Candide (13 page)

“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 book
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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.

C
andide 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.
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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,
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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,
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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.
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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.
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“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.”
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“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.
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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.”

“Who was that great overgrown beast,” said Candide, “who spoke so nastily to me about the play over which I was weeping, and about the actors who gave me so much pleasure? ” “A very good-for-nothing sort of a man, I assure you, ” answered the Abbé; ”one who gets his livelihood by slandering every new book and play that is written or performed. He hates to see any one meet with success, like eunuchs, who detest every one who possesses those powers they are deprived of. He is one of those vipers in literature who nourish themselves with their own venom; a pamphlet-monger.” “A pamphlet-monger? ” said Candide; ”what is that? ” “Why, a pamphlet-monger,” replied the Abbé, ”is a writer of pamphlets, a fool. ”

 

THE ILLNESS OF CANDIDE IN PARIS

Candide, Martin, and the Abbé of Perigord argued on the staircase while they watched the crowd leaving the theater. “Though I am in a great hurry to see Miss Cunégonde again,” said Candide, “I also have a great inclination to dine with Miss Clairon, for I am really much taken with her.”

The Abbé was not the person to approach this lady’s house, which was frequented by none but the best company. “She is engaged this evening,” said he; “but I will have the honour of introducing you to a lady of quality of my acquaintance, at whose house you will see as much of the manners of Paris as if you had lived there for forty years.”

Candide, who was naturally curious, allowed himself to be taken to this lady’s house, which was in the suburbs of St Honoré.
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The people gathered there were playing a game of basset;
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twelve melancholy gamblers held each in his hand a small pack of cards, the corners of which, turned down, were the summaries of their bad luck. A profound silence reigned through the assembly, the gamblers were pallid and the banker was uneasy; and the lady of the house, who was seated next to him, observed with lynx’s eyes every parole
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and bet at long odds which the players signaled by folding the corners of the cards, and she made them unfold their cards with a severe exactness, though mixed with a politeness, lest she frighten away her customers. This lady assumed the tide of Marchioness of Parolignac. Her daughter, a girl of about fifteen years of age, was one of the gamblers, and tipped off her mamma, by signs, when any one of the players attempted to undo their ill-fortune by a little innocent deception. This is how the group was occupied when Candide, Martin and the Abbé made their entrance. Not a creature rose to salute them, or indeed took the least notice of them, being instead completely absorbed with their cards. “Ah!” said Candide, “My lady Baroness of Thunder-ten-tronckh would have behaved more civilly.”

However, the Abbé whispered in the ear of the Marchioness, who, half raising herself from her seat, honoured Candide with a gracious smile, and gave Martin a nod of her head with an air of inexpressible dignity. She then gave a seat and dealt some cards to Candide, who lost fifty thousand francs in two rounds; after this they ate very elegantly, and every one was surprised at seeing Candide lose so much money without appearing to be upset over it. The servants in waiting said to each other, “This is certainly some English lord.”

The supper was like most others of this kind in Paris. At first every one was silent; then followed a few confused murmurs, and afterwards several insipid jokes, false reports, false reasonings, a little politics, and a great deal of scandal. The conversation then turned upon the new productions in literature. “Tell me,” said the Abbé, “have you seen the romance written by the Sieur Gauchat, doctor of divinity?”
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“Yes,” answered one of the guests, “but I didn’t have patience to finish it. The town is pestered with a swarm of impertinent publications, but this of Dr Gauchat’s outdoes them all. In short, I was so horribly tired of reading this vile stuff, that I even decided to come here, and play cards.” “But what do you think about the Archdeacon T—’s
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miscellaneous collection?” said the Abbé. “Oh, my God!” cried the Marchioness of Parolignac, “never mention that tedious creature. He takes such pains to tell you what everyone knows; and how he talks so learnedly on matters that are hardly worth the slightest consideration! How absurdly he makes use of other people’s wit! how miserably he mangles what he has pilfered from them! The man makes me quite sick. A few pages of the good archdeacon are plenty.”