 This is a Librivox recording, Candide by Voltaire. Chapter 17, a rival of Candide and his valet at Eldorado, and what they saw there. You'll see, said Kakambo to Candide, as soon as they had reached the frontiers of the Orailons, that this hemisphere is not better than the others. Take my word for it. Let us go back to Europe by the shortest way. Now go back, said Candide, and where shall we go? To my own country? The Bulgarians and the Abares are slaying all. To Portugal, there I shall be burnt. And if we abide here, we are every moment in danger of being spitted. But how can I resolve to quit a part of the world where my dear Kunagonda resides? Let us turn towards Cayenne, said Kakambo. Where we shall find Frenchmen who wander all over the world, they may assist us. God will perhaps have pity on us. It was not easy to get to Cayenne. They knew vaguely in which direction to go, but rivers, precipices, robbers, savages obstructed them all the way. Their horses died of fatigue. Their provisions were consumed. They fed a whole month upon wild fruits and found themselves, at last, near a little river, bordered with cocoa trees, which sustained their lives and their hopes. Kakambo, who was as good a counselor as the old woman, said to Candide, We are able to hold out no longer. We have walked enough. I see an empty canoe near the riverside. Let us fill it with coconuts, throw ourselves into it, and go with the current. A river always leads to some inhabited spot. If we do not find pleasant things, we shall at least find new things. With all my heart, said Candide, let us recommend ourselves to Providence. They rode a few leagues between banks, in some places flowery, in others barren, in some parts smooth, in others rugged. The stream ever widened, and at length lost itself under an arch of frightful rocks, which reached to the sky. The two travellers had the courage to commit themselves to the current. The river, suddenly contracting at this place, whirled them along with a dreadful noise and rapidity. At the end of four and twenty hours, they saw daylight again, but their canoe was dashed to pieces against the rocks. For a league, they had to creep from rock to rock, until at length they discovered an extensive plain bounded by inaccessible mountains. The country was cultivated as much for pleasure as for necessity. On all sides, the youthful was also the beautiful. The roads were covered, or rather adorned, with carriages of a glittering form and substance, in which were men and women of surprising beauty, drawn by large red sheep, which surpassed in fleetness the finest courses in Andalusia, Tetuan, and Mekines. Here, however, is a country, said Candide, which is better than Westphalia. He stepped out with Kakambo towards the first village which he saw. Some children dressed in tattered brocades played at quartz on the outskirts. Our travellers from the other world amused themselves by looking on. The quartz were large round pieces, yellow, red, and green, which cast a singular luster. The travellers picked a few of them off the ground. This was of gold, that of emeralds, the other of rubies. The least of them would have been the greatest ornament on the mogul's throne. Without doubt, said Kakambo, these children must be the king's sons that are playing at quartz. The village schoolmaster appeared at this moment and called them to school. There, said Candide, is the preceptor of the royal family. The little truants immediately quitted their game, leaving the quartz on the ground with all their other playthings. Candide gathered them up, ran to the master, and presented them to him in a most humble manner, giving him to understand by sight that their royal highnesses had forgotten their gold and jewels. The schoolmaster, smiling, flung them upon the ground. Then looking at Candide with a good deal of surprise, went about his business. The travellers, however, took care to gather up the gold, the rubies, and the emeralds. Where are we? cried Candide. The king's children in this country must be well brought up, since they are taught to despise gold and precious stones. Kakambo was as much surprised as Candide. At length they drew near the first house in the village. It was built like a European palace, a crowd of people pressed about the door, and there was still more in the house. They heard most agreeable music, and were aware of a delicious order of cooking. Kakambo went up to the door and heard they were talking Peruvian. It was his mother tongue, for it is well known that Kakambo was born in Tukumon, in a village where no other language was spoken. I will be your interpreter here, said he to Candide. Let us go in. It is a public house. Immediately two waiters and two girls dressed in cloth of gold, and their hair tied up with ribbons, invited them to sit down to table with the landlord. They served four dishes of soup, each garnished with two young parrots, a boiled condor which weighed two hundred pounds, two roasted monkeys of excellent flavour, three hundred hummingbirds in one dish, and six hundred fly birds in another. Squizzid ragouts, delicious pastries, the whole served up in dishes of a kind of rock crystal. The waiters and girls poured out several liqueurs drawn from the sugarcane. Most of the company were Chapman and Wagoners, all extremely polite. They asked Kakambo a few questions with the greatest circumspection, and answered his in the most obliging manner. As soon as dinner was over, Kakambo believed, as well as Candide, that they might well pay their reckoning by laying down two of those large gold pieces which they had picked up. The landlord and landlady shouted with laughter and held their sides. When the fit was over, gentlemen said the landlord, it is plain you are strangers, and such guests we are not accustomed to see. Pardon us, therefore, for laughing when you offered us the pebbles from our high roads in payment of your reckoning. You doubtless have not the money of the country, but it is not necessary to have any money at all to dine in this house. All hostelries established for the convenience of commerce are paid by the government. You have fared but very indifferently, because this is a poor village. But everywhere else you will be received as you deserve. Kakambo explained this whole discourse with great astonishment to Candide, who was as greatly astonished to hear it. What sort of a country then is this? said they to one another, a country unknown to all the rest of the world, and where nature is of a kind so different from ours. It is probably the country where all is well, for there absolutely must be one such place. And whatever Master Pangloss might say, I often found that things went very ill in Westphalia. End Chapter 17. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Candide by Voltaire. Read by Ted DeLorme in Fort Mill, South Carolina, during January 2007. This is a LibriVox recording. Candide by Voltaire. Chapter 18. What they saw in the country of El Dorado. Kakambo expressed his curiosity to the landlord who made answer. I am very ignorant, but not the worse on that account. However, we have in this neighborhood an old man, retired from court, who is the most learned and most communicative person in the kingdom. At once he took Kakambo to the old man. Candide acted now only a second character and accompanied his valet. They entered a very plain house, for the door was only of silver, and the ceilings were only of gold, but rotten so elegant a taste as to vie with the richest. The antechamber indeed was only encrusted with rubies and emeralds, but the order in which everything was arranged made amends for this great simplicity. The old man received the strangers on his sofa, which was stuffed with hummingbirds' feathers, and ordered his servants to present them with liqueurs in diamond goblets, after which he satisfied their curiosity in the following terms. I am now 172 years old, and I learnt of my late father, master of the horse to the king, the amazing revolutions of Peru, of which he had been an eyewitness. The kingdom we now inhabit is the ancient country of the Incas, who quitted it very imprudently to conquer another part of the world and were at length destroyed by the Spaniards. More wise by far were the princes of their family, who remained in their native country, and they ordained with the consent of the whole nation that none of the inhabitants should ever be permitted to quit this little kingdom, and this has preserved our innocence and happiness. The Spaniards have had a confused notion of this country. They have called it El Dorado, and an Englishman whose name was Sir Walter Rale, came very near it about a hundred years ago, but being surrounded by inaccessible rocks and precipices, we have hitherto been sheltered from the rapaciousness of European nations who have an inconceivable passion for the pebbles and dirt of our land, for the sake of which they would murder us to the last man. The conversation was long. It turned chiefly on their form of government, their manners, their women, their public entertainments, and the arts. At length, indeed, having always had a taste for metaphysics, made Cacombo ask whether there was any religion in that country. The old man reddened a little. How, then, said he, can you doubt it? Do you take us for ungrateful wretches? Cacombo humbly asked, what was the religion in El Dorado? The old man reddened again. Can there be two religions, said he? We have, I believe, the religion of all the world. We worship God night and morning. Do you worship but one God? said Cacombo, who still acted as interpreter in representing Candide's doubts. Surely, said the old man, there are not two, nor three, nor four. I must confess, the people from your side of the world ask very extraordinary questions. Candide was not yet tired of interrogating the good old man. He wanted to know in what manner they prayed to God in El Dorado. We do not pray to him, said the worthy sage. We have nothing to ask of him. He has given us all we need, and we return him thanks without ceasing. Candide, having a curiosity to see the priests, asked where they were. The good old man smiled. My friend, said he, we are all priests. The king and all the heads of families sing solemn canticles of thanksgiving every morning. Accompanied by five or six thousand musicians. What? Have you no monks who teach, who dispute, who govern, who cabal, and who burn people that are not of their opinion? We must be mad indeed, if that were the case, said the old man. Here we are all of one opinion, and we know not what you mean by monks. During this whole discourse, Candide was in raptures, and he said to himself, this is vastly different from Westphalia and the Baron's castle. Had our friend Pangloss seen El Dorado, he would no longer have said that the castle of Thunder Tendronk was the finest upon earth. It is evident that one must travel. After this long conversation, the old man ordered a coach and six sheep to be got ready, and twelve of his domestics to conduct the travelers to court. Excuse me, said he, if my age depraves me of the honor of accompanying you. The king will receive you in a manner that cannot displease you, and no doubt you will make an allowance for the customs of the country if something should not be to your liking. Candide and Cacombo got into the coach. The six sheep flew, and in less than four hours they reached the king's palace, situated at the extremity of the capital. The portal was two hundred and twenty feet high and one hundred wide, but words are wanting to express the materials of which it was built. It is plain such materials must have prodigious superiority over those pebbles and sand, which we call gold and precious stones. Twenty beautiful damsels of the king's guard received Candide and Cacombo as they alighted from the coach, conducted them to the bath, and dressed them in robes woven of the down of hummingbirds, after which the great crown officers of both sexes led them to the king's apartment, between two files of musicians, a thousand on each side. When they drew near to the audience chamber, Cacombo asked one of the great officers in what way he should pay his obeisance to his majesty. Whether they should throw themselves upon their knees or on their stomachs, whether they should put their hands upon their heads or behind their backs, whether they should lick the dust off the floor, in a word, what was the ceremony? The custom, said the great officer, is to embrace the king and to kiss him on each cheek. Candide and Cacombo threw themselves round his majesty's neck. He received them with all the goodness imaginable and politely invited them to supper. While waiting, they were shown the city and saw the public edifices raised as high as the clouds, the marketplaces ornamented with a thousand columns, the fountains of spring water, those of rose water, those of liqueurs drawn from sugarcane, incessantly flowing into the great squares, which were paved with a kind of precious stone which gave off a delicious frequency like that of cloves and cinnamon. Candide asked to see the court of justice, the parliament. They told him they had none, and that they were strangers to lawsuits. He asked if they had any prisons, and they answered no. But what surprised him most and gave him the greatest pleasure was the palace of sciences, where he saw a gallery two thousand feet long and filled with instruments employed in mathematics and physics. After rambling about the city the whole afternoon and seeing but a thousandth part of it, they were reconducted to the royal palace, where Candide sat down to table with his majesty, his valet, Cacombo, and several ladies. Never was there a better entertainment, and never was more wit shown at table than that which fell from his majesty. Cacombo explained the king's bon motes to Candide, and notwithstanding they were translated, they still appeared to be bon motes. Of all the things that surprised Candide, this was not the least. They spent a month in this hospitable place. Candide frequently said to Cacombo, I own, my friend, once more that the castle where I was born is nothing in comparison with this, but after all Miss Cunagonda is not here, and you have without doubt some mistress in Europe. If we abide here we shall only be upon a footing with the rest, whereas if we return to our old world only with twelve sheep laden with the pebbles of Eldorado, we shall be richer than all the kings in Europe. We shall have no more inquisitors to fear, and we may easily recover Miss Cunagonda. This speech was agreeable to Cacombo. Mankind are so fond of roving, of making a figure in their own country, and of boasting of what they have seen in their travels, that the two happy ones resolve to be no longer so, but to ask his majesty's leave to quit the country. You are foolish, said the king. I am sensible that my kingdom is but a small place, but when a person is comfortably settled in any part he should abide there. I have not the right to detain strangers. It is a tyranny which neither our manners nor our laws permit. All men are free. Go when you wish, but the going will be very difficult. It is impossible to ascend that rapid river on which you came as by a miracle, and which runs under vaulted rocks. The mountains which surround my kingdom are ten thousand feet high, and as steep as walls, they are each over ten leagues in breadth, and there is no other way to descend them than by precipices. However, since you absolutely wish to depart, I shall give orders to my engineers to construct a machine that will convey you very safely. When we have conducted you over the mountains, no one can accompany you further, for my subjects have made a vow never to quit the kingdom, and they are too wise to break it. Ask me besides anything that you please. We desire nothing of your majesty, said Candid, but a few sheep laden with provisions, pebbles, and the earth of this country. The king laughed. I cannot conceive, said he, what pleasure you Europeans find in our yellow clay, but take as much as you like, and great good may it do you. At once he gave directions that his engineers should construct a machine to hoist up these two extraordinary men out of the kingdom. Three thousand good mathematicians went to work. It was ready in fifteen days, and did not cost more than twenty million sterling in the specie of that country. They placed Candid and Cacombo on the machine. There were two great red sheep, saddled and bridled to ride upon, as soon as they were beyond the mountains, twenty pack sheep laden with provisions, thirty with presents of the curiosities of the country, and fifty with gold, diamonds, and precious stones. The king embraced the two wanderers very tenderly, their departure with the ingenious manner in which they and their sheep were hoisted over the mountains was a splendid spectacle. The mathematicians took their leave after conveying them to a place of safety, and Candid had no other desire, no other aim than to present his sheep to Miss Cunaganda. Now said he, we are able to pay the governor of Buenos Aires if Miss Cunaganda can be ransomed. Let us journey towards Cayenne, let us embark, and we will afterwards see what kingdom we shall be able to purchase. End. Chapter 18. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Candid by Voltaire. Our travelers spent the first day very agreeably. They were delighted with possessing more treasure than all Asia, Europe, and Africa could scrape together the two men. They were delighted with possessing more treasure than all Asia, Europe, and Africa could scrape together the two men. Candid in his raptures cut Cunaganda's name on the trees. The second day two of their sheep plunged into a morass where they and their burdens were lost. Two more died of fatigue a few days after. Seven or eight perished with hunger in a desert, and others subsequently fell down precipices. At length, after traveling a hundred days, two of them were left to live in a desert place. At length, after traveling a hundred days, only two sheep remained. Said Candid to Kakambo, My friend, you see how perishable are the riches of this world. There is nothing solid but virtue and the happiness of seeing Cunaganda once more. I grant all you say, said Kakambo, but we have still two sheep remaining with more treasure than the king of Spain will ever have, and I see a town which I take to be Suriname, belonging to the Dutch. We are at the end of all our troubles and at the beginning of happiness. As they drew near the town, they saw a negro stretched upon the ground with only one weighty of his clothes, that is, of his blue linen drawers. The poor man had lost his left leg and his right hand. Could God, said Candid in Dutch, what art thou doing here, friend, in that shocking condition? I am waiting for my master, Maneer van der Dende, the famous merchant, answered the negro. Was it Maneer van der Dende, said Candid, that treated thee thus? Yes, sir, said the negro. It is the custom. They give us a pair of linen drawers for our whole garment twice a year, when we work at the sugar canes and the mills, snatches hold of a finger. They cut off the hand, and when we attempt to run away, they cut off the leg. Both cases have happened to me. This is the price at which you eat sugar in Europe. Yet when my mother sold me for tin patagons on the coast of Guinea, she said to me, My dear child, bless our fetishes, adore them for ever, for they will make thee live happily. Thou hast the honor of being the slave of our lords, the whites, which is making the fortune of thy father and mother, alas, I know not whether I have made their fortunes. This I know, that they have not made mine. Dogs, monkeys, and parrots are a thousand times less wretched than I. The Dutch fetishes, who have converted me, declare every Sunday that we are all of us children of Adam, blacks as well as whites. I am not a genealogist, but if these preachers tell truth, we are all second cousins. Now you must agree that it is impossible to treat one's relations in a more barbarous manner. Oh, Pangloss, cried Candide. Thou hast not guessed at this abomination. It is the end. I must at last renounce thy optimism. What is this optimism? said Kakumbo. Alas, said Candide. It is the madness of maintaining that everything is right when it is wrong. Looking at the negro, he shed tears and weeping he entered Suriname. The first thing they inquired after was whether there was a vessel in the harbour which could be sent to Buenos Aires. The person to whom they applied was a Spanish sea captain who offered to agree with them upon reasonable terms. He appointed to meet them at a public house where their Candide and the faithful Kakumbo went with their two sheep and awaited his coming. Candide, who had his heart upon his lips, told the Spaniard all his adventures and avowed that he intended to elope with Miss Cunagonda that I will take care not to carry you to Buenos Aires, said the seaman. I should be hanged and so would you. The fair Cunagonda is my lord's favourite mistress. This was a thunder clap for Candide. He wept for a long while. At last he drew Kakumbo aside. Here, my dear friend, said he to him. This thou must do. We have each of us in his pocket five or six millions in diamonds. You are more clever than I. You must go and bring Miss Cunagonda from Buenos Aires. If the governor makes any difficulty, give him a million. If he will not relinquish her, give him two. As you have not killed an inquisitor, they will have no suspicion of you. I'll get another ship and go and wait for you at Venice. That's a free country where there is no danger either from Bulgarians, abodes, Jews, or inquisitors. Kakumbo applauded this wise resolution. He dispaired at parting from so good a master who had become his intimate friend. But the pleasure of serving him prevailed over the pain of leaving him. They embraced with tears. Candide charged him not to forget the good old woman. Kakumbo set out that very same day. This Kakumbo was a very honest fellow. Candide stayed some time longer in Suriname, waiting for another captain to carry him and the two remaining sheep to Italy. After he had hired domestics and purchased everything necessary for a long voyage, my near-vander dinder, captain of a large vessel, came and offered his services. How much will you charge, said he to this man, to carry me straight to Venice, me, my servants, my baggage, and these two sheep? The skipper asked 10,000 piastres. Candide did not hesitate. Oh, oh, said the prudent-vander dinder to himself. This stranger gives 10,000 piastres unhesitatingly. He must be very rich. Returning a little while after, he let him know that, upon second consideration, he could not undertake the voyage for less than 20,000 piastres. Well, you shall have them, said Candide. I said the skipper to himself. This man agrees to pay 20,000 piastres with as much ease as 10. He went back to him again and declared that he could not carry him to Venice for less than 30,000 piastres. Then you shall have 30,000 replied Candide. Oh, oh, said the Dutch skipper once more to himself. 30,000 piastres are a trifle to this man. Surely these sheep must be laden with an immense treasure. Let us say no more about it. First of all, let him pay down the 30,000 piastres. Then we shall see. Candide sold two small diamonds, the least of which was worth more than what the skipper asked for his freight. He paid him in advance. The two sheep were put on board. Candide followed in a little boat to join the vessel in the roads. The skipper seized his opportunity, set sail, and put out to sea the wind favouring him. Candide, dismayed and stupefied, soon lost sight of the vessel. Alas, said he, this is a trick worthy of the old world. He put back, overwhelmed with sorrow, for indeed he had lost sufficient to make the fortune of twenty monarchs. He waited upon the Dutch magistrate, and in his distress he knocked over loudly at the door. He entered and told his adventure, raising his voice with unnecessary vehemence. The magistrate began by finding him 10,000 piastres for making a noise. Then he listened patiently, promised to examine into his affair at the skipper's return, and ordered him to pay 10,000 piastres for the expense of the hearing. This drove Candide to despair. He had indeed endured misfortunes a thousand times worse. The coolness of the magistrate and of the skipper who had robbed him roused his collar and flung him into a deep melancholy. The villainy of mankind presented itself before his imagination in all its deformity, and his mind was filled with gloomy ideas. At length, hearing that a French vessel was ready to set sail for Bordeaux, as he had no sheep laden with diamonds to take along with him, he hired a cabin at the usual price. He made it known in the town that he would pay the passage and board, and give 2,000 piastres to any honest man who would make the voyage with him, upon condition that this man was the most dissatisfied with his state, and the most unfortunate in the whole province. Such a crowd of candidates presented themselves that a fleet of ships could hardly have held them. Candide, being desirous of selecting from among the best, marked out about one twentieth of them who seemed to be sociable men, and who all pretended to merit his preference. He assembled them at his inn and gave them a supper on condition that each took an oath to relate his history faithfully, promising to choose him who appeared to be most justly discontented with his state, and to bestow some presence upon the rest. They sat until four o'clock in the morning. Candide, in listening to all their adventures, was reminded of what the old woman had said to him in their voyage to Buenos Aires, and of her wager that there was not a person on board the ship, but had met with very great misfortunes. He dreamed of Pangloss that every adventure told to him. This Pangloss, said he, would be puzzled to demonstrate his system. I wish that he were here. Certainly, if all things are good, it is in El Dorado and not in the rest of the world. At length he made choice of a poor man of letters who had worked ten years for the booksellers of Amsterdam. He judged that there was not in the whole world a trade which could disgust one more. This philosopher was an honest man, but he had been robbed by his wife, beaten by his son, and abandoned by his daughter who got a Portuguese to run away with her. He had just been deprived of a small employment on which he subsisted, and he was persecuted by the preachers of Suriname who took him for a Sosinian. We must allow that the others were at least as wretched as he, but Candide hoped that the philosopher would entertain him during the voyage. All the other candidates complained that Candide had done them great injustice, but he appeased them by giving one hundred piastres to each. CHAPTER XIX What happened at sea to Candide and Martin? The old philosopher whose name was Martin embarked then with Candide for Bordeaux. They had both seen and suffered a great deal, and if the vessel had sailed from Suriname to Japan by the Cape of Good Hope, the subject of moral and natural evil would have enabled them to entertain one another during the whole voyage. Candide, however, had one great advantage over Martin, in that he always hoped to see Miss Cunaganda, whereas Martin had nothing at all to hope. Besides, Candide was possessed of money and jewels, and though he had lost one hundred large red sheep laden with the greatest treasure upon earth, though the navery of the Dutch skipper still sat heavy on his mind, yet when he reflected upon what he had still left, and when he mentioned the name of Cunaganda, especially towards the latter end of a repast, he inclined to Pangloss's doctrine. But you, Mr. Martin, said he to the philosopher, what do you think of all this? What are your ideas on moral and natural evil? Sir, answered Martin, our priests accused me of being a Sosinian, but the real fact is, I am a Manichean. You just said, Candide. There are no longer Manicheans in the world. I am one, said Martin. I cannot help it. I know not how to think otherwise. Surely you must be possessed by the devil, said Candide. He is so deeply concerned in the affairs of this world, and said Martin, that he may very well be in me, as well as in everybody else. But I own to you that when I cast an eye on this globe, or rather on this little ball, I cannot help thinking that God has abandoned it to some malignant being I accept always, El Dorado. I scarcely ever knew a city that did not desire the destruction of a neighbouring city, nor a family that did not wish to exterminate some other family. Everywhere the weak execrate the powerful, before whom they cringe, and the powerful beat them like sheep whose wool and flesh they sell. A million regimented assassins from one extremity of Europe to the other get their bread by disciplined depredation and murder, for want of more honest employment. Even in those cities which seem to enjoy peace, and where the arts flourish, the inhabitants are devoured by more envy, care, and uneasiness than are experienced by a besieged town. Secret griefs are more cruel than public calamities. In a word, I have seen so much, and experienced so much, that I am a mannequin. There are, however, some things good, said Candide. That may be, said Martin, but I know them not. In the middle of this dispute they heard the report of Canon. It redoubled every instant. Each took out his glass. They saw two ships in close fight about three miles off. The wind brought both so near to the French vessel that our travellers had the pleasure of seeing the fight at their ease. At length one let off a broadside, so low and so truly aimed, that the other sank to the bottom. Candide and Martin could plainly perceive a hundred men on the deck of the sinking vessel. They raised their hands to heaven and uttered terrible outcries, and the next moment was swallowed up by the sea. Well, said Martin, this is how men treat one another. It is true, said Candide. There is something diabolical in this affair. While speaking, he saw he knew not what of a shining red, swimming close to the vessel. They put out the longboat to see what it could be. It was one of his sheep. Candide was more rejoiced at the recovery of this one sheep, and he had been grieved at the loss of the hundred, laden with the large diamonds of El Dorado. The French captain soon saw that the captain of the victorious vessel was a Spaniard, and that the other was a Dutch pirate, and the very same one who had robbed Candide. The immense plunder which this villain had amassed was buried with him in the sea, and out of the hole only one sheep was saved. You see, said Candide to Martin, that crime is sometimes punished. This rogue of a Dutch skipper has met with the fate he deserved. Yes, said Martin, but why should the passengers be doomed also to destruction? God has punished the nave, and the devil has drowned the rest. The French and Spanish ships continued their course, and Candide continued his conversation with Martin. They disputed fifteen successive days, and on the last of those fifteen days they were as far advanced as on the first. But, however, they chatted. They communicated ideas. They consoled each other. Candide caressed his sheep. Since I have found thee again, said he, I may likewise chance to find my Kunaganda. CHAPTER XXI. Candide and Martin, reasoning, draw near the coast of France. At length they described the coast of France. Were you ever in France, Mr. Martin, said Candide? Yes, said Martin. I have been in several provinces. In some, one half of the people are fools. In others, they are too cunning. In some, they are weak and simple. In others, they affect to be witty. In all, the principal occupation is love, the next is slander, and the third is talking nonsense. But, Mr. Martin, have you seen Paris? Yes, I have. All these kinds are found there. It is a chaos, a confused multitude, where everybody seeks pleasure and scarcely anyone finds it, at least as it appeared to me. I made a short stay there. On my arrival, I was robbed of all I had by pickpockets at the fair of Saint Germain. I myself was taken for a robber and was imprisoned for eight days, after which I served as corrector of the press to gain the money necessary for my return to Holland on foot. I knew the whole scribbling rabble, the party rabble, the fanatic rabble. It is said that there are very polite people in that city, and I wish to believe it. For my part, I have no curiosity to see France, said Candide. You may easily imagine that after spending a month at El Dorado, I can desire to behold nothing upon earth, but Miss Cunagonda. I go to await her at Venice. We shall pass through France on our way to Italy. Will you bear me company? With all my heart, said Martin. It is said that Venice is fit only for its own nobility, but that strangers meet with a very good reception if they have a good deal of money. I have none of it. You have, therefore. I will follow you all over the world. But do you believe, said Candide, that the earth was originally a sea, as we find it asserted in that large book belonging to the captain? I do not believe a word of it, said Martin. Any more than I do of the many ravings which have been published lately. But for what in, then, has this world been formed? said Candide. To plague us to death, answered Martin. Are you not greatly surprised, continued Candide, at the love which these two girls of the Oralons had for those monkeys, of which I have already told you? Not at all, said Martin. I do not see that that passion was strange. I have seen so many extraordinary things that I have ceased to be surprised. Do you believe, said Candide, that men have always massacred each other as they do today, that they have always been liars, cheats, traitors, ingrates, brigands, idiots, thieves, scoundrels, gluttons, drunkards, misers, envious, ambitious, bloody-minded, culminators, debauchers, fanatics, hypocrites, and fools? Do you believe, said Martin, that hawks have always eaten pigeons when they have found them? Yes, without doubt, said Candide. Well then, said Martin, if hawks have always had the same character, why should you imagine that men may have changed theirs? Oh, said Candide, there is a vast deal of difference for free will and reasoning thus. They arrived at Bordeaux. 22. What happened in France to Candide and Martin? Candide stayed in Bordeaux no longer than was necessary for the selling of a few of the pebbles of El Dorado, and for hiring a good chaise to hold two passengers, for he could not travel without his philosopher Martin. He was only vexed at parting with his sheep, which he left to the Bordeaux Academy of Sciences, who set as a subject for that year's prize, to find why this sheep's wool was red, and the prize was awarded to a learned man of the north, who demonstrated by A plus B minus C divided by Z, that the sheep must be red and die of the rot. Meanwhile, all the travelers whom Candide met in the inns along his route said to him, we go to Paris. This general eagerness at length gave him, too, a desire to see this capital, and it was not so very great a detour from the road to Venice. He entered Paris by the suburb of Saint Marceau, and fancied that he was in the dirtiest village of Westphalia. Scarcely was Candide arrived at his inn, then he found himself attacked by a slight illness caused by fatigue, as he had a very large diamond on his finger, and the people of the inn had taken notice of a prodigiously heavy box among his baggage. There were two physicians to attend him, though he had never sent for them, and two devotees who warmed his brats. I remember, Martin said, also to have been sick at Paris in my first voyage. I was very poor, thus I had neither friends, devotees, nor doctors, and I recovered. However, what with physique and bleeding, Candide's illness became serious. A parson of the neighborhood came with great meekness to ask for a bill for the other world, payable to the bearer. Candide would do nothing for him, but the devotees assured him it was the new fashion. He answered that he was not a man of fashion. Martin wished to throw the priest out of the window. The priests swore that they would not bury Candide. Martin swore that he would bury the priest if he continued to be troublesome. The quarrel grew heated. Martin took him by the shoulders and roughly turned him out of doors, which occasioned great scandal and a lawsuit. Candide got well again, and during his convalescence, he had very good company to sup with him. They played high. Candide wondered why it was that the ace never came to him, but Martin was not at all astonished. Among those who did him the honors of the town was a little abbey of Perigord, one of those busybodies who are ever alert, officious, forward-fawning and complacent, who watch for strangers in their passage through the capital, tell them the scandalous history of the town, and offer them pleasure at all prices. He first took Candide and Martin to La Comedie, where they played a new tragedy. Candide happened to be seated near some of the fashionable wits. This did not prevent his shedding tears at the well-acted scenes. One of these critics at his side said to him between the acts, Your tears are misplaced. That is a shocking actress. The actor who plays with her is yet worse, and the play is still worse than the actors. The author does not know a word of Arabic, yet the scene is in Arabia. Moreover, he is a man that does not believe in innate ideas, and I will bring you, tomorrow, twenty pamphlets written against him. How many dramas have you in France, sir? said Candide to the abbey. Five or six thousand? What a number, said Candide. How many good? Fifteen or sixteen, replied the other. What a number, said Martin. Candide was very pleased with an actress who played Queen Elizabeth in a somewhat insipid tragedy, sometimes acted. That actress, said he to Martin, pleases me much. She has a likeness to Miss Cunaganda. I should be very glad to wait upon her, the Perigodian abbey offered to introduce him. Candide brought up in Germany, asked what was the etiquette, and how they treated Queens of England in France. It is necessary to make distinction, said the abbey. In the provinces, one takes them to the inn. In Paris, one respects them when they are beautiful, and throws them on the highway when they are dead. Queens on the highway, said Candide. Yes, truly, said Martin. The abbey is right. I was in Paris when Miss Monime passed, as she's saying is, from this life to the other, she was refused what people call the honours of Sepulcher, that is to say, of rotting with all the beggars of the neighbourhood in an ugly cemetery. She was interred all alone by her company at the corner of the Rue de Bougogne, which ought to trouble her much, for she thought nobly. That was very uncivil, said Candide. What would you have, said Martin? These people are made thus. Imagine all contradictions, all possible incompatibilities. You will find them in the government, in the law courts, in the churches, in the public shows of this droll nation. Is it true that they always laugh in Paris? said Candide. Yes, said the abbey. But it means nothing, for they complain of everything with great fits of laughter. They even do the most detestable things while laughing. Who, said Candide, is that great pig who spoke so ill of the piece at which I wept, and of the actors who gave me so much pleasure? He is a bad character, answered the abbey, who gains his livelihood by saying evil of all plays and of all books. He hates whatever succeeds as the eunuchs hate those who enjoy. He is one of the serpents of literature who nourish themselves on dirt and spite. He is a philiculaire. What is a philiculaire, said Candide? It is, said the abbey, a pamphleteer, a frérone. Thus Candide Martin and the Perigodian conversed on the staircase while watching everyone go out after the performance. Although I am eager to see Cunagonda again, said Candide, I should like to sup with Miss Clairon, for she appears to me admirable. The abbey was not the man to approach Miss Clairon, who saw only good company. She is engaged for this evening, he said, but I shall have the honor to take you to the house of a lady of quality, and there you will know Paris as if you had lived in it for years. Candide, who was naturally curious, let himself be taken to this lady's house at the end of the Fauberg St. Honore. The company was occupied in playing pharaoh. A dozen melancholy punters held each in his hand a little pack of cards, a bad record of his misfortunes. Profound silence reigned. Paller was on the faces of the punters. Anxiety on that of the banker, and the hostess, sitting near the unpitying banker, noticed with Link's eyes all the doubled and other increased stakes. As each player dog-eared his cards, she made them turn down the edges again with severe but polite attention. She showed no vexation for fear of losing her customers. The lady insisted upon being called the Marchioness of Parolignac. Her daughter, aged fifteen, was among the punters, and notified with a covert glance the cheatings of the poor people who tried to repair the cruelties of fate. The Perigordian Abbey, Candide, and Martin entered. No one rose, no one saluted them, no one looked at them. All were profoundly occupied with their cards. The barrenness of thunder-tinned trunk was more polite, said Candide. However, the Abbey whispered to the Marchioness, who half-rose honored Candide with a gracious smile, and Martin with a condescending nod. She gave a seat and a pack of cards to Candide, who lost fifty thousand francs in two deals, after which they subbed very gaily, and everyone was astonished that Candide was not moved by his loss. The servants said among themselves in the language of servants, some English lord is here this evening. The supper passed at first, like most Perigian suppers, in silence, followed by a noise of words which could not be distinguished, then with pleasantries, of which most were insipid, with false news, with bad reasoning, a little politics, and much evil speaking. They also discussed new books. Have you seen, said the Perigordian Abbey, the romance of Sir Gauchat, Doctor of Divinity? Yes, said one of the guests, but I have not been able to finish it. We have a crowd of silly writings, but altogether do not approach the impertinence of Gauchat, Doctor of Divinity. I am so satiated with the great number of detestable books, with which we are inundated, that I am reduced to punting at Pharaoh. And the Melanges of Archdeacon Troublet, what do you say of that, said the Abbey? Oh, said the marchiness of Parolnyak, the weirisome mortal, how curiously he repeats to you all that the world knows. How heavily he discusses that which is not worth the trouble of lightly remarking upon, how without wit he appropriates the wit of others, how he spoils what he steals, how he disgusts me, but he will disgust me no longer. It is enough to have read a few of the Archdeacon's pages. There was a table, a wise man of taste, who supported the marchiness. They spoke afterwards of tragedies. The lady asked why there were tragedies, which were sometimes played, and which could not be read. The man of taste explained very well how a piece could have some interest, and have almost no merit. He proved in a few words, that it was not enough to introduce one or two of those situations, which one finds in all romances, and which always seduced the spectator, but that it was necessary to be new without being odd, often sublime and always natural, to know the human heart, and to make it speak, to be a great poet, without allowing any person in the piece to appear to be a poet, to know language perfectly, to speak it with purity, with continuous harmony, and without rhythm ever taking anything from sense. Whoever, added he, does not observe all these rules, can produce one or two tragedies, applauded at a theatre, but he will never be counted in the ranks of good writers. There are very few good tragedies. Some are idols in dialogue, well written and well rhymed, others political reasonings, which lull to sleep, or amplifications which repel, others demoniac dreams in barbarous style, interrupted in sequence with long apostrophes to the gods, because they do not know how to speak to men, with false maxims, with bombastic common places. Candide listened with attention to this discourse, and conceived a great idea of the speaker, and as the Marchioness had taken care to place him beside her, he leaned towards her and took the liberty of asking, who was the man who had spoken so well? He is a scholar, said the lady, who does not play, whom the abbey sometimes brings to supper. He is perfectly at home among tragedies and books, and he has written a tragedy, which was haste, and a book of which nothing has ever been seen outside his bookseller's shop, accepting the copy which he dedicated to me. The great man, said Candide, he is another pangloss. Then turning towards him, he said, Sir, you think doubtless that all is for the best in the moral and physical world, and that nothing could be otherwise than it is. I, sir, answered the scholar, I know nothing of all that. I find that all goes awry with me, that no one knows either what is his rank, nor what is his condition, what he does, nor what he ought to do, and that accepts supper which is always gay, and where there appears to be enough concord. All the rest of the time is passed in impertinent quarrels, Jansenist against Molinist, Parliament against the Church, Men of Letters against Men of Letters, Cortesans against Hortesans, Financiers against the people, Wives against Husbands, Relatives against Relatives, It is eternal war. I have seen the worst, Candide replied, but a wise man who since has had the misfortune to be hanged taught me that all is marvelously well. These are but the shadows on a beautiful picture. Your hanged man mocked the world, said Morton. The shadows are horrible blots. They are men who make the blots, said Candide, and they cannot be dispensed with. It is not their fault, then, said Morton. Most of the punters who understood nothing of this language drank, and Morton reasoned with the scholar, and Candide related some of his adventures to his hostess. After supper, the marginist took Candide into her boudoir and made him sit upon a sofa. Ah, well, said she to him, you love desperately Miss Coulagonda of thunder-tin-trunk. Yes, madam, answered Candide. The marginist replied to him with a tender smile. You answer me like a young man from Westphalia. A Frenchman would have said, it is true that I have loved Miss Coulagonda, but seeing you, madame, I think I no longer love her. Alas, madame, said Candide, I will answer you as you wish. Your passion for her, said the marginist, commenced by picking up her handkerchief. I wish that you would pick up my garter. With all my heart, said Candide, and he picked it up. But I wish that you would put it on, said the lady, and Candide put it on. You see, said she, you are a foreigner. I sometimes make my Parisian lovers languish for fifteen days, but I give myself to you the first night, because one must do the honors of one's country to a young man from Westphalia. The lady, having perceived two enormous diamonds upon the hands of the young foreigner, praised them with such good faith that from Candide's fingers they passed to her own. Candide, returning with the Perigordian abbey, felt some remorse in having been unfaithful to Miss Coulagonda. The abbey sympathized in his trouble. He had had but a light part of the fifty thousand Franks lost at play, and of the value of the two brilliance, half given, half extorted. His design was to profit as much as he could by the advantages which the acquaintance of Candide could procure for him. He spoke much of Coulagonda, and Candide told him that he should ask forgiveness of that beautiful one for his infidelity when he should see her in Venice. The abbey redoubled his politeness and attentions, and took a tender interest in all that Candide said, in all that he did, in all that he wished to do. And so, sir, you have a rendezvous at Venice? Yes, ma sure abbey, answered Candide. It is absolutely necessary that I go to meet Miss Coulagonda, and then the pleasure of talking of that which he loved induced him to relate, according to his custom, part of his adventures with the fair Westphalian. I believe, said the abbey, that Miss Coulagonda has a great deal of wit, and that she writes charming letters. I have never received any from her, said Candide. For, being expelled from the castle on her account, I had not an opportunity for writing to her. Soon after that I heard she was dead. Then I found her alive. Then I lost her again. And last of all, I sent and expressed to her 2,500 leagues from here, and I wait for an answer. The abbey listened attentively, and seemed to be in a brown study. He soon took his leave of the two foreigners after a most tender embrace. The following day, Candide received on a waking a letter couched in these terms. My very dear love, for eight days I have been ill in this town. I learned that you are here. I would fly to your arms if I could but move. I was informed of your passage at Bordeaux, where I left faithful Hacombo and the old woman who are to follow me very soon. The governor of Buenos Aires has taken all, but there remains to me your heart. Come, your presence will either give me life or kill me with pleasure. This charming, this unhoped-for letter transported Candide with an inexpressible joy, and the illness of his dear Kunaganda overwhelmed him with grief. Divided between those two passions, he took his gold and his diamonds and hurried away with Martin to the hotel where Miss Kunaganda was lodged. He entered her room trembling, his heart palpitating, his voice sobbing. He wished to open the curtains of the bed and asked for a light. Take care of what you do, said the servant maid. The light hurts her, and immediately she drew the curtain again. My dear Kunaganda, said Candide, weeping, how are you? If you cannot see me, at least speak to me. She cannot speak, said the maid. The lady then put a plump hand out from the bed, and Candide bathed it with his tears and afterwards filled it with diamonds, leaving a bag of gold upon the easy chair. In the midst of these transports in came an officer, followed by the abbey and a file of soldiers. There, said he, are the two suspected foreigners, and at the same time he ordered them to be seized and carried to prison. Travellers are not treated thus in El Dorado, said Candide. I am more a Manichean now than ever, said Martin. But pray, sir, where are you going to carry us, said Candide. Toward dungeon, answered the officer. Martin, having recovered himself a little, judged that the lady who acted the part of Kunaganda was a cheat, that the Peragordian abbey was a naïve who had imposed upon the honest simplicity of Candide, and that the officer was another naïve, whom they might easily silence. Candide advised by Martin, and impatient to see the real Kunaganda, rather than expose himself before a court of justice, proposed to the officer to give him three small diamonds, each worth about three thousand pistoles. Ah, sir, said the man with the ivory baton, had you committed all the imaginable crimes, you would be to me the most honest man in the world. Three diamonds, each worth three thousand pistoles. Sir, instead of carrying you to jail, I would lose my life to serve you. There are orders for arresting all foreigners, but leave it to me. I have a brother at Dieppe in Normandy. I'll conduct you thither, and if you have a diamond to give him, he'll take as much care of you as I would. And why, said Candide, should all foreigners be arrested? It is, the Peragordian abbey then made answer, because a poor beggar of the country of Aterbete heard some foolish things, said. This induced him to commit a parasite, not such as that of 1610 in the month of May, but such as that of 1594 in the month of December, and such as others, which had been committed in other years and other months by other poor devils, who had heard nonsense spoken. The officer then explained what the abbey meant. Ah, the monsters, cried Candide. What horrors among a people who dance and sing? Is there no way of getting quickly out of this country where monkeys provoke tigers? I have seen no bears in my country, but men I have beheld nowhere except in El Dorado. In the name of God, sir, conduct me to Venice, where I am to await Miss Cunagonda. I can conduct you no further than lower Normandy, said the officer. Immediately he ordered his irons to be struck off, acknowledged himself mistaken, sent away his men, sat out with Candide and Martin for Dieppe, and left them in the care of his brother. There was then a small Dutch ship in the harbor. The Norman, who by the virtue of three more diamonds had become the most subservient of men, put Candide and his attendants on board a vessel that was just ready to set sail for Portsmouth in England. This was not the way to Venice, but Candide thought he had made his way out of hell, and reckoned that he would soon have an opportunity for resuming his journey. End Chapter Twenty-Two. Chapter Twenty-Three. Candide and Martin touched upon the coast of England, and what they saw there. Ah, Pangloss, Pangloss, ah, Martin, Martin, ah, my dear Cunagonda, what sort of a world is this? said Candide on board the Dutch ship. Something very foolish and abominable, said Martin. You know, England, are they as foolish there as in France? It is another kind of folly, said Martin. You know that these two nations are at war for a few acres of snow in Canada, and that they spend over this beautiful war much more than Canada is worth. To tell you exactly whether there are more people fit to send to a madhouse in one country than the other is what my imperfect intelligence will not permit. I only know in general that the people we are going to see are very atrobilious, talking thus they arrived at Portsmouth. The coast was lined with crowds of people whose eyes were fixed on a fine man kneeling with his eyes bandaged on board one of the men of war in the harbor. Four soldiers stood opposite to this man. Each of them fired three balls at his head with all the calmness in the world, and the whole assembly went away very well satisfied. What is all this, said Candide, and what demon is it that exercises his empire in this country? He then asked who was that fine man who had been killed with so much ceremony. They answered he was an admiral. And why kill this admiral? It is because he did not kill a sufficient number of men himself. He gave battle to a French admiral, and it has been proved that he was not near enough to him. But replied Candide, the French admiral was as far from the English admiral. There is no doubt of it, but in this country it is found good from time to time to kill one admiral to encourage the others. Candide was so shocked and bewildered by what he saw and heard that he would not set foot on shore, and he made a bargain with a Dutch skipper, where he even to rob him like the Suriname captain, to conduct him without delay to Venice. The skipper was ready in two days. They coasted France. They passed in sight of Lisbon, and Candide trembled. They passed through the Straits, and entered the Mediterranean. At last they landed at Venice. God be praised, said Candide, embracing Martin. It is here that I shall see again my beautiful Cunagonda. I trust Cacombo as myself. All is well. All will be well. All goes as well as possible. January 2007 What, he said to Martin, I have had time to voyage from Suriname to Bordeaux, to go from Bordeaux to Paris, from Paris to Dieppe, from Dieppe to Portsmouth, to coast along Portugal and Spain, to cross the whole Mediterranean, to spend some months. And yet the beautiful Cunagonda has not arrived. Instead of her, I have only met a Parisian wince and a Périgordian abbey. Cunagonda is dead without doubt. And there is nothing for me but to die. Alas, how much better it would have been for me to have remained in the paradise of El Dorado than to come back to this cursed Europe. You are in the right, my dear Martin. All is misery and illusion. He fell into a deep melancholy, and neither went to see the opera nor any of the other diversions of the carnival. Nay, he was proof against the temptations of all the ladies. You are in truth very simple, said Martin to him. If you imagine that a mongrel Valet who has five or six million in his pocket will go to the other end of the world to seek your mistress and bring her to you, to Venice. If he find her, he will keep her to himself. If he do not find her, he will get another. I advise you to forget your Valet Cacombo and your mistress, Cunaganda. Martin was not consoling. Candide's melancholy increased, and Martin continued to prove to him that there was very little virtue or happiness upon earth, except perhaps in El Dorado where nobody could gain admittance. While they were disputing on this important subject and waiting for Cunaganda, Candide saw a young Theatron friar in St. Mark's piazza, holding a girl on his arm. The Theatron looked fresh-colored, plump and vigorous. His eyes were sparkling, his air assured, his look lofty, and his step bold. The girl was very pretty and sang. She looked amorously at her Theatron, and from time to time pinched his fat cheeks. At least you will allow me, said Candide to Martin, that these two are happy. Here the two I have met with none but unfortunate people in the whole habitable globe, except in El Dorado. But as to this pair, I would venture to lay a wager that they are very happy. I lay you, they are not, said Martin. We need only ask them to dine with us, said Candide, and you will see whether I am mistaken. Immediately he accosted them, presented his compliments, and invited them to his inn to eat some macaroni with lombard partridges and caviar, and to drink some Montepulsiano, la creme christie, Cyprus and Samos wine. The girl blushed, the Theatron accepted the invitation, and she followed him, casting her eyes on Candide with confusion and surprise, and dropping a few tears. No sooner had she set foot in Candide's apartment than she cried out, ah, Mr. Candide does not know Paquet again. Candide had not viewed her as yet with attention, his thoughts being entirely taken up with Cunagonda, but recollecting her as she spoke. Alas, said he, my poor child, it is you who reduce Dr. Pangloss to the beautiful condition in which I saw him. Alas, it was I, sir, indeed, answered Paquet. I see that you have heard all. I have been informed of the frightful disasters that befell the family of my Lady Baroness and the fair Cunagonda. I swear to you that my fate has been scarcely less sad. I was very innocent when you knew me. A grey friar who was my confessor easily seduced me. The consequences were terrible. I was obliged to quit the castle, sometime after the Baron had sent you away with kicks on the backside. If a famous surgeon had not taken compassion on me, I should have died. For some time I was this surgeon's mistress, merely out of gratitude. His wife, who was mad with jealousy, beat me every day unmercifully. She was a fury. The surgeon was one of the ugliest of men, and I the most wretched of women, to be continually beaten for a man I did not love. You know, sir, what a dangerous thing it is for an ill-natured woman to be married to a doctor. Incensed at the behaviour of his wife, he one day gave her so effectual a remedy to cure her of a slight cold that she died two hours after. In most horrid convulsions the wife's relations prosecuted the husband. He took flight, and I was thrown into jail. My innocence would not have saved me if I had not been good-looking. The judge set me free on condition that he succeeded the surgeon. I was soon supplanted by a rival, turned out of doors quite destitute, and obliged to continue this abominable trade, which appears so pleasant to you men, while to us women it is the utmost abyss of misery. I have come to exercise the profession at Venice. Sir, if you could only imagine what it is to be obliged to caress indifferently an old merchant, a lawyer, a monk, a gondolier, an abbey, to be exposed to abuse and insults, to be often reduced to borrowing a petticoat, only to go and have it raised by a disagreeable man, to be robbed by one of what one has earned from another, to be subject to the extortions of the officers of justice, and to have in prospect only a frightful old age, a hospital and a dung hill. You would conclude that I am one of the most unhappy creatures in the world. Paquette thus opened her heart to Honest Candide in the presence of Martin, who said to his friend, You see that already I have won half the wager. Friar Garoffelais stayed in the dining room and drank a glass or two of wine while he was waiting for dinner. But, said Candide to Paquette, You looked so gay and content when I met you. You sang and you behaved so lovingly to the Theaton that you seemed to me as happy as you pretend to be now the reverse. Ah, sir, answered Paquette, This is one of the miseries of the trade. Yesterday I was robbed and beaten by an officer, yet today I must put on good humour to please a friar. Candide wanted no more convincing. He owned that Martin was in the right. They sat down to table with Paquette and the Theaton. The repast was entertaining, and towards the end they conversed with all confidence. Father, said Candide to the friar, You appear to me to enjoy a state that all the world might envy. The flower of health shines in your face. Your expression makes plain your happiness. You have a very pretty girl for your recreation, and you seem well satisfied with your state as Theaton. My faith, sir, said Friar Garoffelais. I wished that all the Theatons were at the bottom of the sea, I have been tempted a hundred times to set fire to the convent, and go and become a Turk. My parents forced me at the age of fifteen to put on this detestable habit, to increase the fortune of a cursed elder brother whom God confound. Jealousy, discord and fury dwell in the convent. It is true I have preached a few bad sermons that have brought me in a little money, of which the friar stole half, while the rest serves to maintain my girls. But when I return at night to the monastery, I am ready to dash my head against the walls of the dormitory, and all my fellows are in the same case. Martin turned towards Candide with his usual coolness. Well, said he, have I not won the whole wager? Candide gave two thousand piastres to Paquette, and one thousand to Friar Garoffelais. I'll answer for it, said he, that with this they will be happy. I do not believe it at all, said Martin. You will, perhaps with these piastres, only render them the more unhappy. Let that be as it may, said Candide. But one thing consoles me. I see that we often meet with those who we expected never to see more, so that, perhaps, as I have found my red sheep and Paquette, it may well be that I shall also find Cunagonda. I wish, said Martin, she may one day make you very happy. But I doubt it very much. You are very hard of belief, said Candide. I have lived, said Martin. You see those gondoliers, said Candide, are they not perpetually singing? You do not see them, said Martin, at home with their wives and brats. The doge has his troubles. The gondoliers have theirs. It is true that all things considered, the life of a gondolier, is preferable to that of a doge. But I believe the difference to be so trifling that it is not worth the trouble of examining. People talk, said Candide, of the senator Porco Curante, who lives in that fine palace on the Brenta, where he entertains foreigners in the politest manner. They pretend that this man has never felt any uneasiness. I should be glad to see such a rarity, said Martin. Candide immediately sent to ask the Lord Porco Curante permission to wait upon him the next day. Candide and Martin went in a gondola on the Brenta, and arrived at the palace of the noble senior Porco Curante. The gardens, laid out with taste, were adorned with fine marble statues. The palace was beautifully built. The master of the house was a man of sixty, and very rich. He received the two travellers with polite indifference, which put Candide a little out of countenance, but was not at all disagreeable to Martin. First, two pretty girls, very neatly dressed, served them with chocolate, which was frothed exceedingly well. Candide could not refrain from commending their beauty, grace, and address. They are good enough creatures, said the senator. I make them lie with me sometimes, for I am very tired of the ladies of the town, of their coquettries, of their jealousies, of their quarrels, of their humours, of their pettinesses, of their prides, of their follies, and of the sonnets which one must make, or have made, for them. But after all, these two girls begin to weary me. After breakfast, Candide walking into a long gallery was surprised by the beautiful pictures. He asked by what master were the two first. They are by Raphael, said the senator. I bought them at a great price, out of vanity, some years ago. They are said to be the finest things in Italy, but they do not please me at all. The colours are too dark. The figures are not sufficiently rounded, nor in good relief. The draperies in no way resemble stuffs. In a word, whatever may be said, I do not find there a true imitation of nature. I only care for a picture when I think I see nature itself, and there are none of this sort. I have a great many pictures, but I prize them very little. While they were waiting for dinner, Poca Curante ordered a concert. Candide found the music delicious. This noise, said the senator, may amuse one for half an hour. But if it were to last longer, it would grow tiresome to everybody, though they durst not own it. Music, today, is only the art of executing difficult things, and that which is only difficult cannot please long. Perhaps I should be fonder of the opera if they had not found the secret of making of it a monster which shocks me. Let who will go to see bad tragedy set to music, where the scenes are contrived for no other end than to introduce two or three songs ridiculously out of place to show off an actress's voice. Let who will or who can die away with pleasure at the sight of a eunuch quavering the rule of Caesar or of Cato, and strutting awkwardly upon the stage. For by part, I have long since renounced those poultry entertainments which constitute the glory of modern Italy, and are purchased so dearly by sovereigns. Candide disputed the point a little, but with discretion. Martin was entirely of the senator's opinion. They sat down to table, and after an excellent dinner they went into the library. Candide, seeing a Homer magnificently bound, commended the virtuoso on his good taste. There, said he, is a book that was once the delight of the great pangloss, the best philosopher in Germany. It is not mine, answered Pococorante Cooley. They used it one time to make me believe that I took a pleasure in reading him. But what continual repetition of battles so extremely like one another, those gods that are always active without doing anything decisive, that Helen who is the cause of the war, and who yet scarcely appears in the piece, that Troy so long besieged without being taken, all these together, caused me great weariness. I have sometimes asked learned men whether they were not as weary as I of that work. Those who were sincere have owned to me that the poem made them fall asleep. Yet it was necessary to have it in their library as a monument of antiquity. Or like those rusty medals which are no longer of use in commerce. But your excellency does not think thus of Virgil, said Candide. I grant, said the senator, that the second, fourth, and sixth books of his anid are excellent. But as for his pious Anais, his strong Cloanthus, his friend Akatis, his little Asanius, his silly King Latinus, his bourgeois Amata, his insipid Lavinia, I think there can be nothing more flat and disagreeable. I prefer Tasso a good deal, or even the superrific tales of Arioste. May I presume to ask you, sir, said Candide, whether you do not receive a great deal of pleasure from reading Horace? There are maxims in this writer, answered Poco Curante, from which a man of the world may reap great benefit. And being written in energetic verse, they are more easily impressed upon the memory. But I care little for this journey to Brundusium, and his account of a bad dinner, or of his low quarrel between one Rupilius, whose words he says were full of poisonous filth, and another whose language was imbued with vinegar. I have read with much distaste his indelicate verses against old women and witches. Nor do I see any merit in telling his friend May's senus, that if he will but rank him in the choir of lyric poets, his lofty head shall touch the stars. Fools admire everything in an author of reputation. For my part, I read only to please myself. I like only that which serves my purpose. Candide, having been educated never to judge for himself, was much surprised at what he heard. Martin found there was a good deal of reason in Poco Curante's remarks. Oh, here is Cicero, said Candide. Here is the great man whom I fancy you are never tired of reading. I never read him, replied the Venetian. What is it to me whether he pleads for Riberius or Cluintius? I try causes enough myself. His philosophical work seemed to me better, but when I found that he doubted of everything, I concluded that I knew as much as he, and that I had no need of a guide to learn ignorance. Ah, here are four score volumes of the Academy of Sciences, cried Martin. Perhaps there is something valuable in this collection. There might be, said Poco Curante, if only one of those rakers of rubbish had shown how to make pins, but in all these volumes there is nothing but chimerical systems, and not a single useful thing. And what dramatic works I see here, said Candide, in Italian, Spanish, and French. Yes, replied the senator, there are three thousand, and not three dozen of them good for anything. As to those collections of sermons which altogether are not worth a single page of Seneca and those huge volumes of theology, you may well imagine that neither I nor anyone else ever opens them. Martin saw some shelves filled with English books. I have a notion, said he, that a Republican must be greatly pleased with most of these books, which are written with a spirit of freedom. Yes, answered Poco Curante, it is noble to write as one thinks. This is the privilege of humanity. In all our Italy we write only what we do not think. Those who inhabit the country of the Caesars and the Antoninuses dare not acquire a single idea without the permission of a Dominican friar. I should be pleased with the liberty which inspires the English genius, if passion and party spirit did not corrupt all that is estimable in this precious liberty. Candide, observing a Milton, asked whether he did not look upon this author as a great man. Who, said Poco Curante, that barbarian who writes a long commentary in ten books of harsh verse on the first chapter of Genesis, that coarse imitator of the Greeks who disfigures a creation, and who, while Moses represents the eternal producing the world by a word, makes the Messiah take a great pair of compasses from the armory of heaven to circumscribe his work. How can I have any esteem for a writer who has spoiled Tasso's hell and the devil, who transforms Lucifer sometimes into a toad and other times into a pygmy, who makes him repeat the same things a hundred times, who makes him dispute on theology, who, by a serious imitation of Ariosto's comic invention of firearms, represents the devil's canon nodding in heaven. Neither I nor any man in Italy could take pleasure in those melancholy extravagances, and the marriage of sin and death, and the snakes brought forth by sin, are enough to turn the stomach of anyone with the least taste, and his long description of a pest house is good only for a grave digger. This obscure whimsical and disagreeable poem was despised upon its first publication, and I only treat it now as it was treated in its own country by contemporaries. For the matter of that, I say what I think, and I care very little whether others think as I do. Candide was grieved at this speech, for he had a respect for Homer, and was fond of Milton. Alas, said he softly to Martin, I am afraid that this man holds our German poets in very great contempt. There would not be much harm in that, said Martin. Oh, what a superior man said Candide below his breath. What a great genius is this Pococurante. Nothing can please him. After their survey of the library they went down into the garden, where Candide praised its several beauties. I know of nothing in so bad a taste, said the master. All you see here is merely trifling. After tomorrow I will have it planted with a no-blood design. Well, said Candide to Martin, when they had taken their leave, you will agree that this is the happiest of mortals, for he is above everything he possesses. But do you not see, answered Martin, that he is disgusted with all he possesses. Plato observed a long while ago that those stomachs are not the best that reject all sorts of food. But is there not a pleasure, said Candide, in criticising everything, in pointing out faults where others see nothing but beauties? That is to say, replied Martin, that there is some pleasure in having no pleasure. Well, well, said Candide, I find that I shall be the only happy man when I am blessed with the sight of my dear Cunagonda. It is always well to hope, said Martin. However the days and the weeks passed, Cacombo did not come, and Candide was so overwhelmed with grief that he did not even reflect that Paquette and Friar Garofle did not return to thank him. CHAPTER XXVI One evening that Candide and Martin were going to sit down to supper with some foreigners who lodged in the same inn, a man whose complexion was as black as soot came behind Candide, and taking him by the arm said, Get yourself ready to go along with us. Do not fail. Upon this he turned round and saw Cacombo. Nothing but the sight of Cunagonda could have astonished and delighted him more. He was on the point of going mad with joy. He embraced his dear friend. Cunagonda is here without doubt. Where is she? Take me to her that I may die of joy in her company. Cunagonda is not here, said Cacombo. She is at Constantinople. Oh heavens at Constantinople, but were she in China I would fly thither. Let us be off. We shall set out after supper, replied Cacombo. I can tell you nothing more. I am a slave. My master awaits me. I must serve him at table. Speak not a word, eat, and then get ready. Candide, distracted between joy and grief, delighted at seeing his faithful agent again, astonished at finding him a slave, filled with the fresh hope of recovering his mistress, his heart palpitating, his understanding confused, sat down to table with Martin, who saw all these scenes quite unconcerned, and with six strangers who had come to spend the carnival at Venice. Cacombo waited at table upon one of the strangers. Towards the end of the entertainment, he drew near his master and whispered in his ear, Sire, your majesty may start when you please. The vessel is ready. On saying these words he went out. The company, in great surprise, looked at one another without speaking a word, when another domestic approached his master and said to him, Sire, your majesty's chase is at Padua, and the boat is ready. The master gave a nod, and the servant went away. The company all stared at one another again, and their surprise redoubled. A third valet came up to a third stranger, saying, Sire, leave me, your majesty ought not to stay here any longer. I am going to get everything ready, and immediately he disappeared. Candide and Martin did not doubt that this was a masquerade of the carnival. Then a fourth domestic said to a fourth master, your majesty may depart when you please. Saying this, he went away like the rest. The fifth valet said the same thing to the fifth master, but the sixth valet spoke differently to the sixth stranger, who sat near Candide. He said to him, Faith, Sire, they will no longer give credit to your majesty nor to me, and we may perhaps both of us be put in jail this very night. Therefore I will take care of myself. Adieu. The servants being all gone, the six strangers with Candide and Martin, remained in a profound silence. At length Candide broke in. Gentlemen, said he, this is a very good joke indeed, but why should you all be kings? For me I own that neither Martin nor I is a king. Kakambos master then gravely answered in Italian, I am not joking. My name is Okmet III. I was a great sultan many years. I dethroned my brother, my nephew dethroned me, my viziers were beheaded, and I am condemned to end my days in the old Saraglio. My nephew, the great sultan Mahmud, permits me to travel sometimes for my health, and I am come to spend the carnival at the Venice. A young man who sat next to Okmet spoke then as follows. My name is Ivan. I was once emperor of all the rushes, but was dethroned in my cradle. My parents were confined in prison, and I was educated there. Yet I am sometimes allowed to travel in company with persons who act as guards, and I am come to spend the carnival at Venice. The third said, I am Charles Edward, king of England. My father has resigned all his legal rights to me. I have fought in defence of them, and above 800 of my adherents have been hanged, drawn, and quartered. I have been confined in prison. I am going to Rome to pay a visit to the king, my father, who was dethroned as well as myself and my grandfather, and I am come to spend carnival at Venice. The fourth spoke thus in his turn. I am the king of Poland. The fortune of war has stripped me of my hereditary dominions. My father underwent the same vicissitudes. I resigned myself to Providence in the same manner as Sultan Okmet, the emperor Ivan, and King Charles Edward, whom God long preserve, and I am come to the carnival at Venice. The fifth said, I am king of Poland also. I have been twice dethroned, but Providence has given me another country where I have done more good than all the Sarmatian kings were ever capable of doing on the banks of the Vistula. I resign myself likewise to Providence and am come to pass the carnival at Venice. It was now the sixth monarch's turn to speak. Gentlemen, said he, I am not so great a prince as any of you. However, I am a king. I am Theodore, elected king of Corsica. I had the title of Majesty, and now I am scarcely treated as a gentleman. I have coined money, and now I am not worth a farthing. I have had two secretaries of state, and now I have scarce a valet. I have seen myself on a throne, and I have seen myself upon straw in a common jail in London. I am afraid that I shall meet with the same treatment here, though like your majesties I am come to see the carnival at Venice. The other five kings listened to this speech with generous compassion. Each of them gave twenty sequins to King Theodore to buy him clothes and linen, and Candide made him a present of a diamond worth two thousand sequins. Who can this private person be, said the five kings to one another, who is able to give, and really has given, a hundred times as much as any of us? Just as they rose from the table, in came four serene highnesses who had also been stripped of their territories by the fortune of war, and were come to spend the carnival at Venice. But Candide paid no regard to these newcomers. His thoughts were entirely employed on his voyage to Constantinople in search of his beloved Cunaganda. This is a Librivox recording. Candide by Voltaire, Chapter 27, Candide's voyage to Constantinople. The faithful Cacombo had already prevailed upon the Turkish skipper, who was to conduct the Sultan Akmet to Constantinople to receive Candide and Martin on his ship. They both embarked after having made their obeisance to his miserable highness. You see, said Candide to Martin on the way, we subbed with six dethroned kings, and of those six there was one to whom I gave charity. Perhaps there are many other princes yet more unfortunate. For my part, I have only lost a hundred sheep, and now I am flying into Cunaganda's arms. My dear Martin, yet once more, Pangloss was right. All is for the best. I wish it, answered Martin. But, said Candide, was a very strange adventure we met with at Venice. It has never before been seen or heard that six dethroned kings have subbed together at a public inn. It is not more extraordinary, said Martin, than most of the things that have happened to us. It is a very common thing for kings to be dethroned, and as for the honour we have had of supping in their company, it is a trifle not worth our attention. No sooner had Candide got on board the vessel, than he flew to his old valet and friend Cacombo and tenderly embraced him. Well, said he, what news of Cunaganda? Is she still a prodigy of beauty? Does she love me still? How is she? Thou hast doubtless bought her a palace at Constantinople. My dear master, answered Cacombo, Cunaganda washes dishes on the banks of the propontis in the service of a prince who has very few dishes to wash. She is a slave in the family of an ancient sovereign named Rogotsky, to whom the grand Turk allows three crowns a day in his exile. But what is worse still is that she has lost her beauty and has become horribly ugly. Well, handsome or ugly, replied Candide, I am a man of honour, and it is my duty to love her still. But how came she to be reduced to so abject estate, with the 506 millions that you took to her? Ah, said Cacombo, was I not to give two millions to Signor Don Fernando de Barad, Ifiguroa, Imascarenes, Ilamportos, and Susa, governor of Buenos Aires, for permitting Miss Cunaganda to come away, and did not a corsair bravely rob us of all the rest, did not this corsair carry us to Cape Matapan, to Milo, to Nicaria, to Samos, to Petra, to the Dardanales, to Marmora, to Scutari. Ah, Cunaganda and the old woman serve the prince I now mention to you, and I am slave to the dethroned Sultan. What a series of shocking calamities, cried Candide. But after all, I have some diamonds left, and I may easily pay Cunaganda's ransom, yet it is a pity that she has grown so ugly. Then turning towards Martin, who do you think, said he, is most to be pitied, the Sultan Ahmed, the Emperor Ivan, King Charles Edward, or I? How should I know, answered Martin, I must see into your heart to be able to tell. Ah, said Candide, if Pangloss were here, he could tell. I know not, said Martin, in what sort of scales your Pangloss would weigh the misfortunes of mankind, and set a just estimate on their sorrows. All that I can presume to say is that there are millions of people upon earth who have a hundred times more to complain of than King Charles Edward, the Emperor Ivan, or the Sultan Ahmed. That may well be, said Candide. In a few days they reached the Bosphorus, and Candide began by paying a very high ransom for Kakambo. Then without losing time, he and his companions went on board a galley, in order to search on the banks of the propontist for his Cunaganda, however ugly she might have become. Among the crew there were two slaves, who rode very badly, and to whose bare shoulders the eleventine captain would now and then apply blows from a bull's-pizzle. Candide, from a natural impulse, looked at these two slaves more attentively than at the other oarsmen, and approached them with pity. Their features, though greatly disfigured, had a slight resemblance to those of Pangloss and the unhappy Jesuit and Westphalian Baron, brother to Miss Cunaganda. This moved and saddened him. He looked at them still more attentively. Indeed, said he to Kakambo, if I had not seen Master Pangloss hanged, and if I had not had the misfortune to kill the Baron, I should think it was they that were rowing. At the names of the Baron and of Pangloss, the two galley slaves uttered a loud cry, held fast by the seat, and let dropped their oars. The captain ran up to them and redoubled his blows with the bull's-pizzle. Stop, stop, sir, cried Candide. I will give you what money you please. What? It is Candide, said one of the slaves. What? It is Candide, said the other. Do I dream, cried Candide, or am I awake? Or am I on board a galley? Is this the Baron whom I killed? Is this Master Pangloss whom I saw hanged? It is we, it is we, answered they. Well, is this a great philosopher? said Martin. Ah, Captain, said Candide. What ransom will you take for matured a thunder-tinned trunk, one of the first barons of the empire, and for matured Pangloss, the profoundest metaphysician in Germany? Dog of a Christian, answered the Levantine captain. Since these two dogs of Christian slaves are barons and metaphysicians, which I doubt not are high dignities in their country, you shall give me fifty thousand sequins. You shall have them, sir. Carry me back at once to Constantinople, and you shall receive the money directly. But no, carry me first to Miss Cunagonda. Upon the first proposal made by Candide, however, the Levantine captain had already tacked about and made the crew ply their oars quicker than a bird cleaves the air. Candide embraced the Baron and Pangloss a hundred times. And how happened it, my dear Baron, that I did not kill you? And, my dear Pangloss, how came you to life again after being hanged? And why are you both in a Turkish galley? And it is true that my dear sister is in this country, said the Baron. Yes, answered Cacombo. Then, I behold once more, my dear Candide, cried Pangloss. Candide presented Martin and Cacombo to them. They embraced each other and all spoke at once. The galley flew. They were already in the port. Instantly, Candide sent for a Jew to whom he sold for fifty thousand sequins a diamond worth a hundred thousand, though the fellow swore to him by Abraham that he could give him no more. He immediately paid the ransom for the Baron and Pangloss. The latter threw himself at the feet of his deliverer and bathed them with his tears. The former thanked him with a nod and promised to return him the money on the first opportunity. But it is indeed possible that my sister can be in Turkey, said he. Nothing is more possible, said Cacombo, since she scours the dishes in the service of a Transylvanian prince. Candide sent directly for two Jews and sold them some more diamonds, and then they all set out together in another galley to deliver Kunaganda from slavery. Red by Ted DeLorm in Fort Mill, South Carolina, during January 2007. I ask your pardon once more, said Candide to the Baron. Your pardon, Reverend Father, for having run you through the body. Say no more about it, answered the Baron. I was a little too hasty, I own, but since you wish to know by what fatality I came to be a galley slave, I will inform you. After I had been cured by the surgeon of the College of the Wounds you gave me, I was attacked and carried off by a party of Spanish troops who confined me in prison at Buenos Aires at the very time my sister was setting out thence. I asked Leave to return to Rome to the general of my order. I was appointed chaplain to the French ambassador at Constantinople. I had not been eight days in this employment when one evening I met with a young Itoglan, who was a very handsome fellow. The weather was warm, the young man wanted to bathe, and I took this opportunity of bathing also. I did not know that it was a capital crime for a Christian to be found naked with a young Muslim. A caddie ordered me a hundred blows on the soles of the feet and condemned me to the galleys. I do not think there ever was a greater act of injustice, but I should be glad to know how my sister came to be a scullion to a Transylvanian prince who has taken shelter among the Turks. But you, my dear Panglos, said Candid, how can it be that I behold you again? It is true, said Panglos, that you saw me hanged. I should have been burnt, but you may remember it rained exceedingly hard when they were going to roast me. The storm was so violent that they despaired of lighting the fire, so I was hanged because they could do no better. A surgeon purchased my body, carried me home, and dissected me. He began with making a crucial incision on me from the navel to the clavicular. One could not have been worse hanged than I was. The executioner of the holy inquisition was a sub-deacon and knew how to burn people marvelously well, but he was not accustomed to hanging. The cord was wet and did not slip properly, and besides it was badly tied. In short, I still drew my breath when the crucial incision made me give such a frightful scream that my surgeon fell flat upon his back, and imagining that he had been dissecting the devil, he ran away, dying with fear, and fell down the staircase in his flight. His wife, hearing the noise, flew from the next room. She saw me stretched out upon the table with my crucial incision. She was seized with yet greater fear than her husband, fled and tumbled over him. When they came to themselves a little, I heard the wife say to her husband, my dear, how could you take it into your head to dissect a heretic? Do you not know that these people always have the devil in their bodies? I will go and fetch a priest this minute to exercise him. At this proposal I shuddered and, mustering up what little courage I had still remaining, I cried out aloud, have mercy on me. At length the Portuguese barber plucked up his spirits. He sewed up my wounds, his wife even nursed me. I was upon my legs at the end of fifteen days. The barber found me a place as lackey to a knight of Malta who was going to Venice, but finding that my master had no money to pay me my wages, I entered the service of a Venetian merchant, and went with him to Constantinople. One day I took it into my head to step into a mosque, where I saw an old Iman with a very pretty young devotee who was saying her Peter Noster's. Her bosom was uncovered, and between her breasts she had a beautiful bouquet of tulips, roses, anemones, ranunculus, hyacinths, and auriculas. She dropped her bouquet. I picked it up and presented it to her with a profound reverence. I was so long in delivering it that the Iman began to get angry, and seeing that I was a Christian he called out for help. They carried me before the caddy who ordered me a hundred lashes on the soles of the feet and sent me to the galleys. I was chained to the very same galley and the same bench as the young baron. On board this galley there were four young men from Marseille, five Neapolitan priests, and two monks from Corfu who told us similar adventures happened daily. The baron maintained that he had suffered greater injustice than I, and I insisted that it was far more innocent to take up a bouquet and place it again on a woman's bosom, and to be found stark naked with a nature-glaan. We were continually disputing, and received twenty lashes with a bull's-pizzle when the concatenation of universal events brought you to our galley, and you were good enough to ransom us. Well, my dear Pangloss said Candide to him, when you had been hanged, dissected, whipped, and were tugging at the oar, did you always think that everything happens for the best? I am still of my first opinion, answered Pangloss, for I am a philosopher, and I cannot retract, especially as Leibniz could never be wrong. And besides, the pre-established harmony is the finest thing in the world, and so is his plenum and materious sub-delice.