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Chapter XXV
Chapter XXV of 30. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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Visite chez le seigneur Pococurante, noble vénitien.
Candide 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.
D’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.
Candide, 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.
Pococurante, 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.
J’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.
On 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.
Votre 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.
Oserais-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.
Rupili pus atque venenum. B.
Oh! 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.
Ah! 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.
Que 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.
Martin 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.
Candide 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.
Après 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.
Quand 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.
Cependant 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.
Musean translation
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.
A Visit to Lord Pococurante, a Venetian Nobleman.
Candide 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.
First 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."
After 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."
While 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.
"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.
They 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."
"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."
"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.
Rupilius's pus and venom.
"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."
"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."
"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."
Martin 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."
Candide 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."
After 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."
When 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.
Meanwhile 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.
Plain English translation
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.
A visit to Lord Pococurante, a Venetian nobleman.
Candide 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.
First, 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."
After 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."
While 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."
"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.
They 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."
"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."
"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.
"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."
"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."
"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."
Martin 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."
Candide 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."
After 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."
When 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.
Meanwhile 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.