Candide (14 page)

There was at the table a person of learning and taste, who supported what the Marchioness had said. They next began to talk of tragedies. The lady wanted to know why there were several tragedies which still continued to be performed, though they were unreadable. The man of taste explained very clearly, how a play might have a certain interest without having a grain of merit. He showed, in a few words, that it is not enough to throw together a few incidents that can be found in every novel, and that dazzle the spectator ; the thoughts should be new without being far-fetched; frequently sublime, but always natural; the author should have a thorough knowledge of the human heart, and make it speak properly ; he should be a complete poet, without allowing any character in the play to sound like a poet; he should be a perfect master of his language, speak it with all its purity and with the utmost harmony, and yet he should not make the sense a slave to the rhyme. “Whoever,” he added, “neglects any of these rules, though he may write two or three tragedies with tolerable success, will never be considered among the number of good authors. There are very few good tragedies; some are idylliums, in well written and harmonious dialogue; and others a chain of political reasonings that put one to sleep; or else pompous and high-flown amplifications that disgust rather than please. Still others are the ravings of a madman, barbarous in style, incoherent in meaning, or full of long speeches to the gods because the author doesn’t know how to address mankind; in a word, a collection of false maxims and dull commonplace.”

Candide listened to this discourse with great attention, and formed a high opinion of the person who delivered it; and as the Marchioness had taken care to place him near her side, he took the liberty to whisper to her softly in the ear, and ask who this person was who spoke so well. “He is a man of letters,” replied her ladyship, “who never plays, and whom the Abbé brings to my house sometimes to spend an evening. He is a great judge of writing, especially in tragedy: he has written one himself, which was panned, and has written a book that was never seen out of his bookseller’s shop, except for one copy, which was dedicated to me.” “Oh, the great man!” cried Candide: “he is a second Pangloss.”

Then turning towards him: “Sir,” said he, “you are no doubt of the opinion that everything is for the best in the physical and moral world, and that nothing could be otherwise than it is?” “I, sir!” replied the man of letters; “think no such thing, I assure you; I find that everything goes wrong in our world. No one knows his place in society, his duty, nor what he does, nor what he should do; and except for our evenings, which are cheerful enough, the rest of our time is spent in idle disputes and quarrels: Jansenists against Molinists,
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the Parliament against the Church, and one armed body of men against another; courtier against courtier, husband against wife, and relations against relations. In short, this world is nothing but one continuous scene of civil war.”

“Yes,” said Candide, “and I have seen worse than all that; and yet a learned man, who had the misfortune to be hanged, taught me that everything was marvellously well, and that these evils you are speaking of were only just the shadows in a beautiful picture.” “Your hanged sage,” said Martin, “laughed at you. These shadows, as you call them, are the most horrible blemishes.” “It is men who make these blemishes,” said Candide, “and they cannot do otherwise.” “Then it is not their fault,” added Martin. Most of the card players, who did not understand a syllable of this discourse, amused themselves with drinking, while Martin reasoned with the learned gentleman; and Candide entertained the lady of the house with a part of his adventures.

After supper the Marchioness conducted Candide into her dressing-room, and made him sit down under a canopy. “Well,” she said, “are you still so madly in love with Miss Cunégonde of Thunder-ten-tronckh?” “Yes, madam,” replied Candide. The Marchioness said to him, with a tender smile, “You answer me like a young man born in Westphalia. A Frenchman would have said, ‘It is true, madam, I had been in love with Miss Cunegonde; but since I have seen you I fear I can no longer love her as I did.’ ” “Alas! madam,” replied Candide, “I will answer in any way you want.” “You fell in love with her, I find, in stooping to pick up her handkerchief, which she had dropped. You shall pick up my garter.” “Gladly, madam,” said Candide; and he picked it up. “But you must tie it on again,” said the lady. “Look, young man,” said the Marchioness, “you are a stranger. I make some of my lovers here in Paris languish for me for two weeks; but I surrender to you the first night, because I am willing to do the honours of my country to a young Westphalian.” The fair one having cast her eye on two very large diamonds that were on the young stranger’s finger, praised them in so earnest a manner that they were in an instant transferred from his finger to hers.

As Candide was going home with the Abbé he felt some remorse at having been unfaithful to Miss Cunégonde. The Abbé sympathized with him in his uneasiness. He had only a small share of the fifty thousand francs which Candide had lost at cards, and the two diamonds which had been in a manner extorted from him; and therefore very cunningly schemed to make the most that he could of his new acquaintance. He talked at length of Miss Cunégonde; and Candide assured him that he would beg forgiveness for his infidelity of that fair one when he saw her at Venice.

The Abbé overflowed with politeness, and seemed to interest himself warmly in everything that Candide said, did, or seemed inclined to do.

“And so, sir, you have an engagement at Venice?” “Yes, Monsieur l’Abbé,” answered Candide, “I must absolutely wait for Miss Cunégonde;” and then, carried away by the pleasure he took in talking about the object of his love, he recounted, as he often did, part of his adventures with that illustrious Westphalian beauty.

“I suppose,” said the Abbé, “Miss Cunégonde has a great deal of wit, and that her letters must be very entertaining.” “I never received any from her,” said Candide, “for as you can imagine, being expelled from the castle on her account, I could not write to her especially because soon after my departure I heard that she was dead; but, thank God, I found out afterwards that she was living. I left her again after this, and now I have sent a messenger to her nearly two thousand leagues from here, and I am waiting here for his return with an answer from her.”

The artful Abbé did not let a word of all this escape him, though he seemed to be musing upon something else. He soon took his leave of the two adventurers, after having embraced them with the greatest cordiality. The next morning, almost as soon as his eyes were open, Candide received the following letter:—

“My dearest Lover,—I have been ill in this city for eight days. I have heard of your arrival, and would fly to your arms if were I able to move. I was told that you passed through Bordeaux on your way here; that was where I left the faithful Cacambo and the old woman, who will soon follow me. The Governor of Buenos Ayres has taken everything from me but your heart, which I still retain. Come to me immediately. Your presence will either give me new life or cause me to die of joy.”

This unexpected letter filled Candide with utmost joy; though on the other hand, the illness of his beloved Miss Cunégonde overwhelmed him with grief. Torn between these two feelings, he took his gold and his diamonds, and hired a person to conduct him and Martin to the house where Miss Cénogunde lodged. Upon entering the room he felt his limbs tremble, his heart flutter, his tongue falter. He attempted to open the curtain, and asked for some light. “Lord, sir,” cried a maid-servant, who was waiting in the room, “be careful; light will be the death of her.” And so saying, she pulled the curtains closed again. “Cunégonde! my dear Cunégonde!” cried Candide, bathed in tears, “how are you? If you can’t see me, at least speak to me.” “Alas! she cannot speak,” said the maid. The sick lady then put a plump hand out of the bed, and Candide first bathed it with his tears, then filled it with diamonds, leaving a purse of gold upon the chair.

In the midst of this emotional moment an officer came into the room, followed by the Abbé and a squad of musketeers. “There,” he said, “are the two suspected foreigners.” At the same time he ordered them to be seized and carried to prison. “Travellers are not treated in this manner in the country of El Dorado,” said Candide. “I am more of a Manichaean now than ever,” said Martin. “But, good sir, where are you taking us,” said Candide. “To a dungeon, my dear sir,” replied the officer.

When Martin had recovered a little, so that he was able to form a cool judgment of what had happened, he realized that the person who had acted the part of Miss Cunégonde was a cheat, that the Abbé of Perigord was another cheat, who had imposed on the honest simplicity of Candide, and that the officer was still another cheat, whom they might easily get rid of.

Candide, following the advice of his friend Martin, and burning with impatience to see the real Miss Cunégonde, rather than have to appear at a court of justice, offered the officer three small diamonds, each of them worth three thousand pistoles. “Ah, sir,” said this man, “even if you had committed every crime imaginable, this would render you the most honest man in my eyes. Three diamonds worth three thousand pistoles! Why, my dear sir, rather than take you to jail, I would die for you. All foreigners get arrested here, but let me manage things. I have a brother at Dieppe, in Normandy. I myself will take you there, and if you have a diamond left to give him, he will take care of you as I myself would.”

“But why,” said Candide, “do they arrest all foreigners?” The Abbé of Perigord spoke up and said that it was because a beggar from Atrebata
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heard somebody tell foolish stories, and this induced him to commit a parricide; not like the one in the month of May, 1610, but like the one in the month of December in 1594,
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and much on the order of several that had been committed in other months and years by other poor devils who had heard foolish stories.

The officer then explained to them what that was all about. “Horrid monsters!” exclaimed Candide. “Is it possible that such scenes could happen among a people who are perpetually singing and dancing ? Can I flee this abominable country immediately, this execrable kingdom, where monkeys provoke tigers? I have seen bears in my country, but men I have seen nowhere but in El Dorado. In the name of God, sir,” said he to the officer, “get me to Venice, where I must wait for Miss Cunégonde.” “Really, sir,” replied the officer, “I cannot possibly take you farther than Lower Normandy.” So saying, he ordered Candide’s irons to be struck off, acknowledged himself mistaken, and dismissed his squad of followers; after this he took Candide and Martin to Dieppe, and left them in the care of his brother. There happened just then to be a small Dutch ship at anchor. The Norman, whom the other three diamonds had converted into the most helpful of men, made sure that Candide and his attendants got safely on board this vessel, which was just ready to sail for Portsmouth in England. This was not the nearest way to Venice indeed; but Candide felt that he’d just escaped from hell, and did not doubt that he would quickly find an opportunity to resume his voyage to Venice.

 

THE ARREST OF CANDIDE

“A
h, Pangloss! Pangloss! Ah, Martin! Martin! Ah, my dear Miss Cunégonde! What sort of a world is this?” exclaimed Candide as soon as he had boarded the Dutch ship. “Something very foolish and very abominable,” said Martin. “You are acquainted with England,” said Candide; “are they as great fools in that country as in France?” “Yes; but in a different way,” answered Martin. “You know that these two nations are at war about a few acres of barren land near Canada, and that they have spent much more on that struggle than Canada is worth.
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To say exactly if there are more people in one country or the other who should be in a madhouse exceeds the limits of my reasoning abilities. I know in general that the people we are going to visit are of a very dark and gloomy disposition.”

As they were chatting thus together they arrived at Portsmouth. The shore on each side the harbour was lined with a multitude of people, whose eyes were steadfastly fixed on a big man who was kneeling down on the deck of one of the men-of-war with something tied over his eyes. In front of this man stood four soldiers, each of whom shot three bullets into his skull with full composure; and when it was done the crowds went away perfectly well satisfied.
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“What is all this about?” said Candide; “and what demon is everywhere at work?” He then asked who was that big man who had just been killed with so much ceremony, when he received for answer that it was an admiral. “And why do you put your admiral to death?” “Because he did not put a sufficient number of people to death. You must know, he battled against French admiral, and it has been proved that he was not near enough to his antagonist.” “But,” replied Candide, “the French admiral must have been as far from the English admiral as the English admiral was from the French.” “There is no doubt about that; but in this country it is necessary. now and then, to put one admiral to death in order to inspire the others to fight.”