Candide (15 page)

Candide was so shocked at what he saw and heard that he would not set foot on shore, but made a bargain with the Dutch skipper (without even caring if he robbed him like the captain of Surinam) to take him directly to Venice.

The skipper was ready in two days. They sailed along the coast of France, and passed within sight of Lisbon, at which Candide trembled. From there they proceeded to the straits, entered the Mediterranean, and at length they arrived at Venice. “God be praised,” said Candide, embracing Martin, “this is the place where I am to see my beloved Cunégonde once again. I trust Cacambo as I do myself. All is well—all very well; all as well as possible.”

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pon their arrival in Venice he went in search of Cacambo at every inn and coffee-house, and among all the ladies of pleasure; but he found no trace of him. Every day he inquired about what ships had come in; still no news of Cacambo. “It is strange,” he said to Martin, “very strange that I have had time to sail from Surinam to Bordeaux; to travel from there to Paris, to Dieppe, to Portsmouth; to sail along the coast of Portugal and Spain, and up the Mediterranean to spend a few months in Venice; and that my lovely Cunégonde has not yet arrived. Instead of her, I have only met with a Parisian impostor and a rascally Abbé of Perigord. Cunégonde is actually dead, and nothing remains for me too but death. Alas! how much better it would have been for me to have remained in the paradise of El Dorado, than to have returned to this wicked Europe! You are right, my dear Martin; you are certainly in the right: all is misery and deceit.”

He fell into a deep melancholy, and neither went to the fashionable operas, nor took part in any of the diversions of the Carnival: not a single woman tempted him in the least bit. Martin said to him, “I think you are very foolish to imagine that a rascally valet, with five or six millions in his pocket, would go in search of your mistress to the far end of the world, and bring her to Venice to meet you. If he finds her, he will take her for himself; if he does not, he will take another. Let me advise you to forget your valet Cacambo, and your mistress Cunégonde.” Martin’s speech was not the most consolatory to the dejected Candide. His melancholy increased, and Martin never tired of showing him, that there is very little virtue or happiness in this world—except, perhaps in El Dorado, where hardly anybody can go.

While they were disputing on this important subject, and still expecting Miss Cunégonde, Candide noticed a young Theatin
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friar in St. Mark’s place, with a girl under his arm. The Theatin looked fresh-colored, plump and vigorous; his eyes sparkled; his air and gait were bold and lofty. The girl was very pretty, and was singing a song; and every now and then gave her Theatin an amorous ogle, and wantonly pinched his ruddy cheeks. “You will at least admit,” said Candide to Martin, “that these two are happy. So far I have met with none but unfortunate people in the whole habitable globe, except in El Dorado; but as to this couple, I would venture to lay a wager that they are happy.” “I bet they are not!” said Martin. “Well, we just have to ask them to dine with us,” said Candide, “and you will see whether I am mistaken or not.”

He approached them, and with great politeness invited them to his inn to eat some macaroni, with Lombard partridges and caviare, and to drink a bottle of Montepulciano, Lacryma Christi, Cyprus and Samos wine. The girl blushed; the Theatin accepted the invitation, and she followed him, eyeing Candide every now and then with a mixture of surprise and confusion, while the tears stole down her cheeks. No sooner did she enter his apartment than she cried out: “Mr. Candide, have you quite forgotten your Pacquette? Do you not recognize her again?” Candide, who had not looked carefully at her before, being wholly preoccupied with the thoughts of his dear Cunégonde. “Ah! is it you, child? Was it you that reduced Doctor Pangloss to that fine condition I saw him in?”

“Alas, sir,” answered Pacquette, “it was indeed. I see that you already know everything; and I have been informed of all the misfortunes that happened to the whole family of my lady baroness and the fair Cunégonde. But I can safely swear to you that my fate was no less unhappy; I was innocence itself when you saw me last. A Cordelier, who was my confessor, easily misled me; the consequences proved terrible. I was obliged to leave the castle some time after the baron kicked you out of there; and if a famous surgeon had not taken pity on me, I would have been a dead woman. Gratitude obliged me to live with him some time as a companion. His wife, who was jealous to a point of rage, beat me mercilessly every day. Oh! she was a perfect fury. The doctor himself was the ugliest of all mortals, and I the most wretched creature existing, to be continually beaten for a man I did not love. You know, sir, how dangerous it was for an ill-natured woman to be married to a physician. Incensed at the behaviour of his wife, one day he gave her so potent a remedy for a slight cold she had caught that she died in less than two hours in most dreadful convulsions. Her relations prosecuted the husband, who had to flee, and I was sent to prison. My innocence would not have saved me, if I had not been rather attractive. The judge set me free on condition that he should become the doctor’s successor. However, I was soon replaced by a rival, dismissed without a farthing, and obliged to continue the abominable trade which you men think so pleasing, but which to us unhappy creatures is the most dreadful of all sufferings. Finally I came to work this business in Venice. Ah! sir! if you could know what it is like to be with every man—with old tradesmen, with counsellors, with monks, watermen, and abbés; to be exposed to all their insolence and abuse; to be reduced to borrowing a skirt only in order for it to be lifted by some disgusting man; to be robbed by one man of what was gained from another; to be subject to the extortions of civil magistrates; and to have for ever before one’s eyes the prospect of old age, a hospital, or a dunghill, you would conclude that I am one of the most unhappy wretches breathing.”

Thus Pacquette unburdened herself to honest Candide in his room, in the presence of Martin, who took occasion to say to him, “You see, I have won the wager already.”

Friar Giroflée was all this time in the parlour refreshing himself with a glass or two of wine till dinner was ready. “But,” said Candide to Pacquette, “you looked so happy and content when I met you, you sang and caressed the Theatin with so much fondness, that I absolutely thought you as happy as you say you are now miserable.” “Ah, dear sir,” said Pacquette, “this is one of the miseries of the trade; yesterday I was stripped and beaten by an officer, yet today I must appear in good humor in order to please a friar.”

Candide was convinced, and acknowledged that Martin was right. They sat down to dinner with Pacquette and the Theatin; the meal was very agreeable, and towards the end they began to speak freely among themselves. “Father,” said Candide to the friar, “you seem to me to enjoy a state of happiness that even kings might envy; joy and health are painted on your countenance. You have a beautiful friend to divert you; and you seem to be perfectly well contented with your condition as a Theatin.”

“Faith, sir,” said Friar Giroflée, “I wish with all my soul that all the Theatins were at the bottom of the sea. I have been tempted a thousand times to set fire to the convent and go and turn Turk. My parents forced me at the age of fifteen to put on this detestable robe, only to increase the fortune of an elder brother of mine, may God confound him! Jealousy, discord and fury reside in our convent. It is true I have often preached paltry sermons which earned me a little money, part of which the prior robs me of, and the remainder helps to buy my joys; but at night when I go to my convent, I am ready to dash my brains against the walls of the dormitory; and this is the case with all the rest of our fraternity.”

Martin, turning towards Candide with his usual coolness, said, “Well, what think you now? Have I won the wager entirely?” Candide gave two thousand piastres to Pacquette and a thousand to Friar Giroflée, saying, “I will answer that this will make them happy.” “I don’t believe so,” said Martin; “perhaps this money will only make them wretched.” “Be that as it may,” said Candide, “one thing comforts me; I see that one often meets with those whom we never expected to see again; so that perhaps, as I have found my red sheep and Pacquette, I may be lucky enough to find Miss Cunégonde also.” “I hope,” said Martin, “that one day she will make you happy, but I doubt it very much.” “You are very hard in your beliefs,” said Candide. “It is because,” said Martin, “I have seen the world.”

“Observe those gondoliers,” said Candide; “aren’t they always singing?” “You do not see them,” answered Martin, “at home with their wives and brats. The doge
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has his chagrin, gondoliers theirs. Nevertheless, in general I look upon the gondolier’s life as preferable to that of the doge; but the difference is so trifling that it is not worth the trouble of looking into it.”

“I have heard a lot,” said Candide “of the Senator Pococuranté,
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C
andide and his friend Martin went into a gondola on the Brenta, and arrived at the palace of the noble Pococuranté: the gardens were laid out in elegant taste, and adorned with fine marble statues; his palace was one of beautiful architecture. The master of the house, who was a man of sixty, and very rich, received our two travellers with great politeness, but without much eagerness, which somewhat disconcerted Candide, but was not at all displeasing to Martin.

As soon as they were seated, two very pretty girls, neatly dressed, brought in chocolate, which was extremely well frothed. Candide could not help praising their beauty and grace. “They are pretty good creatures,” said the senator. “I make them my companions, for I am tired of the ladies of the town, their coquetry, their jealousy, their quarrels, their humours, their meannesses, their pride, and their folly. I am weary of making sonnets, or of paying for sonnets to be made on them; but after all, these two girls are beginning to bore me.”

After lunch, Candide walked through a large gallery, where he was amazed by the beauty of the paintings. Candide asked who the painter of the two finest was. “They are Raphael’s,”
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answered the senator. “I spent a great deal of money on them seven years ago, purely out of curiosity as they were said to be the finest pieces in Italy; but I cannot say they please me; the colouring is dark and heavy; the figures do not swell or come out enough; and the drapery is very bad. In short, regardless of the praises lavished upon them, they are not, in my opinion, a true representation of nature. I approveof no paintings except those where I think I see Nature herself ; and there are very few, if any, of that kind. I have what is called a fine collection, but I take no manner of delight in them.”

While dinner was getting ready Pococuranté ordered a concerto to be performed. Candide found the music delightful. “This noise,” said the noble Venetian, “may amuse one for a little while, but if it was to last more than half-an-hour, it would grow tiresome to everybody, though perhaps no one would care to admit that. Music has become only the art of performing what is difficult; and whatever is difficult cannot please for long.

“I believe I might take more pleasure in an opera, if they had not found ways to make it monstrous and revolting to me; and I am amazed at how people can bear to see bad tragedies set to music; where the scenes are contrived for no other reason than to introduce three or four ridiculous songs, to give a favourite actress an opportunity of showing off her voice. Let who will or can swoon with pleasure at the trills of a eunuch quavering through the majestic part of Cæsar
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or Cato,
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and strutting in a foolish manner upon the stage. For my part, I have long ago renounced these paltry entertainments, which constitute the glory of modern Italy, and are so dearly purchased by crowned heads.” Candide disputed these sentiments; but he did it in a discreet manner. As for Martin, he was entirely of the old senator’s opinion.

Dinner being served, they sat down to the table, and after a hearty meal, returned to the library. Candide, seeing a copy of Homer
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in splendid binding, complimented the noble Venetian’s taste. “This,” said he, “is a book that was once the delight of the great Pangloss, the best philosopher in Germany.” “Homer is no favourite of mine,” answered Pococuranté very coolly. “I was made to believe once that I took a pleasure in reading him; but his continual repetitions of battles which are all alike; his gods that are always interfering, but never doing anything decisive; his Helen, who is the cause of the war, and yet hardly acts in the whole performance; his Troy that holds out so long without being taken; in short, all these things together make the poem very boring to me. I have asked some scholars if reading it bored them as much as it bored me. Those who spoke sincerely assured me that he had made them fall asleep, and yet that they could not well avoid giving him a place in their libraries; but that is merely what they do with an antique, like those rusty medals which are kept only for curiosity, and are of no use in commerce.”

“But your excellency does not hold the same opinion of Virgil?” said Candide. “I concede,” replied Pococuranté, “that the second, third, fourth, and sixth books of his Aeneid are excellent; but as for his pious Aeneas, his strong Cloanthus, his friendly Achates, his boy Ascanius, his silly king Latinus, his ill-bred Amata, his insipid Lavinia, and some other characters much in the same strain, I don’t believe there was ever anything more flat and disagreeable. I must confess I prefer Tasso and even that sleepy tale-teller Ariosto.”
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“May I take the liberty to ask if you do not get great pleasure from reading Horace?” said Candide. “There are maxims there,” replied Pococuranté, “from which a man of the world may reap some benefit; and the short measure of the verse makes them more easily remembered. But I see nothing extraordinary in his journey to Brundusium, and his description of his bad dinner; nor in his dirty low quarrel between one Rupilius, whose words, as he expresses it, were full of poisonous filth; and another, whose language was dipped in vinegar. His indelicate verses against old women and witches have frequently given me great offence;
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nor can I see what’s so great about his telling his friend Maecenas
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that, if he is raised by him to the ranks of lyric poets, his lofty head shall touch the stars.
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Fods admire everything in an esteemed writer. I read only to please myself. I like only what suits me.” Candide, who had been raised never to judge for himself, was astonished at what he heard; but Martin found that there was a good deal of reason in the senator’s remarks.