Voltaire · Complete work
Chapter IV
Chapter IV of 30. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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Comment Candide rencontra son ancien maître de philosophie, le docteur Pangloss, et ce qui en advint.
Candide, 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.
A 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?
Pangloss 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.
O 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.
Voilà 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.
Ce 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.
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.
How Candide Met His Former Philosophy Teacher, Doctor Pangloss, and What Came of It.
Moved 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.”
At 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?”
Pangloss 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
This 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.
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.
How Candide met his old philosophy teacher, Doctor Pangloss, and what followed.
Candide 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."
Candide 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?"
Pangloss 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."
"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."
"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."
These 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.