by Voltaire
Candide continued some days longer at Surinam, waiting for any captain to carry him and his two remaining sheep to Italy. He hired domestics, and purchased many things necessary for the long voyage ; finally, Mynheer Vanderdendur, skipper of a large Dutch vessel, came and offered his service. “What will you charge,” said Candide, “to carry me, my servants, my baggage, and these two sheep you see here, directly to Venice?” The skipper asked for ten thousand piastres; and Candide agreed to his demand without hesitation.
“Ho, ho!” said the cunning Vanderdendur to himself, “this stranger must be very rich; he agrees to give me ten thousand piastres without hesitation.” Returning a little while later, he told Candide that, upon second consideration he could not undertake the voyage for less than twenty thousand. “Very well, you shall have them,” said Candide.
“Well!” said the skipper to himself, “this man agrees to pay twenty thousand piastres with as much ease as ten.” So he went back again to say that he will not carry him to Venice for less than thirty thousand piastres. “Then you shall have thirty thousand,” said Candide.
“Ah ha!” said the Dutchman once more to himself, “thirty thousand piastres mean nothing to this man. Those sheep must certainly be laden with an immense treasure. I’ll stop here and ask no more; but make him pay up front the thirty thousand piastres, and then we’ll see.” Candide sold two small diamonds, the least of which was worth more than all the skipper asked. He paid him in advance; the two sheep were put on board, and Candide followed in a small boat to join the vessel at its anchorage. The skipper took his opportunity, hoisted sail, and put out to sea with a favourable wind. Candide, confounded and amazed, soon lost sight of the ship. “Alas!” said he, “this is a trick worthy of our old world!” He returned back to the shore overwhelmed with grief; and indeed he had lost what would have made the fortune of twenty monarchs.
Immediately upon his landing he applied to the Dutch magistrate. Because he was feeling troubled, he thundered at the door, went in, made his case, and talked a little louder than was necessary. The magistrate began by fining him ten thousand piastres for making such a racket, and then listened very patiently to what he had to say; promised to look into the affair on the skipper’s return; and ordered him to pay ten thousand piastres more for the fees of the court.
This treatment completed Candide’s despair. It is true he had suffered misfortunes a thousand times more grievous; but the cool insolence of the judge and the villainy of the skipper raised his anger and threw him into a deep melancholy. The villainy of mankind presented itself to his mind in all its deformity, and his mind dwelt only on gloomy thoughts. After some time, hearing that the captain of a French ship was ready to set sail for Bordeaux, as he had no more sheep loaded with diamonds to put on board, he took a cabin at a fair price; and made it known in the town that he would pay the passage and board of any honest man who would keep him company during the voyage, besides making him a present of ten thousand piastres, on condition that such person must be the most disgusted with his own condition, and the most unhappy in the whole province.
This drew such a crowd of candidates that a large fleet could not have contained them. Candide, willing to choose among those who appeared most likely to answer his intention, selected twenty, who seemed to him the most companionable, and who all pretended to be more miserable than all the others. He invited them to his inn, and promised to treat them to supper, on condition that every man would swear to tell his own history; declaring at the same time that he would select that person who appeared to him the most deserving of compassion and the most truly dissatisfied with his condition of life, and that he would distribute various gifts among the rest.
This extraordinary assembly continued sitting till four in the morning. Candide, while he was listening to their adventures, recalled what the old woman had said to him during their voyage to Buenos Ayres, and the bet she had made that there was not a person on board the ship who had not met with some great misfortunes. Every story he heard made him think of Pangloss. “My old master,” said he, “would be hard pressed to prove his system. If only he were here! Certainly, if everything is for the best, it is in El Dorado, and not in the other parts of the world.” Finally he selected a poor scholar, who had worked ten years for the booksellers at Amsterdam. He decided that no employment could be more detestable.
This scholar, who was in fact a very honest man, had been robbed by his wife, beaten by his son, and forsaken by his daughter, who had run away with a Portuguese. He had also been fired from the little job on which he existed, and he was persecuted by the clergy of Surinam, who took him for a Socinian.19 It must be acknowledged that the other competitors were at least as wretched as he. But Candide hoped that the company of a man of letters would relieve the tediousness of the voyage. All the other candidates complained that Candide had done them great injustice, but he pacified them with a present of a hundred piastres to each.
XX
What happened to Candide and Martin at sea
The old philosopher, whose name was Martin, set sail with Candide for Bordeaux. They both had seen and suffered a great deal; and even if the ship had been sailing from Surinam to Japan round the Cape of Good Hope, they would have been able to keep themselves amused during the whole voyage with instances of moral and natural evil.
Candide, however, had one advantage over Martin; he still hoped to see Miss Cunégonde once more, whereas the poor philosopher had nothing to hope for; besides, Candide had money and jewels, and though he had lost a hundred red sheep laden with the greatest treasure on earth, and though he still had in his heart the memory of the Dutch skipper’s villainy, yet when he considered what he had still left, and repeated the name of Cunégonde, especially after meal times, he leaned toward Pangloss’s doctrine.
“And,” said he to Martin, “what is your opinion of this system? What is your idea of moral and natural evil?” “Sir,” replied Martin, “our priest accused me of being a Socinian: but the real truth is, I am a Manichæan.”20 “You’re joking,” said Candide, “there aren’t any more Manichaeans in the world.” “And yet I am one,” said Martin; “but I cannot help it; I cannot think otherwise.” “Surely the devil must be in you,” said Candide. “He is mixed up with so many,” replied Martin, “of the affairs of this world, that it is very probable he may be in me as well as everywhere else; but I must confess, when I cast my eye on this globe, or rather globule, I cannot help thinking that God has abandoned it to some evil being—all of it except El Dorado. I have scarcely seen a city that did not wish the destruction of its neighbouring city, nor a family that did not desire to exterminate some other family. The poor in all parts of the world bear an inveterate hatred against the rich, even while they creep and cringe to them; and the rich treat the poor like sheep, whose wool and flesh they barter for money: a million regimented assassins roam Europe from one end to the other, carrying out murder and robbery with such discipline in order to earn their bread because there is no more honest profession for them. Even in those cities which seem to enjoy the blessings of peace, and where the arts flourish, the inhabitants are devoured by envy, cares and anxieties, which are greater plagues than any experienced in a town when it is under siege. Private griefs are still more dreadful than public calamities. In a word,” concluded the philosopher, “I have seen and suffered so much that I am a Manichaean.”
“And yet there is some good in the world,” replied Candide. “Maybe so,” said Martin; “but it has escaped my knowledge.”
While they were deeply engaged in this dispute they heard the rumble of cannon, which grew louder every moment. Each took out his spy-glass, and they saw two ships fighting at the distance of about three miles away. The wind brought them both so near the French ship that they had the pleasure of seeing the fight with great ease. After several smart broadsides, the one gave the other a shot so well aimed that it sank her outright. Then Candide and Martin could easily see a hundred men on the deck of the vessel w
hich was sinking, who, with hands raised to heaven, sent forth piercing cries and were in a moment swallowed up by the waves.
“Well,” said Martin, “you now see how mankind treat each other.” “It is certain,” said Candide, “that there is something diabolical in this affair.” As he was speaking, he noticed something of a shining red hue, floating close to the sunken vessel. They sent a boat to investigate what it might be, and it proved to be one of his sheep. Candide felt more joy at the recovery of this one animal than he did grief when he lost the other hundred, all laden with the large diamonds of El Dorado.
The French captain quickly realized that the victorious ship belonged to the crown of Spain; that the other was a Dutch pirate and the very same captain who had robbed Candide. The immense riches which this villain had stolen were buried with him in the sea, and only this one sheep was saved. “You see,” said Candide to Martin, “that vice is sometimes punished; this villain the Dutch skipper has met with the fate he deserves.” “Very true,” said Martin “but why should the passengers perish too? God has punished the knave, and the devil has drowned the rest.”
The French and Spanish ships continued on their journey, and Candide and Martin continued their conversation. They disputed for fifteen days in a row and at the end of that time they were just as far advanced as the first moment they began. However, they had the satisfaction of talking, of communicating their ideas, and of comforting each other. Candide embraced his sheep: “Since I have found you again,” said he, “I may possibly find my Cunégonde once more.”
XXI
Candide and Martin draw near to the coast of France. They reason with each other
They could finally see the coast of France, when Candide said to Martin: “Mr Martin, were you ever in France?” “Yes, sir,” said Martin, “I have been in several provinces of that kingdom. In some half of the people are fools and madmen; in some they are too sly; in still others they are in general either very good-natured or very brutal; while in others they affect to be witty; and in all their ruling passion is love, the next is slander, and the last is to talk nonsense.” “But, Mr Martin, were you ever in Paris?” “Yes, sir, I have been in that city, and it is a place that contains all species just described. It is a chaos, a confused multitude, where every one seeks pleasure without being able to find it: at least, as far as I have observed during my short stay in that city. At my arrival I was robbed of everything I had by pickpockets at the fair of St. Germain. bc I myself was taken for a robber, and confined in prison a whole week, after which I took a job as a proofreader, in order to get enough money to return on foot to Holland. I knew the whole tribe of scribblers, malcontents and fanatics. It is said that the people of that city are very polite: I believe they may be so.”
“I myself have no curiosity to see France,” said Candide. “You no doubt realize that after spending a month at El Dorado, I desire to see nothing but Miss Cunégonde; I am going to wait for her at Venice. I intend to pass through France on my way to Italy; will you not accompany me?” “With all my heart,” said Martin. “They say Venice is good only for noble Venetians, but that, nevertheless, strangers are well treated there when they have plenty of money. Now I have none, but you have; therefore I will follow you anywhere.”“By the way,” said Candide, “do you think that the earth was originally sea, as we read in that great bookbd which belongs to the captain of the ship?” “I don’t believe any of that,” replied Martin, “any more than I do of the many other chimeras which people have been peddling for some time past.” “But then why,” said Candide, “was the world formed?” “To drive us mad,” said Martin. “Aren’t you surprised,” continued Candide, “at the love which the two girls in the country of the Oreillons had for those two monkeys ? You know I have told you the story.” “Surprised!” replied Martin, “not in the least; I see nothing strange in this passion. I have seen so many extraordinary things that there is nothing extraordinary to me now.” “Do you think,” said Candide, “that mankind always massacred each other as they do now? Were they always guilty of lies, fraud, treachery, ingratitude, inconstancy, envy, ambition, and cruelty? Were they always thieves, fools, cowards, gluttons, drunkards, misers, calumniators, debauchees, fanatics and hypocrites?” “Do you believe,” said Martin, “that hawks have always eaten pigeons when they could get them?” “Of course,” said Candide. “Well, then,” replied Martin, “if hawks have always had the same nature, why do you suppose that mankind has changed?” “Oh!” said Candide, “there is a great deal of difference; because free will—” And disputing in this manner they arrived at Bordeaux.
XXII
What happened to Candide and Martin in France
Candide stayed at Bordeaux only long enough to sell a few of the pebbles he had brought from El Dorado, and to provide himself with a carriage for two persons, for he could no longer do without his philosopher Martin. The only thing that upset him was having to part with his sheep, which he entrusted to the care of the Academy of Sciences at Bordeaux, who proposed, as a theme for that year’s prize contest, to prove why the wool of this sheep was red; and the prize was awarded to a northern sage, who demonstrated by A plus B minus C, divided by Z, why the sheep must necessarily be red, and die of the mange.be
In the meantime, all the travellers whom Candide met with in the inns or on the road told him that they were going to Paris. This general eagerness gave him likewise a great desire to see this capital, and it was not much out of his way to Venice.
He entered the city by the suburbs of St. Marceau,bf and thought he was in one of the vilest villages in all Westphalia.
Candide had not been long at his inn before he came down with a mild illness caused by exhaustion. As he wore a diamond of an enormous size on his finger, and people had noticed among the rest of his luggage a safe that seemed very heavy, he soon found himself between two physicians whom he had not sent for, a number of intimate friends whom he had never seen and who would not leave his bedside, and two pious ladies, who warmed his broth.
“I remember,” said Martin to him, “that the first time I came to Paris I also got sick. I was very poor, and consequently I had neither friends, nurses, nor physicians, and yet I did very well.”
However, as a result of the purging and bleeding,bg Candide’s condition became very serious. The priest of the parish came with all imaginable politeness to ask for a note payable to the bearer in the other world.bh Candide refused to comply with his request, but the two pious ladies assured him that it was a new fashion. Candide replied that he was not one to follow fashion. Martin wanted to throw the priest out of the window. The cleric swore that Candide would not have Christian burial. Martin swore in his turn that he would bury the cleric alive if he continued to bother them any longer. The dispute grew heated; Martin took him by the shoulders and turned him out of the room, which caused a great scandal and developed into a legal case.
Candide recovered, and till he was in a condition to go abroad, he had a great deal of very good company to pass the evenings with him in his chamber. They played cards. Candide was surprised to find he could never turn a trick, and Martin was not at all surprised.
Among those who did him the honours of the place was a little spruce Abbé of Perigord—one of those insinuating, busy, fawning, impudent, necessary fellows, who waylay passing strangers, tell them all the scandal of the town, and offer to see to their pleasures at any price. This man conducted Candide and Martin to the play-house : they were performing a new tragedy. Candide found himself seated near a cluster of wits. This, however, did not prevent him from shedding tears at some scenes, which were most affecting and well acted. One of these talkers said to him between the acts: “You are quite mistaken to shed tears. That actress is horrible, and the man who acts with her still worse, and the play itself is more execrable than the actors in it. The author does not understand a word of Arabic, and yet he has set his scene in Arabia; and what is more, he is a man who does not believe in innate ideas. To-morrow I
will bring you a score of pamphlets that have been written against him.” “Tell me, sir,” said Candide to the Abbé, “how many plays are there for performance in France?” “Five or six thousand,” replied the other. “Indeed! that is a great number,” said Candide; “but how many good ones are there?” “About fifteen or sixteen.” “Oh! that is a great number,” said Martin.
Candide was greatly taken with an actress who performed the part of Queen Elizabeth in a rather dull tragedy.bi “That actress,” he said to Martin, “pleases me greatly. She has some resemblance to Miss Cunégonde. I would like to meet her.” The Abbé of Perigord offered to introduce him to her at her own house. Candide, who was brought up in Germany, wanted to know how one behaved in France with Queens of England. “There is a necessary distinction to be observed in these matters,” said the Abbé. “In a country town we take them to a tavern; here in Paris they are treated with great respect during their lifetime, while they are attractive, and when they die we throw their bodies upon a dunghill.”21 “How,” said Candide, “throw a Queen’s body upon a dunghill!” “The gentleman is quite right,” said Martin; “he tells you nothing but the truth. I happened to be in Paris when Miss Monimia made her exit, as one may say, out of this world into another. She was refused what they call here the rites of sepulture; that is to say she was denied the privilege of rotting in a churchyard by the side of all the beggars in the parish.22 They buried her at the corner of Burgundy Street, which must certainly have shocked her, for she had very exalted notions of things.” “That was very rude,” said Candide. “Lord!” said Martin, “what do you expect? It is the way of these people. Imagine all the contradictions, all the inconsistencies possible, and you may meet with them in the government, the courts of justice, the churches, and the public spectacles of this odd nation.” “Is it true,” said Candide, “that the people of Paris are always laughing?” “Yes,” replied the Abbé; “but it is with anger in their hearts. They express all their complaints by loud bursts of laughter, and commit the most detestable crimes with a smile on their faces.”
