formed a harmony never equaled in hell. The cannons first knocked down about six thousand men on either side; then the musket fire removed from the best of worlds some nine to ten thousand scoundrels who infested its surface. The bayonet, too, was the sufficient reason for the deaths of several thousand men. Altogether the toll might well have reached thirty thousand souls. Candide, trembling like a philosopher, hid as best he could during this heroic slaughter.\n\nAt last, while the two kings each had a Te Deum sung in his own camp, Candide decided to go elsewhere to reason about effects and causes. He stepped over heaps of dead and dying men and reached a neighboring village. It was ashes: an Abare village the Bulgarians had burned, in accordance with the laws of public right. Here old men riddled with wounds watched their slaughtered wives die, their children held to bleeding breasts; there young women, disemboweled after satisfying the natural needs of certain heroes, breathed their last; others, half burned, cried out for someone to finish killing them. Brains lay scattered on the ground beside severed arms and legs.\n\nCandide fled as fast as he could to another village. This one belonged to the Bulgarians, and the Abare heroes had treated it in just the same way. Still walking over quivering limbs or through ruins, Candide finally emerged from the theater of war with a few small provisions in his knapsack, never forgetting Cunégonde. His provisions ran out when he reached Holland; but having heard that everyone there was rich and that they were Christians, he had no doubt they would treat him as well as he had been treated in the baron's castle, before he was driven out for Cunégonde's beautiful eyes.\n\nHe asked several solemn personages for alms, and they all replied that if he went on in that trade, he would be shut up in a house of correction to teach him how to live.\n\nHe then approached a man who had just spent a whole hour speaking alone about charity before a large gathering. The orator looked askance at him and said, “What are you doing here? Are you here for the good cause?” “There is no effect without a cause,” Candide replied modestly. “Everything is necessarily linked and arranged for the best. I had to be driven away from Cunégonde; I had to run the gauntlet; and I must beg for bread until I can earn it. None of this could have been otherwise.” “My friend,” the orator said, “do you believe the pope is the Antichrist?” “I had never heard that said before,” Candide replied. “But whether he is or is not, I have no bread.” “You don't deserve any,” said the other. “Get out, scoundrel, get out, wretch; never come near me again.” The orator's wife put her head out of the window and, seeing a man who doubted that the pope was the Antichrist, poured a whole potful of … over his head. O heaven! To what lengths religious zeal carries ladies!\n\nA man who had not been baptized, a good Anabaptist named Jacques, saw the cruel and humiliating treatment of one of his brothers, a featherless two-legged being with a soul. He took Candide home, cleaned him up, gave him bread and beer, presented him with two florins, and even offered to teach him to work in his factories making Persian fabrics produced in Holland. Candide nearly fell at his feet, exclaiming, “Master Pangloss was quite right when he told me all is for the best in this world, for your extraordinary generosity moves me infinitely more than the harshness of that gentleman in the black cloak and his wife.”\n\nThe next day, while out walking, he encountered a beggar covered in pustules, his eyes lifeless, the tip of his nose eaten away, his mouth twisted, his teeth black. He spoke from deep in his throat, was racked by a violent cough, and spat out a tooth with every effort.\n\n### Chapter IV\n\nHow Candide Met His Former Philosophy Teacher, Doctor Pangloss, and What Came of It.\n\nMoved still more by compassion than by horror, Candide gave this dreadful beggar the two florins he had received from the honest Anabaptist Jacques. The specter stared at him, burst into tears, and threw his arms around his neck. Candide drew back in fright. “Alas,” said the wretch to the other wretch, “do you no longer recognize your dear Pangloss?” “What do I hear? You, my dear teacher! You, in this horrible condition! What misfortune has befallen you? Why are you no longer in the finest of castles? What has become of Cunégonde, the pearl of young ladies, nature's masterpiece?” “I can bear no more,” said Pangloss. Candide at once led him to the Anabaptist's stable, where he gave him a little bread to eat; and when Pangloss had recovered a little, Candide asked, “Well then, Cunégonde?” “She is dead,” the other replied. Candide fainted at these words; his friend revived him with a little bad vinegar that happened to be in the stable. Candide opened his eyes again. “Cunégonde is dead! Ah, best of worlds, where are you? But what illness killed her? Could it have been seeing me kicked out of her father's fine castle?” “No,” said Pangloss. “She was disemboweled by Bulgarian soldiers after being raped as thoroughly as one can be. They broke the baron's head when he tried to defend her; the baroness was cut to pieces; my poor pupil was treated precisely like his sister. As for the castle, not one stone remained upon another, nor a barn, nor a sheep, nor a duck, nor a tree. But we have been well avenged, for the Abares did the same in a neighboring barony belonging to a Bulgarian lord.”\n\nAt this account Candide fainted again. Once he had come to and said everything that ought to be said, he inquired into the cause and the effect, and the sufficient reason that had brought Pangloss to such a pitiful condition. “Alas,” said the other, “it is love: love, the consolation of humankind, the preserver of the universe, the soul of all feeling beings, tender love.” “Alas,” said Candide, “I have known this love, this sovereign of hearts, this soul of our soul. It brought me nothing but a kiss and twenty kicks to the backside. How could so beautiful a cause have produced so hideous an effect in you?”\n\nPangloss answered as follows: “Oh, my dear Candide! You knew Paquette, that pretty maid of our august baroness. In her arms I tasted the delights of paradise, which produced the torments of hell that you see consuming me. She was infected; she may even be dead of it. Paquette received this gift from a very learned Franciscan friar who had traced it back to its source: he got it from an old countess, who received it from a cavalry captain, who owed it to a marchioness, who got it from a page, who received it from a Jesuit, who as a novice had obtained it in a direct line from one of Christopher Columbus's companions. As for me, I shall give it to no one, for I am dying.”\n\n“Oh, Pangloss!” cried Candide. “What a strange genealogy! Was the devil not its root?” “Not at all,” replied this great man. “It was indispensable in the best of worlds, a necessary ingredient. For if Columbus had not caught, on an island in America, this disease that poisons the source of procreation, and often even prevents procreation, and is manifestly the opposite of nature's great purpose, we would have neither chocolate nor cochineal. One must also observe that to this day, on our continent, this disease is peculiar to us, like theological controversy. The Turks, the Indians, the Persians, the Chinese, the Siamese, and the Japanese do not yet know it; but there is sufficient reason for them to come to know it in their turn within a few centuries. In the meantime it has spread wonderfully among us, particularly in those great armies made up of honest, well-bred mercenaries who decide the fate of nations. We may safely say that when thirty thousand men fight a pitched battle against troops of equal number, there are about twenty thousand infected men on each side.”\n\n“That is admirable,” said Candide, “but you must get treatment.” “And how can I?” said Pangloss. “I haven't a penny, my friend, and anywhere on this globe one can neither be bled nor receive an enema without paying, or having someone pay for one.”\n\nThis last remark settled Candide's course. He went and threw himself at the feet of his charitable Anabaptist Jacques, and painted such a moving picture of his friend's condition that the good man did not hesitate to take in Doctor Pangloss and have him cured at his own expense. In the course of treatment Pangloss lost only an eye and an ear. He wrote well and knew arithmetic perfectly. The Anabaptist Jacques made him his bookkeeper. Two months later, obliged to go to Lisbon on business, Jacques took his two philosophers aboard his ship. Pangloss explained to him how everything was as well as it could possibly be. Jacques disagreed. “Men must have corrupted nature a little,” he said, “for they were not born wolves, yet they have become wolves. God gave them neither twenty-four-pound cannons nor bayonets, yet they made bayonets and cannons to destroy one another. I could also add bankruptcies to the reckoning, and the courts that seize the bankrupts' property, cheating their creditors of it.” “All of this was indispensable,” replied the one-eyed doctor, “and private misfortunes make for the general good; so the more private misfortunes there are, the more everything is well.” As he reasoned, the sky darkened, winds blew from all four corners of the earth, and the ship was beset by a most terrible storm in sight of the port of Lisbon.\n\n### Chapter V\n\nStorm, Shipwreck, Earthquake, and What Befell Doctor Pangloss, Candide, and the Anabaptist Jacques.\n\nHalf the passengers, weakened and dying from the inconceivable agonies that a ship's rolling sends through the nerves and through all the bodily fluids tossed in contrary directions, had not even the strength to worry about the danger. The other half cried out and prayed; the sails were torn, the masts broken, the ship split open. Whoever could, worked; no one could hear anyone else, and no one was in command. The Anabaptist was helping a little with the rigging on deck. A furious sailor struck him hard and knocked him down on the planks; but the force of his blow threw the sailor himself off balance, and he fell headfirst overboard. He hung suspended, caught on a piece of broken mast. Good Jacques ran to his aid and helped him climb back aboard; in the effort Jacques fell into the sea before the sailor's eyes, and the sailor let him perish without even deigning to look at him. Candide came over and saw his benefactor surface for a moment, then sink forever. He wanted to throw himself into the sea after him, but the philosopher Pangloss stopped him, proving that the harbor of Lisbon had been formed expressly for this Anabaptist to drown in it. While he was proving this a priori, the ship split open; everyone perished except Pangloss, Candide, and the brutal sailor who had drowned the virtuous Anabaptist. The scoundrel swam safely to shore, where Pangloss and Candide were carried on a plank.\n\nWhen they had recovered a little, they walked toward Lisbon. They still had some money, with which they hoped to escape starvation after escaping the storm.\n\nHardly had they set foot in the city, mourning their benefactor's death, when they felt the earth shake beneath them. The sea rose and churned in the harbor, smashing the ships at anchor. Whirlwinds of flame and ash covered the streets and public squares; houses collapsed, roofs were overturned onto foundations, and foundations scattered; thirty thousand inhabitants of every age and sex were crushed beneath the ruins. Whistling and swearing, the sailor said, “There'll be something to gain here.” “What can be the sufficient reason for this phenomenon?” said Pangloss. “This is the last day of the world!” cried Candide. The sailor immediately ran into the wreckage, risked death to find money, found some, seized it, got drunk, and, when he had sobered up, bought the favors of the first willing girl he met among the ruins of destroyed houses, amid the dying and the dead. Pangloss meanwhile tugged at his sleeve. “My friend,” he said, “this is not right. You are violating universal reason; you have chosen the wrong moment.” “By blood and thunder,” the other answered, “I'm a sailor and was born in Batavia. I have trampled on the crucifix four times in four voyages to Japan. You've found just the man for your universal reason!”\n\nFragments of stone had wounded Candide; he lay in the street covered in debris. He said to Pangloss, “Alas! Get me a little wine and oil; I'm dying.” “This earthquake is nothing new,” Pangloss replied. “The city of Lima suffered the same shocks in America last year: the same causes, the same effects. There is certainly a seam of sulfur underground from Lima to Lisbon.” “Nothing could be more probable,” said Candide, “but for God's sake, a little oil and wine.” “What do you mean, probable?” replied the philosopher. “I maintain that it has been proved.” Candide lost consciousness, and Pangloss brought him a little water from a nearby fountain.\n\nThe next day, having found some food by slipping through the rubble, they regained a little strength. Then they worked with the others to help the inhabitants who had escaped death. Some citizens whom they had helped gave them as good a dinner as could be had amid such a disaster. The meal was sad, it is true: the guests watered their bread with tears. But Pangloss consoled them, assuring them that things could not have been otherwise. “For,” he said, “all this is for the best. For if there is a volcano at Lisbon, it could not be anywhere else; for things cannot possibly be anywhere other than where they are; for all is well.”\n\nA little dark-complexioned man, an agent of the Inquisition seated beside him, politely took up the conversation. “Apparently, sir, you do not believe in original sin; for if all is for the best, there was neither a Fall nor a punishment.”\n\n“I most humbly beg Your Excellency's pardon,” Pangloss answered still more politely, “for the Fall of man and the curse were necessarily part of the best of all possible worlds.” “Then you do not believe in free will?” said the agent. “Your Excellency will forgive me,” said Pangloss. “Free will can coexist with absolute necessity; for it was necessary that we should be free; for, after all, the determined will…” Pangloss was halfway through his sentence when the agent nodded to the attendant who was serving him wine from Porto or Oporto.\n\n### Chapter VI\n\nHow a Splendid Auto-da-fé Was Held to Prevent Earthquakes, and How Candide Was Flogged.\n\nAfter the earthquake that had destroyed three quarters of Lisbon, the country's wise men could find no more effective way to prevent its total ruin than to put on a splendid auto-da-fé for the people. The University of Coimbra had decided that the spectacle of a few people slowly burned to death, in a grand ceremony, was an infallible secret for keeping the earth from shaking.\n\nAccordingly, they had arrested a Biscayan found guilty of marrying his child's godmother, and two Portuguese who had pulled the bacon off a chicken before eating it. After dinner they came to bind Doctor Pangloss and his disciple Candide, one for having spoken and the other for listening with an approving air. Both were taken separately to exceedingly cool rooms where the sun never troubled anyone. Eight days later they were both dressed in sanbenitos, and their heads adorned with paper miters. Candide's miter and sanbenito were painted with inverted flames and devils without tails or claws; but Pangloss's devils had tails and claws, and his flames pointed upward. Dressed like this, they marched in procession and heard a deeply moving sermon, followed by fine music in fauxbourdon. Candide was flogged in time with the singing; the Biscayan and the two men who had refused to eat bacon were burned, and Pangloss was hanged, though that is not the custom. That same day the earth shook again with a dreadful roar.\n\nCandide, terrified, stunned, distraught, bleeding and trembling all over, said to himself, “If this is the best of all possible worlds, what are the others like? I could accept being merely flogged; that happened to me among the Bulgarians. But, oh, my dear Pangloss! Greatest of philosophers, must I see you hanged without even knowing why? Oh, my dear Anabaptist! Best of men, must you have drowned in the harbor? Oh, Cunégonde! Pearl of young ladies, must they have split open your belly?”\n\nHe was making his way back, barely able to stand, having been preached at, flogged, absolved, and blessed, when an old woman approached him and said, “My son, take heart and follow me.”\n\n### Chapter VII\n\nHow an Old Woman Cared for Candide, and How He Found Again the One He Loved.\n\nCandide took no heart, but he followed the old woman to a hovel. She gave him a jar of ointment to rub on himself and left him food and drink. She showed him a small, fairly clean bed; beside it lay a complete set of clothes. “Eat, drink, sleep,” she told him, “and may Our Lady of Atocha, Saint Anthony of Padua, and Saint James of Compostela watch over you! I shall return tomorrow.” Still amazed at all he had seen, all he had suffered, and even more at the old woman's kindness, Candide tried to kiss her hand. “It is not my hand you must kiss,” said the old woman. “I shall return tomorrow. Rub on the ointment, eat, and sleep.”\n\nDespite so many misfortunes, Candide ate and slept. The next day the old woman brought him breakfast, examined his back, and rubbed it herself with another ointment. Then she brought him dinner; she returned in the evening with supper. The day after that she performed the same rites again. “Who are you?” Candide kept asking her. “Who inspired such kindness in you? How can I thank you?” The good woman never answered a word. She returned that evening without bringing supper. “Come with me,” she said, “and say nothing.” Taking his arm, she walked with him through the countryside for about a quarter of a mile. They reached an isolated house surrounded by gardens and canals. The old woman knocked on a little door. Someone opened it; she led Candide by a hidden staircase into a gilded room, left him on a brocade sofa, shut the door, and went away. Candide thought he must be dreaming. His whole life seemed to him an ill-omened dream, and the present moment a pleasant one.\n\nThe old woman soon reappeared, supporting with difficulty a trembling woman of majestic stature, glittering with jewels and covered by a veil. “Lift the veil,” the old woman told Candide. The young man approached and raised the veil with a timid hand. What a moment! What a surprise! He thought he saw Cunégonde; and he did indeed see her: it was she herself. His strength failed him; he could not speak; he fell at her feet. Cunégonde fell upon the sofa. The old woman drenched them with smelling waters; they recovered their senses and spoke to each other. At first there were broken words, questions and answers crossing one another, sighs, tears, cries. The old woman urged them to make less noise and left them alone. “What! It's you,” said Candide. “You are alive! I find you again in Portugal! Then you were not raped? They did not cut open your belly, as the philosopher Pangloss assured me?” “They did,” said the beautiful Cunégonde, “but one does not always die from those two accidents.” “But were your father and mother killed?” “It is only too true,” said Cunégonde, weeping. “And your brother?” “My brother was killed too.” “And why are you in Portugal? How did you learn I was here? And by what strange adventure did you have me brought to this house?” “I will tell you all that,” replied the lady, “but first you must tell me everything that has happened to you since the innocent kiss you gave me and the kicks you received.”\n\nCandide obeyed her with profound respect; and though he was bewildered, though his voice was weak and trembling, though his back still hurt a little, he told her with the utmost candor all that he had experienced since the moment they parted. Cunégonde lifted her eyes to heaven; she wept for the deaths of the good Anabaptist and Pangloss. Then she spoke as follows to Candide, who missed not a word and devoured her with his eyes.\n\n### Chapter VIII\n\nCunégonde’s Story.\n\n“I was in bed, fast asleep, when heaven was pleased to send the Bulgarians into our beautiful castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh. They cut my father’s and brother’s throats and hacked my mother to pieces. A great Bulgarian, six feet tall, seeing that I had fainted at the sight, began to rape me. This brought me around; I recovered my senses, screamed, struggled, bit, scratched, and tried to tear out the great Bulgarian’s eyes, not knowing that everything happening in my father’s castle was customary practice. The brute stabbed me in the left side, and I still bear the scar.” “Alas! I very much hope to see it,” said the innocent Candide. “You shall,” said Cunégonde, “but let us go on.” “Go on,” said Candide.\n\nShe picked up the thread of her story. “A Bulgarian captain came in. He saw me covered in blood, and the soldier did not move aside. The captain grew angry at the scant respect this brute showed him and killed him on top of me. Then he had my wound dressed and took me as a prisoner of war to his quarters. I washed the few shirts he owned and cooked his meals. He found me very pretty, I must admit; and I will not deny that he was handsomely built and that his skin was white and soft. Otherwise, he had little wit and little philosophy: one could tell he had not been educated by Dr. Pangloss. After three months, having lost all his money and tired of me, he sold me to a Jew named Don Issachar, who traded in Holland and Portugal and had a passionate love of women. This Jew became very attached to me but could not prevail. I resisted him better than I had the Bulgarian soldier: a person of honor may be raped once, but her virtue is strengthened by it. To win me over, the Jew brought me to this country house you see. Until then I had believed there was nothing on earth so beautiful as the castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh. I learned my mistake.\n\n“One day the Grand Inquisitor noticed me at Mass. He studied me intently and sent word that he had secret business to discuss with me. I was taken to his palace; I told him of my birth; he explained how far beneath my rank it was to belong to an Israelite. Don Issachar received a proposal on his behalf to surrender me to His Lordship. Don Issachar, banker to the court and a man of influence, would hear none of it. The inquisitor threatened him with an auto-da-fé. At last my frightened Jew made a bargain under which the house and I would belong to them both in common: the Jew would have Mondays, Wednesdays, and the Sabbath; the inquisitor, the other days of the week. This arrangement has lasted six months, not without quarrels, for it has often been uncertain whether Saturday night leading into Sunday belonged to the old law or the new. For my part, I have resisted them both until now; and I believe that is why I have always been loved.\n\n“At last, to ward off the scourge of earthquakes and intimidate Don Issachar, His Lordship the inquisitor was pleased to hold an auto-da-fé. He did me the honor of inviting me. I was given an excellent seat; refreshments were served to the ladies between the Mass and the execution. I was indeed seized with horror at seeing the two Jews and that honest Biscayan who had married his child’s godmother burned. But imagine my surprise, my terror, my confusion, when I saw beneath a penitential robe and a miter a face that looked like Pangloss’s! I rubbed my eyes, looked closely, saw him hanged, and fainted. I had scarcely recovered my senses when I saw you stripped quite naked; that was the height of horror, consternation, pain, and despair. I can tell you truthfully that your skin is even whiter and a finer rosy color than that of my Bulgarian captain. The sight redoubled all the feelings that overwhelmed and consumed me. I cried out; I wanted to say, ‘Stop, you barbarians!’ But my voice failed, and my cries would have been useless. When you had been soundly whipped, I kept asking myself: ‘How can the dear Candide and the wise Pangloss be in Lisbon, one to receive a hundred lashes and the other to be hanged by order of His Lordship the inquisitor, whose beloved I am? Pangloss deceived me cruelly indeed when he said that all goes for the best in the world!’\n\n“Distraught, bewildered, sometimes beside myself, sometimes ready to die of weakness, my head was full of the slaughter of my father, mother, and brother; the insolence of my ugly Bulgarian soldier and the stab he gave me; my servitude and my work as a cook; my Bulgarian captain; my repulsive Don Issachar; my abominable inquisitor; the hanging of Dr. Pangloss; that grand miserere sung in harmony while you were being whipped; and above all the kiss I gave you behind a screen on the last day I had seen you. I praised God for bringing you back to me through so many trials. I told my old woman to care for you and bring you here as soon as she could. She carried out my instructions perfectly. I have tasted the inexpressible pleasure of seeing you again, hearing you, speaking to you. You must be ravenous. I have a great appetite myself. Let us begin with supper.”\n\nThey both sat down to table; after supper they returned to the beautiful sofa already mentioned. They were there when Signor Don Issachar, one of the masters of the house, arrived. It was the Sabbath. He had come to enjoy his rights and declare his tender love.\n\n### Chapter IX\n\nWhat Befell Cunégonde, Candide, the Grand Inquisitor, and a Jew.\n\nThis Issachar was the most hot-tempered Hebrew seen in Israel since the Babylonian captivity. “What!” he said. “You Galilean bitch, is the inquisitor not enough for you? Must this scoundrel share you with me as well?” As he spoke, he drew a long dagger that he always carried and, not believing his adversary armed, sprang at Candide. But our good Westphalian had received a fine sword from the old woman along with his complete suit of clothes. He drew his sword, gentle as his nature was, and laid the Israelite out stone dead on the floor at the feet of the beautiful Cunégonde.\n\n“Holy Virgin!” she exclaimed. “What will become of us? A man killed in my house! If the law comes here, we are lost.” “If Pangloss had not been hanged,” said Candide, “he would give us sound advice in this extremity, for he was a great philosopher. Since he cannot, let us consult the old woman.” She was very prudent, and had begun to offer her opinion when another little door opened. It was one o’clock after midnight, the beginning of Sunday. That day belonged to His Lordship the inquisitor. He came in and saw the whipped Candide, sword in hand; a corpse stretched on the floor; Cunégonde in dismay; and the old woman giving advice.\n\nHere is what passed through Candide’s soul at that moment and how he reasoned: “If this holy man calls for help, he will infallibly have me burned, and he may do the same to Cunégonde. He had me whipped without mercy. He is my rival. I have begun killing. There is no room for hesitation.” His reasoning was clear and swift; before the inquisitor could recover from his surprise, Candide ran him through and threw him down beside the Jew. “Now this is another matter entirely,” said Cunégonde. “There can be no pardon now. We are excommunicated; our last hour has come! How did you, born so gentle, manage to kill a Jew and a prelate in two minutes?” “My beautiful young lady,” replied Candide, “when a man is in love, jealous, and whipped by the Inquisition, he is no longer himself.”\n\nThe old woman then spoke: “There are three Andalusian horses in the stable, saddles and bridles included. Let the brave Candide prepare them. Madame has moidores and diamonds. Let us mount quickly and go to Cádiz, though I can sit on only one buttock. The weather could not be finer, and it is a great pleasure to travel in the cool of the night.”\n\nCandide at once saddled the three horses; Cunégonde, the old woman, and he rode thirty miles without stopping. As they were making their escape, the Holy Brotherhood arrived at the house. His Lordship was buried in a fine church; Issachar was thrown on the refuse heap.\n\nCandide, Cunégonde, and the old woman had already reached the little town of Avacéna, among the Sierra-Morena mountains, and were speaking together in an inn.\n\n### Chapter X\n\nThe Distress in Which Candide, Cunégonde, and the Old Woman Reach Cádiz, and Their Embarkation.\n\n“Who could have stolen my pistoles and my diamonds?” said Cunégonde through her tears. “What shall we live on? What shall we do? Where shall we find inquisitors and Jews to give me more?” “Alas,” said the old woman, “I strongly suspect a reverend Franciscan father who slept in the same inn as we did yesterday at Badajos. God preserve me from rash judgment! But he came into our room twice, and left long before we did.” “Alas,” said Candide, “good Pangloss often proved to me that the goods of the earth belong to all mankind, and everyone has an equal right to them. By those principles, this friar should certainly have left us enough to finish our journey. So you have nothing at all left, my beautiful Cunégonde?” “Not a single maravedi,” she said. “What are we to do?” said Candide. “Sell one of the horses,” said the old woman. “I shall ride behind the young lady, though I can sit on only one buttock, and we shall reach Cádiz.”\n\nA Benedictine prior was staying at the same inn; he bought the horse cheaply. Candide, Cunégonde, and the old woman passed through Lucena, Chillas, and Lebrixa, and at last reached Cádiz. There a fleet was being fitted out and troops assembled to bring the reverend Jesuit fathers of Paraguai to heel: they were accused of inciting one of their hordes to revolt against the kings of Spain and Portugal near the town of Saint-Sacrement. Having served among the Bulgarians, Candide performed the Bulgarian drill before the commander of the little army with such grace, speed, skill, pride, and agility that he was given an infantry company to command. So he was a captain. He embarked with Miss Cunégonde, the old woman, two servants, and the two Andalusian horses that had belonged to His Lordship the Grand Inquisitor of Portugal.\n\nThroughout the crossing they discussed poor Pangloss’s philosophy at length. “We are going to another universe,” said Candide. “There, no doubt, all is well. For one must admit that what happens in our own world, in matters both physical and moral, could give us some cause to lament.” “I love you with all my heart,” said Cunégonde, “but my soul is still shaken by what I have seen and suffered.” “All will be well,” Candide replied. “The sea of this new world is already better than the seas of our Europe: it is calmer, and its winds are steadier. The New World is surely the best of all possible universes.” “God grant it!” said Cunégonde. “But I have been so horribly unhappy in mine that my heart is almost closed to hope.” “You complain,” the old woman told them. “Alas, you have not suffered misfortunes such as mine.” Cunégonde almost laughed, finding this good woman most amusing for claiming to be unhappier than she was. “Alas, my dear,” she said, “unless you have been raped by two Bulgarians, stabbed twice in the belly, had two of your castles demolished, seen two mothers and two fathers slaughtered before your eyes, and watched two of your lovers whipped at an auto-da-fé, I cannot see how you can outdo me. Add that I was born a baroness with seventy-two noble lines of ancestry, and I have been a cook.” “Miss,” replied the old woman, “you do not know my birth. If I showed you my backside, you would not speak as you do, and you would suspend judgment.” These words aroused intense curiosity in Cunégonde and Candide. The old woman spoke to them as follows.\n\n### Chapter XI\n\nThe Old Woman’s Story.\n\n“I have not always had bloodshot eyes ringed with scarlet; my nose has not always met my chin, and I have not always been a servant. I am the daughter of Pope Urbain X and the princess of Palestrine[a]. Until I was fourteen I was raised in a palace for which all your German barons’ castles would not have made a stable; one of my dresses was worth more than all the splendors of Westphalia. I grew in beauty, grace, and accomplishment amid pleasures, honors, and hopes. Already I inspired love; my breasts were taking shape—and what breasts! White, firm, formed like those of the Venus de’ Medici. And what eyes! What eyelids! What black eyebrows! What flames burned in my pupils, outshining the glitter of the stars, as the poets in our neighborhood used to tell me! The women who dressed and undressed me fell into raptures at the sight of me from front and back, and every man wished he were in their place.\n\n[a] Observe the author’s extreme discretion: there has never yet been a pope named Urbain X; he is afraid to give a bastard daughter to a known pope. What circumspection! What delicacy of conscience!—This note by Voltaire is posthumous. It was not even in the Kehl editions. I received it from the late Décrois. The last pope named Urbain was Urbain VIII, who died in 1644. B.\n\n“I was betrothed to a sovereign prince of Massa-Carrara. What a prince! As handsome as I was beautiful, made of gentleness and charm, brilliant in mind and burning with love. I loved him as one loves for the first time, with adoration, with abandon. The wedding was prepared: there was unheard-of pomp and splendor, endless festivities, tournaments, and comic operas; all Italy wrote sonnets for me, not a single one of them passable. I was on the threshold of happiness when an old marchioness, who had been my prince’s mistress, invited him to take chocolate with her. He died in less than two hours amid dreadful convulsions. But that is a mere trifle. My mother, in despair though far less afflicted than I was, wished to escape so fatal a place for a while. She had a magnificent estate near Gaïète. We embarked on a galley of the region, gilded like the altar of Saint Peter’s in Rome. Then a corsair from Salé swooped down and boarded us. Our soldiers defended themselves like soldiers of the pope: they all fell to their knees, threw down their weapons, and begged the corsair for absolution at the moment of death.\n\n“At once they were stripped naked as monkeys, as were my mother, our ladies-in-waiting, and I. The speed with which these gentlemen undress people is astonishing. What surprised me still more was that they put a finger into a place where we women ordinarily allow nothing but a syringe to be put. This ceremony seemed very strange to me: such is how one judges everything when one has never left home. I soon learned that they were checking whether we had hidden any diamonds there. It is a custom established since time immemorial among civilized nations that roam the seas. I have learned that the reverend Knights of Malta never neglect it when they capture Turkish men and women: it is a law of nations from which no one has ever departed.\n\n“I will not tell you how hard it is for a young princess to be carried off as a slave to Morocco with her mother: you can readily imagine everything we suffered on the corsair’s ship. My mother was still very beautiful. Our ladies-in-waiting, even our ordinary maids, had more charms than can be found in all Africa. As for me, I was ravishing; I was beauty and grace themselves, and I was a virgin. I did not remain one long: that flower, reserved for the handsome prince of Massa-Carrara, was taken from me by the corsair captain, a hideous black man who believed he was doing me a great honor. Truly, the princess of Palestrine and I must have been very strong to endure all that happened to us before we reached Morocco! But let us pass over that: such things are so common that they are scarcely worth speaking of.\n\n“Morocco was swimming in blood when we arrived. Fifty sons of the emperor Muley Ismael each had his own faction; this brought about fifty civil wars, black men against black men, black men against brown men, brown men against brown men, mixed-race men against mixed-race men. It was ceaseless slaughter across the whole empire.\n\n“We had scarcely disembarked when black men of a faction hostile to my corsair’s appeared to seize his spoils. After the diamonds and gold, we were the most precious thing he possessed. I witnessed a battle unlike any you ever see in your European climes. Northern peoples do not have blood ardent enough; their passion for women never reaches the fury common in Africa. It seems your Europeans have milk in their veins; it is vitriol, it is fire, that runs through the veins of the inhabitants of Mount Atlas and the neighboring lands. They fought with the fury of the region’s lions, tigers, and serpents over who would possess us. A Moor seized my mother by the right arm; my captain’s lieutenant held her by the left. A Moorish soldier took one of her legs, and one of our pirates held the other. Almost all our ladies were caught at once between four soldiers in the same fashion. My captain kept me hidden behind him, scimitar in hand, killing anyone who stood in the way of his fury. At last I saw all our Italian women and my mother torn apart, cut up, slaughtered by the monsters fighting over them. The captives, my companions, their captors, soldiers, sailors, black, brown, white, mixed-race men, and finally my captain: all were killed, and I lay dying upon a heap of corpses. Similar scenes were taking place, as everyone knows, over more than three hundred leagues, without anyone neglecting the five daily prayers ordained by Muhammad.\n\n“With great difficulty I freed myself from the mass of piled-up, bloody corpses and dragged myself beneath a great orange tree beside a nearby stream. There I collapsed from fright, exhaustion, horror, despair, and hunger. Soon my overwhelmed senses yielded to a sleep more like fainting than rest. I lay in that state of weakness and insensibility, between life and death, when I felt something pressing on me and moving over my body. I opened my eyes and saw a handsome white man who was sighing and muttering between his teeth: ‘Oh, what a misfortune to be without balls!’”\n\n### Chapter XII\n\nThe Old Woman’s Misfortunes Continue.\n\n“Astonished and delighted to hear the language of my homeland, and no less surprised by the words this man uttered, I replied that there were worse misfortunes than the one he lamented. I told him briefly of the horrors I had endured, and fainted again. He carried me into a nearby house, had me put to bed and given food, attended to me, comforted me, flattered me, told me that he had never seen anyone so beautiful and had never so bitterly regretted what no one could give back to him. ‘I was born in Naples,’ he told me. ‘Two or three thousand children are castrated there every year. Some die of it; others acquire a voice lovelier than a woman’s; still others go on to govern states. The operation was performed on me with great success, and I served as a musician in the chapel of the princess of Palestrine.’ ‘My mother!’ I cried. ‘Your mother!’ he exclaimed, weeping. ‘What! Are you that young princess I cared for until she was six years old, who already promised to be as beautiful as you are?’ ‘I am. My mother lies four hundred paces away, cut into quarters under a heap of corpses…’\n\n“I told him everything that had happened to me. He told me his adventures in turn and explained how a Christian power had sent him to the king of Morocco to conclude a treaty under which that monarch would be supplied with gunpowder, cannon, and ships to help him destroy the trade of other Christians. ‘My mission is accomplished,’ said this worthy eunuch. ‘I am about to embark at Ceuta, and I shall take you back to Italy. But what a misfortune to be without balls!’\n\n“I thanked him with tears of tenderness. Instead of taking me to Italy, he took me to Algiers and sold me to the dey of that province. No sooner had I been sold than the plague which had made its way around Africa, Asia, and Europe broke out with fury in Algiers. You have seen earthquakes; but, young lady, have you ever had the plague?” “Never,” answered the baroness.\n\n“Had you had it,” the old woman continued, “you would acknowledge that it is far worse than an earthquake. It is very common in Africa; I contracted it. Imagine the plight of a pope’s daughter, fifteen years old, who in three months had known poverty and slavery, been raped almost every day, seen her mother cut into four pieces, endured hunger and war, and was dying of plague in Algiers! Yet I did not die of it. My eunuch did, and so did the dey and almost all the women of the Algiers seraglio.\n\n“When the first ravages of this dreadful plague had passed, the dey’s slaves were sold. A merchant bought me and took me to Tunis; he sold me to another merchant, who sold me again in Tripoli. From Tripoli I was resold in Alexandria; from Alexandria in Smyrna; from Smyrna in Constantinople. At last I belonged to an aga of the janissaries, who was soon ordered to defend Azof against the Russians laying siege to it.\n\n“The aga, a most gallant man, took his entire seraglio with him and lodged us in a little fort on the Palus-Méotides, guarded by two black eunuchs and twenty soldiers. A prodigious number of Russians were killed, but they repaid us in kind. Azof was put to fire and sword, and neither sex nor age was spared. Only our little fort remained; the enemy sought to starve us out. The twenty janissaries had sworn never to surrender. The extremity of hunger to which they were reduced forced them to eat our two eunuchs, rather than break their oath. After a few days they resolved to eat the women.\n\n“We had a very devout and compassionate imam who preached them a fine sermon and persuaded them not to kill us outright. ‘Cut only one buttock off each of these ladies,’ he said. ‘You will dine exceedingly well. If necessary, you will have just as much again in a few days. Heaven will reward so charitable a deed, and help will come to you.’\n\n“He was very eloquent; he persuaded them. They performed this horrible operation on us. The imam applied the same balm that is used on children newly circumcised. We were all at death’s door.\n\n“The janissaries had barely finished the meal we had furnished them when the Russians arrived in flat-bottomed boats. Not one janissary survived. The Russians paid no attention to our condition. There are French surgeons everywhere: one of them, a very skillful man, cared for us and cured us. I shall remember all my life that when my wounds had quite closed, he made advances to me. Moreover, he told us all to take comfort; he assured us that the same thing had happened in several sieges, and that it was the law of war.\n\n“As soon as my companions could walk, they were sent to Moscow. I fell to the lot of a boyar who made me his gardener and gave me twenty lashes a day. But two years later that lord was broken on the wheel, along with some thirty other boyars, for some court intrigue. I took advantage of the event and escaped. I crossed all Russia. For a long time I was a tavern servant in Riga, then in Rostock, Vismar, Leipsick, Cassel, Utrecht, Leyde, The Hague, and Rotterdam. I have grown old in misery and disgrace, with only half a backside, always remembering that I was a pope’s daughter. A hundred times I wanted to kill myself, but I still loved life. This absurd weakness is perhaps one of our most ruinous inclinations. For what could be more foolish than forever bearing a burden one forever wishes to cast down; than loathing one’s existence and clinging to it; than fondling the serpent that devours us until it has eaten our heart?\n\n“In the countries fate has made me cross, and in the taverns where I have served, I have seen a prodigious number of people who detested their existence. But I have seen only twelve who voluntarily put an end to their misery: three black men, four Englishmen, four Genevans, and a German professor named Robeck. At last I became a servant to the Jew Don Issachar. He placed me with you, my beautiful young lady; I attached myself to your fate and took more interest in your adventures than in my own. I would never even have spoken to you of my misfortunes had you not provoked me a little, and had it not been the custom on a ship to tell stories to relieve the tedium. In short, young lady, I have experience; I know the world. Indulge yourself: ask each passenger to tell you his story. If you find a single one who has not often cursed his life, who has not often told himself he is the unhappiest of men, throw me headfirst into the sea.”\n\n### Chapter XIII\n\nHow Candide Was Forced to Part from the Beautiful Cunégonde and the Old Woman.\n\nHaving heard the old woman’s story, the beautiful Cunégonde showed her every courtesy due to a person of her rank and merit. She accepted the proposal and persuaded all the passengers, one after another, to tell her their adventures. She and Candide admitted that the old woman was right. “It is a great pity,” Candide said, “that the wise Pangloss was hanged, contrary to custom, at an auto-da-fé. He would tell us marvelous things about the physical and moral evil that covers earth and sea; and I feel I should have strength enough to dare, with all respect, to raise a few objections.”\n\nAs each passenger told a story, the ship moved on. They landed at Buénos-Ayres. Cunégonde, Captain Candide, and the old woman went to see the governor, Don Fernando d’Ibaraa, y Figueora, y Mascarenes, y Lampourdos, y Souza. This lord had a pride befitting a man who bore so many names. He spoke to men with the noblest disdain, held his nose so high, raised his voice so mercilessly, assumed so commanding a tone, and affected so haughty a walk that everyone who greeted him was tempted to beat him. He had a furious passion for women. Cunégonde struck him as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His first act was to ask whether she was the captain’s wife. The manner in which he asked alarmed Candide. He did not dare say she was his wife, since in fact she was not; he did not dare say she was his sister, since she was not that either. Though this obliging falsehood had once been much in fashion among the ancients and might still be useful to modern people, his soul was too pure to betray the truth. “Miss Cunégonde,” he said, “is to do me the honor of marrying me, and we beg Your Excellency to graciously conduct our wedding.”\n\nDon Fernando d’Ibaraa, y Figueora, y Mascarenes, y Lampourdos, y Souza stroked his mustache, smiled bitterly, and ordered Captain Candide to inspect his company. Candide obeyed; the governor remained with Miss Cunégonde. He declared his passion and vowed to marry her the next day before the Church, or otherwise, whichever pleased her charms. Cunégonde asked him for a quarter of an hour to collect herself, consult the old woman, and decide.\n\nThe old woman said to Cunégonde: “Miss, you have seventy-two noble lines of ancestry and not a penny. You have only to say the word to become the wife of the greatest lord in South America, a man with a very fine mustache. Is it for you to pride yourself on fidelity that nothing can shake? You were raped by the Bulgarians; a Jew and an inquisitor have enjoyed your favors. Misfortunes confer rights. I confess that if I were in your place, I would have no scruple about marrying His Excellency the governor and making Captain Candide’s fortune.” While the old woman spoke with all the prudence that age and experience bestow, a small ship was seen entering the harbor. It carried a magistrate and constables, and this is what had happened.\n\nThe old woman had guessed quite correctly that it was a friar with wide sleeves who had stolen Cunégonde’s money and jewels in Badajos when she was fleeing in haste with Candide. The monk tried to sell some of the gems to a jeweler. The merchant recognized them as the Grand Inquisitor’s. Before he was hanged, the friar confessed that he had stolen them, and identified the people and the route they had taken. Cunégonde’s and Candide’s escape was already known. They were followed to Cádiz; without losing time, a ship was sent in pursuit. The ship was already in the harbor of Buénos-Ayres. Word spread that a magistrate was about to land and that the murderers of His Lordship the Grand Inquisitor were being pursued. The prudent old woman saw at once what had to be done. “You cannot flee,” she told Cunégonde, “and you have nothing to fear. You did not kill His Lordship, and besides, the governor, who loves you, will not permit anyone to mistreat you. Stay here.” She ran straight to Candide. “Flee,” she said, “or within the hour you will be burned.” There was not a moment to lose. But how could he part from Cunégonde, and where could he find refuge?\n\n### Chapter XIV\n\nHow Candide and Cacambo Were Received by the Jesuits of Paraguay.\n\nCandide had brought from Cádiz a servant of a sort common on the coasts of Spain and in the colonies. He was one-quarter Spanish, born to a man of mixed ancestry in Tucumán; he had been a choirboy, a sacristan, a sailor, a monk, a courier, a soldier, and a footman. His name was Cacambo, and he was very fond of his master, because his master was a very good man. He saddled the two Andalusian horses as quickly as he could. “Come, master, let us follow the old woman’s advice: let us leave, and ride without looking back.” Candide burst into tears. “Oh, my dear Cunégonde! Must I abandon you just as the governor is about to celebrate our wedding? Cunégonde, brought from so far away, what will become of you?” “She will manage as best she can,” said Cacambo. “Women are never at a loss what to do with themselves; God looks after them. Let us ride.” “Where are you taking me? Where are we going? What shall we do without Cunégonde?” said Candide. “By Saint James of Compostela,” said Cacambo, “you were going to fight the Jesuits; let us fight for them instead. I know the roads well enough; I shall take you into their kingdom. They will be delighted to have a captain who can drill troops in the Bulgarian manner; you will make an immense fortune. When a man does not find what he deserves in one world, he finds it in another. It is a great pleasure to see and do new things.”\n\n“Have you been to Paraguay before, then?” said Candide. “Why, indeed I have!” said Cacambo. “I was an assistant at the college of the Assumption, and I know the government of los padres as well as I know the streets of Cádiz. That government is a marvelous thing. The kingdom is already more than three hundred leagues across; it is divided into thirty provinces. Los padres have everything there, and the people nothing; it is a masterpiece of reason and justice. For my part, I see nothing so divine as los padres: here they make war on the king of Spain and the king of Portugal, while in Europe they hear those kings’ confessions; here they kill Spaniards, while in Madrid they send them to heaven. I am enchanted by it. Onward: you are about to be the happiest man alive. What pleasure los padres will take in learning that a captain who knows the Bulgarian drill is coming to them!”\n\nAs soon as they reached the first barrier, Cacambo told the advance guard that a captain wished to speak with his lordship the commandant. Word was sent to the main guard. A Paraguayan officer ran to the commandant’s feet to give him the news. Candide and Cacambo were disarmed at once; their two Andalusian horses were seized. The two strangers were brought between two ranks of soldiers; at the far end stood the commandant, a three-cornered hat on his head, his robe tucked up, a sword at his side, a half-pike in his hand. He gave a signal; immediately twenty-four soldiers surrounded the newcomers. A sergeant told them they must wait: the commandant could not speak to them, and the reverend father provincial did not permit any Spaniard to open his mouth except in his presence, or to remain in the country for more than three hours. “And where is the reverend father provincial?” said Cacambo. “At the parade, after saying his Mass,” replied the sergeant, “and you will not be allowed to kiss his spurs for another three hours.” “But,” said Cacambo, “the captain, who is as hungry as I am, is not Spanish: he is German. Could we not have breakfast while we wait for his reverence?”\n\nThe sergeant immediately went to report these words to the commandant. “God be praised!” said that lord. “Since he is German, I can speak to him; bring him to my arbor.” Candide was led at once into a leafy bower, adorned with a lovely colonnade of green and gold marble and with trellises enclosing parrots, hummingbirds, tiny birds, guinea fowl, and all the rarest birds. An excellent breakfast had been laid out in gold vessels; and while the Paraguayans ate corn from wooden bowls in the open field under the blazing sun, the reverend father commandant entered the bower.\n\nHe was a very handsome young man, with a full face, fairly pale but flushed with color, arched eyebrows, lively eyes, red ears, crimson lips, and a proud bearing—but a pride neither Spanish nor Jesuit. Candide and Cacambo were given back their weapons, which had been confiscated, as well as their two Andalusian horses. Cacambo fed the horses oats beside the bower, never taking his eyes off them for fear of a surprise.\n\nCandide first kissed the hem of the commandant’s robe, and then they sat down to eat. “So you are German?” the Jesuit asked him in that language. “Yes, reverend father,” said Candide. As they spoke, each looked at the other with the utmost astonishment and an emotion neither could control. “And from what part of Germany do you come?” said the Jesuit. “From the wretched province of Westphalia,” said Candide. “I was born in the castle of the Baron of Thunder-ten-tronckh.” “Heavens! Can it be?” cried the commandant. “What a miracle!” cried Candide. “Is it really you?” said the commandant. “It cannot be,” said Candide. Both fell back, embraced, and shed torrents of tears. “What! Can it be you, reverend father? You, the brother of the lovely Cunégonde! You, who were killed by the Bulgarians! You, the baron’s son! You, a Jesuit in Paraguay! I must admit the world is a strange place. Oh, Pangloss! Pangloss! How delighted you would be if you had not been hanged!”\n\nThe commandant sent away the enslaved Black people and the Paraguayans who were serving drinks in rock-crystal goblets. He thanked God and Saint Ignatius a thousand times; he clasped Candide in his arms, and both their faces were wet with tears. “You would be far more astonished, more moved, more overcome,” said Candide, “if I told you that your sister, Mademoiselle Cunégonde, whom you believed had been disemboweled, is in perfect health.” “Where?” “Nearby, at the home of the governor of Buenos Aires; and I was coming here to make war on you.” Every word they uttered in that long conversation piled marvel upon marvel. Their whole souls rushed to their tongues, listened through their ears, and sparkled in their eyes. Being Germans, they lingered long over the meal as they waited for the reverend father provincial; and the commandant spoke to his dear Candide as follows.\n\n### Chapter XV\n\nHow Candide Killed the Brother of His Dear Cunégonde.\n\n“All my life I shall remember the dreadful day when I saw my father and mother killed and my sister raped. When the Bulgarians had withdrawn, my adorable sister was nowhere to be found; my mother, my father, and I, along with two maidservants and three little boys whose throats had been cut, were put on a cart to be buried in a Jesuit chapel two leagues from my ancestral castle. A Jesuit sprinkled us with holy water; it was horribly salty. A few drops got into my eyes, and the father noticed a slight movement of my eyelid. He put his hand over my heart and felt it beating. I was cared for, and after three weeks there was no trace of injury. You know, my dear Candide, that I was very pretty; I became prettier still. And so the reverend father Croust, superior of the house, conceived the tenderest affection for me: he gave me the habit of a novice, and some time later I was sent to Rome. The father general needed a fresh contingent of young German Jesuits. The rulers of Paraguay admit as few Spanish Jesuits as possible; they prefer foreigners, whom they believe they can control more easily. The reverend father general judged me fit to go and labor in that vineyard. A Pole, a Tyrolean, and I set off together. On my arrival I was honored with the subdiaconate and a lieutenant’s commission; today I am a colonel and a priest. We shall give the king of Spain’s troops a vigorous reception; I promise you they will be excommunicated and beaten. Providence has sent you here to aid us. But is it really true that my dear sister Cunégonde is nearby, at the governor’s house in Buenos Aires?” Candide swore to him that nothing could be truer. Their tears began to flow again.\n\nThe baron could not embrace Candide enough; he called him his brother, his savior. “Ah! Perhaps, my dear Candide,” he said, “we can enter the city together as conquerors and take back my sister Cunégonde.” “That is all I wish,” said Candide, “for I intended to marry her, and still hope to.” “You insolent wretch!” replied the baron. “You would have the audacity to marry my sister, who has seventy-two quarterings of nobility! What effrontery, to dare speak to me of so outrageous a design!” Candide, stunned by these words, replied: “Reverend father, all the quarterings in the world make no difference. I rescued your sister from the arms of a Jew and an inquisitor; she owes me a great deal, and she wishes to marry me. Master Pangloss has always told me that all men are equal; and I shall certainly marry her.” “We shall see about that, scoundrel!” said the Jesuit baron of Thunder-ten-tronckh, and at the same moment struck Candide hard across the face with the flat of his sword. Candide instantly drew his own and drove it up to the hilt into the belly of the Jesuit baron; but as he drew it out, still steaming, he began to weep. “Alas! My God!” he said. “I have killed my old master, my friend, my brother-in-law. I am the best man in the world, and already I have killed three men; and of those three, two are priests.”\n\nCacambo, who was standing guard at the entrance to the bower, ran in. “All we can do now is sell our lives dearly,” his master told him. “They will certainly enter the bower; we must die with weapons in our hands.” Cacambo, who had seen far worse, did not lose his head. He took the Jesuit robe the baron was wearing, put it on Candide, gave him the dead man’s square cap, and had him mount his horse. All this was done in the blink of an eye. “Gallop, master! Everyone will take you for a Jesuit going to issue orders; we shall be across the border before they can pursue us.” He was already flying as he spoke, shouting in Spanish, “Make way, make way for the reverend father colonel!”\n\n### Chapter XVI\n\nWhat Befell the Two Travelers with Two Girls, Two Monkeys, and the Savages Called Oreillons.\n\nCandide and his servant had crossed the barriers, and no one in the camp yet knew of the German Jesuit’s death. The watchful Cacambo had taken care to fill his bag with bread, chocolate, ham, fruit, and a few measures of wine. On their Andalusian horses they pressed into an unknown country where they found no road. At last a lovely meadow threaded with streams appeared before them. Our two travelers let their mounts graze. Cacambo suggested that his master eat, and set him the example. “How can you expect me,” said Candide, “to eat ham when I have killed the baron’s son and find myself condemned never to see the beautiful Cunégonde again? What use is there in prolonging my miserable days if I must spend them far from her, in remorse and despair? And what will the Journal de Trévoux say?”\n\nWhile he was speaking, he nevertheless ate. The sun was setting. The two wanderers heard little cries that seemed to come from women. They could not tell whether they were cries of pain or joy; but they rose in haste, seized by the unease and alarm that everything arouses in an unknown country. The cries came from two naked girls running lightly along the edge of the meadow, while two monkeys chased them, biting their buttocks. Candide was moved to pity. He had learned to shoot among the Bulgarians, and could have shot a hazelnut in a bush without touching its leaves. He took his Spanish double-barreled gun, fired, and killed both monkeys. “God be praised, my dear Cacambo! I have rescued those two poor creatures from great danger. If I sinned by killing an inquisitor and a Jesuit, I have surely made up for it by saving two girls’ lives. Perhaps they are young ladies of rank, and this adventure may bring us great advantages in this country.”\n\nHe would have continued, but his tongue froze when he saw the two girls embrace the monkeys tenderly, burst into tears over their bodies, and fill the air with the most heartrending cries. “I had not expected so much tenderness of heart,” he finally said to Cacambo, who replied, “A fine piece of work you have done, master: you have killed those young ladies’ two lovers.” “Their lovers! Can that be? You are making fun of me, Cacambo. How can I believe you?” “My dear master,” Cacambo replied, “everything still astonishes you. Why should you find it so strange that in some countries monkeys win the favors of ladies? They are one-quarter human, as I am one-quarter Spanish.” “Alas!” Candide answered, “I remember hearing Master Pangloss say that such things had once happened, and that these unions had produced aegipans, fauns, and satyrs; that several great men of antiquity had seen them. But I took them for fables.” “You must now be convinced,” said Cacambo, “that it is true; and you see how people behave when they have not received a certain education. My only fear is that those ladies may bring some trouble upon us.”\n\nThese sound reflections persuaded Candide to leave the meadow and venture deep into a wood. There he supped with Cacambo; and both, after cursing the inquisitor of Portugal, the governor of Buenos Aires, and the baron, fell asleep on a bed of moss. When they woke, they found they could not move. The reason was that during the night the Oreillons, the inhabitants of the country, to whom the two ladies had reported them, had bound them tightly with ropes made of tree bark.\n\nThey were surrounded by about fifty naked Oreillons, armed with arrows, clubs, and stone axes. Some were boiling a great cauldron; others were preparing spits; and all shouted, “It’s a Jesuit, it’s a Jesuit! We shall be avenged, and we shall feast well. Let us eat the Jesuit, let us eat the Jesuit!”\n\n“Did I not tell you, my dear master,” Cacambo cried sadly, “that those two girls would play us a nasty trick?” Candide, seeing the cauldron and the spits, cried out, “We shall certainly be roasted or boiled! Ah, what would Master Pangloss say if he saw what unspoiled nature is like? All is well, so be it; but I confess it is cruel to have lost Mademoiselle Cunégonde and to be put on a spit by Oreillons.” Cacambo never lost his head. “Do not despair of anything,” he told the desolate Candide. “I know a little of these people’s language; I shall speak to them.” “Be sure,” said Candide, “to explain to them how frightfully inhuman it is to cook men, and how unchristian.”\n\n“Gentlemen,” said Cacambo, “you mean to eat a Jesuit today, then? That is very well done; nothing is more just than treating one’s enemies in this way. Indeed, natural law teaches us to kill our neighbors, and that is how things are done throughout the world. If we do not exercise our right to eat them, it is because we have other ways of feasting well; but you do not have the same resources as we do. It is certainly better to eat one’s enemies than to leave the fruits of victory to the ravens and crows. But, gentlemen, you would not wish to eat your friends. You think you are going to put a Jesuit on a spit, but the man you are about to roast is your defender, the enemy of your enemies. As for me, I was born in your country; the gentleman you see here is my master, and far from being a Jesuit, he has just killed one, and is wearing his clothes. That is the cause of your mistake. To verify what I say, take his robe to the first barrier of the kingdom of los padres and ask whether my master has killed a Jesuit officer. It will take you little time; you can always eat us if you find that I have lied. But if I have told the truth, you know too well the principles of public law, customs, and laws not to spare us.”\n\nThe Oreillons found this speech very reasonable. They sent two leading men to investigate the truth without delay; the two envoys carried out their mission intelligently and soon returned with good news. The Oreillons untied their two prisoners, showed them every courtesy, offered them girls, gave them refreshments, and escorted them to the borders of their territory, crying joyfully, “He is not a Jesuit, he is not a Jesuit!”\n\nCandide could not cease marveling at the reason for his deliverance. “What a people!” he said. “What men! What customs! If I had not had the good fortune to thrust a sword clean through Mademoiselle Cunégonde’s brother, I would have been eaten without mercy. But, after all, unspoiled nature is good, since these people, instead of eating me, showed me a thousand kindnesses as soon as they knew I was not a Jesuit.”\n\n### Chapter XVII\n\nCandide and His Servant Arrive in Eldorado, and What They Saw There.\n\nWhen they reached the borders of the Oreillons’ land, Cacambo said to Candide, “You see that this hemisphere is no better than the other. Take my advice: let us return to Europe by the shortest route.” “How can we get back,” said Candide, “and where shall we go? If I go home, the Bulgarians and Avars are slaughtering everyone there; if I return to Portugal, I shall be burned; if we stay in this country, we risk being put on a spit at any moment. But how can I resolve to leave the part of the world where Mademoiselle Cunégonde lives?”\n\n“Let us turn toward Cayenne,” said Cacambo. “There we shall find Frenchmen, who go all over the world; they may be able to help us. Perhaps God will take pity on us.”\n\nIt was not easy to reach Cayenne. They knew roughly which direction to take; but mountains, rivers, precipices, brigands, and hostile peoples were formidable obstacles everywhere. Their horses died of exhaustion; their provisions ran out; for an entire month they lived on wild fruit, and at last found themselves beside a little river lined with coconut palms, which sustained both their lives and their hopes.\n\nCacambo, who always gave advice as good as the old woman’s, said to Candide, “We cannot go any farther; we have walked enough. I see an empty canoe on the bank. Let us fill it with coconuts, get into the little boat, and let the current carry us: a river always leads to some inhabited place. If we do not find pleasant things, at least we shall find new ones.” “Come,” said Candide, “let us commend ourselves to Providence.”\n\nThey traveled several leagues between banks now flowering, now barren, now level, now steep. The river grew ever wider, until at last it vanished beneath an arch of terrifying rocks that rose to the sky. The two travelers had the courage to surrender themselves to the current beneath that arch. Confined there, the river carried them along with dreadful speed and noise. After twenty-four hours they saw daylight again; but their canoe smashed against the reefs, and they had to drag themselves from rock to rock for an entire league. At last they discovered an immense horizon bounded by impassable mountains. The land was cultivated for pleasure as well as for need; everywhere usefulness was beautiful. The roads were covered—or rather adorned—with carriages of shining materials and unusual design, bearing men and women of singular beauty and swiftly drawn by large red sheep that outstripped the finest horses of Andalusia, Tétouan, and Meknes.\n\n“Now here,” said Candide, “is a country better than Westphalia.” He and Cacambo dismounted near the first village they came upon. Some village children, dressed in tattered gold brocade, were playing a game of quoits at the entrance to the village. Our two men from the other world stopped to watch them: their quoits were rather large round pieces, yellow, red, and green, which gleamed with a peculiar brilliance. The travelers felt tempted to pick up a few: they were gold, emeralds, and rubies, the least of which would have been the greatest ornament of the Mughal throne. “These children must be the king’s sons,” said Cacambo, “playing a little game of quoits.” Just then the village schoolmaster appeared to call them back to school. “That,” said Candide, “is the tutor of the royal family.”\n\nThe little rascals promptly abandoned their game, leaving their quoits and everything else they had played with on the ground. Candide picked them up, ran to the schoolmaster, and humbly offered them to him, making signs to show that their royal highnesses had forgotten their gold and precious stones. The village schoolmaster smiled, tossed them to the ground, stared at Candide’s face for a moment in great surprise, and went on his way.\n\nThe travelers made sure to gather up the gold, rubies, and emeralds. “Where are we?” cried Candide. “The children of this country’s kings must be very well brought up, since they are taught to scorn gold and precious stones.” Cacambo was as astonished as Candide. At last they approached the first house in the village; it was built like a palace in Europe. A crowd pressed around the doorway, and an even larger one was inside; delightful music could be heard, and a delicious aroma of cooking filled the air. Cacambo went up to the door and heard people speaking Peruvian; it was his native language, for everyone knows that Cacambo was born in Tucumán, in a village where no other language was known. “I shall interpret for you,” he told Candide. “Let us go in; this is an inn.”\n\nImmediately two young men and two young women who worked at the inn, dressed in cloth of gold, their hair tied back with ribbons, invited them to sit at the host’s table. Four soups were served, each garnished with two parrots; a boiled condor weighing two hundred pounds; two roast monkeys of excellent flavor; three hundred hummingbirds on one platter and six hundred tiny birds on another; exquisite stews and delicious pastries, all served on dishes of a kind of rock crystal. The young men and women of the inn poured a variety of drinks made from sugarcane.\n\nMost of the diners were merchants and wagon drivers, all exceedingly polite. They asked Cacambo a few questions with the greatest discretion and answered his own to his satisfaction.\n\nWhen the meal was over, Cacambo, like Candide, thought he would pay generously for his share by tossing onto the host’s table two of the large gold pieces he had picked up. The host and hostess burst out laughing and held their sides for a long time. At last they recovered themselves. “Gentlemen,” said the host, “we can see that you are foreigners; we are not used to seeing any. Forgive our laughter when you offered us the pebbles from our roads as payment. No doubt you have none of the local currency, but you need none to dine here. All the inns established for the convenience of trade are paid for by the government. You have eaten poorly here, because this is a poor village, but everywhere else you will be received as you deserve.” Cacambo interpreted everything the host said for Candide, and Candide listened with the same wonder and bewilderment that his friend Cacambo felt as he translated. “What country can this be,” they both asked, “unknown to all the rest of the earth, where the whole of nature is so different from ours? It is probably the country where everything goes well; for there must surely be one such place. And, whatever Master Pangloss says, I have often noticed that things went rather badly in Westphalia.”\n\n### Chapter XVIII\n\nWhat They Saw in the Country of Eldorado.\n\nCacambo showed his host the full extent of his curiosity. The host said to him, “I am profoundly ignorant, and very happy that way; but we have here an old man, retired from court, who is the most learned man in the kingdom and the most willing to share his knowledge.” He promptly took Cacambo to the old man. Candide now played only the second part, and accompanied his servant. They entered a very simple house, for the door was merely silver and the paneling of the rooms merely gold, but worked with such taste that the richest paneling could not have outshone it. The antechamber, it is true, was inlaid with nothing but rubies and emeralds; yet the order in which everything was arranged more than made up for this extreme simplicity.\n\nThe old man received the two strangers on a sofa padded with hummingbird feathers and had liqueurs served to them in diamond vessels; then he satisfied their curiosity in these words:\n\n“I am one hundred and seventy-two years old, and from my late father, a squire to the king, I learned of the astonishing upheavals in Peru which he had witnessed. The kingdom where we are is the ancient homeland of the Incas, who most imprudently left it to subjugate part of the world, and who were finally destroyed by the Spaniards.\n\n“The princes of their family who remained in their native land were wiser; with the consent of the nation they decreed that no inhabitant should ever leave our little kingdom, and that is what has preserved our innocence and happiness. The Spaniards have had some vague knowledge of this country and have called it Eldorado; an Englishman named Sir Raleigh even came close to it about a hundred years ago. But as we are surrounded by impassable rocks and precipices, we have always been safe, up to now, from the rapacity of the nations of Europe. They have an inconceivable passion for the stones and mud of our soil, and would kill every last one of us to get them.”\n\nThe conversation was long; it ranged over the form of government, customs, women, public entertainments, and the arts. Finally Candide, who had always had a taste for metaphysics, had Cacambo ask whether there was a religion in the country.\n\nThe old man blushed a little. “What do you mean?” he said. “Can you doubt it? Do you take us for ingrates?” Cacambo humbly asked what the religion of Eldorado was. The old man blushed again. “Could there be two religions?” he said. “We have, I believe, the religion of everyone; we worship God from evening until morning.” “Do you worship only one God?” said Cacambo, still interpreting Candide’s doubts. “It seems,” said the old man, “that there are not two, or three, or four. I confess the people of your world ask very strange questions.” Candide never tired of having this good old man questioned; he wanted to know how they prayed to God in Eldorado. “We do not pray to him,” said the good and venerable sage. “We have nothing to ask of him; he has given us everything we need. We thank him constantly.” Candide was curious to see the priests; he had Cacambo ask where they were. The good old man smiled. “My friends,” he said, “we are all priests; the king and all the heads of families solemnly sing hymns of thanksgiving every morning, accompanied by five or six thousand musicians.” “What! You have no monks who teach, argue, govern, scheme, and have people burned for disagreeing with them?” “We would have to be mad,” said the old man. “Here we all agree, and we have no idea what you mean by your monks.” Candide was in raptures at all this talk, and said to himself, “This is very different from Westphalia and the Baron’s castle. If our friend Pangloss had seen Eldorado, he would no longer have said that the castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh was the best place on earth. Clearly one must travel.”\n\nAfter this long conversation the good old man ordered a carriage drawn by six sheep and assigned twelve of his servants to take the two travelers to court. “Forgive me,” he told them, “if my age deprives me of the honor of accompanying you. The king will receive you in a way that will not disappoint you, and you will doubtless pardon the customs of the country if any of them displease you.”\n\nCandide and Cacambo climbed into the carriage; the six sheep flew along, and in less than four hours they reached the king’s palace at one end of the capital. The gateway was two hundred and twenty feet high and one hundred wide; it is impossible to say what it was made of. One can readily imagine how vastly superior its substance must have been to the stones and sand we call gold and precious gems.\n\nTwenty beautiful girls of the guard welcomed Candide and Cacambo as they stepped down from the carriage, led them to the baths, and dressed them in robes woven of hummingbird down. Then the great officers of the crown, men and women, conducted them to his majesty’s apartments between two ranks of musicians, a thousand in each, according to the usual custom. As they approached the throne room, Cacambo asked a senior officer how they should greet his majesty: whether they should fall to their knees or flat on their faces; whether they should put their hands on their heads or on their backsides; whether they should lick the dust from the floor—in short, what the ceremony was. “The custom,” said the officer, “is to embrace the king and kiss him on both cheeks.” Candide and Cacambo flung their arms around his majesty’s neck. He received them with every imaginable grace and politely invited them to supper.\n\nMeanwhile they were shown the city: public buildings rising to the clouds, markets adorned with a thousand columns, fountains of pure water, fountains of rosewater, others of sugarcane liquor flowing continually through great squares paved with a kind of precious stone that gave off a scent like cloves and cinnamon. Candide asked to see the court of justice, the parliament; he was told there was none, and that no one ever went to law. He inquired whether there were prisons, and was told there were not. What surprised him still more, and gave him the greatest pleasure, was the palace of sciences, where he saw a gallery two thousand paces long, entirely filled with instruments of mathematics and physics.\n\nAfter spending the whole afternoon covering roughly one-thousandth of the city, they were brought back to the king. Candide sat at table between his majesty, his servant Cacambo, and several ladies. Never was a finer meal served, and never was there more wit at supper than his majesty displayed. Cacambo explained the king’s witticisms to Candide, and even in translation they still seemed witty. Of all that astonished Candide, this was not the least astonishing.\n\nThey spent a month in this hospitable place. Candide kept saying to Cacambo, “It is true, my friend—I say it again—that the castle where I was born cannot compare with the country where we are. But Miss Cunégonde is not here, after all, and no doubt you have a sweetheart somewhere in Europe. If we stay here, we shall be no different from anyone else; whereas if we go back to our world with just twelve sheep laden with stones from Eldorado, we shall be richer than all its kings put together, we shall no longer have inquisitors to fear, and we can easily win back Miss Cunégonde.”\n\nThis speech pleased Cacambo. People so love roaming the world, distinguishing themselves among their own people, and showing off what they have seen on their travels that these two happy men resolved to be happy no longer, and to ask his majesty’s permission to leave.\n\n“You are being foolish,” said the king. “I know very well that my country is nothing much; but when one is reasonably comfortable somewhere, one should stay. I certainly have no right to detain foreigners. Such tyranny belongs neither to our customs nor to our laws. All men are free; leave whenever you wish, though getting out is very difficult. You cannot go back up the swift river by which you miraculously arrived and which runs under vaults of rock. The mountains surrounding my entire kingdom are ten thousand feet high and sheer as walls; each of them stretches more than ten leagues across, and one can descend only by way of precipices. Yet since you absolutely wish to leave, I shall order the directors of our machinery to build one that can carry you across in comfort. Once you have been taken to the far side of the mountains, no one will be able to accompany you: my subjects have sworn never to leave their boundaries, and they are too wise to break their vow. Ask me for anything else you please.” “All we ask of your majesty,” said Cacambo, “is a few sheep loaded with provisions, stones, and the mud of the country.” The king laughed. “I cannot understand,” he said, “what taste you Europeans have for our yellow mud. But take as much as you like, and may it do you good.”\n\nHe immediately ordered his engineers to make a machine to hoist these two extraordinary men out of the kingdom. Three thousand capable physicists worked on it; it was ready after fifteen days and cost no more than twenty million pounds sterling in the currency of the country. Candide and Cacambo were placed on the machine. There were two large red sheep, saddled and bridled for them to ride after crossing the mountains; twenty pack sheep loaded with food; thirty bearing gifts of the most remarkable things the country had to offer; and fifty loaded with gold, precious stones, and diamonds. The king embraced the two wanderers tenderly.\n\nTheir departure made a splendid spectacle, as did the ingenious way in which they and their sheep were hauled to the summit of the mountains. The physicists took leave of them once they had set them safely down, and Candide now had no desire or purpose but to present his sheep to Miss Cunégonde. “We have enough,” he said, “to pay off the governor of Buenos Aires, if a price can be put on Miss Cunégonde. Let us head for Cayenne, take ship, and then see what kingdom we can buy.”\n\n### Chapter XIX\n\nWhat Happened to Them in Surinam, and How Candide Met Martin.\n\nThe first day of our two travelers’ journey was pleasant enough. They were heartened by the thought that they owned more treasure than Asia, Europe, and Africa together could assemble. Candide, overcome with joy, wrote Cunégonde’s name on the trees. On the second day two of their sheep sank into marshes and disappeared with their loads. Two more sheep died of exhaustion a few days later; seven or eight then perished of hunger in a desert; others fell into precipices after a few more days. At last, after one hundred days’ travel, they had only two sheep left. Candide said to Cacambo, “My friend, you see how perishable the riches of this world are. Nothing endures but virtue and the happiness of seeing Miss Cunégonde again.” “I grant you that,” said Cacambo, “but we still have two sheep carrying more treasure than the king of Spain will ever possess; and far off I can make out a town I believe to be Surinam, which belongs to the Dutch. We are at the end of our troubles and the beginning of our happiness.”\n\nAs they approached the town they came upon a Black man lying on the ground, with only half his clothing left—that is, a pair of blue linen drawers. The poor man was missing his left leg and his right hand. “Oh, my God!” Candide said to him in Dutch. “What are you doing here, my friend, in this dreadful condition?” “I am waiting for my master, Mr. Vanderdendur, the famous merchant,” answered the man. “Was it Mr. Vanderdendur,” asked Candide, “who treated you this way?” “Yes, sir,” said the man. “That is the custom. We are given a pair of linen drawers as our entire clothing twice a year. When we work in the sugar mills and the mill catches a finger, they cut off our hand; when we try to run away, they cut off our leg. Both things happened to me. This is the price of the sugar you eat in Europe. Yet when my mother sold me on the coast of Guinea for ten patagon crowns, she said to me: ‘My dear child, bless our fetishes and always worship them; they will make you happy. You have the honor of being a slave to our white lords, and in that way you make your father’s and mother’s fortune.’ Alas, I do not know whether I made their fortune, but they did not make mine. Dogs, monkeys, and parrots are a thousand times less miserable than we are. The Dutch fetishes who converted me tell me every Sunday that we are all children of Adam, white and Black alike. I am no genealogist; but if these preachers speak the truth, we are all second cousins. And you must admit that no one could treat his own relatives more horribly.”\n\n“Oh, Pangloss!” cried Candide. “You never imagined this abomination. That settles it: in the end I shall have to renounce your optimism.” “What is optimism?” asked Cacambo. “Alas,” said Candide, “it is the mania for insisting that all is well when one is in misery.” Tears ran down his face as he looked at the man; still weeping, he entered Surinam.\n\nTheir first inquiry was whether there was a ship in port that could be sent to Buenos Aires. The man they approached happened to be a Spanish skipper who offered to make them a fair bargain. He arranged to meet them at an inn. Candide and the faithful Cacambo went there to await him with their two sheep.\n\nCandide, whose heart was always on his lips, told the Spaniard of all his adventures and confessed that he meant to carry Miss Cunégonde away. “I shall take great care not to carry you to Buenos Aires,” said the skipper. “I would be hanged, and so would you. The beautiful Cunégonde is his lordship’s favorite mistress.” This struck Candide like a thunderbolt, and he wept for a long time. Finally he took Cacambo aside. “Here is what you must do, my dear friend,” he told him. “We each have five or six million in diamonds in our pockets. You are more capable than I am: go and fetch Miss Cunégonde from Buenos Aires. If the governor makes any difficulty, give him a million; if he will not yield, give him two. You have killed no inquisitor; no one will suspect you. I shall fit out another ship and wait for you in Venice. It is a free country, where we have nothing to fear from the Bulgars, the Avars, the Jews, or the inquisitors.” Cacambo approved of this wise resolution. He was in despair at being separated from a good master who had become his close friend, but the pleasure of doing him a service overcame the pain of leaving him. They embraced in tears. Candide reminded him not to forget the good old woman. Cacambo left that very day; that Cacambo was an excellent man.\n\nCandide stayed some time longer in Surinam, waiting for another skipper willing to take him and the two sheep he had left to Italy. He hired servants and bought everything he needed for a long voyage. At last Mr. Vanderdendur, master of a large ship, presented himself. “How much do you want,” Candide asked him, “to take me straight to Venice, with my people, my baggage, and those two sheep?” The skipper agreed to ten thousand piastres. Candide did not hesitate.\n\n“Oh, ho,” the prudent Vanderdendur said to himself, “this stranger offers ten thousand piastres on the spot! He must be very rich.” Returning a moment later, he announced that he could not sail for less than twenty thousand. “Very well, you shall have it,” said Candide.\n\n“Well now,” the merchant whispered to himself, “this man gives twenty thousand piastres as readily as ten thousand.” He came back again and said he could not take him to Venice for less than thirty thousand piastres. “Then you shall have thirty thousand,” answered Candide.\n\n“Oh, ho,” the Dutch merchant said to himself again, “thirty thousand piastres cost this man nothing. No doubt the two sheep carry immense treasures. Let us press no further: first get the thirty thousand piastres paid, and then we shall see.” Candide sold two small diamonds, the lesser of which was worth more than all the money the skipper had asked for. He paid him in advance. The two sheep were put aboard. Candide followed in a small boat to join the ship in the roadstead; the skipper seized his chance, set sail, and cast off. The wind favored him. Candide, distraught and dumbfounded, soon lost sight of him. “Alas!” he cried. “There is a trick worthy of the Old World.” He returned to shore, overwhelmed by grief; after all, he had lost enough to make the fortunes of twenty monarchs.\n\nHe rushed to the Dutch judge and, being somewhat agitated, knocked loudly on the door. He went in, explained what had happened, and raised his voice a little higher than was proper. The judge began by making him pay ten thousand piastres for the noise he had made. Then he listened to him patiently, promised to consider his case as soon as the merchant returned, and charged him another ten thousand piastres for the costs of the hearing.\n\nThis treatment drove Candide to the end of his patience. He had, it is true, suffered misfortunes a thousand times more painful; but the cold composure of the judge, and of the skipper who had robbed him, inflamed his anger and plunged him into black melancholy. Human wickedness stood before his mind in all its ugliness; he fed on nothing but gloomy thoughts. At last, when a French ship was about to sail for Bordeaux, and he no longer had any diamond-laden sheep to put aboard, he hired a cabin at a fair price. He had word spread throughout the town that he would pay the passage and board, and give two thousand piastres as well, to an honest man willing to travel with him, provided that the man was the most disgusted with his lot and the most wretched in the province.\n\nA crowd of applicants came forward, more than a fleet could have carried. Wishing to choose among the most promising, Candide singled out some twenty people who seemed companionable and who all claimed to deserve preference. He gathered them at his inn and gave them supper on the condition that each swear to tell his story faithfully. He promised to choose the one who seemed to him most deserving of pity and most justly dissatisfied with his lot, and to give the others small rewards.\n\nThe session lasted until four in the morning. As Candide heard all their adventures, he recalled what the old woman had told him on the way to Buenos Aires, and the wager she had made that there was not a person on the ship who had not suffered great misfortunes. Every story he was told put him in mind of Pangloss. “That Pangloss,” he said, “would find it very hard to prove his system. I wish he were here. If all goes well anywhere, it is certainly in Eldorado, not on the rest of the earth.” At last he decided in favor of a poor scholar who had worked for the booksellers in Amsterdam for ten years. He judged that there was no trade in the world of which a man had more reason to be sick.\n\nThis scholar, otherwise a good man, had been robbed by his wife, beaten by his son, and abandoned by his daughter, who had run off with a Portuguese man. He had just lost the small position on which he lived; and the preachers of Surinam were persecuting him because they took him for a Socinian. One must admit that the others were at least as unfortunate as he was; but Candide hoped the scholar would relieve the tedium of the voyage. All his rivals felt that Candide was doing them a grave injustice; but he pacified them by giving each a hundred piastres.\n\n### Chapter XX\n\nWhat Happened to Candide and Martin at Sea.\n\nThe old scholar, whose name was Martin, accordingly embarked for Bordeaux with Candide. Both had seen and suffered much; and even if the ship had had to sail from Surinam to Japan by way of the Cape of Good Hope, they would have had enough to say about moral and physical evil to fill the whole voyage.\n\nYet Candide had a great advantage over Martin: he still hoped to see Miss Cunégonde again, while Martin had nothing to hope for. Besides, Candide had gold and diamonds; and although he had lost a hundred large red sheep laden with the greatest treasures on earth, although the Dutch skipper’s roguery still weighed on his heart, nevertheless, when he thought of what remained in his pockets and spoke of Cunégonde—especially toward the end of a meal—he would lean toward Pangloss’s system.\n\n“But you, Mr. Martin,” he said to the scholar, “what do you make of all this? What is your view of moral and physical evil?” “Sir,” answered Martin, “my priests accused me of being a Socinian; but the truth is that I am a Manichaean.” “You are making fun of me,” said Candide. “There are no Manichaeans left in the world.” “There is me,” said Martin. “I cannot help it; I can think no other way.” “You must have the devil inside you,” said Candide. “He meddles so much in the affairs of this world,” said Martin, “that he might well be inside me, as he is everywhere else. But I confess that when I look at this globe—or rather, this little globule—I think God has abandoned it to some malevolent being. I always except Eldorado. I have scarcely seen a town that did not wish for the ruin of the next town, or a family that did not want to wipe out some other family. Everywhere the weak detest the powerful before whom they grovel, and the powerful treat them as flocks whose wool and flesh can be sold. A million killers organized into regiments, roaming from one end of Europe to the other, commit murder and robbery under discipline to earn their bread, because they have no more honest occupation. And in cities that seem to enjoy peace, where the arts flourish, men are consumed by more envy, cares, and anxieties than a besieged city suffers calamities. Private sorrows are even crueler than public miseries. In short, I have seen and suffered so much that I am a Manichaean.”\n\n“There is good in the world, all the same,” Candide replied. “Perhaps there is,” said Martin, “but I do not know it.”\n\nIn the midst of this dispute they heard cannon fire. The sound grew louder by the moment. Everyone took up a telescope. They saw two ships fighting at a distance of about three miles; the wind brought them both so close to the French ship that the passengers had the pleasure of watching the battle in perfect comfort. At last one of the ships fired a broadside so low and so true that it sent the other to the bottom. Candide and Martin could plainly make out about a hundred men on the deck of the sinking ship; they were all raising their hands to heaven and uttering terrible cries. In a moment all were swallowed up.\n\n“Well,” said Martin, “that is how men treat one another.” “It is true,” said Candide, “that there is something diabolical in this business.” As he spoke, he noticed something bright red floating beside their ship. They lowered the boat to see what it might be; it was one of his sheep. Candide felt more joy at finding that sheep than he had felt grief at losing a hundred, all loaded with great diamonds from Eldorado.\n\nThe French captain soon learned that the captain of the victorious ship was Spanish, while the captain of the sunken ship was a Dutch pirate—the very man who had robbed Candide. The immense riches this scoundrel had seized were buried with him in the sea, and only one sheep was saved. “You see,” said Candide to Martin, “that crime is sometimes punished. That villainous Dutch skipper met the fate he deserved.” “Yes,” said Martin, “but did the passengers aboard his ship have to perish as well? God punished the thief; the devil drowned the rest.”\n\nMeanwhile the French and Spanish ships continued on their way, and Candide continued his conversations with Martin. They argued for fifteen days running, and after fifteen days they had made no more progress than on the first. Still, they talked, shared their thoughts, and consoled each other. Candide stroked his sheep. “Since I have found you again,” he said, “perhaps I shall find Cunégonde again too.”\n\n### Chapter XXI\n\nCandide and Martin Approach the Coast of France and Reason Together.\n\nAt last they caught sight of the coast of France. “Have you ever been to France, Mr. Martin?” said Candide. “Yes,” said Martin. “I have traveled through several provinces. In some, half the inhabitants are mad; in some they are too cunning; in others they are generally rather gentle and rather foolish; elsewhere they affect a show of wit. And in all of them the chief occupation is love, the second is speaking ill of others, and the third is talking nonsense.” “But Mr. Martin, have you seen Paris?” “Yes, I have seen Paris. It has something of all those kinds of people. It is a chaos, a crush in which everyone seeks pleasure and almost no one finds it, at least as far as I could tell. I stayed there only a short while. On arriving, I was robbed of everything I had by thieves at the Saint-Germain fair; I was taken for a thief myself and spent eight days in prison. After that I worked as a printer’s proofreader to earn enough to walk back to Holland. I came to know the scribbling rabble, the scheming rabble, and the convulsionary rabble. They say there are very polite people in that city; I am willing to believe it.”\n\n“As for me, I have no desire to see France,” said Candide. “You can easily imagine that after spending a month in Eldorado, one cares to see nothing else on earth but Miss Cunégonde. I shall wait for her in Venice. We shall cross France on our way to Italy; will you not come with me?” “Gladly,” said Martin. “They say Venice is good only for the Venetian nobility, but that foreigners are nonetheless made very welcome there when they have a great deal of money. I have none; you have some. I shall follow you anywhere.” “By the way,” said Candide, “do you think the earth was originally a sea, as they claim in that great book belonging to the ship’s captain?” “I do not believe a word of it,” said Martin, “any more than I believe all the fantasies they have been peddling lately.” “But what purpose was this world made for, then?” said Candide. “To drive us mad,” answered Martin. “Are you not astonished,” Candide went on, “at the love those two girls in the country of the Oreillons felt for those two monkeys, whose story I told you?” “Not at all,” said Martin. “I do not see anything strange about that passion. I have seen so many extraordinary things that nothing is extraordinary to me anymore.” “Do you believe,” said Candide, “that men have always slaughtered one another as they do today? That they have always been liars, cheats, traitors, ingrates, brigands, weaklings, inconstant, cowards, envious, gluttons, drunkards, misers, ambitious, bloodthirsty, slanderers, debauchees, fanatics, hypocrites, and fools?” “Do you believe,” said Martin, “that hawks have always eaten pigeons when they found them?” “Yes, certainly,” said Candide. “Well then,” said Martin, “if hawks have always had the same nature, why should men have changed theirs?” “Oh,” said Candide, “there is a great difference, because free will…” Reasoning in this fashion, they reached Bordeaux.\n\n“And where once there was land, there too were sea and air.”\n\nSee the first day of Telliamed, where it is said that the sea stood a great many cubits higher than the highest of all our mountains. Voltaire often speaks of De Maillet and his Telliamed. See, among other places, in the Mélanges, the chapter XVIII of Singularités de la nature, from the year 1768, and the eleventh of Dialogues d’Evhémère, from the year 1777. B.\n\n### Chapter XXII\n\nWhat Happened to Candide and Martin in France.\n\nCandide stopped in Bordeaux only long enough to sell a few stones from Eldorado and obtain a good two-seater carriage, for he could no longer do without his philosopher Martin. He was sorry only to part with his sheep, which he left at the Bordeaux Academy of Sciences. The academy proposed as the subject of that year’s prize the question of why this sheep’s wool was red; and the prize was awarded to a scholar from the North, who proved by A plus B minus C divided by Z that the sheep must be red and must die of sheep pox.\n\nMeanwhile, every traveler Candide met at the roadside inns told him, “We are going to Paris.” This universal eagerness at last made him want to see the capital; it was hardly a detour from the road to Venice.\n\nHe entered by the Saint-Marceau suburb and thought himself in the ugliest village in Westphalia.\n\nCandide had scarcely reached his inn when he was stricken with a slight illness brought on by his exertions. Since he wore an enormous diamond on his finger, and a prodigiously heavy casket had been seen among his luggage, two doctors he had not summoned immediately appeared at his bedside, along with a few close friends who never left him and two devout ladies who warmed his broths. Martin said, “I remember falling ill in Paris myself on my first visit. I was very poor; consequently I had no friends, no devout ladies, and no doctors, and I recovered.”\n\nUnder the combined force of medicines and bloodletting, however, Candide’s illness became serious. A priest attached to the neighborhood parish came gently to ask him for a note payable to the bearer in the next world. Candide would have none of it. The devout ladies assured him it was the latest fashion; Candide replied that he was not a fashionable man. Martin wanted to throw the priest out of the window. The cleric swore Candide would never be buried. Martin swore he would bury the cleric if he kept troubling them. The quarrel grew heated: Martin took him by the shoulders and threw him out roughly, causing a great scandal, of which an official report was drawn up.\n\nCandide recovered, and during his convalescence he had excellent company to supper at his lodgings. They played for high stakes. Candide was astonished that the aces never came to him; Martin was not astonished at all.\n\nAmong those who showed him the sights was a little abbé from Périgord, one of those bustling men, always alert, always obliging, brazen, ingratiating, accommodating, who lie in wait for passing foreigners, tell them the city’s scandals, and offer them pleasures at any price. First he took Candide and Martin to the theater. A new tragedy was playing. Candide found himself seated beside several men of wit. That did not prevent him from weeping at scenes that were superbly performed. During an intermission, one of the critics beside him said, “You are quite wrong to weep. That actress is very bad; the actor with her is worse still; the play is even worse than its actors. The author does not know a word of Arabic, though the play is set in Arabia; moreover, he is a man who does not believe in innate ideas. Tomorrow I shall bring you twenty pamphlets against him.” “Sir, how many plays do you have in France?” Candide asked the abbé, who replied, “Five or six thousand.” “That is a great many,” said Candide. “How many of them are good?” “Fifteen or sixteen,” replied the other. “That is a great many,” said Martin.\n\nLet your fidelity in painting manners extend\nEven to the names of your least important players,\nSo that when we pronounce them, they reveal to us\nThe countries and the times in which you bring them back to life.\nI am vexed to see, achieving nothing,\nHidaspes the Indian at the side of Oedipus the Theban.\n\nVoltaire took the criticism to heart and substituted Araspes for Hidaspes. Perhaps it is to these lines by La Grange Chancel that Voltaire alludes here. B.\n\n“… against him. Sir,” the abbé from Périgord said to him, “have you noticed that young woman with such a captivating face and so slender a figure? She will cost you only ten thousand francs a month, and fifty thousand écus in diamonds.” “I have only a day or two to give her,” replied Candide, “because I have an urgent rendezvous in Venice.”\n\nThat evening, after supper, the insinuating Périgordian redoubled his courtesies and attentions. “So you have a rendezvous in Venice, sir,” he said, “and so on.” (See page 306.)\n\nThe present text is found as early as 1761. B.\n\nCandide was delighted with an actress who played Queen Elizabeth in a rather dull tragedy sometimes performed. “I like this actress very much,” he said to Martin. “She bears a faint resemblance to Mademoiselle Cunégonde; I should be happy to greet her.” The abbé from Périgord offered to introduce him to her. Candide, brought up in Germany, asked about the etiquette and how queens of England were treated in France. “We must make a distinction,” said the abbé. “In the provinces, they are taken to the tavern; in Paris, they are respected when they are beautiful and thrown on the rubbish heap when they are dead.” “Queens on the rubbish heap!” said Candide. “Indeed,” said Martin. “The abbé is right. I was in Paris when Mademoiselle Monime passed, as they say, from this life to the next. They denied her what these people call the honors of burial—that is, the right to rot with all the neighborhood beggars in a wretched cemetery. She was buried alone, apart from her company, on a corner of the rue de Bourgogne, which must have distressed her exceedingly, for she thought very nobly.” “That is very rude,” said Candide. “What can you expect?” said Martin. “That is how these people are made. Imagine every possible contradiction, every possible incompatibility, and you will see them in the government, the courts, the churches, and the theaters of this peculiar nation.” “Is it true that people are always laughing in Paris?” said Candide. “Yes,” said the abbé, “but with rage; for they complain of everything amid great bursts of laughter, and even commit the most detestable acts while laughing.”\n\n“Who was that fat pig,” said Candide, “who spoke so badly of the play that made me weep, and of the actors who gave me so much pleasure?” “A scoundrel,” replied the abbé, “who makes his living speaking ill of every play and every book. He hates anyone who succeeds, as eunuchs hate men who can enjoy themselves. He is one of those snakes of literature that feed on filth and venom; he is a hack journalist.” “What do you mean by a hack journalist?” said Candide. “A scribbler of news sheets,” said the abbé, “a Fréron.”\n\nThus Candide, Martin, and the Périgordian talked on the stairs as they watched the audience file out after the play. “Though I am exceedingly eager to see Mademoiselle Cunégonde again,” said Candide, “I should nevertheless like to have supper with Mademoiselle Clairon, for I thought her marvelous.”\n\nThe abbé was not the kind of man who could approach Mademoiselle Clairon, who saw only respectable company. “She has an engagement tonight,” he said, “but I shall have the honor of taking you to a lady of rank, and there you will get to know Paris as well as if you had spent four years in it.”\n\nCandide, naturally curious, let himself be taken to the lady’s house at the far end of the Saint-Honoré suburb. A game of faro was in progress; twelve melancholy punters each held a little packet of cards, its bent corners a record of their misfortunes. A profound silence reigned; pallor lay on the punters’ brows, anxiety on the banker’s. The lady of the house sat beside this merciless banker and noted with lynx eyes every paroli and every reckless sept-et-le-va for which the players folded the corners of their cards. She had the corners unfolded with severe but courteous attention, and did not grow angry, for fear of losing her customers. The lady called herself the Marquise de Parolignac. Her daughter, aged fifteen years, was one of the punters and signaled with a glance the cheating of these poor people trying to make good the cruelties of fortune. The abbé from Périgord, Candide, and Martin entered; no one rose or greeted them or looked at them; everyone was absorbed in the cards. “Madame the Baroness of Thunder-ten-tronckh had better manners,” said Candide.\n\nThe abbé meanwhile whispered in the marquise’s ear. She half rose, honored Candide with a gracious smile and Martin with a nod of the utmost nobility. She had a chair and a pack of cards brought to Candide, who lost fifty thousand francs in two deals. Afterward they supped very merrily, and everyone was astonished that Candide was unmoved by his loss. The footmen said to one another in their footmen’s language, “He must be some English milord.” Supper was like most Parisian suppers: first silence, then a din of indistinguishable voices, then jokes, most of them insipid, false reports, bad arguments, a little politics, and a great deal of malicious gossip; they even discussed new books. “Have you seen,” said the abbé from Périgord, “the novel by Monsieur Gauchat, doctor of theology?” “Yes,” answered one of the guests, “but I could not finish it. We have crowds of impertinent writings, yet all of them together fall short of the impertinence of Gauchat, doctor of theology. I am so sated with this immense flood of detestable books that I have taken to betting at faro.” “And what do you think of the Mélanges of Archdeacon Trublet?” said the abbé. “Ah,” said Madame de Parolignac, “what a tedious mortal! How painstakingly he tells you what everyone knows! How ponderously he discusses what is not worth so much as a passing remark! How witlessly he appropriates other people’s wit! How he spoils everything he plunders! How he disgusts me! But he will disgust me no longer; a few pages of the archdeacon were enough.”\n\nAt the table was a learned man of taste who supported what the marquise had said. Then they spoke of tragedies, and the lady asked why some tragedies could be performed from time to time but could not be read. The man of taste explained very well how a play could hold some interest and yet have almost no merit. He showed in a few words that it was not enough to present one or two of those situations found in every novel, which always beguile an audience; a writer must be original without being bizarre, often sublime and always natural, must know the human heart and make it speak, must be a great poet without ever letting any character in the play seem like a poet, must know his language perfectly and write it purely and with unbroken harmony, without ever sacrificing sense to rhyme. “Anyone,” he added, “who fails to observe all these rules may write one or two tragedies that win applause onstage, but will never be counted among good writers. There are very few good tragedies. Some are idylls in well-written, well-rhymed dialogue; others are political arguments that put one to sleep, or prolix speeches that repel; still others are the dreams of a madman in barbarous language, broken remarks, long appeals to the gods because the writer does not know how to speak to men, false maxims, and inflated commonplaces.”\n\nCandide listened attentively and formed a high opinion of the speaker. As the marquise had taken care to seat him beside her, he leaned toward her ear and ventured to ask who this man was who spoke so well. “A scholar,” said the lady, “who does not bet at faro, and whom the abbé sometimes brings to supper. He knows tragedies and books to perfection, and has written a tragedy that was hissed off the stage and a book of which only one copy has ever left the bookseller’s shop—the one he dedicated to me.” “What a great man!” said Candide. “Another Pangloss.”\n\nThen, turning to him, Candide said, “Sir, no doubt you believe that everything is for the best in the physical and moral world, and that nothing could be otherwise?” “I, sir?” the scholar answered. “I believe nothing of the sort. I find that everything among us goes awry; no one knows his rank, his duties, what he is doing, or what he ought to do. Apart from supper, which is cheerful enough and shows a fair amount of harmony, all the rest of our time is spent in foolish quarrels: Jansenists against Molinists, men of parliament against men of the church, writers against writers, courtiers against courtiers, financiers against the people, wives against husbands, relatives against relatives. It is an eternal war.”\n\nCandide replied, “I have seen worse; but a wise man, who afterward had the misfortune to be hanged, taught me that all this is splendid: these are shadows in a beautiful painting.” “Your hanged man was making fools of everyone,” said Martin. “Your shadows are hideous blotches.” “It is men who make the blotches,” said Candide, “and they cannot help doing so.” “Then it is not their fault,” said Martin. Most of the punters, who understood nothing of this conversation, drank; Martin reasoned with the scholar, and Candide recounted some of his adventures to the lady of the house.\n\nAfter supper, the marquise led Candide into her private room and seated him on a sofa. “Well,” she said, “are you still desperately in love with Mademoiselle Cunégonde de Thunder-ten-tronckh?” “Yes, madame,” replied Candide. The marquise answered with a tender smile, “You reply like a young man from Westphalia. A Frenchman would have said to me, ‘It is true that I loved Mademoiselle Cunégonde, but now that I see you, madame, I fear I love her no longer.’” “Alas, madame,” said Candide, “I shall answer however you wish.” “Your passion for her,” said the marquise, “began when you picked up her handkerchief; I want you to pick up my garter.” “With all my heart,” said Candide, and he picked it up. “But I want you to put it back on me,” said the lady, and Candide put it back on her. “You see,” said the lady, “you are a foreigner. I sometimes keep my Parisian lovers waiting fifteen days, but I yield to you on the first night, because one must show a young man from Westphalia the hospitality of one’s country.” The beauty caught sight of two enormous diamonds on her young foreigner’s hands and praised them with such sincerity that they passed from Candide’s fingers to the marquise’s.\n\nOn his way back with his abbé from Périgord, Candide felt some remorse at having been unfaithful to Mademoiselle Cunégonde. The abbé shared his sorrow: he had received only a small portion of the fifty thousand livres Candide had lost at cards, and of the value of the two diamonds, half given and half extorted. His intention was to profit as much as possible from whatever advantages his acquaintance with Candide might bring him. He spoke a great deal about Cunégonde, and Candide told him that he would certainly ask her forgiveness for his infidelity when he saw her in Venice.\n\nThe Périgordian redoubled his courtesies and attentions, taking a tender interest in everything Candide said, everything he did, and everything he wanted to do.\n\n“So, sir,” he said to him, “you have a rendezvous in Venice?” “Yes, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said Candide. “I must absolutely go and find Mademoiselle Cunégonde.” Then, carried away by the pleasure of speaking of the woman he loved, he related, as was his habit, some of his adventures with that illustrious Westphalian lady.\n\n“I believe,” said the abbé, “that Mademoiselle Cunégonde has a fine mind and writes charming letters.” “I have never received one,” said Candide. “You see, after I was driven from the castle for loving her, I could not write to her. Soon afterward I learned she was dead; then I found her again, and then I lost her, and I have sent a messenger to her two thousand five hundred leagues from here, whose reply I am awaiting.”\n\nThe abbé listened closely and seemed somewhat thoughtful. Soon he took leave of the two strangers, after embracing them affectionately. The next day, on waking, Candide received a letter worded as follows:\n\n“My very dear lover, for eight days I have been ill in this city; I hear that you are here. I would fly into your arms if I could move. I learned that you passed through Bordeaux; I left faithful Cacambo and the old woman there, and they are soon to follow me. The governor of Buenos Aires has taken everything, but your heart is still mine. Come: your presence will restore me to life or make me die of joy.”\n\nThis charming, unexpected letter filled Candide with inexpressible joy; and the illness of his dear Cunégonde overwhelmed him with grief. Torn between these two feelings, he gathered his gold and diamonds and had himself driven with Martin to the hotel where Mademoiselle Cunégonde was staying. He entered trembling with emotion, his heart pounding, his voice breaking with sobs. He wanted to open the bed curtains; he wanted someone to bring a light. “You must not,” said the attendant. “The light would kill her,” and at once she closed the curtain again. “My dear Cunégonde,” Candide said through his tears, “how are you feeling? If you cannot see me, at least speak to me.” “She cannot speak,” said the attendant. At that, the lady extended a plump hand from the bed. Candide bathed it for a long time with his tears, then filled it with diamonds, leaving a bag full of gold on the armchair.\n\nAmid his raptures an officer of the law arrived, followed by the abbé from Périgord and a squad of men. “So these are the two suspicious foreigners?” he said. He had them seized immediately and ordered his men to drag them off to prison. “Travelers are not treated this way in Eldorado,” said Candide. “I am more of a Manichaean than ever,” said Martin. “But, sir, where are you taking us?” said Candide. “To the bottom of a dungeon,” said the officer.\n\nHaving recovered his composure, Martin concluded that the woman who claimed to be Cunégonde was a swindler, the abbé from Périgord another swindler who had made quick use of Candide’s innocence, and the officer a third swindler who could easily be dealt with.\n\nRather than expose himself to the machinery of justice, Candide, guided by his adviser and still impatient to see the real Cunégonde again, offered the officer three small diamonds worth about three thousand pistoles each. “Ah, sir,” said the man with the ivory baton, “even if you had committed every imaginable crime, you are the most honorable man in the world! Three diamonds! Each worth three thousand pistoles! Sir, I would let myself be killed for you rather than take you to a dungeon. All foreigners are being arrested, but leave it to me. I have a brother in Dieppe, in Normandy; I shall take you to him, and if you have a diamond to give him, he will look after you just as I would.”\n\n“And why are all foreigners being arrested?” said Candide. The abbé from Périgord then spoke: “Because a wretch from the country of Atrebates heard some foolish talk. That alone led him to commit a murder of the king—not one like that of May 1610, but one like that of December 1594, and like several others committed in other years and other months by other wretches who had heard foolish talk.”\n\nThe officer then explained what had happened. “Ah, the monsters!” cried Candide. “What! Such horrors among a people who dance and sing! Can I not get out at once from this country where monkeys provoke tigers? I have seen bears in my own country; I have seen men only in Eldorado. For God’s sake, sir, take me to Venice, where I am to wait for Mademoiselle Cunégonde.” “I can take you only to Lower Normandy,” said the officer. He immediately had Candide’s shackles removed, said he had made a mistake, dismissed his men, took Candide and Martin to Dieppe, and left them in his brother’s hands. A small Dutch vessel lay at anchor offshore. The Norman, made the most obliging of men with the help of three more diamonds, put Candide and his companions aboard the vessel, which was about to sail for Portsmouth in England. That was not the way to Venice; but Candide believed he had escaped from hell, and fully intended to resume his journey to Venice at the first opportunity.\n\n### Chapter XXIII\n\nCandide and Martin Reach the Coast of England; What They See There.\n\n“Ah, Pangloss! Pangloss! Ah, Martin! Martin! Ah, my dear Cunégonde! What kind of world is this?” Candide said aboard the Dutch ship. “A very mad and very abominable one,” Martin answered. “You know England; are they as mad there as in France?” “It is another kind of madness,” said Martin. “You know that these two nations are at war over a few acres of snow near Canada, and that they are spending far more on this splendid war than all of Canada is worth. My limited understanding does not permit me to tell you precisely whether one country has more people fit to be locked up than the other; I know only that, in general, the people we are about to see are very ill-tempered.”\n\nAs they spoke, they reached Portsmouth. A great crowd covered the shore and watched intently as a fairly stout man knelt blindfolded on the deck of one of the fleet’s ships. Four soldiers stationed opposite him each fired three bullets into his skull with the utmost composure; and the entire assembly went home exceedingly satisfied. “What does all this mean?” said Candide. “And what demon holds sway everywhere?” He asked who the stout man was whom they had just killed with such ceremony. “An admiral,” someone answered. “And why kill this admiral?” “Because,” he was told, “he did not have enough people killed. He fought an engagement with a French admiral, and it was decided that he had not been close enough to him.” “But,” said Candide, “the French admiral was as far from the English admiral as the English admiral was from him!” “That is beyond dispute,” came the reply, “but in this country it is considered a good thing to kill an admiral from time to time, to encourage the others.”\n\nCandide was so stunned and horrified by what he saw and heard that he would not even set foot ashore. He struck a bargain with the Dutch captain to take him to Venice without delay, even if the man robbed him as the captain from Surinam had done.\n\nThe captain was ready in two days. They sailed along the coast of France; they passed within sight of Lisbon, and Candide shuddered. They entered the strait and the Mediterranean, and at last reached Venice. “Thank God!” said Candide, embracing Martin. “Here I shall see the beautiful Cunégonde again. I trust Cacambo as I trust myself. All is well, all goes well, all goes as well as it possibly can.”\n\n### Chapter XXIV\n\nOf Paquette and Brother Giroflée.\n\nAs soon as he arrived in Venice, he had Cacambo sought in every tavern, every café, and every house of ill repute, but could not find him. Every day he sent people to search all the ships and boats: no news of Cacambo. “What!” he said to Martin. “I have had time to travel from Surinam to Bordeaux, from Bordeaux to Paris, from Paris to Dieppe, from Dieppe to Portsmouth, to skirt the coasts of Portugal and Spain, to cross the whole Mediterranean, and to spend several months in Venice; and the beautiful Cunégonde has not come! Instead of her I have met only a hussy and a Périgord abbé! Cunégonde is dead, no doubt; nothing remains for me but to die. Ah, it would have been better to stay in the paradise of Eldorado than to return to this accursed Europe. How right you are, my dear Martin! All is illusion and calamity.”\n\nHe sank into a black melancholy, and took no part in the fashionable opera or the other pleasures of carnival; not a single lady stirred in him the slightest temptation. Martin said to him, “You really are simple to imagine that a servant of mixed ancestry with five or six million in his pockets will go looking for your beloved at the end of the world and bring her to you in Venice. He will keep her for himself if he finds her; if he does not, he will find someone else. I advise you to forget your servant Cacambo and your beloved Cunégonde.” Martin offered little consolation. Candide’s melancholy deepened, and Martin never ceased demonstrating to him that there was little virtue and little happiness on earth, except perhaps in Eldorado, where no one could go.\n\nWhile arguing over this important question and awaiting Cunégonde, Candide noticed a young Theatine in Saint Mark’s Square with a girl on his arm. The Theatine looked fresh-faced, plump, and vigorous; his eyes shone, his manner was confident, his bearing proud, his step imperious. The girl was very pretty and was singing; she looked lovingly at her Theatine and from time to time pinched his fat cheeks. “You must at least admit,” Candide said to Martin, “that these people are happy. Until now I have found nothing but the unfortunate throughout the habitable world, except in Eldorado; but I wager that this girl and this Theatine are very happy creatures.” “I wager they are not,” said Martin. “We need only invite them to dinner,” said Candide, “and you will see whether I am mistaken.”\n\nHe went up to them at once, greeted them, and invited them to his lodgings for macaroni, Lombard partridges, sturgeon eggs, and wine from Montepulciano, Lacryma Christi, Cyprus, and Samos. The young woman blushed, the Theatine accepted the invitation, and she followed him, looking at Candide with startled and confused eyes clouded by a few tears. Scarcely had she entered Candide’s room when she said, “What! Does Monsieur Candide no longer recognize Paquette?” At these words Candide, who until then had not looked closely at her because his thoughts were wholly of Cunégonde, said, “Alas, my poor child! So it was you who left Doctor Pangloss in the fine condition in which I found him?”\n\n“Alas, sir, it was indeed I,” said Paquette. “I see that you know everything. I learned of the dreadful misfortunes that befell the whole household of Madame the Baroness and the beautiful Cunégonde. I swear that my fate has scarcely been less wretched. I was quite innocent when you knew me. A Franciscan friar who was my confessor seduced me easily. The consequences were terrible; I had to leave the castle not long after Monsieur the Baron kicked you out. If a famous physician had not taken pity on me, I would have died. Out of gratitude I became the physician’s mistress for a time. His wife, who was mad with jealousy, beat me mercilessly every day; she was a fury. That physician was the ugliest of men, and I was the most miserable of creatures, continually beaten on account of a man I did not love. You know, sir, how dangerous it is for a shrewish woman to be married to a physician. Driven to despair by his wife’s conduct, he gave her, one day, a medicine for a slight cold so effective that she died within two hours in horrible convulsions. Her relatives brought criminal charges against him; he fled, and I was sent to prison. My innocence would not have saved me if I had not been rather pretty. The judge released me on condition that he take the physician’s place. I was soon displaced by a rival, dismissed without compensation, and forced to continue that abominable trade that seems so pleasant to you men and is for us nothing but an abyss of misery. I went to practice it in Venice. Ah, sir, if you could imagine what it means to be obliged to caress without distinction an old merchant, a lawyer, a monk, a gondolier, or an abbé; to endure every insult and every indignity; often to be reduced to borrowing a skirt so that a repulsive man can lift it; to have one man steal what you earned from another; to be extorted by the officers of the law, with nothing ahead but a dreadful old age, a hospital, and a dung heap—you would conclude that I am one of the most unhappy creatures in the world.”\n\nThus Paquette poured out her heart to the good Candide in a private room, with Martin present. “You see,” Martin said to Candide, “that I have already won half the wager.”\n\nBrother Giroflée had stayed in the dining room and was having a drink while he waited for dinner. “But,” Candide said to Paquette, “you looked so cheerful, so content, when I met you. You were singing; you caressed the Theatine with an easy affection. You seemed as happy to me as you now claim to be miserable.” “Ah, sir,” Paquette replied, “that is another of the miseries of the trade. Yesterday an officer robbed and beat me, and today I must appear in good spirits to please a monk.”\n\nCandide needed no more; he admitted that Martin was right. They sat down to dinner with Paquette and the Theatine. The meal was entertaining enough, and toward the end they began to speak with some candor. “Father,” Candide said to the monk, “you seem to enjoy a fate that everyone must envy. The bloom of health shines in your face, your expression speaks of happiness, you have a very pretty girl for your pleasure, and you seem quite content with your life as a Theatine.”\n\n“By God, sir,” said Brother Giroflée, “I wish all the Theatines were at the bottom of the sea. A hundred times I have been tempted to set fire to the convent and go off and become a Turk. My parents forced me, at fifteen, to put on this detestable habit so as to leave a greater fortune to a damned elder brother, whom God confound! Jealousy, discord, and rage dwell in the convent. It is true that I have preached a few poor sermons that have earned me a little money, half of which the prior steals; the rest helps me keep girls. But when I return to the monastery in the evening, I am ready to dash my head against the dormitory walls; and all my fellow monks feel the same.”\n\nMartin turned to Candide with his customary composure. “Well,” he said, “have I not won the whole wager?” Candide gave two thousand piastres to Paquette and a thousand piastres to Brother Giroflée. “I promise you,” he said, “this will make them happy.” “I do not believe it at all,” said Martin. “Those piastres may make them even more miserable.” “We shall see,” said Candide. “But one thing consoles me: I see that we often find people we thought we would never find again. Since I have encountered my red sheep and Paquette, I may yet encounter Cunégonde.” “I hope,” said Martin, “that one day she makes you happy; but I very much doubt it.” “You are harsh,” said Candide. “I have lived,” said Martin. “But look at these gondoliers,” said Candide. “Aren’t they always singing?” “You do not see them at home with their wives and their swarms of children,” said Martin. “The doge has his sorrows and the gondoliers have theirs. It is true that, on the whole, the lot of a gondolier is preferable to that of a doge; but I believe the difference is so slight that it is not worth examining.”\n\n“People speak,” said Candide, “of the senator Pococurante, who lives in that fine palace on the Brenta and receives strangers kindly enough. They say he has never known sorrow.” “I would like to see so rare a species,” said Martin. Candide immediately sent to ask Signor Pococurante for permission to visit him the next day.\n\n### Chapter XXV\n\nA Visit to Lord Pococurante, a Venetian Nobleman.\n\nCandide and Martin went by gondola along the Brenta and arrived at the palace of the noble Pococurante. The gardens were artfully laid out and adorned with fine marble statues; the palace was beautifully designed. The master of the house, a very rich man of sixty, received the two curious visitors with great politeness but very little warmth, which disconcerted Candide and did not displease Martin.\n\nFirst two pretty girls, neatly dressed, served chocolate, which they had whipped to a fine froth. Candide could not help praising their beauty, their grace, and their skill. \"They are decent enough creatures,\" said Senator Pococurante. \"I sometimes have them sleep in my bed, for I am thoroughly tired of the ladies of the city: their flirtations, their jealousies, their quarrels, their moods, their pettiness, their pride, their foolishness, and the sonnets one must write or commission for them. But these two girls, after all, are beginning to bore me terribly.\"\n\nAfter breakfast, while walking through a long gallery, Candide was struck by the beauty of the paintings. He asked who had painted the first two. \"They are by Raphael,\" said the senator. \"I paid a great deal for them out of vanity some years ago. They are said to be the finest things in Italy, but I do not like them at all: their colors are very dark, their figures are not rounded enough and do not stand out enough; the drapery looks nothing like cloth. In short, whatever people may say, I find no true imitation of nature there. I shall like a painting only when I believe I am looking at nature itself: there are none of that kind. I have many paintings, but I no longer look at them.\"\n\nWhile they waited for dinner, Pococurante had a concerto performed. Candide found the music delightful. \"This noise,\" said Pococurante, \"may amuse one for half an hour, but if it goes on longer it wearies everyone, though no one dares admit it. Music today is nothing more than the art of performing difficult things, and what is merely difficult gives no lasting pleasure.\n\n\"I might prefer opera, if people had not discovered the secret of making it into a monster that revolts me. Whoever wishes may go to see bad tragedies set to music, in which the scenes serve only to introduce, at the most ill-judged moments, two or three ridiculous songs that show off an actress's throat. Whoever wishes, or can, may swoon with pleasure at the sight of a castrato humming the part of Caesar or Cato and strutting awkwardly across the boards. For my part, I gave up long ago on these paltry things that are now the glory of Italy, and for which sovereigns pay so dearly.\" Candide argued a little, but discreetly. Martin agreed entirely with the senator.\n\nThey sat down at table, and after an excellent dinner went into the library. Seeing a magnificently bound Homer, Candide praised His Excellency's good taste. \"Here,\" he said, \"is a book that delighted the great Pangloss, the finest philosopher in Germany.\" \"It gives me no delight,\" Pococurante said coldly. \"I was once persuaded that I enjoyed reading it. But the endless repetition of battles all alike, those gods forever acting without ever accomplishing anything decisive, that Helen who is the cause of the war and scarcely even a character in the drama, that Troy besieged but never taken—all this bored me to death. I have sometimes asked scholars whether reading it bored them as much as it did me. All the honest ones confessed that the book fell from their hands, but that one must always keep it in one's library as a monument of antiquity, like those corroded medals that have no value in trade.\"\n\n\"Your Excellency does not feel that way about Virgil?\" asked Candide. \"I grant,\" said Pococurante, \"that the second, fourth, and sixth books of his Aeneid are excellent. But as for his pious Aeneas, stalwart Cloanthus, faithful Achates, little Ascanius, the imbecile King Latinus, the middle-class Amata, and the insipid Lavinia, I do not believe anything could be colder or more disagreeable. I prefer Tasso and the wildly implausible tales of Ariosto.\"\n\n\"May I venture to ask, sir,\" said Candide, \"whether you take great pleasure in reading Horace?\" \"There are maxims,\" said Pococurante, \"from which a man of the world can profit, and which, compressed into vigorous verse, are more readily fixed in the memory. But I care very little for his journey to Brindisi, his description of a bad dinner, or the porters' quarrel between some Pupilus, whose words, he says, were full of pus, and another whose words were vinegar. I read his coarse verses against old women and witches with extreme disgust; nor can I see what merit there is in telling his friend Maecenas that, if Maecenas ranks him among the lyric poets, he will strike the stars with his exalted brow. Fools admire everything in a celebrated author. I read for myself alone; I like only what is of use to me.\" Candide, who had been brought up never to judge anything for himself, was greatly astonished by what he heard; Martin found Pococurante's way of thinking quite reasonable.\n\nRupilius's pus and venom.\n\n\"Oh! Here is a Cicero,\" said Candide. \"Surely you never tire of reading this great man.\" \"I never read him,\" replied the Venetian. \"What do I care whether he pleaded for Rabirius or Cluentius? I have quite enough lawsuits to judge. I might have made better use of his philosophical works, but when I saw that he doubted everything, I concluded that I knew as much as he did and needed no one to teach me ignorance.\"\n\n\"Ah! Here are eighty volumes of proceedings of an academy of sciences,\" exclaimed Martin. \"There may be something worthwhile in them.\" \"There would be,\" said Pococurante, \"if a single author of this rubbish had invented so much as the art of making pins. But in all these books there are only empty systems, and not one useful thing.\"\n\n\"What a number of plays I see here,\" said Candide, \"in Italian, Spanish, and French!\" \"Yes,\" said the senator, \"there are three thousand of them, and not three dozen good ones. As for these collections of sermons, which all together are not worth a page of Seneca, and all these fat volumes of theology, you may be sure that neither I nor anyone else ever opens them.\"\n\nMartin noticed shelves laden with English books. \"I should think,\" he said, \"that a republican would enjoy most of these works, written with such freedom.\" \"Yes,\" replied Pococurante, \"it is a fine thing to write what one thinks; that is the privilege of a human being. Throughout our Italy, people write only what they do not think. Those who inhabit the homeland of the Caesars and the Antonines dare not have an idea without a Jacobin's permission. I would be pleased with the liberty that inspires English minds if passion and faction did not corrupt everything admirable about that precious liberty.\"\n\nCandide caught sight of a Milton and asked whether he did not consider its author a great man. \"Who?\" said Pococurante. \"That barbarian who writes a long commentary on the first chapter of Genesis in ten books of harsh verse? That clumsy imitator of the Greeks who disfigures the creation and, while Moses depicts the Eternal Being bringing forth the world by his word, has the Messiah fetch a great pair of compasses from a cupboard in heaven to lay out his work? Am I to admire the man who spoiled Tasso's hell and devil; who disguises Lucifer now as a toad, now as a pygmy; who makes him repeat the same speeches a hundred times and debate theology; who, in solemn imitation of Ariosto's comic invention of firearms, has the devils fire cannon in heaven? Neither I nor anyone else in Italy could take pleasure in all these dismal extravagances. The Marriage of Sin and Death and the snakes to which Sin gives birth make anyone with the least delicate taste sick; and his long description of a hospital is fit only for a gravedigger. This obscure, bizarre, repellent poem was despised when it first appeared; I treat it today as his countrymen treated it in his own time. In any case, I say what I think, and care very little whether others think as I do.\" These remarks distressed Candide: he revered Homer and had some liking for Milton. \"Alas,\" he whispered to Martin, \"I fear this man has a sovereign contempt for our German poets.\" \"There would be no great harm in that,\" said Martin. \"Oh, what a superior man!\" Candide went on muttering. \"What a great genius this Pococurante is! Nothing can please him.\"\n\nAfter they had surveyed all the books, they went down into the garden. Candide praised all its beauties. \"I know of nothing in worse taste,\" said their host. \"All we have here are baubles. But tomorrow I shall have a garden planted to a nobler design.\"\n\nWhen the two curious visitors had taken leave of His Excellency, Candide said to Martin, \"Well now, you must admit that here is the happiest of all men, for he rises above everything he owns.\" \"Can you not see,\" said Martin, \"that he is disgusted with everything he owns? Plato said long ago that the best stomachs are not those that reject every food.\" \"But,\" said Candide, \"is there not pleasure in criticizing everything, in finding faults where other people think they see beauties?\" \"That is to say,\" Martin replied, \"that there is pleasure in having no pleasure?\" \"Well then,\" said Candide, \"I alone shall be happy when I see Miss Cunégonde again.\" \"It is always as well to hope,\" said Martin.\n\nMeanwhile days and weeks went by. Cacambo did not return, and Candide was so sunk in grief that he did not even notice that Paquette and Brother Giroflée had not come so much as to thank him.\n\n### Chapter XXVI\n\nOf a Supper Candide and Martin Had with Six Strangers, and Who They Were.\n\nOne evening, as Candide, followed by Martin, was about to dine with the strangers staying at the same inn, a man with a face the color of soot came up behind him, took him by the arm, and said, \"Be ready to leave with us; do not fail.\" Candide turned and saw Cacambo. Only the sight of Cunégonde could have astonished and delighted him more. He nearly went mad with joy. He embraced his dear friend. \"Surely Cunégonde is here? Where is she? Take me to her, so that I may die of joy beside her.\" \"Cunégonde is not here,\" said Cacambo. \"She is in Constantinople.\" \"Good heavens! In Constantinople! But if she were in China, I would fly to her. Let us go.\" \"We shall leave after supper,\" Cacambo replied. \"I can tell you no more. I am a slave; my master is waiting for me. I must serve him at table. Say nothing, eat your supper, and be ready.\"\n\nCandide, torn between joy and sorrow, delighted to see his faithful agent again, amazed to see him enslaved, full of the thought of finding his beloved, his heart in turmoil and his mind in confusion, sat down at table with Martin, who regarded all these adventures with composure, and with six strangers who had come to spend the carnival in Venice.\n\nNear the end of the meal, Cacambo, who was pouring wine for one of the six strangers, leaned toward his master's ear and said, \"Sire, Your Majesty may leave whenever you wish; the ship is ready.\" With these words he went out. The astonished guests looked at one another without a word, when another servant approached his master and said, \"Sire, Your Majesty's carriage is at Padua, and the boat is ready.\" His master gave a sign, and the servant departed. Again all the guests looked at one another, and their shared surprise grew. A third valet approached a third stranger and said, \"Sire, believe me, Your Majesty should not remain here any longer. I shall make all the arrangements.\" He immediately vanished.\n\nCandide and Martin now had no doubt that it was a carnival masquerade. A fourth servant said to a fourth master, \"Your Majesty may leave whenever you wish,\" and went out like the others. The fifth valet said as much to the fifth master. But the sixth valet spoke differently to the sixth stranger, who sat beside Candide. \"Upon my word, sire,\" he said, \"no one will give Your Majesty any more credit, or me either, and we may both be thrown in jail tonight. I must look after my own affairs. Farewell.\"\n\nWhen all the servants had disappeared, the six strangers, Candide, and Martin remained in profound silence. At last Candide broke it. \"Gentlemen,\" he said, \"this is a singular joke. Why are you all kings? I confess that neither Martin nor I am one.\"\n\nCacambo's master then spoke gravely in Italian. \"I am not joking. My name is Achmet III. I was grand sultan for several years. I dethroned my brother; my nephew dethroned me. My viziers had their throats cut. I am spending the rest of my life in the old seraglio. My nephew, the grand sultan Mahmoud, sometimes allows me to travel for my health, and I have come to spend the carnival in Venice.\"\n\nA young man seated near Achmet spoke next. \"My name is Ivan. I was emperor of all the Russias. I was dethroned in my cradle; my father and mother were imprisoned; I was raised in prison. Sometimes I am permitted to travel, accompanied by my guards, and I have come to spend the carnival in Venice.\"\n\nThe third said, \"I am Charles-Édouard, king of England. My father ceded his rights to the kingdom to me. I fought to uphold them. Eight hundred of my supporters had their hearts torn out and slapped against their cheeks. I was imprisoned. I am going to Rome to visit my father the king, dethroned like me and my grandfather, and I have come to spend the carnival in Venice.\"\n\nThe fourth then spoke. \"I am king of the Poles. The fortunes of war deprived me of my hereditary dominions; my father suffered the same reverses. I submit to Providence, like Sultan Achmet, Emperor Ivan, and King Charles-Édouard, to whom may God grant a long life; and I have come to spend the carnival in Venice.\"\n\nThe fifth said, \"I too am king of the Poles. I have lost my kingdom twice, but Providence has given me another state, in which I have done more good than all the kings of the Sarmatians together ever managed to do on the banks of the Vistula. I too submit to Providence, and I have come to spend the carnival in Venice.\"\n\nThe sixth monarch remained to speak. \"Gentlemen,\" he said, \"I am not so great a lord as you, but I have been a king like any other. I am Theodore. I was elected king in Corsica. I was addressed as Your Majesty, and now I am barely called Sir. I had money minted, and I do not possess a penny. I had two secretaries of state, and I scarcely have a valet. I have sat on a throne, and spent a long time in London lying on straw in prison. I fear I may be treated the same way here, though I have come, like Your Majesties, to spend the carnival in Venice.\"\n\nThe other five kings heard this speech with noble compassion. Each gave King Theodore twenty sequins to buy clothes and shirts; Candide presented him with a diamond worth two thousand sequins. \"Who, then,\" said the five kings, \"is this man who is able to give a hundred times what each of us gives, and does give it? Are you a king too, sir?\" \"No, gentlemen, and I have no wish to be one.\"\n\nJust as they were leaving the table, four Serene Highnesses arrived at the same inn, having also lost their dominions through the fortunes of war and come to spend the rest of the carnival in Venice. But Candide paid no attention whatever to these new arrivals. His sole concern was to go and find his dear Cunégonde in Constantinople.\n\n### Chapter XXVII\n\nCandide's Journey to Constantinople.\n\nThe faithful Cacambo had already persuaded the Turkish captain who was taking Sultan Achmet back to Constantinople to receive Candide and Martin on board. Both went aboard after bowing low before his wretched Highness. On the way Candide said to Martin, \"Yet we have had supper with six dethroned kings! And of those six kings, there is one to whom I even gave alms. Perhaps there are many other princes more unfortunate still. As for me, I have lost only a hundred sheep, and I am flying into Cunégonde's arms. My dear Martin, I say it again: Pangloss was right; all is well.\" \"I hope so,\" said Martin. \"But,\" said Candide, \"what an improbable adventure we had in Venice! No one had ever seen or heard of six dethroned kings dining together at an inn.\" \"That is no more extraordinary,\" said Martin, \"than most things that have happened to us. Kings are very commonly dethroned; and as for the honor of dining with them, that is a trifle hardly worth our attention. What does it matter whom one dines with, provided one eats well?\"\n\nCandide had scarcely boarded the ship when he flung his arms around his former servant, his friend Cacambo. \"Well,\" he said, \"what is Cunégonde doing? Is she still a marvel of beauty? Does she still love me? How is she? No doubt you have bought her a palace in Constantinople?\"\n\n\"My dear master,\" replied Cacambo, \"Cunégonde washes dishes on the shore of the Propontis for a prince who has very few dishes. She is a slave in the household of a former sovereign named Ragotski, to whom the Grand Turk gives three crowns a day in his refuge. But far sadder is this: she has lost her beauty and become hideously ugly.\" \"Ah! Beautiful or ugly,\" said Candide, \"I am an honorable man, and it is my duty to love her always. But how can she have fallen so low, with the five or six million you took with you?\" \"Well,\" said Cacambo, \"did I not have to give two million to senor don Fernando d’Ibaraa, y Figueora, y Mascarenès, y Lampourdos, y Souza, governor of Buénos-Ayres, to get permission to take Miss Cunégonde away? And did a pirate not cheerfully rob us of all the rest? Did that pirate not carry us to Cape Matapan, to Milo, to Nicarie, to Samos, to Petra, to the Dardanelles, to Marmara, to Scutari? Cunégonde and the old woman serve the prince I told you about, while I am a slave to the dethroned sultan.\" \"What a chain of appalling calamities!\" said Candide. \"But after all, I still have a few diamonds; I shall easily free Cunégonde. It is such a pity she has grown so ugly.\"\n\nThen, turning to Martin, he said, \"Who do you think is most to be pitied: Emperor Achmet, Emperor Ivan, King Charles-Édouard, or me?\" \"I do not know,\" said Martin. \"I would have to be inside your hearts to know that.\" \"Ah!\" said Candide. \"If Pangloss were here, he would know and tell us.\" \"I do not know,\" said Martin, \"what scales your Pangloss could use to weigh human misfortunes and measure human suffering. All I can suppose is that there are millions of people on earth a hundred times more to be pitied than King Charles-Édouard, Emperor Ivan, and Sultan Achmet.\" \"That may well be,\" said Candide.\n\nIn a few days they reached the channel leading to the Black Sea. Candide began by buying Cacambo's freedom at great expense. Without losing any time, he and his companions embarked on a galley to go to the shore of the Propontis in search of Cunégonde, however ugly she might be.\n\nAmong the chained rowers were two convicts who rowed very badly and whose bare shoulders the Levantine captain struck from time to time with an oxhide whip. On a natural impulse, Candide looked more closely at them than at the other galley slaves and approached them with pity. Certain features of their disfigured faces seemed to bear some resemblance to Pangloss and to that unfortunate Jesuit, the Baron, Miss Cunégonde's brother. The thought stirred and saddened him. He examined them even more closely. \"Truly,\" he said to Cacambo, \"if I had not seen Master Pangloss hanged, and if I had not had the misfortune to kill the Baron, I would think it was they who are rowing in this galley.\"\n\nAt the names of the Baron and Pangloss, the two convicts cried out, stopped at their bench, and dropped their oars. The Levantine captain rushed at them, and the blows of the oxhide whip came faster. \"Stop! Stop, sir!\" cried Candide. \"I shall give you as much money as you wish.\" \"What! Is that Candide?\" said one of the convicts. \"What! Is that Candide?\" said the other. \"Is this a dream?\" said Candide. \"Am I awake? Am I in this galley? Is that the Baron I killed? Is that Master Pangloss whom I saw hanged?\"\n\n\"It is we, it is we,\" they answered. \"What! Is that the great philosopher?\" said Martin. \"Sir, Captain,\" said Candide, \"how much money do you want for the ransom of the Baron of Thunder-ten-tronckh, one of the foremost barons of the empire, and Master Pangloss, the most profound metaphysician in Germany?\" \"Christian dog,\" replied the Levantine captain, \"since these two Christian dogs of galley slaves are barons and metaphysicians, which must be great ranks in their country, you will give me fifty thousand sequins for them.\" \"You shall have them, sir. Take me back to Constantinople like lightning and you will be paid on the spot. No, take me to Miss Cunégonde.\" At Candide's first offer the Levantine captain had already turned the bow toward the city, and he made the men row faster than a bird cleaves the air.\n\nCandide embraced the Baron and Pangloss a hundred times. \"And how did I fail to kill you, my dear Baron? And my dear Pangloss, how can you be alive after being hanged? And why are you both on the galleys in Turkey?\" \"Is it really true that my dear sister is in this country?\" said the Baron. \"Yes,\" replied Cacambo. \"So I see my dear Candide again!\" cried Pangloss. Candide introduced Martin and Cacambo to them. Everyone embraced; everyone spoke at once. The galley flew; they were already in port. A Jew was summoned, to whom Candide sold for fifty thousand sequins a diamond worth a hundred thousand; the man swore by Abraham that he could give no more. Candide immediately paid the ransoms of the Baron and Pangloss. Pangloss threw himself at his liberator's feet and bathed them in tears; the Baron thanked him with a nod and promised to repay him at the first opportunity. \"But can it really be that my sister is in Turkey?\" he said. \"Nothing could be more certain,\" replied Cacambo, \"since she is scouring dishes for a prince of Transylvania.\" Two more Jews were summoned at once; Candide sold more diamonds, and they all set out again in another galley to free Cunégonde.\n\n### Chapter XXVIII\n\nWhat Happened to Candide, Cunégonde, Pangloss, Martin, and Others.\n\n\"Forgive me again,\" said Candide to the Baron, \"forgive me, Reverend Father, for having run you through the body with my sword.\" \"Let us say no more of it,\" said the Baron. \"I was a little too quick to anger, I admit. But since you wish to know how it happened that you saw me on the galleys, I shall tell you. After the apothecary brother of the college had healed my wound, a Spanish detachment attacked and abducted me. They put me in prison in Buenos Aires just as my sister was leaving. I asked to return to Rome to the Father General. I was appointed to serve as chaplain in Constantinople to the French ambassador. I had not been at my post eight days when one evening I met a very handsome young page. It was very hot; the young man wished to bathe, and I took the opportunity to bathe as well. I did not know it was a capital crime for a Christian to be found completely naked with a young Muslim. A judge had the soles of my feet beaten with a hundred strokes of a stick and sentenced me to the galleys. I do not believe a more horrible injustice has ever been done. But I should very much like to know why my sister is in the kitchen of a Transylvanian sovereign who has taken refuge among the Turks.\"\n\n\"But you, my dear Pangloss,\" said Candide, \"how is it possible that I see you again?\" \"It is true,\" said Pangloss, \"that you saw me hanged. By rights I was to be burned, but you remember that it was pouring rain when they were going to roast me. The storm was so fierce that they despaired of lighting the fire; I was hanged because they could do no better. A surgeon bought my body, took me home, and dissected me. First he made a cross-shaped incision from my navel to my collarbone. No one could have been hanged more badly than I was. The executioner of the Holy Inquisition, who was a subdeacon, was marvelous at burning people, to be sure, but he was not accustomed to hanging them: the rope was wet and slipped badly, and the knot was ill tied. In short, I was still breathing. The cross-shaped incision made me let out such a great cry that my surgeon fell over backward; thinking he was dissecting the devil, he fled in mortal terror, and fell again on the stairs as he ran. His wife came rushing from a nearby room at the noise. She saw me stretched out on the table with my cross-shaped incision; she was even more frightened than her husband, fled, and fell on top of him. When they had recovered somewhat, I heard the surgeon's wife say to him, 'My dear, what possessed you to dissect a heretic? Do you not know that the devil is always inside these people? I shall hurry to fetch a priest to exorcise him.' I shuddered at this and gathered what little strength I had left to cry, 'Have pity on me!' At last the Portuguese barber took courage and stitched up my skin; his wife even cared for me. I was on my feet in a fortnight. The barber found me a position and made me the footman of a Knight of Malta who was going to Venice. But as my master could not afford to pay me, I entered the service of a Venetian merchant and followed him to Constantinople.\n\n\"One day I took it into my head to enter a mosque. There was only an old imam and a very pretty young woman at her devotions, saying her prayers. Her breast was completely bare; between her breasts she wore a fine bouquet of tulips, roses, anemones, buttercups, hyacinths, and auriculas. She dropped her bouquet; I picked it up and restored it to her with the utmost respect and eagerness. I took so long to put it back that the imam grew angry, and when he saw I was a Christian, he called for help. They took me before the judge, who had the soles of my feet beaten with a hundred strokes of a wooden slat and sent me to the galleys. I was chained in the very same galley and to the very same bench as the Baron. On that galley were four young men from Marseille, five Neapolitan priests, and two monks from Corfu, who told us that adventures of this kind happened every day. The Baron claimed he had suffered a greater injustice than I; I maintained that replacing a bouquet on a woman's breast was much more permissible than being completely naked with a young page. We argued without cease and received twenty blows of the oxhide whip each day, until the chain of events in this universe brought you to our galley and you ransomed us.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear Pangloss,\" said Candide, \"when you had been hanged, dissected, beaten black and blue, and made to row in the galleys, did you still believe that everything was for the best in this world?\" \"I still hold to my original opinion,\" replied Pangloss, \"for after all, I am a philosopher. It would not become me to retract it, since Leibnitz cannot be wrong, and preestablished harmony is moreover the most beautiful thing in the world, as are the plenum and subtle matter.\"\n\n### Chapter XXIX\n\nHow Candide Found Cunégonde and the Old Woman Again.\n\nWhile Candide, the Baron, Pangloss, Martin, and Cacambo recounted their adventures, reasoned about the contingent and noncontingent events of this universe, debated effects and causes, moral evil and physical evil, freedom and necessity, and the consolations available to a man in the galleys in Turkey, they landed on the shore of the Propontis at the house of the prince of Transylvania. The first people they saw were Cunégonde and the old woman, hanging towels on lines to dry.\n\nThe Baron turned pale at the sight. The tender lover Candide, seeing his beautiful Cunégonde with her darkened complexion, bloodshot eyes, withered breast, wrinkled cheeks, and red, scaly arms, recoiled three steps in horror, then came forward out of courtesy. She embraced Candide and her brother; they all embraced the old woman. Candide bought the freedom of both women.\n\nThere was a small farm nearby. The old woman suggested that Candide settle there until the whole company should meet with a better fate. Cunégonde did not know that she had grown ugly; no one had told her. She reminded Candide of his promises in so commanding a tone that the good Candide did not dare refuse her. He therefore informed the Baron that he intended to marry his sister. \"I shall never tolerate,\" said the Baron, \"such a degradation on her part, or such insolence on yours. This disgrace shall never be laid at my door: my sister's children would not be eligible for the cathedral chapters of Germany. No, my sister shall never marry anyone but a baron of the empire.\" Cunégonde threw herself at his feet and bathed them in tears; he remained inflexible. \"You mad fool,\" Candide told him, \"I rescued you from the galleys, I paid your ransom, I paid your sister's ransom. She was washing dishes here, she is ugly, and I am good enough to make her my wife; yet you still propose to stand in my way! If I gave in to my anger, I would kill you again.\" \"You may kill me again,\" said the Baron, \"but you shall not marry my sister while I live.\"\n\n### Chapter XXX\n\nConclusion.\n\nIn the depths of his heart, Candide had no desire at all to marry Cunégonde; but the baron’s extreme insolence made him determined to go through with the marriage, and Cunégonde pressed him so urgently that he could not back out. He consulted Pangloss, Martin, and the faithful Cacambo. Pangloss composed an elegant memorandum proving that the baron had no rights over his sister, and that under every law of the empire she could marry Candide with the left hand. Martin’s conclusion was that the baron should be thrown into the sea; Cacambo decided they should return him to his Levantine master and put him back in the galleys, after which he could be sent to the father general in Rome on the first ship. The advice was thought excellent; the old woman approved it; his sister was told nothing; for a little money it was put into effect, and they had the pleasure of outwitting a Jesuit and punishing the pride of a German baron.\n\nIt was only natural to imagine that after so many disasters, Candide, married to his beloved and living with the philosopher Pangloss, the philosopher Martin, the prudent Cacambo, and the old woman, and having brought back so many diamonds from the homeland of the ancient Incas, would lead the most agreeable life in the world. But he was so thoroughly swindled by the Jews that he had nothing left but his little farm. His wife grew uglier every day and became ill-tempered and unbearable; the old woman was infirm and in even worse humor than Cunégonde. Cacambo worked in the garden and went to Constantinople to sell vegetables; exhausted by the labor, he cursed his fate. Pangloss despaired of not shining at some German university. Martin, for his part, was firmly convinced that people were equally wretched everywhere; he bore things patiently. Candide, Martin, and Pangloss sometimes disputed metaphysics and morals. Beneath the windows of the farm they often saw boats passing, loaded with effendis, pashas, and cadis being sent into exile at Lemnos, Mytilene, or Erzeroum; then other cadis, other pashas, other effendis arrived to take the exiles’ places, only to be expelled in turn. They saw neatly stuffed heads being carried off for presentation to the Sublime Porte. These spectacles set their arguments raging afresh; and when they were not arguing, their boredom was so intense that one day the old woman ventured to say to them, “I should like to know which is worse: to be raped a hundred times by Black pirates, to have one buttock cut off, to run the gauntlet among the Bulgarians, to be whipped and hanged at an auto-da-fé, to be dissected, to row in a galley, in short, to endure all the miseries through which we have all passed—or to sit here doing nothing?” “That is a great question,” said Candide.\n\nHer speech gave rise to fresh reflections, and Martin in particular concluded that man was born to live either amid the convulsions of anxiety or in the lethargy of boredom. Candide did not agree, but he made no definite claim. Pangloss admitted that he had always suffered horribly; yet, having once maintained that everything went wonderfully, he went on maintaining it, though he believed none of it.\n\nOne event completed Martin’s confirmation in his detestable principles, made Candide more hesitant than ever, and left Pangloss at a loss. One day they saw Paquette and Brother Giroflée arrive at their farm in the deepest poverty. They had soon spent their three thousand piastres, separated, made up, quarreled, been put in prison, escaped, and at last Brother Giroflée had become a Turk. Paquette continued her trade everywhere and no longer earned anything from it. “I foresaw very well,” Martin said to Candide, “that your gifts would soon be squandered and would only make them more miserable. You and Cacambo have been awash in millions of piastres, and you are no happier than Brother Giroflée and Paquette.” “Ah! Ah!” Pangloss said to Paquette, “so heaven has brought you back among us. My poor child! Do you realize you cost me the tip of my nose, an eye, and an ear? And look at you now! Ah, what a world this is!” This new adventure led them to philosophize more than ever.\n\nIn the neighborhood lived a very famous dervish, reputed to be the best philosopher in Turkey. They went to consult him. Pangloss spoke for them: “Master, we have come to ask you why so strange an animal as man was created.”\n\n“What business is that of yours?” the dervish asked him. “Is it your concern?” “But, reverend father,” said Candide, “there is a terrible amount of evil on earth.” “What does it matter,” said the dervish, “whether there is evil or good? When His Highness sends a ship to Egypt, does he concern himself with whether the mice aboard are comfortable?” “What, then, should we do?” asked Pangloss. “Keep quiet,” said the dervish. “I had hoped,” said Pangloss, “to discuss with you for a while effects and causes, the best of all possible worlds, the origin of evil, the nature of the soul, and preestablished harmony.” At that, the dervish shut the door in their faces.\n\nDuring this conversation, word had spread that two viziers of the bench and the mufti had just been strangled in Constantinople, and several of their friends impaled. For a few hours this catastrophe caused a great stir everywhere. On their way back to the little farm, Pangloss, Candide, and Martin met a good old man enjoying the cool air at his door beneath an arbor of orange trees. Pangloss, as curious as he was argumentative, asked him the name of the mufti who had just been strangled. “I do not know,” replied the good man, “and I have never known the name of any mufti or any vizier. I know absolutely nothing of the affair you mention. I suppose that, as a general rule, those who meddle in public affairs sometimes come to a miserable end, and deserve it; but I never inquire into what goes on in Constantinople. I am content to send the fruit of the garden I cultivate there to be sold.” With that he invited the strangers into his house. His two daughters and two sons offered them several kinds of sorbet they made themselves, kaymak studded with candied citron peel, oranges, citrons, lemons, pineapples, dates, pistachios, and Mocha coffee unblended with the bad coffee of Batavia and the islands. Afterward the two daughters of this good Muslim perfumed the beards of Candide, Pangloss, and Martin.\n\n“You must have,” Candide said to the Turk, “a vast and magnificent estate.” “I have only twenty arpents,” replied the Turk. “I cultivate them with my children; work keeps three great evils away from us: boredom, vice, and want.”\n\nOn returning to his farm, Candide reflected deeply on the Turk’s words. He said to Pangloss and Martin, “This good old man seems to me to have made a far better life for himself than the six kings with whom we had the honor of dining.” “Greatness,” said Pangloss, “is very dangerous, according to all the philosophers; for Églon, king of the Moabites, was assassinated by Aod; Absalon was hanged by his hair and pierced with three darts; King Nadab, son of Jéroboam, was killed by Baasa; King Éla by Zambri; Ochosias by Jéhu; Athalie by Joïada; the kings Joachim, Jéchonias, and Sédécias were enslaved. You know how Crésus, Astyage, Darius, Denys of Syracuse, Pyrrhus, Persée, Annibal, Jugurtha, Arioviste, César, Pompée, Néron, Othon, Vitellius, Domitien, Richard II of England, Édouard II, Henri VI, Richard III, Marie Stuart, Charles I, the three Henris of France, and Emperor Henri IV met their ends. You know…” “I also know,” said Candide, “that we must cultivate our garden.” “You are right,” said Pangloss, “for when man was placed in the Garden of Eden, he was placed there ut operaretur eum, so that he might work it; which proves that man was not born for rest.” “Let us work without arguing,” said Martin. “It is the only way to make life bearable.”\n\nThe whole little company took up this praiseworthy purpose; each set about making use of their talents. The little plot yielded a great deal. Cunégonde was, to be sure, very ugly, but she became an excellent pastry maker; Paquette embroidered; the old woman looked after the linen. Even Brother Giroflée made himself useful: he became a very good carpenter, and even an honest man. And Pangloss would sometimes say to Candide, “All events are linked together in the best of all possible worlds. For if you had not been kicked out of a fine castle with great blows to the backside for your love of Miss Cunégonde, if you had not been handed over to the Inquisition, if you had not crossed America on foot, if you had not dealt the baron a good thrust of your sword, if you had not lost all your sheep from the good land of Eldorado, you would not be eating candied citrons and pistachios here.” “That is well said,” replied Candide, “but we must cultivate our garden.”","download_url":"https://mouseia.org/api/works/candide/translations/trn_candide_mouseia.txt"},{"id":"trn_candide_plain","translator":"Mouseia","kind":"plain","note":"Mouseia’s complete Plain English edition, made independently and directly from the French text of all thirty chapters (Beuchot edition, 1829). The editor’s notes are omitted.","text":"### Chapter I\n\nHow Candide was raised in a fine castle, and how he was driven out of it.\n\nIn Westphalia, in the castle of the Baron of Thunder-ten-tronckh, there lived a young man whom nature had given the gentlest disposition. His face showed what he was like inside. He had fairly sound judgment and a very simple mind. That, I think, is why they called him Candide. The old servants of the household suspected he was the son of the baron's sister and a decent, honest gentleman who lived nearby. She had never agreed to marry the man because he could prove only seventy-one noble ancestors, and time had destroyed the rest of his family tree.\n\nThe baron was one of the most powerful lords in Westphalia, because his castle had a door and windows. Even his great hall had a tapestry on the wall. When necessary, all the dogs in his farmyards made up a hunting pack. His stablehands served as his huntsmen, and the village curate was his chief chaplain. Everyone called him \"my lord,\" and everyone laughed when he told stories.\n\nThe baroness weighed about three hundred and fifty pounds, which earned her a great deal of respect. She presided over the household with a dignity that made her even more respected. Her daughter Cunégonde was seventeen, rosy-cheeked, fresh, plump, and appetizing. The baron's son seemed worthy of his father in every way. Their tutor Pangloss was the household authority on every subject, and young Candide listened to his lessons with all the trust that came with his age and nature.\n\nPangloss taught metaphysico-theologico-cosmonigology. He proved brilliantly that there is no effect without a cause, and that in this best of all possible worlds, the baron's castle was the finest of all castles and the baroness the best possible baroness.\n\n\"It has been proved,\" he said, \"that things cannot be otherwise. Everything was made for a purpose, so everything must serve the best purpose. Notice that noses were made to hold glasses; that is why we have glasses. Legs were clearly designed to wear stockings, and so we have stockings. Stones were made to be cut and turned into castles, and so my lord has a very fine castle. The greatest baron in the province must have the best home. And since pigs were made to be eaten, we eat pork all year round. Therefore, people who have said that all is well were talking nonsense. They should have said that everything is for the best.\"\n\nCandide listened closely and believed him without question, for he thought Miss Cunégonde extremely beautiful, though he never dared tell her so. He decided that being born the Baron of Thunder-ten-tronckh was the greatest happiness. The next greatest was being Miss Cunégonde, the third was seeing her every day, and the fourth was hearing Master Pangloss, the greatest philosopher in the province and therefore in the whole world.\n\nOne day Cunégonde was walking near the castle in a little wood they called a park. Among the bushes she saw Doctor Pangloss giving her mother's chambermaid a lesson in experimental physics. The girl was small, dark-haired, very pretty, and very willing to learn. Miss Cunégonde had a strong interest in science, so she silently watched the repeated experiments before her. She clearly saw the doctor's sufficient reason, the effects and their causes. She went back deeply stirred and thoughtful, full of the desire to learn. She reflected that she might well be young Candide's sufficient reason, just as he could be hers.\n\nShe met Candide on her way back to the castle and blushed. Candide blushed too. She greeted him in a broken voice, and he spoke without knowing what he was saying. The next day after dinner, as everyone left the table, Cunégonde and Candide found themselves behind a screen. Cunégonde dropped her handkerchief, and Candide picked it up. She took his hand innocently, and he innocently kissed hers with remarkable eagerness, feeling, and grace. Their mouths met, their eyes lit up, their knees shook, and their hands wandered. The Baron of Thunder-ten-tronckh came past the screen, saw this cause and its effect, and kicked Candide out of the castle. Cunégonde fainted. As soon as she came around, the baroness slapped her. And everyone in the finest and most pleasant of all possible castles was dismayed.\n\n### Chapter II\n\nWhat happened to Candide among the Bulgars.\n\nDriven out of his earthly paradise, Candide walked for a long time without knowing where he was going. He wept and looked up at the sky, often turning his eyes toward the finest of castles, which held the loveliest of young baronesses. He lay down in a field between two furrows without having eaten supper, while heavy snow fell. The next day Candide, frozen through, dragged himself to the nearby town of Valdberghoff-trarbk-dikdorff. He had no money and was dying of hunger and exhaustion. He stopped sadly outside an inn. Two men dressed in blue noticed him. \"Comrade,\" said one, \"there's a fine-looking young man, and he's the required height.\" They went up to Candide and very politely invited him to dinner. \"Gentlemen,\" Candide said with charming modesty, \"you do me a great honor, but I can't afford to pay my share.\" \"Oh, sir,\" said one of the men in blue, \"people with your looks and qualities never pay anything. Aren't you five feet five inches tall?\" \"Yes, gentlemen, that's my height,\" he said, bowing. \"Well, sir, sit down and eat. We'll not only cover your expenses, but we'll never let a man like you go without money. People exist only to help one another.\" \"You're right,\" said Candide. \"That's what Mr. Pangloss always told me, and I can see that everything is for the best.\" They asked him to accept a few coins. He took them and offered to sign a note, but they refused. They sat down to eat. \"Do you love deeply?…\" \"Oh, yes,\" he answered, \"I love Miss Cunégonde deeply.\" \"No,\" said one of the gentlemen, \"we're asking whether you love the king of the Bulgars deeply.\" \"Not at all,\" he said. \"I've never seen him.\" \"What! He's the most charming king there is, and you must drink to his health.\" \"Oh, gladly, gentlemen.\" And he drank. \"That's enough,\" they told him. \"You are now the mainstay, the support, the defender, the hero of the Bulgars. Your fortune is made and your glory is assured.\" At once they put him in leg irons and took him to the regiment. They made him turn right and left, raise his ramrod, put it back, aim, fire, and march at double time, then gave him thirty blows with a stick. The next day he performed the drill a little less badly and received only twenty blows. The day after that he got only ten, and his fellow soldiers thought he was a marvel.\n\nCandide was stunned and still did not really understand how he had become a hero. One fine spring day, he decided to go for a walk. He headed straight ahead, believing that humans, like other animals, had the right to use their legs as they pleased. He had not gone two leagues before four more heroes, each six feet tall, caught up with him, tied him up, and took him to a cell. In a formal proceeding they asked which he preferred: to run the gauntlet through the whole regiment thirty-six times, or to take twelve lead bullets in the brain all at once. He argued that people had free will and that he wanted neither. But he had to choose. Using the gift from God called freedom, he chose to run the gauntlet thirty-six times. He made it through twice. The regiment had two thousand men. That meant four thousand blows from the rods, stripping the skin from his neck to his backside and exposing his muscles and nerves. As they prepared for the third run, Candide could bear no more. He begged them kindly to do him the favor of shooting him in the head. They granted his request, blindfolded him, and made him kneel. At that moment the king of the Bulgars passed by and asked what crime the prisoner had committed. Being a man of great genius, the king understood from what he learned about Candide that this was a young metaphysician who knew very little about how the world worked. He pardoned him with a mercy that every newspaper would praise for centuries to come. A capable surgeon healed Candide in three weeks with the soothing treatments taught by Dioscorides. He had grown a little new skin and could walk when the king of the Bulgars went to battle against the king of the Abares.\n\n### Chapter III\n\nHow Candide escaped from the Bulgars, and what happened to him afterward.\n\nNothing could have been finer, smarter, brighter, or better organized than the two armies. The trumpets, fifes, oboes, drums, and cannons made music unlike anything ever heard in hell. The cannons first knocked down about six thousand men on each side. Then the muskets removed from the best of all worlds about nine to ten thousand scoundrels who had been spoiling its surface. The bayonet, too, was the sufficient reason for the deaths of several thousand men. Altogether, some thirty thousand souls may have died. Candide trembled like a philosopher and hid as well as he could during this heroic slaughter.\n\nAt last, while each king had a Te Deum sung in his own camp, Candide decided to discuss causes and effects somewhere else. He climbed over piles of dead and dying men and came first to a nearby village. It had been reduced to ashes. It was an Abares village that the Bulgars had burned in accordance with the laws of nations. Here, old men riddled with wounds watched their slaughtered wives die as they held their children to their bloody breasts. There, girls who had been cut open after satisfying the natural needs of a few heroes breathed their last. Others, half burned, cried out for someone to finish killing them. Brains lay scattered on the ground beside severed arms and legs.\n\nCandide fled as fast as he could to another village. This one belonged to the Bulgars, and the Abares heroes had treated it the same way. Candide kept walking over twitching limbs and through ruins until he finally left the scene of the war. He carried a few small provisions in his bag and never forgot Miss Cunégonde. He ran out of food when he reached Holland. But he had heard that everyone in that country was rich and Christian, so he was sure they would treat him as well as he had been treated at the baron's castle before he was driven out for Miss Cunégonde's beautiful eyes.\n\nHe asked several respectable people for charity. Every one of them answered that if he kept up this occupation, he would be locked in a workhouse to teach him how to behave.\n\nThen he approached a man who had just spent a whole hour speaking by himself about charity to a large gathering. The speaker gave him a hostile look and said, \"What are you doing here? Are you here for the good cause?\" \"There is no effect without a cause,\" Candide answered modestly. \"Everything is necessarily linked and arranged for the best. I had to be driven away from Miss Cunégonde and run the gauntlet, and now I have to beg for bread until I can earn it. None of this could have happened any other way.\" \"My friend,\" said the speaker, \"do you believe the pope is the Antichrist?\" \"I hadn't heard that before,\" answered Candide. \"But whether he is or not, I have no bread.\" \"You don't deserve any,\" said the man. \"Get out, you scoundrel, you wretch. Never come near me again.\" The speaker's wife stuck her head out the window and noticed a man who doubted that the pope was the Antichrist. She poured a whole… over his head. Good heavens! How far religious zeal can carry women!\n\nA man who had never been baptized, a good Anabaptist named Jacques, saw the cruel and humiliating way they treated one of his fellow human beings—a two-legged creature without feathers and with a soul. He took Candide home, cleaned him up, gave him bread and beer and two florins, and even offered to teach him to work in his factories, which made Persian-style fabrics in Holland. Candide nearly fell to his knees before him and cried, \"Master Pangloss was right to tell me everything is for the best in this world. Your extraordinary generosity moves me far more than the harshness of that gentleman in the black cloak and his wife.\"\n\nThe next day, while walking, he met a beggar covered in sores. The man's eyes were lifeless, the end of his nose had been eaten away, his mouth was twisted, and his teeth were black. He spoke from his throat, was racked by a violent cough, and spat out a tooth each time he coughed.\n\n### Chapter IV\n\nHow Candide met his old philosophy teacher, Doctor Pangloss, and what followed.\n\nCandide felt even more pity than horror. He gave this terrifying beggar the two florins he had received from the honest Anabaptist Jacques. The apparition stared at him, burst into tears, and threw its arms around his neck. Candide drew back in fright. \"Oh!\" said the wretched man to the other wretched man. \"Don't you recognize your dear Pangloss?\" \"What am I hearing? You, my dear teacher? You, in this horrible state? What happened to you? Why aren't you in the finest of castles anymore? What happened to Miss Cunégonde, the finest of girls, nature's masterpiece?\" \"I can't go on,\" said Pangloss. Candide immediately took him to the Anabaptist's stable and gave him some bread. Once Pangloss had recovered a little, Candide asked, \"Well? Cunégonde?\" \"She's dead,\" the other man replied. Candide fainted at these words. His friend brought him around with a little bad vinegar that happened to be in the stable. Candide opened his eyes. \"Cunégonde is dead! Oh, best of all worlds, where are you now? But what disease did she die of? Could it have been seeing her father kick me out of his fine castle?\" \"No,\" said Pangloss. \"Bulgar soldiers cut open her belly after raping her as much as anyone can be raped. They smashed the baron's head when he tried to defend her. They cut the baroness to pieces and treated my poor pupil exactly like his sister. As for the castle, not one stone stands on another. Not a barn, not a sheep, not a duck, not a tree remains. But we have been well avenged. The Abares did the same thing in a neighboring barony owned by a Bulgar lord.\"\n\nCandide fainted again on hearing this. When he came to and had said everything he needed to say, he asked about the cause, the effect, and the sufficient reason that had left Pangloss in such a pitiful state. \"Oh,\" said Pangloss, \"it was love. Love, the comfort of the human race, the thing that keeps the universe alive, the soul of all feeling beings, tender love.\" \"Oh,\" said Candide, \"I have known that love, ruler of hearts and soul of our souls. All it got me was a kiss and twenty kicks in the backside. How could such a lovely cause have produced such a dreadful effect in you?\"\n\nPangloss answered, \"Oh, my dear Candide! You knew Paquette, our noble baroness's pretty maid. I enjoyed the delights of paradise in her arms, and they produced these torments of hell you can see consuming me. She was infected, and she may have died of it. Paquette got this gift from a very learned Franciscan friar who had traced it to its source. He got it from an old countess, who received it from a cavalry captain, who owed it to a marquise, who got it from a page, who received it from a Jesuit. As a novice, the Jesuit had got it directly from one of Christopher Columbus's companions. As for me, I won't give it to anyone, because I am dying.\"\n\n\"Oh, Pangloss!\" cried Candide. \"What a strange family tree! Wasn't the devil at its root?\" \"Not at all,\" replied the great man. \"This was an essential part of the best of all worlds, a necessary ingredient. If Columbus hadn't caught this disease on an island in America, a disease that poisons the source of reproduction, often prevents reproduction altogether, and plainly works against nature's great purpose, we wouldn't have chocolate or cochineal dye. We must also note that, to this day, on our continent this disease is as particular to us as religious controversy is. The Turks, Indians, Persians, Chinese, Siamese, and Japanese do not know it yet. But there is a sufficient reason why they too should know it a few centuries from now. Meanwhile it has spread wonderfully among us, especially through those great armies of honest, well-brought-up men who serve for pay and decide the fate of states. We can say with confidence that when thirty thousand men fight an equal number in a pitched battle, about twenty thousand on each side have syphilis.\"\n\n\"How marvelous,\" said Candide. \"But you must get treatment.\" \"How can I?\" said Pangloss. \"I haven't a penny, my friend. Anywhere on this globe, you can't have blood taken or get an enema without paying for it, unless someone else pays for you.\"\n\nThese last words settled it for Candide. He threw himself at the feet of his kind Anabaptist Jacques and described his friend's condition so movingly that the good man did not hesitate to take in Doctor Pangloss and pay to have him cured. During the treatment Pangloss lost only an eye and an ear. He had good handwriting and knew arithmetic perfectly, so Jacques made him his bookkeeper. After two months Jacques needed to go to Lisbon on business, and he took the two philosophers on his ship. Pangloss explained to him how everything could not possibly be better. Jacques disagreed. \"Human beings must have corrupted nature a little,\" he said. \"They weren't born wolves, but they've become wolves. God didn't give them twenty-four-pounder cannons or bayonets. They made bayonets and cannons themselves so they could destroy one another. I might also add bankruptcies and the courts that seize bankrupt people's property and cheat their creditors out of it.\" \"All of that was essential,\" replied the one-eyed doctor. \"Individual misfortunes make for the general good. So the more individual misfortunes there are, the better everything is.\" While he was making this argument, the sky grew dark, winds blew from every direction, and a terrible storm struck the ship in sight of the harbor of Lisbon.\n\n### Chapter V\n\nStorm, shipwreck, earthquake, and what happened to Doctor Pangloss, Candide, and the Anabaptist Jacques.\n\nHalf the passengers were weak and close to death from the unimaginable distress caused by the ship's rolling, which shook their nerves and all the fluids in their bodies back and forth. They did not even have the strength to worry about the danger. The other half screamed and prayed. The sails were torn, the masts broken, and the ship was splitting open. Anyone who could worked, but no one could hear anyone else and no one was in charge. The Anabaptist was helping a little with the ship's handling. He was on deck when an enraged sailor struck him hard and knocked him down on the planks. But the blow made the sailor himself lose his balance so badly that he fell headfirst overboard. He was left hanging from a piece of broken mast. Good Jacques rushed to help him and pulled him back up. In doing so, Jacques was thrown into the sea before the sailor's eyes. The sailor let him die without even bothering to look at him. Candide came over and saw his benefactor surface for a moment, then sink forever. He wanted to jump into the sea after him, but the philosopher Pangloss stopped him. Pangloss proved to him that the harbor of Lisbon had been made expressly for this Anabaptist to drown in it. While he was proving this from first principles, the ship split open. Everyone died except Pangloss, Candide, and the brutal sailor who had drowned the virtuous Anabaptist. The scoundrel managed to swim ashore, while Pangloss and Candide floated in on a plank.\n\nOnce they had recovered a little, they walked toward Lisbon. They had some money left and hoped it would save them from hunger now that they had survived the storm.\n\nThey had barely set foot in the city, still mourning their benefactor, when they felt the earth shake beneath them. The sea surged in the harbor and smashed the ships at anchor. Swirls of fire and ash covered the streets and public squares. Houses collapsed, roofs crashed down onto their foundations, and the foundations broke apart. Thirty thousand residents of every age and sex were crushed under the ruins. The sailor whistled and swore. \"There's money to be made here,\" he said. \"What can be the sufficient reason for this phenomenon?\" asked Pangloss. \"It's the end of the world!\" cried Candide. The sailor immediately ran into the rubble, risking his life to find money. He found some and took it. He got drunk, then, once he had sobered up, bought the favors of the first willing woman he met among the ruins of the destroyed houses and amid the dying and the dead. Pangloss tugged at his sleeve. \"My friend,\" he said, \"that's not right. You're going against universal reason. You've chosen a bad time.\" \"By blood and thunder,\" answered the other man, \"I'm a sailor, born in Batavia. I've trampled a crucifix four times on four trips to Japan. You've picked the wrong man for your universal reason!\"\n\nFlying pieces of stone had injured Candide. He lay in the street covered in debris. He said to Pangloss, \"Oh! Get me some wine and oil. I'm dying.\" \"This earthquake is nothing new,\" replied Pangloss. \"The city of Lima in America had the same tremors last year. The same causes, the same effects. There must be a line of sulfur underground from Lima to Lisbon.\" \"Very likely,\" said Candide, \"but for God's sake, a little oil and wine.\" \"What do you mean, likely?\" replied the philosopher. \"I insist it's been proved.\" Candide lost consciousness, and Pangloss brought him a little water from a nearby fountain.\n\nThe next day they crawled through the rubble, found some food, and recovered a little strength. Then they joined the others in helping the residents who had survived. Some of the citizens they helped gave them as good a dinner as anyone could provide in such a disaster. Admittedly, it was a sad meal: the diners soaked their bread with tears. But Pangloss comforted them by assuring them things could not have been otherwise. \"For,\" he said, \"all this is for the best. If there's a volcano in Lisbon, it couldn't be anywhere else. Things can't possibly be anywhere other than where they are. Everything is fine.\"\n\nA short, dark-haired man sitting beside him, an officer of the Inquisition, spoke up politely. \"Apparently, sir, you don't believe in original sin. If everything is for the best, then there has been neither a fall nor a punishment.\"\n\n\"I most humbly beg your excellency's pardon,\" answered Pangloss, even more politely. \"The fall of man and the curse were necessary parts of the best of all possible worlds.\" \"So you don't believe in free will, sir?\" said the officer. \"Your excellency will excuse me,\" said Pangloss. \"Freedom can exist alongside absolute necessity. It was necessary for us to be free, because, after all, a will that is determined…\" Pangloss was in the middle of his sentence when the officer nodded to his attendant, who was serving him Porto or Oporto wine.\n\n### Chapter VI\n\nHow they staged a splendid auto-da-fé to prevent earthquakes, and how Candide was flogged.\n\nAfter the earthquake destroyed three quarters of Lisbon, the wise men of the country could think of no better way to prevent total destruction than to give the people a splendid auto-da-fé. The University of Coimbra had decided that ceremonially burning a few people slowly was a sure way to stop the earth from shaking.\n\nSo they arrested a man from Biscay who was found guilty of marrying the woman whose child he had sponsored at baptism, and two Portuguese men who had pulled the bacon off a chicken before eating it. After dinner they came to tie up Doctor Pangloss and his student Candide, the first for speaking and the second for listening with an approving look. They took the two men separately to rooms that were extremely cool, where the sun never bothered anyone. Eight days later, both were dressed in the penitential robes called sanbenitos, and paper miters were put on their heads. Candide's miter and robe were painted with upside-down flames and devils that had no tails or claws. Pangloss's devils had claws and tails, and his flames pointed up. Dressed this way, they walked in a procession and heard a very moving sermon, followed by fine music sung in a simple harmony. Candide was flogged in time with the singing. The man from Biscay and the two men who had refused to eat bacon were burned, and Pangloss was hanged, though that was not the usual practice. The earth shook again that same day with a terrifying crash.\n\nCandide was frightened, stunned, beside himself, bloody, and shaking. He said to himself, \"If this is the best of all possible worlds, what must the others be like? I could bear it if I had only been flogged. That happened to me among the Bulgars. But oh, my dear Pangloss, greatest of philosophers! Did I have to see you hanged without knowing why? Oh, my dear Anabaptist, the best of men! Did you have to drown in the harbor? Oh, Miss Cunégonde, the finest of girls! Did they have to cut open your belly?\"\n\nHe was making his way back, barely able to stand, after being preached at, flogged, absolved, and blessed, when an old woman came up to him. \"My son,\" she said, \"take heart and follow me.\"\n\n### Chapter VII\n\nHow an old woman cared for Candide, and how he found the person he loved again.\n\nCandide did not take heart, but he followed the old woman into a shabby little house. She gave him a jar of ointment to rub on himself and left him food and drink. She showed him a small, fairly clean bed. Beside it was a complete set of clothes. \"Eat, drink, and sleep,\" she told him. \"May Our Lady of Atocha, Saint Anthony of Padua, and Saint James of Compostela take care of you! I'll be back tomorrow.\" Candide was still amazed by everything he had seen and suffered, and even more by the old woman's kindness. He tried to kiss her hand. \"It isn't my hand you should kiss,\" said the old woman. \"I'll be back tomorrow. Rub on the ointment, eat, and sleep.\"\n\nIn spite of all his troubles, Candide ate and slept. The next day the old woman brought him breakfast, examined his back, and rubbed it herself with a different ointment. Then she brought him lunch. She returned in the evening with supper. The day after that she repeated the same routine. \"Who are you?\" Candide kept asking her. \"What inspired you to be so kind? How can I thank you?\" The good woman never answered. She came back that evening without supper. \"Come with me,\" she said, \"and don't say a word.\" She took his arm and walked with him about a quarter of a mile into the countryside. They arrived at an isolated house surrounded by gardens and canals. The old woman knocked at a small door. Someone opened it. She led Candide up a hidden staircase into a gilded room, left him on a brocade sofa, closed the door, and went away. Candide thought he was dreaming. His whole life seemed like a terrible dream, and the present moment like a pleasant one.\n\nSoon the old woman came back. She was struggling to support a trembling woman of imposing height who glittered with jewels and wore a veil. \"Take off the veil,\" the old woman told Candide. The young man came closer and lifted it with a hesitant hand. What a moment! What a surprise! He thought he saw Miss Cunégonde. He really did see her: it was Cunégonde herself. His strength gave out; he could not speak and fell at her feet. Cunégonde fell onto the sofa. The old woman doused them with scented spirits. They came to and began to talk. At first their words came in fragments, their questions and answers crossed, and they sighed, wept, and cried out. The old woman told them to make less noise and left them alone. \"What! Is it you?\" said Candide. \"You're alive! I've found you here in Portugal! So you weren't raped? They didn't cut open your belly, as the philosopher Pangloss assured me they had?\" \"Yes, they did,\" said the beautiful Cunégonde, \"but those two things don't always kill a person.\" \"But were your father and mother killed?\" \"I'm afraid that's only too true,\" Cunégonde said, weeping. \"And your brother?\" \"My brother was killed too.\" \"Why are you in Portugal? How did you know I was here? And what strange chain of events led you to bring me to this house?\" \"I'll tell you all that,\" replied Cunégonde. \"But first you must tell me everything that happened to you since that innocent kiss you gave me and the kicks you got for it.\"\n\nCandide obeyed her with the deepest respect. Though he was still dazed, his voice was weak and shaking, and his back still hurt a little, he gave her a simple, honest account of everything he had gone through since they parted. Cunégonde looked toward heaven. She wept when she heard of the deaths of the good Anabaptist and Pangloss. Then she began to speak to Candide, who listened to every word and could not take his eyes off her.\n\n### Chapter VIII\n\nCunégonde's Story.\n\nI was in bed, fast asleep, when heaven decided to send the Bulgarians into our beautiful castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh. They cut my father's and brother's throats and cut my mother into pieces. A big Bulgarian, six feet tall, saw that I had fainted at the sight and began to rape me. That brought me around. I came to my senses, screamed, struggled, bit, and scratched. I tried to tear out the big Bulgarian's eyes, not knowing that everything happening in my father's castle was a customary thing. The brute stabbed me in the left side, and I still have the scar. “Oh! I certainly hope to see it,” said the innocent Candide. “You will,” said Cunégonde. “But let me go on.” “Go on,” said Candide.\n\nShe picked up her story again: “A Bulgarian captain came in. He saw me covered in blood, and the soldier did not even move aside. The captain was angry at the brute's lack of respect for him, and killed him on top of me. Then he had my wound dressed and took me as a prisoner of war to his quarters. I washed the few shirts he owned and cooked his meals. I must admit he found me very pretty. I won't deny that he was very well built and that his skin was white and soft. Apart from that, he had little intelligence and little philosophy. You could tell he had not been educated by Doctor Pangloss. After three months, he had lost all his money and grown tired of me, so he sold me to a Jew named don Issachar, who traded in Holland and Portugal and was passionately fond of women. This Jew became very attached to me, but he could not win me over. I resisted him better than I had resisted the Bulgarian soldier. A woman of honor can be raped once, but the experience strengthens her virtue. To tame me, the Jew brought me to the country house you see here. Until then I had thought that nothing on earth was as beautiful as the castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh. I found out I was wrong.\n\n“One day the grand inquisitor noticed me at mass. He stared at me for a long time and sent word that he had to speak to me about secret matters. I was taken to his palace. I told him about my birth. He explained how far beneath my rank it was to belong to an Israelite. He sent don Issachar a proposal that he hand me over to his lordship. Don Issachar, who is the court's banker and a man of influence, refused. The inquisitor threatened him with an auto-da-fé. At last my frightened Jew made a deal: the house and I would belong to both of them together. The Jew would have Mondays, Wednesdays, and the Sabbath, while the inquisitor would have the other days of the week. This arrangement has lasted six months. There have been arguments, though, because it was often unclear whether Saturday night into Sunday belonged to the old law or the new one. For my part, I have resisted both men so far. I think that is why they have always loved me.\n\n“At last, to ward off the plague of earthquakes and intimidate don Issachar, his lordship the inquisitor decided to hold an auto-da-fé. He did me the honor of inviting me. I had a very good seat. Refreshments were served to the ladies between the mass and the execution. It is true that I was horrified to see those two Jews and the decent man from Biscay who had married his child's godmother burned. But imagine my surprise, my fear, my distress when I saw a man who looked like Pangloss wearing a sanbenito and a pointed cap! I rubbed my eyes and looked carefully. I saw him hanged, and I fainted. I had barely come to when I saw you stripped completely naked. That was the height of horror, shock, pain, and despair. I can honestly tell you that your skin is even whiter and a lovelier shade of pink than that of my Bulgarian captain. The sight made all the feelings that weighed on me and consumed me twice as strong. I cried out and tried to say, ‘Stop, you barbarians!’ But I had no voice, and my cries would have done no good. After you had been thoroughly whipped, I kept asking myself, ‘How can dear Candide and wise Pangloss be in Lisbon, one to receive a hundred lashes and the other to be hanged on the orders of his lordship the inquisitor, whose beloved I am? Pangloss cruelly deceived me when he told me everything was for the best in the world!’\n\n“Upset and beside myself, now scarcely in my right mind and now ready to faint and die, I could think only of the slaughter of my father, mother, and brother; the insolence of my ugly Bulgarian soldier; the knife wound he gave me; my captivity and my work as a cook; my Bulgarian captain; my ugly don Issachar; my dreadful inquisitor; the hanging of Doctor Pangloss; the great miserere sung in harmony while you were being whipped; and above all, the kiss I gave you behind a screen the last day I saw you. I praised God for bringing you back to me through so many trials. I told my old woman to take care of you and bring you here as soon as she could. She followed my instructions perfectly. Seeing you again, hearing you, and talking to you has given me more pleasure than I can express. You must be terribly hungry. I have a big appetite myself. Let's have supper first.”\n\nThe two of them sat down to eat. After supper they returned to the beautiful sofa already mentioned. They were on it when signor don Issachar, one of the owners of the house, arrived. It was the Sabbath. He had come to exercise his rights and declare his tender love.\n\n### Chapter IX\n\nWhat Happened to Cunégonde, Candide, the Grand Inquisitor, and a Jew.\n\nThis Issachar was the most hot-tempered Hebrew anyone had seen in Israel since the captivity in Babylon. “What!” he said. “You Galilean bitch, isn't the inquisitor enough for you? Does this scoundrel have to share you with me too?” As he spoke, he pulled out a long dagger that he always carried. Believing his opponent was unarmed, he rushed at Candide. But our good Westphalian had received a fine sword from the old woman along with his complete outfit. Though he was a very gentle man, he drew his sword and struck the Israelite dead on the floor at the feet of beautiful Cunégonde.\n\n“Holy Virgin!” she cried. “What will become of us? A man killed in my house! If the law comes, we're done for.” “If Pangloss hadn't been hanged,” said Candide, “he would give us good advice in this emergency. He was a great philosopher. Since he isn't here, let's ask the old woman.” She was very sensible and had begun to give her opinion when another little door opened. It was one in the morning, the beginning of Sunday. This day belonged to his lordship the inquisitor. He came in and saw Candide, the man who had been whipped, holding a sword; a dead man lying on the floor; Cunégonde in a panic; and the old woman giving advice.\n\nHere is what went through Candide's mind at that moment: “If this holy man calls for help, he will certainly have me burned, and he might do the same to Cunégonde. He had me whipped without mercy. He is my rival. I've already started killing. There's no time to hesitate.” He thought it through clearly and quickly. Before the inquisitor could recover from his surprise, Candide ran him right through and threw him down beside the Jew. “Now this is worse,” said Cunégonde. “There's no chance of a pardon. We're excommunicated. Our last hour has come! How could you, born so gentle, kill a Jew and a high church official in two minutes?” “My beautiful lady,” Candide replied, “when you're in love, jealous, and have been whipped by the Inquisition, you don't know yourself anymore.”\n\nThen the old woman spoke. “There are three Andalusian horses in the stable, with saddles and bridles. Let brave Candide get them ready. Madam has gold coins and diamonds. Let's get on the horses at once, even though I can only sit on one buttock, and go to Cadiz. The weather is beautiful, and traveling in the cool of the night is a great pleasure.”\n\nCandide immediately saddled the three horses. Cunégonde, the old woman, and he rode thirty miles without stopping. While they were riding away, the Holy Brotherhood arrived at the house. They buried his lordship in a beautiful church and dumped Issachar at the refuse heap.\n\nCandide, Cunégonde, and the old woman had already reached the little town of Avacéna, in the middle of the Sierra-Morena mountains. They spoke as follows at an inn.\n\n### Chapter X\n\nThe Trouble Candide, Cunégonde, and the Old Woman Were In When They Reached Cadiz, and How They Set Sail.\n\n“Who could have stolen my gold coins and diamonds?” Cunégonde said, crying. “What will we live on? What will we do? Where can we find inquisitors and Jews to give me more?” “Oh,” said the old woman, “I strongly suspect a Franciscan friar who slept at the same inn as we did yesterday in Badajos. God forbid that I should judge anyone too quickly! But he came into our room twice, and he left long before we did.” “Oh,” said Candide, “good Pangloss often proved to me that the goods of the earth belong to everyone and that everyone has an equal right to them. According to those principles, this friar ought to have left us enough to finish our journey. So you have nothing at all left, my beautiful Cunégonde?” “Not a single maravedi,” she said. “What should we do?” said Candide. “Sell one of the horses,” said the old woman. “I'll ride behind the young lady, even though I can only sit on one buttock, and we'll reach Cadiz.”\n\nA Benedictine prior was staying at the same inn. He bought the horse cheaply. Candide, Cunégonde, and the old woman went through Lucena, Chillas, and Lebrixa, and finally reached Cadiz. A fleet was being fitted out there, and troops were gathering to bring the Jesuit fathers of Paraguai into line. They were accused of having stirred up one of their groups to rebel against the kings of Spain and Portugal near the town of the Holy Sacrament. Candide had served in the Bulgarian army. He performed the Bulgarian drills before the general of the small army with such grace, speed, skill, pride, and agility that he was given command of an infantry company. Now he was a captain. He boarded a ship with Miss Cunégonde, the old woman, two servants, and the two Andalusian horses that had belonged to the grand inquisitor of Portugal.\n\nThroughout the crossing they talked a great deal about poor Pangloss's philosophy. “We're going to another world,” Candide said. “Surely everything is good there. After all, you have to admit that what's happening in our own world, in nature and in human behavior, gives us some reason to complain.” “I love you with all my heart,” Cunégonde said, “but everything I've seen and suffered has still left me shaken.” “Everything will be fine,” Candide replied. “The sea in this new world is already better than the seas of Europe. It's calmer, and the winds are steadier. The New World is certainly the best of all possible worlds.” “I hope so!” said Cunégonde. “But I've been so terribly unhappy in my own world that I can hardly hope anymore.” “You're complaining,” the old woman told them. “Oh, you haven't suffered the kind of misfortunes I have.” Cunégonde almost laughed. She thought it absurd that this good woman could claim to be more miserable than she was. “My dear woman,” she told her, “unless you've been raped by two Bulgarians, stabbed twice in the stomach, had two of your castles destroyed, seen two mothers and two fathers have their throats cut before your eyes, and seen two of your lovers whipped at an auto-da-fé, I don't see how you can outdo me. And I was born a baroness with seventy-two noble lines in my ancestry and ended up a cook.” “Miss,” the old woman replied, “you don't know what family I come from. And if I showed you my backside, you wouldn't talk that way. You'd reserve judgment.” This made Cunégonde and Candide extremely curious. The old woman spoke to them as follows.\n\n### Chapter XI\n\nThe Old Woman's Story.\n\n“My eyes were not always bloodshot and rimmed with red. My nose did not always touch my chin, and I was not always a servant. I am the daughter of Pope Urban X and the princess of Palestrine. Until I was fourteen, I was raised in a palace so grand that all your German barons' castles together would not have made a stable for it. One of my dresses was worth more than all the splendor of Westphalia. I was growing more beautiful, graceful, and talented amid pleasures, honors, and high hopes. I was already inspiring love. My breasts were developing—and what breasts! White, firm, shaped like those of the Venus de' Medici. And what eyes, what eyelids, what black eyebrows! What fire shone in my eyes and put the stars to shame, as the neighborhood poets told me! The women who dressed and undressed me were overcome with wonder when they looked at me from the front and the back. Every man would have liked to take their place.\n\n“I was engaged to the sovereign prince of Massa-Carrara. What a prince! He was as beautiful as I was, full of kindness and charm, brilliantly witty and burning with love. I loved him the way you love for the first time, with devotion and wild passion. Preparations were made for the wedding. The ceremony and splendor were beyond belief. There were constant celebrations, riding tournaments, and comic operas. All Italy wrote sonnets for me, and not one of them was any good. I was on the verge of happiness when an old marquise, who had been my prince's lover, invited him to drink chocolate at her house. He died within two hours, in terrible convulsions. But that's a small detail. My mother was in despair, though far less upset than I was, and wanted to get away from such an unlucky place for a while. She had a very fine estate near Gaeta. We boarded a local galley, gilded like the altar of St. Peter's in Rome. Then a privateer from Salé swooped down on us and boarded our ship. Our soldiers defended themselves as the pope's soldiers would: they all fell to their knees, threw down their weapons, and asked the privateer to absolve them as they faced death.\n\n“They immediately stripped the soldiers naked, and my mother, our ladies-in-waiting, and me too. It is amazing how quickly these gentlemen undress people. But what surprised me even more was that they put a finger into a place where we women usually allow nothing but an enema tube. This ceremony seemed very strange to me. That is how you judge everything when you've never left your own country. I soon learned that they were checking whether we had hidden diamonds there. This is an age-old practice among the civilized nations that sail the seas. I have learned that the religious knights of Malta never fail to do it when they capture Turkish men and women. It is a law among nations that has never been set aside.\n\n“I won't tell you how hard it is for a young princess to be taken as a slave to Morocco along with her mother. You can easily imagine everything we suffered on the privateer's ship. My mother was still very beautiful. Our ladies-in-waiting, even our ordinary maids, were more attractive than any women you could find in all Africa. As for me, I was gorgeous. I was beauty and grace itself, and I was a virgin. I did not remain one long. The privateer captain took the virginity that had been reserved for the handsome prince of Massa-Carrara. He was a horrible Black man who thought he was doing me a great honor. The princess of Palestrine, my mother, and I must have been very strong to survive everything we went through before arriving in Morocco! But let's move on. Such things are so common they aren't worth talking about.\n\n“Morocco was drowning in blood when we arrived. The fifty sons of Emperor Muley Ismael each had his own faction. The result was fifty civil wars: Black men against Black men, Black men against brown-skinned men, brown-skinned men against brown-skinned men, and mixed-race men against mixed-race men. There was constant slaughter throughout the empire.\n\n“We had barely disembarked when Black men from a faction hostile to my privateer came to take his plunder. After the diamonds and gold, we were the most valuable things he owned. I witnessed a fight unlike anything you ever see in Europe. Northerners do not have blood hot enough. Their passion for women does not reach the frenzy common in Africa. It seems that you Europeans have milk in your veins. The people of Mount Atlas and the lands nearby have acid and fire flowing through theirs. They fought with the fury of the region's lions, tigers, and snakes over who would possess us. A Moor grabbed my mother's right arm, and my captain's lieutenant held her left. A Moorish soldier took one leg, and one of our pirates held the other. Almost all our ladies were pulled in four directions by soldiers in the same way. My captain kept me hidden behind him. Sword in hand, he killed anyone who stood in the way of his fury. At last I saw my mother and all our Italian women torn apart, cut up, and butchered by the monsters fighting over them. The captives who had sailed with me, their captors, soldiers, sailors, Black men, brown-skinned men, white men, mixed-race men, and finally my captain—all were killed. I was left dying on a heap of bodies. As everyone knows, scenes like this were taking place across more than three hundred leagues, without anyone missing the five daily prayers prescribed by Muhammad.\n\n“I struggled free of the pile of bloody bodies and dragged myself beneath a large orange tree beside a nearby stream. There I collapsed from fear, exhaustion, horror, despair, and hunger. Soon my overwhelmed senses gave in to a sleep more like fainting than rest. I lay weak and unconscious, between life and death, when I felt something pressing on me and moving against my body. I opened my eyes and saw a good-looking white man. He was sighing and muttering, ‘Oh, what a misfortune to have no testicles!’”\n\n### Chapter XII\n\nMore of the Old Woman's Misfortunes.\n\n“I was astonished and delighted to hear the language of my homeland. I was just as surprised by what the man was saying. I replied that there were worse misfortunes than the one he was complaining about. I briefly told him of the horrors I had endured, then fainted again. He carried me to a nearby house, had me put to bed and fed, looked after me, comforted and flattered me. He said he had never seen anyone as beautiful as I was, and had never so deeply regretted what no one could give back to him. ‘I was born in Naples,’ he told me. ‘They castrate two or three thousand children there every year. Some die from it. Others acquire voices more beautiful than women's. Still others go on to govern states. The operation on me was a great success, and I became a musician in the chapel of the princess of Palestrine.’ ‘My mother!’ I cried. ‘Your mother!’ he cried in tears. ‘What? Can you be the young princess I helped raise until she was six years old, who already showed signs of becoming as beautiful as you are?’ ‘I am. My mother is four hundred paces from here, cut into quarters beneath a heap of bodies…’\n\n“I told him everything that had happened to me. He told me his adventures too. He explained that a Christian power had sent him to the king of Morocco to make a treaty with that monarch. It would supply him with gunpowder, cannons, and ships to help him destroy the trade of other Christians. ‘My mission is complete,’ said this respectable eunuch. ‘I'm going to board a ship at Ceuta and take you back to Italy. But what a misfortune to have no testicles!’\n\n“I thanked him with tears of gratitude. But instead of taking me to Italy, he took me to Algiers and sold me to its ruler. As soon as I had been sold, the plague that traveled through Africa, Asia, and Europe broke out fiercely in Algiers. You have seen earthquakes. But, miss, have you ever had the plague?” “Never,” the baroness replied.\n\n“If you had,” the old woman continued, “you would admit it is much worse than an earthquake. It is very common in Africa, and I caught it. Imagine what it was like for a pope's fifteen-year-old daughter. In three months she had suffered poverty and slavery, been raped almost every day, seen her mother cut into four pieces, gone through hunger and war, and was now dying of plague in Algiers! Yet I did not die. My eunuch and the ruler, though, and almost the entire harem of Algiers, died.\n\n“Once the first devastation of this terrible plague was over, the ruler's slaves were sold. A merchant bought me and took me to Tunis. He sold me to another merchant, who resold me in Tripoli. From Tripoli I was resold to Alexandria, from Alexandria to Smyrna, and from Smyrna to Constantinople. At last I belonged to an officer of the Janissaries, who was soon ordered to defend Azof against the Russians besieging it.\n\n“The officer was quite a ladies' man. He took his whole harem with him and housed us in a little fort on the Sea of Azov. Two Black eunuchs and twenty soldiers guarded it. Enormous numbers of Russians were killed, but they returned the favor. Azof was put to fire and sword, and neither women nor people of any age were spared. Only our little fort remained. The enemy tried to starve us into surrendering. The twenty Janissaries had sworn never to give up. Their desperate hunger forced them to eat our two eunuchs rather than break their oath. After a few days, they decided to eat the women.\n\n“We had a very devout and compassionate imam. He gave them a fine sermon and persuaded them not to kill us completely. “Just cut off one buttock from each of these ladies,” he said. “You'll eat very well. If you need more, you'll have the same amount again in a few days. Heaven will thank you for so charitable an act, and help will come.”\n\n“He was very persuasive, and they agreed. We underwent this horrible operation. The imam applied to us the same balm used on children just after they are circumcised. We were all near death.\n\n“The Janissaries had barely finished the meal we had provided when the Russians arrived in flat-bottomed boats. Not one Janissary survived. The Russians paid no attention to our condition. There are French surgeons everywhere. One of them was very skilled. He cared for us and healed us. I will remember all my life that, once my wounds had completely closed, he made advances to me. He also told all of us to take heart. He assured us that the same thing had happened in several sieges and that it was a rule of war.\n\n“As soon as my companions could walk, they were sent to Moscow. I was allotted to a boyar who made me his gardener and gave me twenty lashes a day. After two years, this lord and about thirty other boyars were broken on the wheel over some court intrigue. I took advantage of the event and escaped. I crossed all of Russia. For a long time I worked as a tavern servant, first in Riga, then in Rostock, Vismar, Leipsick, Cassel, Utrecht, Leyde, the Hague, and Rotterdam. I have grown old in poverty and disgrace, with only half a backside, always remembering that I was a pope's daughter. A hundred times I wanted to kill myself, but I still loved life. This ridiculous weakness may be one of our most harmful instincts. What could be more foolish than endlessly carrying a burden you keep wanting to put down? Or hating your own existence while clinging to it? Or, finally, stroking the snake that is eating you until it has devoured your heart?\n\n“In the countries I have traveled through by chance and the taverns where I have worked, I have seen an enormous number of people who hated being alive. But I have seen only twelve who willingly put an end to their suffering: three Black men, four Englishmen, four men from Geneva, and a German professor named Robeck. In the end I became a servant in the household of the Jew don Issachar. He assigned me to you, my beautiful young lady. I have become attached to your fate and have paid more attention to your adventures than to my own. I would never even have spoken to you of my troubles if you had not stung me a little, and if people on ships did not usually tell stories to pass the time. In short, miss, I have experience. I know the world. Do something to amuse yourself: ask every passenger to tell you their story. If you find just one who has not often cursed their life and often said to themselves that they were the most miserable person alive, throw me headfirst into the sea.”\n\n### Chapter XIII\n\nHow Candide Had to Leave Beautiful Cunégonde and the Old Woman.\n\nAfter hearing the old woman's story, beautiful Cunégonde showed her all the courtesy due to someone of her rank and merit. She accepted her suggestion and asked each passenger in turn to tell her their adventures. She and Candide admitted that the old woman was right. “It's a great pity,” Candide said, “that wise Pangloss was hanged at an auto-da-fé, against the usual practice. He would tell us wonderful things about the physical and moral evils that cover the land and sea. I think I would be brave enough to raise a few respectful objections.”\n\nAs each person told their story, the ship kept moving forward. They landed in Buenos Aires. Cunégonde, Captain Candide, and the old woman went to see the governor, don Fernando d’Ibaraa, y Figueora, y Mascarenes, y Lampourdos, y Souza. This gentleman had all the pride appropriate for a man with so many names. He spoke to men with the grandest contempt. He held his nose so high, raised his voice so mercilessly, spoke in such a commanding tone, and walked with such an arrogant air that everyone who greeted him was tempted to beat him. He was mad about women. Cunégonde seemed to him the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His first move was to ask whether she was the captain's wife. The way he asked frightened Candide. He did not dare say she was his wife, because in fact she was not. He did not dare say she was his sister, because she was not that either. The ancients had once been very fond of this convenient lie, and it might have helped modern people too, but Candide's heart was too pure to betray the truth. “Miss Cunégonde intends to do me the honor of marrying me,” he said, “and we ask Your Excellency to be kind enough to perform our wedding.”\n\nDon Fernando d’Ibaraa, y Figueora, y Mascarenes, y Lampourdos, y Souza twirled his mustache, smiled bitterly, and ordered Captain Candide to go review his company. Candide obeyed. The governor stayed with Miss Cunégonde. He declared his love and promised to marry her the next day, before the Church or otherwise, as her charms might please. Cunégonde asked for a quarter of an hour to collect her thoughts, consult the old woman, and decide.\n\nThe old woman told Cunégonde, “Miss, you have seventy-two noble lines in your ancestry and not a penny. You could become the wife of the greatest lord in South America, a man with a very fine mustache. Are you really in a position to insist on perfect loyalty? The Bulgarians raped you. A Jew and an inquisitor have enjoyed your favors. Misfortune gives you rights. I admit that in your place I would have no qualms about marrying the governor and making Captain Candide's fortune too.” While the old woman was speaking with all the good sense that age and experience bring, a small ship was seen entering the harbor. It carried a magistrate and some officers of the law. Here is what had happened.\n\nThe old woman had guessed correctly: it was a friar with wide sleeves who stole Cunégonde's money and jewels in Badajos while she was fleeing in haste with Candide. The monk tried to sell some of the gems to a jeweler. The jeweler recognized them as belonging to the grand inquisitor. Before he was hanged, the friar admitted stealing them. He identified the people involved and the route they were taking. Cunégonde and Candide's flight was already known. They were tracked to Cadiz, and a ship was sent after them at once. That ship was already in the harbor of Buenos Aires. Word spread that a magistrate was about to come ashore and that the killers of his lordship the grand inquisitor were being pursued. The sensible old woman immediately saw what had to be done. “You can't run away,” she told Cunégonde, “and you have nothing to fear. You didn't kill his lordship, and besides, the governor loves you. He won't let anyone mistreat you. Stay here.” She rushed straight to Candide. “Run,” she said, “or you'll be burned within an hour.” There was not a moment to lose. But how could he leave Cunégonde, and where could he take refuge?\n\n### Chapter XIV\n\nHow Candide and Cacambo were received by the Jesuits in Paraguay.\n\nCandide had brought a servant from Cadiz, the kind often found along the Spanish coast and in the colonies. His father was of mixed ancestry, and he was one-quarter Spanish. He was born in Tucuman. He had been a choirboy, a sexton, a sailor, a monk, a courier, a soldier, and a footman. His name was Cacambo. He was very fond of his master, because his master was a very good man. He saddled the two Andalusian horses as fast as he could. “Come on, master. Let's take the old woman's advice. Let's leave and ride without looking back.” Candide burst into tears. “Oh, my dear Cunégonde! Must I abandon you just as the governor is about to marry us? We brought you so far, Cunégonde. What will happen to you?” “She'll manage somehow,” said Cacambo. “Women always find a way to manage. God sees to it. Let's ride.” “Where are you taking me? Where are we going? What will we do without Cunégonde?” Candide asked. “By Saint James of Compostela,” said Cacambo, “you were going to fight the Jesuits. Let's fight for them instead. I know the roads well enough to take you into their kingdom. They'll be delighted to have a captain who can drill troops the Bulgarian way. You'll make an enormous fortune. If one part of the world doesn't give you what you need, you'll find it in another. It's a great pleasure to see and do new things.”\n\n“So you've been to Paraguay before?” Candide asked. “Of course I have!” said Cacambo. “I was a school assistant at the College of the Assumption, and I know the government of los padres as well as I know the streets of Cadiz. It's a remarkable government. Their kingdom is already more than three hundred leagues across and divided into thirty provinces. Los padres have everything there, and the people have nothing. It's a masterpiece of reason and justice. I can't think of anything more divine than los padres. Here they fight the king of Spain and the king of Portugal, while in Europe they hear those kings' confessions. Here they kill Spaniards, while in Madrid they send Spaniards to heaven. I love it! Let's keep going. You'll be the happiest man alive. How pleased los padres will be when they hear that a captain who knows Bulgarian drill is coming!”\n\nAs soon as they reached the first checkpoint, Cacambo told the forward guards that a captain wanted to speak to the commander. Word was sent to the main guard. A Paraguayan officer ran to the commander, fell at his feet, and gave him the news. Candide and Cacambo were immediately disarmed, and their two Andalusian horses were seized. The two strangers were led between two lines of soldiers. At the far end stood the commander, wearing a three-cornered hat, his robe tucked up, a sword at his side, and a short spear in his hand. He made a sign. At once twenty-four soldiers surrounded the new arrivals. A sergeant told them they must wait: the commander could not speak to them. The reverend father provincial did not allow any Spaniard to open his mouth except in his presence, or to remain in the country for more than three hours. “And where is the reverend father provincial?” Cacambo asked. “He's at the parade after saying Mass,” replied the sergeant. “You won't be able to kiss his spurs for another three hours.” “But,” said Cacambo, “the captain here is as hungry as I am, and he isn't Spanish. He's German. Couldn't we have breakfast while we wait for his reverence?”\n\nThe sergeant went straight to the commander and reported what Cacambo had said. “God be praised!” said that gentleman. “Since he's German, I can speak to him. Bring him to my garden shelter.” Candide was immediately taken to a leafy room. It had a lovely colonnade of green and gold marble and trellises enclosing parrots, hummingbirds, guinea fowl, and every kind of rare bird. An excellent breakfast was ready, served in gold dishes. While the Paraguayans ate corn from wooden bowls out in the open under the blazing sun, the reverend father commander entered the shelter.\n\nHe was a very handsome young man, with a full face, fairly fair skin, rosy cheeks, raised eyebrows, bright eyes, red ears, and rosy lips. He carried himself proudly, but his pride was neither Spanish nor Jesuit in character. Candide and Cacambo were given back their weapons, which had been confiscated, and their two Andalusian horses as well. Cacambo fed the horses oats beside the shelter and kept an eye on them in case of trouble.\n\nCandide first kissed the hem of the commander's robe, and then they sat down at the table. “So you're German?” the Jesuit asked him in German. “Yes, reverend father,” said Candide. As they spoke, each looked at the other with intense surprise. Neither could control his feelings. “And what part of Germany are you from?” asked the Jesuit. “The miserable province of Westphalia,” said Candide. “I was born in the castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh.” “Heavens! Can it be?” cried the commander. “What a miracle!” cried Candide. “Is it really you?” asked the commander. “It can't be,” said Candide. They both fell back, embraced each other, and wept floods of tears. “What! Is it really you, reverend father? You, the brother of beautiful Cunégonde? You, who were killed by the Bulgarians? You, the baron's son? You, a Jesuit in Paraguay? The world really is a strange place. Oh, Pangloss! Pangloss! How happy you'd be if you hadn't been hanged!”\n\nThe commander sent away the enslaved Black people and the Paraguayans who had been serving drinks in rock-crystal cups. He thanked God and Saint Ignatius a thousand times. He held Candide in his arms, and both their faces were wet with tears. “You'd be even more surprised, more moved, and more beside yourself,” said Candide, “if I told you that your sister, Miss Cunégonde, whom you thought had been disemboweled, is in perfect health.” “Where?” “Nearby, at the governor's home in Buenos Aires. And I was on my way to fight you.” Every word in their long conversation added one marvel to another. Their whole souls seemed to rush onto their tongues, listen through their ears, and shine from their eyes. Since they were Germans, they stayed at the table a long time while waiting for the reverend father provincial. Then the commander spoke to his dear Candide as follows.\n\n### Chapter XV\n\nHow Candide killed his dear Cunégonde's brother.\n\n“I'll remember for the rest of my life the horrible day when I saw my father and mother killed and my sister raped. After the Bulgarians left, no one could find my beloved sister. They put my mother, my father, and me into a cart, along with two maidservants and three little boys whose throats had been cut. They were taking us to be buried in a Jesuit chapel two leagues from my family's castle. A Jesuit sprinkled us with holy water. It was terribly salty, and a few drops got into my eyes. The priest noticed a slight movement in my eyelid. He put his hand on my heart and felt it beating. They cared for me, and after three weeks no sign of my injuries remained. You know, my dear Candide, that I was very good-looking. I became even better-looking, so the reverend Father Croust, the head of the house, grew very fond of me. He gave me the habit of a novice. Some time later I was sent to Rome. The father general needed more young German Jesuits. The rulers of Paraguay take in as few Spanish Jesuits as they can. They prefer foreigners, whom they think are easier to control. The reverend father general judged me fit to work in that vineyard. Three of us set out: a Pole, a Tyrolean, and I. When I arrived, I was honored with the office of subdeacon and a lieutenant's commission. Today I'm a colonel and a priest. We'll give the king of Spain's troops a strong reception. I promise you they'll be excommunicated and beaten. Providence has sent you here to help us. But is it really true that my dear sister Cunégonde is nearby, at the governor's home in Buenos Aires?” Candide swore to him that nothing could be more true. Their tears began to flow again.\n\nThe baron could not stop embracing Candide. He called him his brother and his savior. “Ah! Perhaps, my dear Candide,” he said, “we can enter the city together as victors and take back my sister Cunégonde.” “That's all I want,” said Candide, “because I meant to marry her, and I still hope to.” “You insolent man!” the baron replied. “You have the nerve to marry my sister, who has seventy-two quarters of noble ancestry! How dare you speak to me of such an outrageous plan!” Candide was stunned by this speech. He answered, “Reverend father, all the noble ancestors in the world make no difference. I rescued your sister from a Jew and an inquisitor. She owes me a great deal, and she wants to marry me. Master Pangloss always told me that all people are equal. And I will certainly marry her.” “We'll see about that, you scoundrel!” said the Jesuit Baron of Thunder-ten-tronckh. At the same moment he struck Candide hard in the face with the flat of his sword. Candide instantly drew his own sword and plunged it into the Jesuit baron's belly up to the hilt. But as he pulled it out, still steaming, he began to cry. “Oh, my God!” he said. “I've killed my former master, my friend, my brother-in-law! I'm the best man in the world, and I've already killed three men. Two of those three were priests.”\n\nCacambo, who was standing guard at the entrance to the garden shelter, came running. “All we can do now is sell our lives dearly,” his master told him. “They're sure to come into the shelter. We'll have to die fighting.” Cacambo had seen far worse things and kept his head. He took the Jesuit robe the baron was wearing, put it on Candide, gave him the dead man's square cap, and got him onto his horse. It all happened in an instant. “Let's gallop, master. Everyone will take you for a Jesuit on his way to give orders. We'll have crossed the border before anyone can chase us.” He was already racing off as he said this, shouting in Spanish, “Make way, make way for the reverend father colonel!”\n\n### Chapter XVI\n\nWhat happened to the two travelers with two girls, two monkeys, and the people called Oreillons.\n\nCandide and his servant crossed the checkpoints before anyone in the camp knew that the German Jesuit was dead. The careful Cacambo had filled his bag with bread, chocolate, ham, fruit, and a few measures of wine. They rode their Andalusian horses deep into an unknown country where they could find no road. At last a lovely meadow crossed by streams opened before them. The two travelers let their horses graze. Cacambo suggested that his master eat, and began eating himself to set an example. “How can you expect me to eat ham,” said Candide, “when I've killed the baron's son and know I'm condemned never to see beautiful Cunégonde again? What use is it to prolong my miserable life if I must spend it far from her, full of guilt and despair? And what will the Journal de Trévoux say?”\n\nHe spoke like this, but ate all the same. The sun was setting. The two lost travelers heard some faint cries that sounded as if they came from women. They could not tell whether the cries were from pain or joy. But they got up quickly, anxious and alarmed as people are by everything in an unknown land. The cries came from two naked girls running swiftly along the edge of the meadow. Two monkeys chased them and bit their buttocks. Candide felt sorry for the girls. He had learned to shoot with the Bulgarians and could hit a hazelnut in a bush without touching its leaves. He took his double-barreled Spanish gun, fired, and killed both monkeys. “Thank God, dear Cacambo! I've saved these two poor creatures from great danger. If I sinned by killing an inquisitor and a Jesuit, I've more than made up for it by saving two girls' lives. They may be young ladies of high rank, and this adventure may bring us great rewards here.”\n\nHe was about to say more, but fell silent when he saw the two girls tenderly embrace the monkeys, burst into tears over their bodies, and fill the air with cries of grief. “I didn't expect them to be so kindhearted,” he finally told Cacambo. Cacambo replied, “A fine piece of work you've done, master. You've killed these young ladies' two lovers.” “Their lovers! Can that be true? You're joking, Cacambo. How can I believe you?” “Dear master,” answered Cacambo, “everything surprises you. Why do you find it so strange that in some countries monkeys win the affection of women? They're a quarter human, just as I'm a quarter Spanish.” “Oh!” said Candide. “I remember hearing Master Pangloss say that such things had happened long ago. He said that these unions had produced goat-legged men, fauns, and satyrs, and that several great men of antiquity had seen them. But I took those stories for fables.” “Now you must see it's true,” said Cacambo. “You can see what people without a certain education get up to. My only worry is that these ladies may cause us some trouble.”\n\nThese sensible reflections persuaded Candide to leave the meadow and go into a forest. He ate supper there with Cacambo. After cursing the inquisitor of Portugal, the governor of Buenos Aires, and the baron, they both fell asleep on the moss. When they woke, they found they could not move. During the night, the Oreillons, the local people, had tied them up with ropes made from tree bark. The two ladies had reported them to the Oreillons.\n\nThey were surrounded by about fifty naked Oreillons armed with arrows, clubs, and stone axes. Some were heating a large cauldron, while others prepared spits. All of them shouted, “It's a Jesuit! It's a Jesuit! We'll get our revenge and have a fine feast! Let's eat the Jesuit! Let's eat the Jesuit!”\n\n“I told you, dear master,” cried Cacambo sadly, “that those two girls would play a nasty trick on us.” Candide saw the cauldron and the spits and cried, “We're certainly going to be roasted or boiled! Oh, what would Master Pangloss say if he saw what pure nature was really like? All is well, if you say so. But I admit it's cruel to have lost Miss Cunégonde and then to be put on a spit by the Oreillons.” Cacambo never lost his head. “Don't give up hope,” he told the desperate Candide. “I understand a little of these people's language. I'll speak to them.” “Be sure to explain,” said Candide, “how terribly inhuman it is to cook people and how unchristian it is.”\n\n“Gentlemen,” said Cacambo, “so you intend to eat a Jesuit today? Very good. Nothing could be fairer than treating your enemies that way. After all, the law of nature teaches us to kill our neighbors, and people do it all over the world. If we don't use our right to eat them, it's because we have plenty of other good food. But you don't have the same resources we do. It's certainly better to eat your enemies than to leave the fruits of your victory to the ravens and crows. But, gentlemen, you wouldn't want to eat your friends. You think you're going to put a Jesuit on a spit, but you're about to roast your defender, the enemy of your enemies. I was born in your country. The man you see is my master, and far from being a Jesuit, he has just killed one. He's wearing the dead man's clothes. That's why you made this mistake. To check what I've told you, take his robe to the first checkpoint of the kingdom of los padres and ask whether my master killed a Jesuit officer. It won't take long. You can still eat us if you find I've lied. But if I've told the truth, you know the rules between peoples, their customs and their laws too well not to spare us.”\n\nThe Oreillons found this speech very reasonable. They sent two leading men to find out the truth as quickly as possible. The two envoys carried out their task intelligently and soon came back with good news. The Oreillons untied their two prisoners, treated them with every courtesy, offered them girls, gave them refreshments, and escorted them to the borders of their territory. As they went, they cried happily, “He isn't a Jesuit! He isn't a Jesuit!”\n\nCandide could not stop marveling at how he had escaped. “What a people!” he said. “What men! What customs! If I hadn't had the good luck to run a sword right through Miss Cunégonde's brother, I'd have been eaten without a doubt. But pure nature must be good after all. Once these people learned I wasn't a Jesuit, they treated me with a thousand kindnesses instead of eating me.”\n\n### Chapter XVII\n\nCandide and his servant arrive in Eldorado, and what they see there.\n\nWhen they reached the border of the Oreillons' territory, Cacambo said to Candide, “You see this half of the world is no better than the other. Take my advice: let's go back to Europe by the shortest route.” “How can we get back?” said Candide. “And where would we go? If I go home, the Bulgarians and the Avars are slaughtering everyone there. If I return to Portugal, they'll burn me. If we stay here, we risk being put on a spit at any moment. But how can I bring myself to leave the part of the world where Miss Cunégonde lives?”\n\n“Let's head for Cayenne,” said Cacambo. “We'll find French people there, and they go all over the world. They may be able to help us. Perhaps God will take pity on us.”\n\nGetting to Cayenne was not easy. They knew roughly which way to go, but mountains, rivers, cliffs, bandits, and hostile peoples stood in their way everywhere. Their horses died from exhaustion. Their supplies ran out. For a whole month they lived on wild fruit. At last they came to a small river lined with coconut palms, which kept them alive and gave them hope.\n\nCacambo always gave advice as good as the old woman's. He said to Candide, “We can't go on like this. We've walked enough. I can see an empty canoe on the bank. Let's fill it with coconuts, get into the little boat, and let the current carry us. A river always leads somewhere people live. If we don't find anything pleasant, at least we'll find something new.” “Let's go,” said Candide. “We'll put ourselves in the hands of Providence.”\n\nThey floated for several leagues between banks that were sometimes covered in flowers, sometimes barren, sometimes flat, and sometimes steep. The river kept widening. At last it disappeared beneath an enormous arch of frightening rocks that rose up to the sky. The two travelers dared to let the current carry them beneath the arch. The river narrowed there and swept them along with terrifying speed and noise. After twenty-four hours they saw daylight again. But their canoe broke apart against the reefs, and they had to crawl from rock to rock for a full league. At last they saw a vast stretch of country enclosed by mountains they could not climb. The land was cultivated for pleasure as well as for need. Everywhere, useful things were beautiful too. Vehicles of dazzling material and unusual design covered the roads, or rather decorated them. They carried remarkably beautiful men and women and were pulled swiftly by large red sheep. These sheep ran faster than the finest horses of Andalusia, Tetouan, and Meknes.\n\n“Well,” said Candide, “here's a country better than Westphalia.” He and Cacambo got out beside the first village they came to. Some village children wearing torn gold brocade were playing a game of quoits at the entrance to the village. The two men from the other side of the world stopped to watch. The children's quoits were fairly large round pieces, yellow, red, and green, that shone in an unusual way. The travelers wanted to pick some up. They were gold, emeralds, and rubies. The smallest one would have been the finest decoration on the Mogul's throne. “No doubt these children are the local king's sons, playing quoits,” said Cacambo. Just then the village schoolmaster appeared to call them back to school. “There,” said Candide, “is the royal family's tutor.”\n\nThe little rascals immediately left the game, abandoning their quoits and everything else they had been playing with. Candide picked up the pieces, ran to the schoolmaster, and humbly offered them to him. By making signs, he explained that their royal highnesses had forgotten their gold and precious stones. The village schoolmaster smiled and threw them on the ground. He stared at Candide's face in great surprise for a moment and then went on his way.\n\nThe travelers made sure to pick up the gold, rubies, and emeralds. “Where are we?” cried Candide. “The children of this country's kings must be very well brought up if they're taught to look down on gold and precious stones.” Cacambo was as surprised as Candide. At last they approached the first house in the village. It was built like a palace in Europe. Many people were gathered at the door, and even more were inside. Very pleasant music could be heard, and a delicious smell of cooking drifted out. Cacambo went up to the door and heard people speaking Peruvian. It was his native language. Everyone knows, of course, that Cacambo was born in Tucuman, in a village where no other language was spoken. “I'll interpret for you,” he told Candide. “Let's go in. This is an inn.”\n\nTwo young men and two young women who worked at the inn immediately invited them to sit at the common table. They wore cloth of gold and had tied their hair back with ribbons. Four soups were served, each with two parrots, a boiled condor weighing two hundred pounds, two roasted monkeys that tasted excellent, three hundred hummingbirds on one platter, and six hundred tiny hummingbirds on another. There were exquisite stews and delicious pastries. Everything was served in dishes made from a kind of rock crystal. The young men and women poured various drinks made from sugarcane.\n\nMost of the guests were merchants and drivers. All were extremely polite. They asked Cacambo a few questions with great care not to pry, and answered his questions in a way that satisfied him.\n\nWhen the meal ended, Cacambo and Candide thought they would be paying generously by tossing two of the large gold pieces they had picked up onto the innkeeper's table. The innkeeper and his wife burst out laughing and held their sides for a long time. At last they recovered. “Gentlemen,” said the innkeeper, “we can see you're foreigners. We aren't used to seeing any. Forgive us for laughing when you offered to pay us with stones from our roads. You probably don't have any of our money, but you don't need money to eat here. The government pays for all the inns set up for the convenience of trade. You had a poor meal here because this is a poor village, but everywhere else you'll be treated as you deserve.” Cacambo translated everything the innkeeper said for Candide. Candide listened with as much amazement and confusion as Cacambo felt while translating. “What is this place?” they both asked. “The rest of the world knows nothing about it, and everything in nature here is so different from what we're used to. This must be the place where everything goes well, because there simply must be such a place. Whatever Master Pangloss said, I often noticed that things went rather badly in Westphalia.”\n\n### Chapter XVIII\n\nWhat they saw in Eldorado.\n\nCacambo told their host how curious he was about everything. The host said, \"I know very little, and I'm happy that way. But we have an old man here who has retired from the court. He knows more than anyone else in the kingdom and is more willing to share what he knows.\" He immediately took Cacambo to the old man. Candide now played only a supporting role and went along with his servant. They entered a very simple house. Its door was only made of silver, and the rooms were only paneled in gold. But the work was so tasteful that even the richest paneling could not outshine it. The entryway, it is true, was inlaid only with rubies and emeralds. But the way everything was arranged more than made up for this extreme simplicity.\n\nThe old man welcomed the two strangers onto a sofa padded with hummingbird feathers and had drinks served to them in diamond vessels. Then he answered their questions as follows:\n\n\"I am one hundred and seventy-two years old. My late father, a royal attendant, told me about the astonishing upheavals in Peru that he had seen himself. The kingdom we are in is the original home of the Incas. They very unwisely left it to conquer part of the world, and in the end the Spaniards destroyed them.\n\n\"The princes of their family who stayed in their homeland were wiser. With the nation's consent, they ordered that no inhabitant should ever leave our little kingdom. This has preserved our innocence and happiness. The Spaniards have some vague knowledge of this country and have called it Eldorado. An Englishman named Sir Raleigh even came close to it about a hundred years ago. But because we are surrounded by impassable rocks and cliffs, we have always been safe, up to now, from the greed of the nations of Europe. They have an unbelievable obsession with the stones and mud of our land, and would kill every last one of us to get them.\"\n\nThey talked for a long time about the form of government, customs, women, public entertainments, and the arts. Finally Candide, who still had a taste for metaphysics, had Cacambo ask whether the people of the country had a religion.\n\nThe old man blushed a little. \"What do you mean?\" he said. \"Can you doubt it? Do you take us for ungrateful people?\" Cacambo politely asked what the religion of Eldorado was. The old man blushed again. \"Could there be two religions?\" he said. \"I believe we have the same religion as everyone else. We worship God from evening until morning.\" \"Do you worship only one God?\" asked Cacambo, still acting as interpreter for Candide's doubts. \"Obviously,\" the old man said, \"there aren't two or three or four. I must say, people from your part of the world ask very strange questions.\" Candide kept having Cacambo question the good old man. He wanted to know how they prayed to God in Eldorado. \"We don't pray to him,\" said the good and respected wise man. \"We have nothing to ask him for. He has given us everything we need, and we thank him constantly.\" Candide was curious to see the priests and had Cacambo ask where they were. The good old man smiled. \"My friends,\" he said, \"we are all priests. Every morning the king and all the heads of families solemnly sing songs of thanksgiving, with five or six thousand musicians accompanying them.\" \"What! You have no monks who teach, argue, govern, plot, and have people who disagree with them burned?\" \"We would have to be mad,\" said the old man. \"We all agree here, and we don't understand what you mean by your monks.\" Candide was delighted by everything he heard and said to himself, \"This is very different from Westphalia and the Baron's castle. If our friend Pangloss had seen Eldorado, he would no longer have said that the castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh was the best place on earth. Clearly, one has to travel.\"\n\nAfter this long conversation, the good old man had a carriage harnessed to six sheep and gave the two travelers twelve of his servants to take them to court. \"Forgive me,\" he said to them, \"if my age prevents me from having the honor of going with you. The king will receive you in a way you will like. And I am sure you will excuse any local customs that may displease you.\"\n\nCandide and Cacambo got into the carriage. The six sheep flew along, and in less than four hours they arrived at the king's palace at one end of the capital. The entrance was two hundred and twenty feet high and one hundred feet wide. It is impossible to describe the material it was made of. Plainly it must have been vastly superior to the stones and sand we call gold and precious gems.\n\nTwenty beautiful young women of the guard met Candide and Cacambo as they stepped down from the carriage. They led them to the baths and dressed them in robes woven from hummingbird down. Then the senior male and female officers of the crown led them to His Majesty's rooms between two rows of musicians, a thousand in each row, as was the usual custom. When they approached the throne room, Cacambo asked a senior officer how they should greet His Majesty. Should they kneel or lie face down? Should they put their hands on their heads or on their backsides? Should they lick the dust from the floor? In short, what was the ceremony? \"The custom,\" said the senior officer, \"is to hug the king and kiss him on both cheeks.\" Candide and Cacambo threw their arms around His Majesty's neck. He received them with all the grace imaginable and politely invited them to dinner.\n\nMeanwhile they were shown the city: public buildings rising to the clouds, markets decorated with a thousand columns, fountains of pure water, fountains of rosewater, and fountains of sugarcane liquor. These flowed constantly in large squares paved with a kind of gemstone that gave off a smell like cloves and cinnamon. Candide asked to see the court of justice and the parliament. They told him there was neither, and that no one ever went to court. He asked if there were prisons, and they said there were not. What surprised and pleased him most was the palace of sciences. There he saw a gallery two thousand paces long, full of instruments for mathematics and physics.\n\nAfter spending the whole afternoon touring roughly one thousandth of the city, they were taken back to the king. Candide sat at dinner between His Majesty, his servant Cacambo, and several ladies. No one had ever enjoyed better food, and no one had ever heard more wit at a dinner than His Majesty showed. Cacambo explained the king's witty remarks to Candide. Even in translation, they were still witty. This was one of the things that surprised Candide most.\n\nThey spent a month as guests there. Candide kept saying to Cacambo, \"It's true, my friend, I'll say it again: the castle where I was born is nothing compared with this country. But Miss Cunégonde isn't here, and you must have a sweetheart somewhere in Europe. If we stay here, we'll be just like everyone else. But if we return to our own world with only twelve sheep loaded with stones from Eldorado, we'll be richer than all the kings put together. We won't have to fear inquisitors anymore, and we can easily get Miss Cunégonde back.\"\n\nCacambo liked this argument. People love to travel, to impress their own people, and to show off what they have seen on their journeys. So the two happy men decided to stop being happy and ask His Majesty's permission to leave.\n\n\"You're making a foolish choice,\" the king told them. \"I know my country isn't much, but when you are doing reasonably well somewhere, you should stay there. Of course I have no right to keep foreigners here. That would be tyranny, and tyranny has no place in our customs or our laws. All people are free. Leave whenever you wish, but getting out is very difficult. You cannot go back up the fast river that you came down by a miracle. It runs beneath arches of rock. The mountains around my whole kingdom are ten thousand feet high and as sheer as walls. Each one is more than ten leagues wide, and you can get down from them only by way of cliffs. Still, since you are determined to leave, I'll order the overseers of the machinery to build something that can transport you comfortably. Once you have been taken to the far side of the mountains, no one will be able to go with you. My subjects have vowed never to leave the land within these boundaries, and they are too sensible to break their vow. Ask me for anything else you like.\" \"We ask Your Majesty,\" said Cacambo, \"only for a few sheep loaded with food, stones, and the local mud.\" The king laughed. \"I don't understand,\" he said, \"why you Europeans are so fond of our yellow mud. But take as much as you want, and I hope it does you good.\"\n\nHe immediately ordered his engineers to build a machine to hoist these two extraordinary men out of the kingdom. Three thousand skilled scientists worked on it. It was ready in fifteen days and cost no more than twenty million pounds sterling in the country's currency. Candide and Cacambo were placed on the machine. There were two large red sheep, saddled and bridled for them to ride once they crossed the mountains, twenty pack sheep loaded with food, thirty carrying gifts of the most remarkable things in the country, and fifty loaded with gold, precious gems, and diamonds. The king hugged the two wanderers warmly.\n\nTheir departure was a fine sight, as was the clever way they and their sheep were hauled to the tops of the mountains. The scientists said goodbye once they had placed them safely there. Now Candide wanted nothing except to show his sheep to Miss Cunégonde. \"We have enough,\" he said, \"to pay the governor of Buenos Aires, if a price can be put on Miss Cunégonde. Let's head for Cayenne, get on a ship, and then see what kingdom we can buy.\"\n\n### Chapter XIX\n\nWhat happened to them in Surinam, and how Candide met Martin.\n\nThe first day of our two travelers' journey was quite pleasant. They were cheered by the thought that they owned more treasure than Asia, Europe, and Africa could gather together. Candide was so excited that he wrote Cunégonde's name on the trees. On the second day, two of their sheep sank into swamps and disappeared with their loads. A few days later, two more sheep died of exhaustion. Then seven or eight starved to death in a desert. Others fell over cliffs after a few more days. At last, after a hundred days of walking, they had only two sheep left. Candide said to Cacambo, \"My friend, you see how easily the riches of this world disappear. Nothing lasts except virtue and the happiness of seeing Miss Cunégonde again.\" \"That's true,\" said Cacambo, \"but we still have two sheep carrying more treasure than the king of Spain will ever own. And I can see a town in the distance. I think it's Surinam, which belongs to the Dutch. Our troubles are ending, and our happiness is beginning.\"\n\nAs they approached the town, they met an enslaved Black man lying on the ground. He had only half his clothing left, that is, part of a pair of blue linen shorts. The poor man was missing his left leg and his right hand. \"Oh my God!\" Candide said to him in Dutch. \"My friend, what are you doing here in such a terrible condition?\" \"I'm waiting for my master, Mr. Vanderdendur, the famous merchant,\" the man replied. \"Was it Mr. Vanderdendur,\" Candide asked, \"who did this to you?\" \"Yes, sir,\" the man said. \"That's the custom. Twice a year we are given a pair of linen shorts, our only clothing. When we work in the sugar mills and the millstone catches one of our fingers, they cut off our hand. When we try to run away, they cut off our leg. Both things happened to me. That's the price of the sugar you eat in Europe. And yet, when my mother sold me for ten patagon écus on the coast of Guinea, she said, 'My dear child, bless our idols and always worship them. They'll make you happy. You have the honor of being a slave to our white masters, and in that way you're making your father and mother rich.' Well, I don't know whether I made them rich, but they didn't make me rich. Dogs, monkeys, and parrots are a thousand times less miserable than we are. The Dutch priests who converted me tell me every Sunday that we are all children of Adam, Black and white alike. I don't study family trees, but if those preachers are right, we are all second cousins. And you have to admit that no one could treat their relatives in a more horrible way.\"\n\n\"Oh, Pangloss!\" cried Candide. \"You never imagined such an outrage. That's enough. In the end I'll have to give up your optimism.\" \"What is optimism?\" asked Cacambo. \"It's the obsession with claiming everything is fine when things are going badly,\" said Candide. He shed tears as he looked at the enslaved man, and he was still crying when he entered Surinam.\n\nThe first thing they asked was whether there was a ship in the harbor that could be sent to Buenos Aires. The man they spoke to happened to be a Spanish captain who offered to make a fair deal with them. He arranged to meet them at an inn. Candide and faithful Cacambo went there to wait for him with their two sheep.\n\nCandide, who said everything that was on his mind, told the Spaniard all his adventures. He admitted that he wanted to take Miss Cunégonde away. \"I certainly won't take you to Buenos Aires,\" said the captain. \"I'd be hanged, and so would you. The beautiful Cunégonde is His Excellency's favorite mistress.\" This news hit Candide like a thunderbolt, and he cried for a long time. At last he took Cacambo aside. \"Here's what you must do, my dear friend,\" he said. \"We each have five or six million worth of diamonds in our pockets. You're more capable than I am. Go and get Miss Cunégonde in Buenos Aires. If the governor gives you trouble, give him a million. If that doesn't win him over, give him two. You haven't killed an inquisitor, so no one will suspect you. I'll outfit another ship and wait for you in Venice. It's a free country where we have nothing to fear from Bulgars, Avars, Jews, or inquisitors.\" Cacambo approved of this wise plan. He hated to part from a good master who had become a close friend, but the pleasure of helping Candide outweighed the pain of leaving him. They embraced in tears. Candide reminded him not to forget the kind old woman. Cacambo left that same day. He was a very good man, that Cacambo.\n\nCandide stayed in Surinam a little longer, waiting for another captain who would take him and his two remaining sheep to Italy. He hired servants and bought everything he needed for a long trip. Finally Mr. Vanderdendur, the master of a large ship, came to see him. \"How much do you want,\" Candide asked him, \"to take me straight to Venice, along with my people, my luggage, and these two sheep?\" The captain agreed to ten thousand piastres. Candide accepted at once.\n\n\"Well, well,\" the cautious Vanderdendur said to himself. \"This stranger agrees to ten thousand piastres just like that! He must be very rich.\" He came back a moment later and announced that he could not leave for less than twenty thousand. \"All right, you'll have it,\" said Candide.\n\n\"Well now,\" the merchant said softly to himself, \"this man agrees to twenty thousand piastres as easily as he agreed to ten thousand.\" He returned again and said he could not take Candide to Venice for less than thirty thousand piastres. \"Then you'll have thirty thousand,\" Candide replied.\n\n\"Well, well,\" the Dutch merchant said to himself again. \"Thirty thousand piastres mean nothing to this man. Those two sheep must be carrying enormous treasures. Let's not ask for more. First we'll make him pay the thirty thousand piastres, and then we'll see.\" Candide sold two small diamonds, the less valuable of which was worth more than the whole sum the captain asked for. He paid him in advance. The two sheep were loaded onto the ship. Candide followed in a small boat to board the ship in the harbor. The captain picked his moment, set sail, and pulled away. The wind was with him. Soon Candide, frantic and stunned, could no longer see the ship. \"Oh no!\" he cried. \"That's a trick worthy of the Old World.\" He went back to shore, overwhelmed with grief. After all, he had lost enough wealth to make twenty monarchs rich.\n\nHe rushed to the Dutch judge's house. Upset as he was, he banged hard on the door. He went in, told his story, and shouted a little louder than was proper. The judge first made him pay ten thousand piastres for the noise he had made. Then he listened patiently, promised to look into the matter as soon as the merchant returned, and charged him another ten thousand piastres for the cost of the hearing.\n\nThis treatment drove Candide to despair. Of course, he had suffered misfortunes a thousand times more painful. But the judge's cool manner, like that of the captain who had robbed him, made him furious and plunged him into deep gloom. He thought about human wickedness in all its ugliness and could think of nothing cheerful. At last a French ship was about to leave for Bordeaux. Since he had no more sheep loaded with diamonds to put aboard, he rented a cabin at a fair price. He had it announced around town that he would pay for the passage and food of an honest man willing to travel with him. He would also give the man two thousand piastres, on condition that he was the person in the province most disgusted with his situation and the most unhappy.\n\nSo many applicants came forward that an entire fleet could not have held them. Candide wanted to choose from those who seemed most promising. He picked out about twenty people who seemed pleasant to talk to, each of whom claimed to deserve to be chosen. He brought them together at his inn and gave them dinner. Each had to swear to tell his story honestly. Candide promised to choose the man who seemed to him the most deserving of pity and the most justifiably dissatisfied with his situation. He would give the others some money as well.\n\nThe gathering lasted until four in the morning. As Candide listened to their stories, he remembered what the old woman had told him on the way to Buenos Aires. She had bet that there was no one aboard their ship who had not suffered terrible misfortunes. Each story made him think of Pangloss. \"Pangloss would have a hard time proving his theory,\" he said. \"I wish he were here. If everything really is for the best, that is true in Eldorado, not in the rest of the world.\" At last he chose a poor scholar who had spent ten years working for booksellers in Amsterdam. He thought there could be no job in the world more likely to leave a man disgusted.\n\nThis scholar, who was otherwise a good man, had been robbed by his wife, beaten by his son, and abandoned by his daughter, who had run off with a Portuguese man. He had just lost the small job he lived on. And the preachers in Surinam were persecuting him because they thought he was a Socinian. To be fair, the others were at least as unhappy as he was. But Candide hoped the scholar would keep him from getting bored on the voyage. All the other candidates thought Candide was doing them a great injustice, but he calmed them down by giving each of them a hundred piastres.\n\n### Chapter XX\n\nWhat happened to Candide and Martin at sea.\n\nThe old scholar, whose name was Martin, boarded the ship for Bordeaux with Candide. Both had seen and suffered a great deal. Even if the ship had had to sail from Surinam to Japan by way of the Cape of Good Hope, they would have had enough to say about moral and physical evil for the whole trip.\n\nStill, Candide had a big advantage over Martin. He still hoped to see Miss Cunégonde again, while Martin had nothing to hope for. Candide also had gold and diamonds. He had lost a hundred large red sheep loaded with the greatest treasures on earth, and the Dutch captain's swindle still weighed on him. But when he thought about what he still had in his pockets, and when he talked about Cunégonde, especially after a meal, he found himself leaning toward Pangloss's theory.\n\n\"But you, Mr. Martin,\" he said to the scholar, \"what do you think of all this? What do you think about moral and physical evil?\" \"Sir,\" Martin answered, \"my priests have accused me of being a Socinian. The truth is that I'm a Manichaean.\" \"You're joking,\" said Candide. \"There aren't any Manichaeans left in the world.\" \"There's me,\" said Martin. \"I can't help it. I can't think any other way.\" \"You must have the devil inside you,\" said Candide. \"He takes such an active part in the affairs of this world,\" said Martin, \"that he could well be inside me, just as he is everywhere else. But I admit that when I look at this globe, or rather this little ball, I think God has abandoned it to some evil being. I always make an exception for Eldorado. I have hardly seen a city that did not want to ruin the city next to it, or a family that did not want to wipe out another family. Everywhere the weak hate the powerful, even as they grovel before them. The powerful treat them like herds whose wool and meat they can sell. A million killers in uniform rush from one end of Europe to the other. They murder and rob in an orderly way to make a living because they have no more honest occupation. And even in cities that seem peaceful, where the arts flourish, people are eaten up by more envy, worry, and anxiety than a city under siege suffers disasters. Private grief is even crueler than public misery. In short, I have seen and suffered so much that I'm a Manichaean.\"\n\n\"But there is some good,\" Candide replied. \"Maybe there is,\" said Martin, \"but I don't know it.\"\n\nIn the middle of this argument, they heard a cannon firing. The noise grew louder by the moment. Everyone picked up a telescope. They saw two ships fighting about three miles away. The wind brought both ships so close to the French ship that everyone had the pleasure of watching the battle in comfort. At last one ship fired a broadside so low and so accurately that it sank the other. Candide and Martin clearly saw about a hundred men on the deck of the sinking ship. They all raised their hands to the sky and cried out terribly. In a moment, everything was swallowed by the sea.\n\n\"Well,\" said Martin, \"that's how people treat each other.\" \"It's true,\" said Candide, \"that there's something devilish about this.\" As he spoke, he saw something bright red floating beside their ship. They launched a boat to find out what it was. It was one of his sheep. Candide was happier to recover this one sheep than he had been upset to lose a hundred sheep, all loaded with large diamonds from Eldorado.\n\nThe French captain soon discovered that the captain of the ship that had sunk the other was Spanish, and that the captain of the sunken ship was a Dutch pirate. It was the very man who had robbed Candide. The enormous riches that the scoundrel had stolen sank with him to the bottom of the sea. Only one sheep was saved. \"You see,\" Candide told Martin, \"that crime is sometimes punished. That rogue of a Dutch captain got what he deserved.\" \"Yes,\" said Martin, \"but did the passengers on his ship have to die too? God punished the crook, and the devil drowned everyone else.\"\n\nMeanwhile the French and Spanish ships continued on their way, and Candide continued his conversations with Martin. They argued for fifteen days straight. At the end of those fifteen days, they were no closer to an answer than they had been at the start. But at least they talked, shared their thoughts, and comforted each other. Candide stroked his sheep. \"Since I've found you again,\" he said, \"I may well find Cunégonde again.\"\n\n### Chapter XXI\n\nCandide and Martin approach the coast of France and talk things over.\n\nAt last they sighted the coast of France. \"Have you ever been to France, Mr. Martin?\" Candide asked. \"Yes,\" said Martin, \"I've traveled through several provinces. In some, half the people are mad; in some, they are too crafty; in others, they are generally quite gentle and quite foolish. In others still, they try to show off their wit. And everywhere, their main occupation is love, their second is speaking badly of other people, and their third is saying stupid things.\" \"But, Mr. Martin, have you seen Paris?\" \"Yes, I've seen Paris. It has all those sorts of people. It's chaos, a crush of people in which everyone looks for pleasure and almost no one finds it, at least as far as I could tell. I didn't stay long. When I arrived, pickpockets stole everything I had at the Saint-Germain fair. I myself was mistaken for a thief and spent eight days in prison. After that I worked as a proofreader to earn enough to walk back to Holland. I got to know the rabble who write, the rabble who scheme, and the rabble who go into convulsions. They say there are some very polite people in that city. I'm willing to believe it.\"\n\n\"As for me, I have no desire to see France,\" said Candide. \"You can easily guess that after a month in Eldorado, there's nothing else on earth I want to see except Miss Cunégonde. I'll wait for her in Venice. We'll cross France on our way to Italy. Won't you come with me?\" \"Gladly,\" said Martin. \"They say Venice is good only for Venetian nobles, but foreigners with a lot of money are treated very well there. I have none, and you have plenty. I'll follow you anywhere.\" \"By the way,\" said Candide, \"do you think the earth was originally a sea, as that big book belonging to the ship's captain claims?\" \"I don't believe a word of it,\" said Martin, \"any more than I believe all the other wild theories people have been trying to sell us lately.\" \"Then what was this world made for?\" asked Candide. \"To drive us mad,\" Martin replied. \"Weren't you very surprised,\" Candide went on, \"by the love those two girls in the land of the Oreillons had for the two monkeys I told you about?\" \"Not at all,\" said Martin. \"I don't see anything strange about that passion. I've seen so many extraordinary things that nothing seems extraordinary to me anymore.\" \"Do you think,\" said Candide, \"that people have always killed one another as they do today? Have they always been liars, cheats, traitors, ingrates, robbers, weaklings, fickle, cowardly, envious, greedy, drunk, stingy, ambitious, bloodthirsty, slanderous, depraved, fanatical, hypocritical, and stupid?\" \"Do you think,\" said Martin, \"that hawks have always eaten pigeons when they found them?\" \"Yes, of course,\" said Candide. \"Well,\" said Martin, \"if hawks have always behaved the same way, why would you expect people to change how they behave?\" \"Oh,\" said Candide, \"there's a big difference, because of free will…\" As they talked, they arrived at Bordeaux.\n\n\"Where there was land, there were also sea and air.\"\n\nSee the first day of Telliamed, which says that the sea once rose many cubits above the tallest of our mountains. Voltaire often mentions De Maillet and his Telliamed. See, among other places, chapter XVIII of Singularities of Nature in the Miscellanies for 1768, and the eleventh of the Dialogues of Euhemerus for 1777. B.\n\n### Chapter XXII\n\nWhat Happened to Candide and Martin in France.\n\nCandide stayed in Bordeaux only long enough to sell a few stones from Eldorado and get a comfortable two-seater carriage. By now he couldn't do without his philosopher Martin. He was very sorry to part with his sheep, though. He left it with the Bordeaux Academy of Sciences. The academy set a prize that year for finding out why its wool was red. The prize went to a scholar from the north who proved, by A plus B minus C divided by Z, that the sheep had to be red and had to die of sheep pox.\n\nMeanwhile every traveler Candide met at the inns along the way told him, “We're going to Paris.” All this interest finally made him want to see the capital. It was not far out of his way to Venice.\n\nHe entered through the suburb of Saint-Marceau and thought he was in the ugliest village in Westphalia.\n\nCandide had hardly arrived at his inn when a mild illness brought on by his travels struck him. He had a huge diamond on his finger, and someone had spotted an extremely heavy box among his belongings. So two doctors he had not called for appeared at his bedside right away. A few close friends who would not leave him and two devout women who heated his broths appeared as well. Martin said, “I remember being sick in Paris on my first visit too. I was very poor, so I had no friends, devout women, or doctors. And I got better.”\n\nBut all the medicines and bloodletting made Candide's illness serious. A priest attached to the local church came and gently asked him for a promissory note payable to its bearer in the next world. Candide refused. The devout women assured him that it was the new fashion. Candide replied that he was not a fashionable man. Martin wanted to throw the priest out of the window. The priest's clerk swore that Candide would not be buried. Martin swore he would bury the clerk if he kept bothering them. The argument grew heated. Martin took the man by the shoulders and threw him out roughly. This caused a great scandal, and an official report was drawn up.\n\nCandide recovered. While he was getting his strength back, he had some very good company over for dinner. They played cards for high stakes. Candide was amazed that he never got any aces. Martin was not amazed.\n\nOne of the people showing him around the city was a little abbot from Périgord. He belonged to the type who are always eager, alert, and helpful, as well as shameless, flattering, and ready to accommodate anyone. They watch for travelers passing through, tell them the city's scandals, and offer them pleasures at any price. First he took Candide and Martin to the theater. A new tragedy was being performed. Candide sat beside a few intellectuals. Their presence did not stop him from crying at scenes that were acted perfectly. During an intermission, one of the men beside him, who liked to argue, said, “You're very wrong to cry. That actress is terrible. The actor with her is even worse. The play is worse than either of them. The author doesn't know a word of Arabic, yet he has set it in Arabia. What's more, he doesn't believe in innate ideas. I'll bring you twenty pamphlets against him tomorrow.” “Sir,” Candide asked the abbot, “how many plays are there in France?” “Five or six thousand,” the abbot replied. “That's a lot,” said Candide. “How many of them are good?” “Fifteen or sixteen,” the abbot replied. “That's a lot,” said Martin.\n\nCandide was very pleased with an actress who played Queen Elizabeth in a rather dull tragedy that was performed from time to time. “I like that actress a lot,” he said to Martin. “She looks a little like Miss Cunégonde. I'd be glad to meet her.” The abbot from Périgord offered to introduce him. Candide, who had grown up in Germany, asked what the etiquette was and how queens of England were treated in France. “It depends,” said the abbot. “In the provinces, they're taken to a tavern. In Paris, they're respected when they're beautiful and thrown on the garbage heap when they die.” “Queens on the garbage heap!” said Candide. “Indeed,” said Martin. “The abbot is right. I was in Paris when Miss Monime passed, as they say, from this life to the next. They denied her what people here call the honors of burial. That is, they would not let her rot with all the neighborhood's beggars in an ugly cemetery. She was buried by herself, away from her troupe, at the corner of the rue de Bourgogne. That must have upset her very much, for she thought in very noble terms.” “That's very rude,” said Candide. “What can you do?” said Martin. “That's how these people are. Imagine every possible contradiction and inconsistency. You'll see them in this strange nation's government, courts, churches, and theaters.” “Is it true people always laugh in Paris?” asked Candide. “Yes,” said the abbot, “but they laugh while they're furious. They complain about everything with loud bursts of laughter. They even commit the most horrible acts while laughing.”\n\n“Who was that fat pig,” said Candide, “who spoke so badly of the play that made me cry so much and of the actors I enjoyed so much?” “A nasty man,” answered the abbot. “He makes a living attacking every play and every book. He hates anyone who succeeds, just as eunuchs hate people who can enjoy sex. He's one of those literary snakes who live on filth and venom. He's a hack journalist.” “What do you mean by a hack journalist?” said Candide. “A writer of cheap periodicals,” said the abbot. “A Fréron.”\n\nCandide, Martin, and the man from Périgord had this conversation on the stairs as they watched the audience file out of the theater. “Although I'm very eager to see Miss Cunégonde again,” said Candide, “I'd still like to have dinner with Miss Clairon. I thought she was wonderful.”\n\nThe abbot was in no position to get close to Miss Clairon. She associated only with high society. “She has plans tonight,” he said, “but I'll have the honor of taking you to the home of a lady of rank. There you'll get to know Paris as if you'd spent four years here.”\n\nCandide was naturally curious, so he let the abbot take him to the lady's home at the far end of the Saint-Honoré suburb. People there were playing faro. Twelve gloomy gamblers each held a little notebook of cards, its corners folded down to record their losses. Deep silence filled the room. The gamblers' foreheads were pale, and the banker looked worried. The lady of the house sat beside this merciless banker. With sharp eyes she noticed every double-or-nothing bet and every seven-and-the-go wager that a player marked by folding a corner of a card. She had each corner unfolded, watching closely but politely. She did not get angry for fear of losing her customers. The lady called herself the Marquise de Parolignac. Her fifteen-year-old daughter was among the gamblers. She signaled with a glance when the poor players cheated in an effort to make up for the cruelty of chance. The abbot from Périgord, Candide, and Martin came in. No one stood up, greeted them, or even looked at them. Everyone was completely absorbed in the cards. “Baroness Thunder-ten-tronckh was more polite,” said Candide.\n\nThe abbot whispered in the marquise's ear. She half rose, gave Candide a gracious smile, and acknowledged Martin with an extremely dignified nod. She had someone bring Candide a chair and a pack of cards. In two rounds he lost fifty thousand francs. After that, they had a very cheerful dinner. Everyone was surprised that Candide was not upset by his loss. The servants said to each other, in the way servants talk, “He must be some English lord.” The dinner was like most dinners in Paris: silence at first, then a jumble of voices that could not be made out. Then came jokes, most of them flat, false news, bad arguments, a little politics, and a lot of gossip. They even talked about new books. “Have you seen the novel by Mr. Gauchat, doctor of theology?” asked the abbot from Périgord. “Yes,” answered one guest, “but I couldn't finish it. We have plenty of ridiculous writing, but put it all together and it doesn't come close to the ridiculousness of Gauchat, doctor of theology. I'm so sick of this flood of awful books that I've started betting at faro.” “And what do you think of Archdeacon Trublet's Miscellanies?” the abbot asked. “Ah!” said Madame de Parolignac. “What a tedious man! How curiously he tells you what everyone already knows! How heavily he discusses things hardly worth a passing mention! How he takes other people's wit without any wit of his own! How he ruins whatever he steals! How he disgusts me! But he won't disgust me again. A few pages of the archdeacon were enough.”\n\nAt the table was a learned man with good taste who agreed with the marquise. Then they discussed tragedies. The lady asked why some tragedies were performed now and then but could not be read with pleasure. The man of taste explained very clearly how a play could hold some interest yet have almost no merit. In a few words he showed that one or two of the situations found in every novel, which always draw an audience in, were not enough. A playwright must be original without being strange, often inspiring and always natural. He must know the human heart and let it speak. He must be a great poet without letting any character in the play sound like a poet. He must know his language perfectly and use it correctly and with a steady flow, without ever sacrificing the meaning for a rhyme. “Anyone who doesn't follow all these rules,” he added, “may write one or two tragedies that get applause in the theater, but he'll never be counted among good writers. There are very few good tragedies. Some are idyllic conversations, well written and well rhymed. Others are political arguments that put you to sleep, or long-winded speeches that put you off. Still others are the dreams of a fanatic in crude language: broken-off remarks, long appeals to the gods because the writer doesn't know how to make people speak, false principles, and inflated clichés.”\n\nCandide listened carefully and thought very highly of the speaker. The marquise had made sure to seat Candide beside her, so he leaned close and took the liberty of asking who this man who spoke so well was. “He's a scholar,” said the lady. “He doesn't bet at faro, and the abbot sometimes brings him to dinner. He knows tragedies and books inside out. He wrote a tragedy that was booed off the stage and a book no one has ever seen outside his bookseller's shop except for the copy he dedicated to me.” “What a great man!” said Candide. “Another Pangloss.”\n\nThen he turned to the man and said, “Sir, no doubt you think everything is for the best in the physical and moral world and that nothing could be otherwise?” “I don't believe any of that, sir,” the scholar answered. “I think everything in our country is going wrong. No one knows what his rank is, what his job is, what he's doing, or what he ought to do. Apart from dinner, which is fairly cheerful and where people seem to get along fairly well, the rest of our time is spent on ridiculous quarrels. Jansenists fight Molinists, members of parliament fight churchmen, writers fight writers, courtiers fight courtiers, financiers fight the people, women fight husbands, and relatives fight relatives. It's a war without end.”\n\n“I've seen worse,” Candide replied. “But a wise man, who later had the misfortune of being hanged, taught me that everything is wonderful. These are shadows in a beautiful painting.” “Your hanged man was making fools of everyone,” said Martin. “Your shadows are horrible stains.” “It's people who make the stains,” said Candide, “and they can't help it.” “So it isn't their fault,” said Martin. Most of the gamblers understood none of this talk and just kept drinking. Martin argued with the scholar, and Candide told the lady of the house some of his adventures.\n\nAfter dinner the marquise led Candide into her private room and seated him on a sofa. “Well,” she said, “are you still madly in love with Miss Cunégonde de Thunder-ten-tronckh?” “Yes, madam,” Candide answered. The marquise gave him a warm smile. “You answer like a young man from Westphalia. A Frenchman would have said, ‘It's true that I loved Miss Cunégonde, but now that I've seen you, madam, I'm afraid I no longer love her.’” “Oh, madam,” said Candide, “I'll answer however you like.” “Your love for her,” said the marquise, “began when you picked up her handkerchief. I want you to pick up my garter.” “Gladly,” said Candide, and he picked it up. “But I want you to put it back on me,” said the lady, and Candide did. “You see,” said the lady, “you're a foreigner. Sometimes I make my Parisian lovers wait two weeks. But I give in to you on the first night. One must show a young man from Westphalia the hospitality of one's country.” The beauty spotted two enormous diamonds, one on each of her young foreigner's hands. She praised them so sincerely that they passed from Candide's fingers to the marquise's.\n\nAs Candide went back with his abbot from Périgord, he felt some guilt about being unfaithful to Miss Cunégonde. The abbot shared his distress, though he had received only a small share of the fifty thousand livres Candide had lost at cards and of the value of the two diamonds, half given away and half extorted. His plan was to profit as much as possible from knowing Candide. He spoke to him a great deal about Cunégonde. Candide said he would certainly ask the beautiful woman to forgive his unfaithfulness when he saw her in Venice.\n\nThe man from Périgord became still more polite and attentive. He showed warm interest in everything Candide said, everything he did, and everything he wanted to do.\n\n“So, sir,” he said, “you have an appointment in Venice?” “Yes, Father,” said Candide. “I absolutely must find Miss Cunégonde.” Happy to talk about the woman he loved, he then told the abbot, as he usually did, some of his adventures with this famous Westphalian woman.\n\n“I think,” said the abbot, “that Miss Cunégonde is very clever and writes charming letters.” “I've never received one,” said Candide. “You see, when I was kicked out of the castle for loving her, I couldn't write to her. Soon afterward I heard that she was dead. Then I found her again, and then I lost her. I sent a messenger to her from two thousand five hundred leagues away, and I'm waiting for his answer.”\n\nThe abbot listened closely and seemed lost in thought for a moment. Soon he took leave of the two travelers after embracing them warmly. The next morning, when Candide woke up, he received a letter that said:\n\n“Sir, my dearest lover, I have been ill in this city for eight days. I hear that you are here. I would fly into your arms if I could move. I heard that you passed through Bordeaux. I left faithful Cacambo and the old woman there. They should join me soon. The governor of Buenos Aires took everything, but I still have your heart. Come. Your presence will bring me back to life or make me die of joy.”\n\nThis charming, unexpected letter filled Candide with joy beyond words. The illness of his dear Cunégonde crushed him with grief. Torn between the two feelings, he took his gold and diamonds and had someone drive him and Martin to the hotel where Miss Cunégonde was staying. He came in trembling with emotion. His heart pounded and his voice shook. He tried to open the bed curtains and called for a light. “Don't do that,” said the maid. “Light would kill her.” She immediately closed the curtains again. “My dear Cunégonde,” Candide said, crying, “how are you? If you can't see me, at least talk to me.” “She can't speak,” said the maid. Then the woman in the bed held out a plump hand. Candide drenched it in tears for a long time. Then he filled it with diamonds, leaving a bag full of gold on the chair.\n\nIn the middle of this emotional scene, a police officer arrived with the abbot from Périgord and a squad of men. “So here are the two suspicious foreigners,” he said. He had them seized at once and ordered his men to drag them to prison. “Travelers aren't treated this way in Eldorado,” said Candide. “I'm more of a Manichaean than ever,” said Martin. “But, sir, where are you taking us?” asked Candide. “To the bottom of a dungeon,” said the officer.\n\nOnce Martin had regained his composure, he decided that the woman claiming to be Cunégonde was a swindler. The abbot from Périgord was a swindler too, who had quickly taken advantage of Candide's innocence. The officer was another swindler, and one they could easily get rid of.\n\nRather than face the workings of the courts, Candide took his adviser's hint. He was also still eager to see the real Cunégonde. He offered the officer three little diamonds worth about three thousand pistoles each. “Ah, sir,” said the man with the ivory baton, “even if you had committed every crime imaginable, you're the most honorable man in the world! Three diamonds, each worth three thousand pistoles! Sir, I would die for you rather than take you to a dungeon. All foreigners are being arrested, but leave this to me. I have a brother in Dieppe in Normandy. I'll take you to him. If you have a diamond to give him, he'll take care of you as well as I would.”\n\n“And why are all foreigners being arrested?” asked Candide. Then the abbot from Périgord spoke up. “Because a scoundrel from Atrébatie heard some foolish talk. That alone made him murder a king. It wasn't like the murder in May 1610, but like the one in December 1594, and like several others committed in other years and other months by other scoundrels who had heard foolish talk.”\n\nThe officer explained what had happened. “Ah, those monsters!” cried Candide. “Such horrors among a people who dance and sing! Can't I get out as fast as possible from this country where monkeys provoke tigers? I've seen bears in my own country. I've seen human beings only in Eldorado. For God's sake, officer, take me to Venice, where I'm supposed to wait for Miss Cunégonde.” “I can only take you to Lower Normandy,” said the officer. At once he had Candide's shackles removed, said he had made a mistake, sent his men away, and took Candide and Martin to Dieppe, leaving them in his brother's hands. There was a small Dutch ship anchored offshore. With the help of three more diamonds, the Norman became the most helpful of men. He put Candide and his companions aboard the ship, which was about to sail for Portsmouth in England. This was not the way to Venice. But Candide felt he had escaped hell, and he was sure he would get back on the road to Venice at the first opportunity.\n\n### Chapter XXIII\n\nCandide and Martin Go to the Coast of England; What They See There.\n\n“Ah, Pangloss! Pangloss! Ah, Martin! Martin! Ah, my dear Cunégonde! What kind of world is this?” Candide said aboard the Dutch ship. “A very crazy and very horrible one,” Martin replied. “You know England. Are they as crazy there as they are in France?” “It's a different kind of madness,” said Martin. “You know that these two nations are at war over a few acres of snow near Canada. They are spending far more on this fine war than all of Canada is worth. My limited knowledge won't let me say exactly whether more people need locking up in one country than in the other. I only know that, in general, the people we're going to see have very sour tempers.”\n\nAs they talked, they arrived at Portsmouth. A crowd covered the shore and watched a fairly large man kneeling, blindfolded, on the deck of a ship in the fleet. Four soldiers stood facing him. Each calmly fired three bullets into his head. The whole crowd went away extremely pleased. “What is all this?” said Candide. “What demon rules everywhere?” He asked who the large man they had just killed in that ceremony was. “An admiral,” someone answered. “And why kill this admiral?” “Because he didn't get enough people killed,” came the answer. “He fought a French admiral, and they decided he hadn't been close enough to him.” “But,” said Candide, “the French admiral was just as far from the English admiral as the English admiral was from him!” “That's beyond dispute,” he was told. “But in this country it's a good idea to kill an admiral now and then to encourage the others.”\n\nCandide was so stunned and upset by what he saw and heard that he refused even to set foot ashore. He made a deal with the Dutch captain to take him straight to Venice, even if the man robbed him like the captain from Surinam.\n\nThe captain was ready after two days. They sailed along the French coast. They passed within sight of Lisbon, and Candide shuddered. They entered the strait and the Mediterranean, and finally landed at Venice. “Thank God!” said Candide, embracing Martin. “Here I will see the beautiful Cunégonde again. I trust Cacambo as much as I trust myself. Everything is fine. Everything is going well. Everything is going as well as it possibly could.”\n\n### Chapter XXIV\n\nPaquette and Brother Giroflée.\n\nAs soon as he reached Venice, Candide had people look for Cacambo in every tavern, every café, and every house of prostitution. They did not find him. Every day he sent people out to check every ship and boat. There was no news of Cacambo. “What!” he said to Martin. “I've had time to go from Surinam to Bordeaux, from Bordeaux to Paris, from Paris to Dieppe, and from Dieppe to Portsmouth. I've sailed along the coast of Portugal and Spain, crossed the whole Mediterranean, and spent several months in Venice. And the beautiful Cunégonde still hasn't come! All I've found instead of her is a swindling woman and an abbot from Périgord! Cunégonde must be dead. I have nothing left to do but die. Ah, it would have been better to stay in the paradise of Eldorado than to return to this damned Europe. How right you are, dear Martin! Everything is illusion and disaster.”\n\nHe sank into a deep depression. He took no interest in the fashionable opera or the other carnival amusements. Not one woman tempted him in the least. Martin said, “You really are naive if you imagine that a servant of mixed ancestry with five or six million in his pockets will go to the ends of the earth to find your sweetheart and bring her to Venice for you. He'll keep her for himself if he finds her. If he doesn't, he'll take another woman. I advise you to forget your servant Cacambo and your sweetheart Cunégonde.” Martin was no comfort. Candide grew more depressed, and Martin kept proving to him that there was little goodness and little happiness on earth, except perhaps in Eldorado, where no one could go.\n\nWhile they argued about this important subject and waited for Cunégonde, Candide noticed a young Theatine monk in Saint Mark's Square with a young woman on his arm. The monk looked fresh-faced, plump, and strong. His eyes shone; he looked sure of himself, carried his head high, and walked proudly. The young woman was very pretty and was singing. She looked lovingly at her monk and sometimes pinched his round cheeks. “At least you'll admit,” Candide said to Martin, “that these people are happy. So far, everywhere in the inhabited world except Eldorado, I've met only unhappy people. But I bet that this girl and this Theatine are very happy indeed.” “I bet they aren't,” said Martin. “All we have to do is invite them to dinner,” said Candide. “Then you'll see whether I'm wrong.”\n\nHe went up to them at once, greeted them, and invited them to his inn. He offered them macaroni, Lombardy partridges, sturgeon eggs, and wines from Montepulciano, Lacryma Christi, Cyprus, and Samos. The young woman blushed. The Theatine accepted the invitation, and she followed him, looking at Candide with surprise and embarrassment. A few tears clouded her eyes. She had barely entered Candide's room when she said, “What! Mr. Candide doesn't recognize Paquette anymore?” Until then, Candide had hardly looked at her because his mind was entirely on Cunégonde. “Oh, my poor girl,” he said. “So you're the one who left Dr. Pangloss in the fine state in which I found him?”\n\n“Yes, sir, it was me,” said Paquette. “I see that you know everything. I heard about the terrible misfortunes that struck everyone in the baroness's household, and the beautiful Cunégonde. I swear my own fate has hardly been less sad. I was quite innocent when you saw me. A Franciscan friar who was my confessor easily seduced me. The consequences were awful. I had to leave the castle shortly after the baron kicked you out. If a famous doctor hadn't taken pity on me, I would have died. For a while I was the doctor's mistress out of gratitude. His wife was wildly jealous and beat me mercilessly every day. She was a monster. That doctor was the ugliest of men, and I was the most miserable of people: I was constantly beaten over a man I didn't love. You know, sir, how dangerous it is for a bad-tempered woman to be married to a doctor. Outraged by his wife's behavior, one day he gave her a medicine for a slight cold. It was so effective that she died two hours later in terrible convulsions. Her family brought criminal charges against him. He ran away, and I was put in prison. My innocence wouldn't have saved me if I hadn't been a little pretty. The judge released me on condition that he take the doctor's place. A rival soon replaced me, and I was thrown out with nothing. I had to keep working in this hateful trade that you men find so pleasant, but for us is a bottomless pit of misery. I went to Venice to practice it. Oh, sir, if you could imagine what it is like to have to show the same affection to an old merchant, a lawyer, a monk, a gondolier, and an abbot; to be exposed to every insult and humiliation; to be so poor that you often have to borrow a skirt to go and let a disgusting man lift it; to have one man steal what you earned from another; to be shaken down by officers of the law; and to have nothing ahead but a horrible old age, a hospital, and a heap of filth, you would conclude that I am one of the unhappiest people in the world.”\n\nPaquette poured out her heart to kind Candide in a private room, with Martin there. Martin said to Candide, “You see, I've already won half the bet.”\n\nBrother Giroflée had stayed in the dining room, having a drink while he waited for dinner. “But,” Candide said to Paquette, “you looked so cheerful and pleased when I met you. You were singing and showing affection to the Theatine as though you enjoyed it. You looked just as happy to me as you now say you are miserable.” “Oh, sir,” Paquette answered, “that's another hardship of this work. Yesterday an officer robbed and beat me, and today I have to look cheerful to please a monk.”\n\nCandide needed no more evidence. He admitted that Martin was right. They sat down to eat with Paquette and the Theatine. The meal was fairly entertaining, and toward the end they began to speak a little more openly. “Father,” Candide said to the monk, “your life looks like one everyone would envy. Your face glows with health, and you look happy. You have a very pretty girl to enjoy, and you seem very satisfied with your life as a Theatine.”\n\n“Honestly, sir,” said Brother Giroflée, “I wish every Theatine were at the bottom of the sea. A hundred times I've been tempted to set fire to the monastery and go become a Turk. My parents forced me to put on this hateful robe when I was fifteen so they could leave more money to my damned older brother. May God punish him! Jealousy, conflict, and rage live inside the monastery. It's true I've preached a few bad sermons that brought me a little money. The prior steals half of it, and I use the rest to support women. But when I return to the monastery at night, I feel like smashing my head against the dormitory walls. All my fellow monks feel the same way.”\n\nMartin turned to Candide with his usual calm. “Well,” he said, “haven't I won the whole bet?” Candide gave two thousand piastres to Paquette and one thousand piastres to Brother Giroflée. “I promise you,” he said, “this will make them happy.” “I don't believe that at all,” said Martin. “Those piastres may make them much more miserable.” “Whatever happens, happens,” said Candide. “But one thing comforts me. I see that people we never thought we'd see again often turn up. Since I've found my red sheep and Paquette, I may find Cunégonde too.” “I hope,” said Martin, “that she makes you happy one day, but I very much doubt it.” “You are very hard on me,” said Candide. “That's because I've lived,” said Martin. “But look at these gondoliers,” said Candide. “Aren't they singing all the time?” “You don't see them at home with their wives and little children,” said Martin. “The doge has his troubles, and the gondoliers have theirs. All things considered, it's true that a gondolier's lot is better than a doge's. But I think the difference is too small to be worth considering.”\n\n“People talk,” said Candide, “about the senator Pococurante, who lives in that beautiful palace on the Brenta and treats visitors fairly well. They say he's a man who has never had a worry.” “I'd like to see such a rare creature,” said Martin. Candide immediately sent a request to Signor Pococurante for permission to visit him the next day.\n\n### Chapter XXV\n\nA visit to Lord Pococurante, a Venetian nobleman.\n\nCandide and Martin took a gondola along the Brenta and reached the noble Pococurante's palace. The gardens were well laid out and decorated with fine marble statues. The palace had beautiful architecture. The owner was sixty years old and very rich. He received his two curious visitors very politely, but showed little interest in them. This unsettled Candide but did not bother Martin.\n\nFirst, two pretty, neatly dressed girls served chocolate, which they whipped into a fine froth. Candide could not help praising their beauty, their charm, and their skill. \"They are decent enough creatures,\" said Senator Pococurante. \"I sometimes have them sleep in my bed, because I am thoroughly tired of the ladies of the city: their flirting, jealousy, quarrels, moods, pettiness, pride, stupidity, and the sonnets one must write or commission for them. But these two girls are beginning to bore me badly too.\"\n\nAfter breakfast, Candide walked down a long gallery and was struck by the beauty of the paintings. He asked who had painted the first two. \"They are by Raphael,\" said the senator. \"I bought them at a very high price some years ago out of vanity. People say they are the finest paintings in Italy, but I do not like them at all. Their colors are too dark, the figures are not rounded enough and do not stand out enough, and the drapery looks nothing like cloth. In short, whatever people say, I do not see a true imitation of nature here. I will only like a painting if I feel I am looking at nature itself. There are none like that. I own many paintings, but I no longer look at them.\"\n\nWhile waiting for dinner, Pococurante had a concerto performed. Candide found the music delightful. \"This noise,\" said Pococurante, \"can be entertaining for half an hour. If it lasts longer, it tires everyone out, though no one dares admit it. Music nowadays is nothing but the art of performing difficult pieces, and difficulty alone does not please for long.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I would prefer opera, if people had not discovered how to turn it into a monster that disgusts me. Whoever wants to can go and see bad tragedies set to music, where the scenes exist only to introduce, at the wrong moments, two or three ridiculous songs that show off an actress's voice. Whoever wants to, or can, may swoon with delight at the sight of a castrated singer humming the part of Caesar or Cato and walking awkwardly around a stage. As for me, I gave up long ago on these sorry performances, which are now the glory of Italy and for which rulers pay so dearly.\" Candide argued a little, but tactfully. Martin agreed completely with the senator.\n\nThey sat down to eat, and after an excellent dinner they went into the library. Candide saw a beautifully bound copy of Homer and praised his illustrious host's good taste. \"Here,\" he said, \"is a book that delighted the great Pangloss, the best philosopher in Germany.\" \"It does not delight me,\" Pococurante replied coolly. \"People once convinced me that I enjoyed reading it. But the endless repetition of battles that are all alike, the gods who are always acting without accomplishing anything decisive, Helen, who is the cause of the war but barely takes part in the story, and Troy, which remains under siege but is never taken: all of it bored me to death. I sometimes asked scholars if reading it bored them as much as it bored me. Every honest one admitted that the book fell from his hands, but that one must always keep it in one's library as a relic of antiquity, like those rusty medals that cannot be traded.\"\n\n\"Surely Your Excellency does not think the same of Virgil?\" asked Candide. \"I admit,\" said Pococurante, \"that the second, fourth, and sixth books of his Aeneid are excellent. But as for his pious Aeneas, strong Cloanthus, faithful Achates, little Ascanius, the foolish King Latinus, middle-class Amata, and dull Lavinia, I do not think anything could be so cold and unpleasant. I prefer Tasso and Ariosto's absurd tales.\"\n\n\"May I ask, sir,\" said Candide, \"whether you take great pleasure in reading Horace?\" \"There are sayings of his,\" said Pococurante, \"that a man of the world can use. Put into vigorous verse, they are easier to remember. But I care very little about his journey to Brindisi, his description of a bad dinner, or the porters' quarrel between some Pupilus, whose words he says were full of pus, and another man whose words were vinegar. I read his crude verses against old women and witches with extreme disgust. And I do not see what is so good about telling his friend Maecenas that if Maecenas counts him among the lyric poets, he will strike the stars with his lofty brow. Fools admire everything by a respected author. I read for myself, and I like only what is useful to me.\" Candide had been brought up never to judge anything for himself. What he heard astonished him. Martin thought Pococurante's way of thinking quite reasonable.\n\n\"Oh, here is a Cicero,\" said Candide. \"I imagine you never tire of reading that great man.\" \"I never read him,\" answered the Venetian. \"Why should I care that he defended Rabirius or Cluentius? I have quite enough lawsuits to judge myself. I would have preferred his philosophical works. But when I saw that he doubted everything, I decided I knew as much as he did and needed no one's help to be ignorant.\"\n\n\"Ah, here are eighty volumes of papers from an academy of sciences,\" Martin exclaimed. \"There might be something good in them.\" \"There would be,\" said Pococurante, \"if just one of the writers of this rubbish had invented even the art of making pins. But all these books contain nothing but empty theories, and not a single useful thing.\"\n\n\"Look how many plays there are here,\" said Candide, \"in Italian, Spanish, and French!\" \"Yes,\" said the senator, \"there are three thousand of them, and not three dozen good ones. As for these collections of sermons, which together are not worth a page of Seneca, and all these thick books of theology, you can be sure that I never open them. Neither does anyone else.\"\n\nMartin noticed shelves loaded with English books. \"I think,\" he said, \"a republican ought to enjoy most of these works, written with such freedom.\" \"Yes,\" replied Pococurante, \"it is a fine thing to write what one thinks. That is a human right. Throughout our Italy, people write only what they do not think. Those who live in the homeland of the Caesars and the Antonines do not dare have an idea without a Dominican friar's permission. I would be happy with the freedom that inspires English writers if passion and partisan loyalties did not spoil everything valuable about that precious freedom.\"\n\nCandide spotted a book by Milton and asked if Pococurante considered him a great man. \"Who?\" said Pococurante. \"That barbarian who writes a long commentary on the first chapter of Genesis in ten books of stiff verse? That clumsy imitator of the Greeks who distorts the creation story? Where Moses has the Eternal Being bring the world into existence with a word, Milton has the Messiah take a big compass out of a cupboard in heaven to plan his work. Am I supposed to respect the man who spoiled Tasso's hell and devil? He dresses Lucifer up first as a toad, then as a pygmy. He has him repeat the same speeches a hundred times and argue about theology. In a serious imitation of Ariosto's comic invention of firearms, he has the devils fire cannon in heaven. Neither I nor anyone else in Italy could enjoy all these dreary absurdities. The marriage of Sin and Death, and the snakes Sin gives birth to, make anyone with the least delicate taste sick. His long description of a hospital is fit only for a gravedigger. This obscure, bizarre, disgusting poem was scorned when it first appeared. I treat it now as his contemporaries treated it in his own country. In any case, I say what I think, and care very little whether others think as I do.\" Candide was upset by these remarks. He respected Homer, and he rather liked Milton. \"Oh dear,\" he said quietly to Martin, \"I am afraid this man has nothing but contempt for our German poets.\" \"That would do no great harm,\" said Martin. \"Oh, what a remarkable man!\" Candide went on muttering. \"What a great mind this Pococurante has! Nothing can please him.\"\n\nAfter reviewing all the books in this way, they went down into the garden. Candide praised every beautiful feature. \"I have never seen such bad taste,\" said their host. \"All we have here is a lot of trinkets. But tomorrow I will have a garden laid out in a grander design.\"\n\nWhen the two visitors had taken leave of His Excellency, Candide said to Martin, \"Well, you must admit he is the happiest man alive. He is above everything he owns.\" \"Can't you see,\" said Martin, \"that he is sick of everything he owns? Plato said long ago that the best stomachs are not the ones that reject every kind of food.\" \"But,\" said Candide, \"isn't there pleasure in criticizing everything, in finding faults where other people see beauty?\" \"In other words,\" Martin replied, \"is there pleasure in having no pleasure?\" \"Well then,\" said Candide, \"I will be the only happy person when I see Miss Cunégonde again.\" \"It is always good to hope,\" said Martin.\n\nMeanwhile days and weeks went by. Cacambo did not return. Candide was so overwhelmed by grief that he did not even notice that Paquette and Brother Giroflée had not come back, not even to thank him.\n\n### Chapter XXVI\n\nThe dinner Candide and Martin had with six strangers, and who they were.\n\nOne evening Candide, with Martin following him, was about to sit down to dinner with the strangers staying at the same inn. A man with a soot-colored face came up behind him, took him by the arm, and said, \"Be ready to leave with us. Do not fail to come.\" Candide turned around and saw Cacambo. Only the sight of Cunégonde could have surprised and pleased him more. He nearly went wild with joy. He hugged his dear friend. \"Cunégonde must be here! Where is she? Take me to her so I can die of joy beside her.\" \"Cunégonde is not here,\" said Cacambo. \"She is in Constantinople.\" \"Good heavens! In Constantinople! Even if she were in China, I would fly there. Let's go!\" \"We will leave after dinner,\" Cacambo replied. \"I cannot tell you more. I am a slave and my master is waiting for me. I must serve him at the table. Do not say a word. Eat your dinner and be ready.\"\n\nCandide sat down to eat with Martin and six strangers who had come to Venice for the carnival. He was torn between joy and sorrow: delighted to see his faithful agent again, astonished to find him enslaved, and consumed by thoughts of finding his beloved. His heart was in turmoil and his mind in confusion. Martin watched all these events calmly.\n\nNear the end of the meal, Cacambo, who was pouring drinks for one of the six strangers, leaned toward his master's ear and said, \"Sire, Your Majesty can leave whenever you wish. The ship is ready.\" With that, he went out. The astonished diners looked at each other without saying a word. Then another servant went up to his master and said, \"Sire, Your Majesty's carriage is in Padua, and the boat is ready.\" The master made a sign, and the servant left. The diners looked at each other again, even more surprised. A third servant came up to a third stranger and said, \"Sire, trust me, Your Majesty should not stay here any longer. I will get everything ready.\" He disappeared at once.\n\nCandide and Martin were now sure this was a carnival masquerade. A fourth servant told the fourth master, \"Your Majesty can leave whenever you wish,\" and went out like the others. The fifth servant said the same thing to the fifth master. But the sixth servant spoke differently to the sixth stranger, who sat near Candide. \"Honestly, sire,\" he said, \"they will not extend credit to Your Majesty or to me any longer. We might both be thrown in jail tonight. I am going to take care of myself. Goodbye.\"\n\nAfter all the servants had disappeared, the six strangers, Candide, and Martin sat in deep silence. At last Candide broke it. \"Gentlemen,\" he said, \"this is a strange joke. Why are you all kings? I can tell you that Martin and I are not.\"\n\nCacambo's master then spoke gravely in Italian. \"I am not joking. My name is Achmet III. I was grand sultan for several years. I deposed my brother, and my nephew deposed me. My viziers were beheaded. I am spending the rest of my life in the old palace. My nephew, the grand sultan Mahmoud, sometimes lets me travel for my health, and I have come to spend the carnival in Venice.\"\n\nA young man sitting beside Achmet spoke next. \"My name is Ivan. I was emperor of all the Russias. I was deposed while still in my cradle. My father and mother were locked up, and I was raised in prison. I am sometimes allowed to travel with my guards, and I have come to spend the carnival in Venice.\"\n\nThe third said, \"I am Charles-Édouard, king of England. My father passed his claim to the kingdom on to me. I fought to defend that claim. The hearts of eight hundred of my supporters were torn out and beaten against their cheeks. I was put in prison. I am going to Rome to visit my father the king, who was deposed like me and my grandfather. And I have come to spend the carnival in Venice.\"\n\nThe fourth then spoke. \"I am king of the Poles. The fortunes of war have taken my inherited lands from me. My father suffered the same reverses. I accept Providence's will, as do Sultan Achmet, Emperor Ivan, and King Charles-Édouard, whom God grant a long life. And I have come to spend the carnival in Venice.\"\n\nThe fifth said, \"I too am king of the Poles. I lost my kingdom twice, but Providence gave me another state. There I have done more good than all the kings of the Sarmatians together ever managed to do on the banks of the Vistula. I too accept Providence's will, and I have come to spend the carnival in Venice.\"\n\nThe sixth monarch still had to speak. \"Gentlemen,\" he said, \"I am not as great a lord as you, but I was a king just like anyone else. I am Theodore. I was elected king in Corsica. People called me Your Majesty, but now they barely call me Sir. I had coins minted, and now I do not have a penny. I had two secretaries of state, and now I barely have one servant. I once sat on a throne, and I spent a long time on a bed of straw in a London prison. I am very afraid I will be treated the same way here, even though I came, like Your Majesties, to spend the carnival in Venice.\"\n\nThe other five kings listened with noble compassion. Each gave King Theodore twenty sequins for clothes and shirts. Candide gave him a diamond worth two thousand sequins. \"Who is this man,\" the five kings asked, \"who can give a hundred times as much as any of us, and actually does it? Are you a king too, sir?\" \"No, gentlemen, and I have no desire to be one.\"\n\nAs they were leaving the table, four Serene Highnesses arrived at the same inn. They too had lost their states through the fortunes of war and had come to spend the rest of the carnival in Venice. But Candide did not even notice the newcomers. His only concern was to go and find his dear Cunégonde in Constantinople.\n\n### Chapter XXVII\n\nCandide's journey to Constantinople.\n\nFaithful Cacambo had already persuaded the Turkish ship captain who was taking Sultan Achmet back to Constantinople to let Candide and Martin come aboard. Both went to the ship after bowing low before His Wretched Highness. On the way, Candide said to Martin, \"Just think: we had dinner with six deposed kings! And I even gave charity to one of them. Perhaps many other princes are even more unfortunate. As for me, I have lost only a hundred sheep, and now I am rushing into Cunégonde's arms. My dear Martin, once again Pangloss was right: everything is for the best.\" \"I hope so,\" said Martin. \"But,\" said Candide, \"what happened to us in Venice was very hard to believe. No one had ever seen or heard of six deposed kings having dinner together at an inn.\" \"That is no stranger,\" said Martin, \"than most of the things that have happened to us. Kings are deposed quite often. And as for the honor of eating dinner with them, it is a small matter not worth our attention. What does it matter who you eat with, as long as the food is good?\"\n\nCandide had hardly boarded the ship when he threw his arms around his old servant and friend Cacambo. \"Well?\" he asked. \"How is Cunégonde? Is she still astonishingly beautiful? Does she still love me? How is her health? You have surely bought her a palace in Constantinople?\"\n\n\"My dear master,\" Cacambo answered, \"Cunégonde washes dishes on the shore of the Propontide for a prince who owns very few dishes. She is a slave in the household of a former ruler called Ragotski, to whom the Grand Turk gives three écus a day in his exile. But what is much sadder is that she has lost her beauty and become terribly ugly.\" \"Ah, beautiful or ugly,\" said Candide, \"I am an honorable man, and it is my duty always to love her. But how could she fall into such a low condition when you took five or six million with you?\" \"Come now,\" said Cacambo. \"Didn't I have to give two million to senor don Fernando d’Ibaraa, y Figueora, y Mascarenès, y Lampourdos, y Souza, governor of Buénos-Ayres, to get permission to take Miss Cunégonde back? And didn't a pirate steal all the rest from us? Didn't that pirate take us to Cape Matapan, Milo, Nicarie, Samos, Petra, the Dardanelles, Marmara, and Scutari? Cunégonde and the old woman serve in the household of the prince I mentioned, and I am the slave of the deposed sultan.\" \"What a terrible chain of disasters!\" said Candide. \"Still, I have a few diamonds left. I can easily free Cunégonde. It is such a shame she has become so ugly.\"\n\nThen he turned to Martin. \"Who do you think has the most to complain about,\" he asked, \"Emperor Achmet, Emperor Ivan, King Charles-Édouard, or me?\" \"I do not know,\" said Martin. \"I would have to be inside your hearts to tell.\" \"Ah,\" said Candide, \"if Pangloss were here, he would know and tell us.\" \"I do not know,\" said Martin, \"what scales your Pangloss could use to weigh people's misfortunes and judge their suffering. I only suppose that there are millions of people on earth a hundred times worse off than King Charles-Édouard, Emperor Ivan, and Sultan Achmet.\" \"That may well be,\" said Candide.\n\nIn a few days they reached the strait leading to the Black Sea. Candide's first step was to buy Cacambo's freedom at a high price. Then, without wasting time, he and his companions boarded a galley to go to the shore of the Propontide and find Cunégonde, however ugly she might be.\n\nAmong the galley slaves were two convicts who rowed very badly. From time to time the Levantine captain whipped their bare shoulders with a strip of oxhide. Candide naturally looked more closely at them than at the other rowers, and approached them with pity. Some features of their disfigured faces seemed a little like Pangloss's and those of that unfortunate Jesuit, the baron, Miss Cunégonde's brother. The thought moved and saddened him. He looked at them even more closely. \"Honestly,\" he said to Cacambo, \"if I had not seen Master Pangloss hanged, and if I had not had the misfortune of killing the baron, I would think those two men were rowing in this galley.\"\n\nAt the sound of the baron's and Pangloss's names, the two convicts cried out, stopped rowing, and dropped their oars. The Levantine captain rushed toward them and whipped them harder with the oxhide. \"Stop, stop, sir!\" cried Candide. \"I will give you as much money as you want.\" \"What! It's Candide!\" said one convict. \"What! It's Candide!\" said the other. \"Am I dreaming?\" said Candide. \"Am I awake? Am I in this galley? Is that the baron, whom I killed? Is that Master Pangloss, whom I saw hanged?\"\n\n\"It is us, it is us,\" they answered. \"What! Is that the great philosopher?\" said Martin. \"Sir, Captain,\" said Candide, \"how much money do you want to free Mr. de Thunder-ten-tronckh, one of the foremost barons of the empire, and Mr. Pangloss, Germany's most profound metaphysician?\" \"Christian dog,\" answered the Levantine captain, \"since these two Christian dogs of galley slaves are barons and metaphysicians, which must be very high ranks in their country, you will give me fifty thousand sequins for them.\" \"You will have it, sir. Take me back to Constantinople as fast as lightning and you will be paid immediately. No, wait. Take me to Miss Cunégonde.\" At Candide's first offer, the Levantine captain had already turned the bow toward the city. He was making the men row faster than a bird can fly.\n\nCandide hugged the baron and Pangloss a hundred times. \"How did I fail to kill you, my dear baron? And my dear Pangloss, how are you alive after being hanged? And why are you both galley slaves in Turkey?\" \"Is it really true that my dear sister is in this country?\" said the baron. \"Yes,\" answered Cacambo. \"So I see my dear Candide again!\" cried Pangloss. Candide introduced them to Martin and Cacambo. They all embraced and all talked at once. The galley sped on; they were already in port. They brought in a Jew, to whom Candide sold a diamond worth a hundred thousand sequins for fifty thousand. The buyer swore by Abraham that he could pay no more. Candide immediately paid the ransom for the baron and Pangloss. Pangloss threw himself at his rescuer's feet and soaked them with tears. The baron thanked him with a nod and promised to repay the money at the first opportunity. \"But can my sister really be in Turkey?\" he kept asking. \"Of course she can,\" replied Cacambo. \"She scrubs dishes for a prince of Transylvania.\" They immediately called in two Jews. Candide sold more diamonds, and they all set off again in another galley to free Cunégonde.\n\n### Chapter XXVIII\n\nWhat happened to Candide, Cunégonde, Pangloss, Martin, and the others.\n\n\"Forgive me once again,\" Candide said to the baron. \"Forgive me, Reverend Father, for running you through with my sword.\" \"Let us say no more about it,\" said the baron. \"I was a little too quick to anger, I admit. But since you want to know how you happened to find me among the galley slaves, I will tell you. After the college's brother pharmacist had healed my wound, a Spanish patrol attacked and kidnapped me. I was put in prison in Buénos-Ayres just as my sister was leaving. I asked to return to Rome to see the father general. Instead, I was appointed chaplain to the French ambassador in Constantinople. I had been in the post for less than eight days when one evening I met a handsome young icoglan. It was very hot. The young man wanted to bathe, and I took the opportunity to bathe too. I did not know it was a capital crime for a Christian to be found completely naked with a young Muslim. A judge had the soles of my feet beaten a hundred times with a stick and sentenced me to the galleys. I do not think anyone has ever suffered a worse injustice. But I would very much like to know why my sister is working in the kitchen of a Transylvanian ruler who has taken refuge among the Turks.\"\n\n\"But my dear Pangloss,\" said Candide, \"how is it possible that I see you again?\" \"It is true,\" said Pangloss, \"that you saw me hanged. In the normal course of events I was to be burned, but you remember how hard it rained when they were about to roast me. The storm was so violent that they gave up hope of lighting the fire. They hanged me because they could do nothing better. A surgeon bought my body, took it home, and dissected me. First he made a cross-shaped cut from my navel to my collarbone. No one could have been more poorly hanged than I was. The executioner of the holy Inquisition, who was a subdeacon, certainly knew how to burn people wonderfully, but he was not used to hanging them. The rope was wet and did not slide properly; it was tied badly. In short, I was still breathing. The cut made me scream so loudly that the surgeon fell backward. He thought he was dissecting the devil, ran away in mortal terror, and fell again on the stairs as he fled. His wife heard the noise and came running from a nearby room. She saw me lying on the table with my cross-shaped cut. She was even more frightened than her husband, ran away, and fell on top of him. Once they had recovered a little, I heard the surgeon's wife say to him, 'My dear, what possessed you to dissect a heretic? Don't you know the devil is always inside these people? I will go and get a priest at once to drive him out.' I shuddered at that, gathered what little strength I had left, and cried, 'Have pity on me!' Finally the Portuguese barber took courage and sewed my skin back together. Even his wife cared for me. I was on my feet in fifteen days. The barber found me a position as a servant to a Knight of Malta who was going to Venice. But my master could not afford to pay me, so I entered the service of a Venetian merchant and followed him to Constantinople.\n\n\"One day I felt like going into a mosque. There was only an old imam and a very pretty young devout woman saying her prayers. Her chest was completely bare. Between her two breasts she wore a lovely bouquet of tulips, roses, anemones, buttercups, hyacinths, and bear's ears. She dropped the bouquet. I picked it up and put it back for her with great, respectful eagerness. I took so long putting it back that the imam became angry. When he saw that I was a Christian, he called for help. They took me to a judge, who had the soles of my feet beaten a hundred times with a wooden slat and sent me to the galleys. I was chained in exactly the same galley and to the same bench as the baron. There were four young men from Marseille, five priests from Naples, and two monks from Corfu on that galley. They told us things like this happened every day. The baron insisted that he had suffered a greater injustice than I had. I insisted that putting a bouquet back on a woman's chest was far more permissible than being naked with an icoglan. We argued constantly and received twenty lashes with oxhide a day. Then the chain of events in this universe brought you to our galley, and you bought our freedom.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear Pangloss,\" Candide asked him, \"when you had been hanged, dissected, beaten, and made to row in the galleys, did you still believe that everything was going as well as it possibly could?\" \"I still hold my original opinion,\" answered Pangloss. \"After all, I am a philosopher. It would not be right for me to take back what I said, since Leibniz cannot be wrong. Besides, preestablished harmony is the finest thing in the world, as are the plenum and subtle matter.\"\n\n### Chapter XXIX\n\nHow Candide found Cunégonde and the old woman again.\n\nCandide, the baron, Pangloss, Martin, and Cacambo were telling one another about their adventures. They were considering whether the events of this universe happen by chance or must happen, and arguing about effects and causes, moral and physical evil, freedom and necessity, and what comfort a person can find while serving on a galley in Turkey. As they talked, they came ashore on the Propontide at the house of the prince of Transylvania. The first people they saw were Cunégonde and the old woman, hanging towels on lines to dry.\n\nThe baron turned pale at the sight. When Candide, the devoted lover, saw his beautiful Cunégonde with her darkened complexion, bloodshot eyes, dry chest, wrinkled cheeks, and red, scaly arms, he recoiled three steps in horror. Then he stepped forward out of courtesy. She embraced Candide and her brother. Everyone embraced the old woman. Candide paid to free both women.\n\nThere was a small farm nearby. The old woman suggested that Candide take it until the whole group found a better future. Cunégonde did not know that she had grown ugly; no one had told her. She reminded Candide of his promises in such a commanding tone that the good Candide did not dare refuse her. So he informed the baron that he was going to marry his sister. \"I will never allow her to stoop so low,\" said the baron, \"or let you be so insolent. No one will be able to hold such a disgrace against me. My sister's children would not be admitted to the cathedral chapters of Germany. No, my sister will never marry anyone but a baron of the empire.\" Cunégonde fell at his feet and soaked them with tears, but he would not give in. \"You fool,\" Candide told him, \"I saved you from the galleys. I paid your ransom, and I paid your sister's. She was washing dishes here. She is ugly, and I am kind enough to marry her. Yet you still mean to stand in my way! I would kill you again if I gave in to my anger.\" \"You can kill me again,\" said the baron, \"but you will not marry my sister while I am alive.\"\n\n### Chapter XXX\n\nConclusion.\n\nDeep down, Candide had no desire to marry Cunégonde. But the baron's extreme arrogance made him determined to go through with the marriage, and Cunégonde pressed him so hard that he could not back out. He consulted Pangloss, Martin, and the faithful Cacambo. Pangloss wrote a fine argument proving that the baron had no authority over his sister and that, under all the laws of the empire, she could marry Candide in a marriage of unequal rank. Martin recommended throwing the baron into the sea. Cacambo decided they should hand him back to the Levantine captain and send him to the galleys, then ship him to Rome to the Jesuit superior general on the first available boat. Everyone thought the advice excellent. The old woman approved, and they said nothing to Cunégonde. A little money was enough to get it done. They had the pleasure of tricking a Jesuit and punishing a German baron's pride.\n\nIt was natural to suppose that, after so many disasters, Candide would have the most pleasant life in the world. He was married to his beloved and lived with the philosopher Pangloss, the philosopher Martin, the sensible Cacambo, and the old woman. He had also brought back so many diamonds from the land of the ancient Incas. But Jews cheated him so thoroughly that he had nothing left except his small farm. His wife grew uglier every day and became bad-tempered and unbearable. The old woman was disabled and in an even worse mood than Cunégonde. Cacambo worked in the garden and took vegetables to sell in Constantinople. He was worn out by the work and cursed his fate. Pangloss was in despair because he was not making a name for himself at some German university. Martin was firmly convinced that people were just as badly off everywhere, and he put up with things. Candide, Martin, and Pangloss sometimes argued about metaphysics and morals. They often saw boats pass below the farmhouse windows. The boats were full of effendis, pashas, and qadis being sent into exile on Lemnos, Mytilène, or Erzeroum. They saw other qadis, pashas, and effendis arrive to take the exiles' places, only to be expelled in turn. They saw neatly preserved heads on their way to be presented to the Sublime Porte. These sights made their discussions even more intense. And when they were not arguing, their boredom was so great that the old woman dared to ask them one day, \"I would like to know which is worse: being raped a hundred times by Black pirates, having one buttock cut off, being made to run a gauntlet of soldiers' sticks by the Bulgarians, being whipped and hanged at an auto-da-fé, being dissected, rowing in a galley, and finally suffering every misery we have all been through—or staying here doing nothing?\" \"That is a big question,\" said Candide.\n\nHer words led to more reflection. Martin in particular concluded that human beings were born to live either in the turmoil of anxiety or in the stupor of boredom. Candide did not agree, but he would not claim anything for certain. Pangloss admitted that he had always suffered terribly. But once he had argued that everything was going wonderfully, he kept arguing it, though he did not believe a word of it.\n\nOne event confirmed Martin's dreadful principles, made Candide more uncertain than ever, and left Pangloss at a loss. One day they saw Paquette and Brother Giroflée arrive at their farm in extreme poverty. They had quickly spent their three thousand piastres, split up, made up, quarreled, been put in prison, and escaped. In the end Brother Giroflée had become a Turk. Paquette kept working at her trade wherever she went but no longer earned anything from it. \"I knew it,\" Martin told Candide. \"Your gifts would soon be spent and would only make them more miserable. You and Cacambo had millions of piastres to spare, and you are no happier than Brother Giroflée and Paquette.\" \"Well, well!\" Pangloss said to Paquette. \"So heaven has brought you back to us. My poor child! Do you realize you cost me the tip of my nose, an eye, and an ear? Look at the state you're in! Oh, what a world this is!\" This new adventure made them philosophize more than ever.\n\nA very famous dervish lived nearby and was considered the best philosopher in Turkey. They went to consult him. Pangloss spoke for them. \"Master,\" he said, \"we have come to ask you why such a strange animal as man was created.\"\n\n\"Why are you meddling in that?\" the dervish asked. \"Is it your business?\" \"But, reverend father,\" said Candide, \"there is a terrible amount of evil on earth.\" \"What does it matter,\" said the dervish, \"whether there is evil or good? When His Highness sends a ship to Egypt, does he worry whether the mice aboard are comfortable?\" \"Then what should we do?\" said Pangloss. \"Keep quiet,\" said the dervish. \"I had hoped,\" said Pangloss, \"to discuss effects and causes with you a little, and the best of all possible worlds, the origin of evil, the nature of the soul, and preestablished harmony.\" At that, the dervish shut the door in their faces.\n\nDuring this conversation, news had spread that two viziers of the bench and the mufti had just been strangled in Constantinople, and several of their friends impaled. For a few hours the disaster caused a great stir everywhere. On their way back to the little farm, Pangloss, Candide, and Martin met a kindly old man enjoying the cool air at his door beneath an arbor of orange trees. Pangloss was as curious as he was fond of reasoning. He asked the man the name of the mufti who had just been strangled. \"I don't know,\" the old man answered, \"and I have never known the name of any mufti or any vizier. I know absolutely nothing about the event you mention. I suppose that, in general, people who involve themselves in public affairs sometimes die miserably, and that they deserve it. But I never ask what is happening in Constantinople. I am content to send the fruit I grow in my garden there to be sold.\" Then he invited the visitors into his house. His two daughters and two sons served them several kinds of sorbet they had made themselves, kaymak with bits of candied citron peel, oranges, lemons, limes, pineapples, dates, pistachios, and coffee from Mocha that had not been mixed with inferior coffee from Batavia and the islands. Afterward the good Muslim's two daughters perfumed the beards of Candide, Pangloss, and Martin.\n\n\"You must have a vast and magnificent estate,\" Candide said to the Turk. \"I have only twenty arpents,\" the Turk replied. \"I farm them with my children. Work keeps three great evils away from us: boredom, vice, and need.\"\n\nAs he returned to his farm, Candide thought deeply about what the Turk had said. He told Pangloss and Martin, \"That good old man seems to have made a life for himself far better than the lives of the six kings we had the honor of dining with.\" \"High rank is very dangerous,\" said Pangloss, \"according to all the philosophers. After all, Églon, king of the Moabites, was murdered by Aod. Absalon was hung by his hair and pierced with three darts. King Nadab, son of Jéroboam, was killed by Baasa; King Éla by Zambri; Ochosias by Jéhu; and Athalie by Joïada. Kings Joachim, Jéchonias, and Sédécias were enslaved. You know how Crésus, Astyage, Darius, Denys of Syracuse, Pyrrhus, Persée, Annibal, Jugurtha, Arioviste, César, Pompée, Néron, Othon, Vitellius, Domitien, Richard II of England, Édouard II, Henri VI, Richard III, Marie Stuart, Charles I, the three Henris of France, and Emperor Henri IV died. You know…\" \"I also know,\" said Candide, \"that we must cultivate our garden.\" \"You are right,\" said Pangloss, \"for when man was placed in the Garden of Eden, he was placed there ut operaretur eum, so that he would work it. That proves man was not born to rest.\" \"Let's work instead of reasoning,\" said Martin. \"It's the only way to make life bearable.\"\n\nThe whole little group took up this worthwhile plan. Each person put their skills to use. The small farm produced a great deal. Cunégonde was certainly very ugly, but she became an excellent pastry cook. Paquette embroidered. The old woman took care of the laundry. Even Brother Giroflée made himself useful. He became a very good carpenter, and even an honest man. Pangloss sometimes said to Candide, \"All events are linked together in the best of all possible worlds. After all, if you had not been kicked in the backside and driven out of a fine castle for loving Miss Cunégonde, if you had not been handed over to the Inquisition, if you had not crossed America on foot, if you had not given the baron a good thrust with your sword, if you had not lost all your sheep from the good land of Eldorado, you would not be eating candied citrons and pistachios here.\" \"That's well put,\" Candide answered, \"but we must cultivate our garden.\"","download_url":"https://mouseia.org/api/works/candide/translations/trn_candide_plain.txt"}],"retex_markdown_url":"https://mouseia.org/api/works/candide/retex.md"}}