Voltaire · Complete work
Chapter VII
Chapter VII of 30. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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Comment une vieille prit soin de Candide, et comment il retrouva ce qu’il aimait.
Candide 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.
Candide, 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.
La 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.
Candide 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.
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 an Old Woman Cared for Candide, and How He Found Again the One He Loved.
Candide 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.”
Despite 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.
The 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.”
Candide 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.
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 an old woman cared for Candide, and how he found the person he loved again.
Candide 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."
In 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.
Soon 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."
Candide 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.