—I can only get you to Lower Normandy, said the guardsman.
He had the irons removed at once, said there had been a mistake, dismissed his gang, and took Candide and Martin to Dieppe, where he left them with his brother. There was a little Dutch ship at anchor. The Norman, changed by three more diamonds into the most helpful of men, put Candide and his people aboard the vessel, which was bound for Portsmouth in England. It wasn’t on the way to Venice, but Candide felt like a man just let out of hell; and he hoped to get back on the road to Venice at the first possible occasion.
CHAPTER 23
Candide and Martin Pass the Shores of England; What They See There
—Ah, Pangloss! Pangloss! Ah, Martin! Martin! Ah, my darling Cunégonde! What is this world of ours? sighed Candide on the Dutch vessel.
—Something crazy, something abominable, Martin replied.
—You have been in England; are people as crazy there as in France?
—It’s a different sort of crazy, said Martin. You know that these two nations have been at war over a few acres of snow near Canada, and that they are spending on this fine struggle more than Canada itself is worth.87 As for telling you if there are more people in one country or the other who need a strait jacket, that is a judgment too fine for my understanding; I know only that the people we are going to visit are eaten up with melancholy.
As they chatted thus, the vessel touched at Portsmouth. A multitude of people covered the shore, watching closely a rather bulky man who was kneeling, his eyes blindfolded, on the deck of a man-of-war. Four soldiers, stationed directly in front of this man, fired three bullets apiece into his brain, as peaceably as you would want; and the whole assemblage went home, in great satisfaction.88
—What’s all this about? asked Candide. What devil is everywhere at work?
He asked who was that big man who had just been killed with so much ceremony.
—It was an admiral, they told him.
—And why kill this admiral?
—The reason, they told him, is that he didn’t kill enough people; he gave battle to a French admiral, and it was found that he didn’t get close enough to him.
—But, said Candide, the French admiral was just as far from the English admiral as the English admiral was from the French admiral.
—That’s perfectly true, came the answer; but in this country it is useful from time to time to kill one admiral in order to encourage the others.
Candide was so stunned and shocked at what he saw and heard, that he would not even set foot ashore; he arranged with the Dutch merchant (without even caring if he was robbed, as at Surinam) to be taken forthwith to Venice.
The merchant was ready in two days; they coasted along France, they passed within sight of Lisbon, and Candide quivered. They entered the straits, crossed the Mediterranean, and finally landed at Venice.
—God be praised, said Candide, embracing Martin; here I shall recover the lovely Cunégonde. I trust Cacambo as I would myself. All is well, all goes well, all goes as well as possible.
CHAPTER 24
About Paquette and Brother Giroflée
As soon as he was in Venice, he had a search made for Cacambo in all the inns, all the cafés, all the stews—and found no trace of him. Every day he sent to investigate the vessels and coastal traders; no news of Cacambo.
—How’s this? said he to Martin. I have had time to go from Surinam to Bordeaux, from Bordeaux to Paris, from Paris to Dieppe, from Dieppe to Portsmouth, to skirt Portugal and Spain, cross the Mediterranean, and spend several months at Venice—and the lovely Cunégonde has not come yet! In her place, I have met only that female pretender and that abbé from Perigord. Cunégonde is dead, without a doubt; and nothing remains for me too but death. Oh, it would have been better to stay in the earthly paradise of Eldorado than to return to this accursed Europe. How right you are, my dear Martin; all is but illusion and disaster.
He fell into a black melancholy, and refused to attend the fashionable operas or take part in the other diversions of the carnival season; not a single lady tempted him in the slightest. Martin told him: —You’re a real simpleton if you think a half-breed valet with five or six millions in his pockets will go to the end of the world to get your mistress and bring her to Venice for you. If he finds her, he’ll take her for himself; if he doesn’t, he’ll take another. I advise you to forget about your servant Cacambo and your mistress Cunégonde.
Martin was not very comforting. Candide’s melancholy increased, and Martin never wearied of showing him that there is little virtue and little happiness on this earth, except perhaps in Eldorado, where nobody can go.
While they were discussing this important matter and still waiting for Cunégonde, Candide noticed in St. Mark’s Square a young Theatine monk89 who had given his arm to a girl. The Theatine seemed fresh, plump, and flourishing; his eyes were bright, his manner cocky, his glance brilliant, his step proud. The girl was very pretty, and singing aloud; she glanced lovingly at her Theatine, and from time to time pinched his plump cheeks.
—At least you must admit, said Candide to Martin, that these people are happy. Until now I have not found in the whole inhabited earth, except Eldorado, anything but miserable people. But this girl and this monk, I’d be willing to bet, are very happy creatures.
—I’ll bet they aren’t, said Martin.
—We have only to ask them to dinner, said Candide, and we’ll find out if I’m wrong.
Promptly he approached them, made his compliments, and invited them to his inn for a meal of macaroni, Lombardy partridges, and caviar, washed down with wine from Montepulciano, Cyprus, and Sarnos, and some Lacrima Christi. The girl blushed but the Theatine accepted gladly, and the girl followed him, watching Candide with an expression of surprise and confusion, darkened by several tears. Scarcely had she entered the room when she said to Candide: —What, can it be that Master Candide no longer knows Paquette?
At these words Candide, who had not yet looked carefully at her because he was preoccupied with Cunégonde, said to her: —Ah, my poor child! so you are the one who put Doctor Pangloss in the fine fix where I last saw him.
—Alas, sir, I was the one, said Paquette; I see you know all about it. I heard of the horrible misfortunes which befell the whole household of my lady the Baroness and the lovely Cunégonde. I swear to you that my own fate has been just as unhappy. I was perfectly innocent when you knew me. A Franciscan, who was my confessor, easily seduced me. The consequences were frightful; shortly after my lord the Baron had driven you out with great kicks on the backside, I too was forced to leave the castle. If a famous doctor had not taken pity on me, I would have died. Out of gratitude, I became for some time the mistress of this doctor. His wife, who was jealous to the point of frenzy, beat me mercilessly every day; she was a gorgon. The doctor was the ugliest of men, and I the most miserable creature on earth, being continually beaten for a man I did not love. You will understand, sir, how dangerous it is for a nagging woman to be married to a doctor. This man, enraged by his wife’s ways, one day gave her as a cold cure a medicine so potent that in two hours’ time she died amid horrible convulsions. Her relatives brought suit against the bereaved husband; he fled the country, and I was put in prison. My innocence would never have saved me if I had not been rather pretty. The judge set me free on condition that he should become the doctor’s successor. I was shortly replaced in this post by another girl, dismissed without any payment, and obliged to continue this abominable business which you men find so pleasant and which for us is nothing but a bottomless pit of misery. I went to ply the trade in Venice. Ah, my dear sir, if you could imagine what it is like to have to caress indiscriminately an old merchant, a lawyer, a monk, a gondolier, an abbé; to be subjected to every sort of insult and outrage; to be reduced, time and again, to borrowing a skirt in order to go have it lifted by some disgusting man; to be robbed by this fellow of what one has gained from that; to be shaken down by the police, and to have before one only the
prospect of a hideous old age, a hospital, and a dunghill, you will conclude that I am one of the most miserable creatures in the world.
Thus Paquette poured forth her heart to the good Candide in a hotel room, while Martin sat listening nearby. At last he said to Candide: —You see, I’ve already won half my bet.
Brother Giroflée90 had remained in the dining room, and was having a drink before dinner.
—But how’s this? said Candide to Paquette. You looked so happy, so joyous, when I met you; you were singing, you caressed the Theatine with such a natural air of delight; you seemed to me just as happy as you now say you are miserable.
—Ah, sir, replied Paquette, that’s another one of the miseries of this business; yesterday I was robbed and beaten by an officer, and today I have to seem in good humor in order to please a monk.
Candide wanted no more; he conceded that Martin was right. They sat down to table with Paquette and the Theatine; the meal was agreeable enough, and when it was over, the company spoke out among themselves with some frankness.
—Father, said Candide to the monk, you seem to me a man whom all the world might envy; the flower of health glows in your cheek, your features radiate pleasure; you have a pretty girl for your diversion, and you seem very happy with your life as a Theatine.
—Upon my word, sir, said Brother Giroflée, I wish that all the Theatines were at the bottom of the sea. A hundred times I have been tempted to set fire to my convent, and go turn Turk. My parents forced me, when I was fifteen years old, to put on this detestable robe, so they could leave more money to a cursed older brother of mine, may God confound him! Jealousy, faction, and fury spring up, by natural law, within the walls of convents. It is true, I have preached a few bad sermons which earned me a little money, half of which the prior stole from me; the remainder serves to keep me in girls. But when I have to go back to the monastery at night, I’m ready to smash my head against the walls of my cell; and all my fellow monks are in the same fix.
Martin turned to Candide and said with his customary coolness: —Well, haven’t I won the whole bet?
Candide gave two thousand piastres to Paquette and a thousand to Brother Giroflée.
—I assure you, said he, that with that they will be happy.
—I don’t believe so, said Martin; your piastres may make them even more unhappy than they were before.
—That may be, said Candide; but one thing comforts me, I note that people often turn up whom one never expected to see again; it may well be that, having rediscovered my red sheep and Paquette, I will also rediscover Cunégonde.
—I hope, said Martin, that she will some day make you happy; but I very much doubt it.
—You’re a hard man, said Candide.
—I’ve lived, said Martin.
—But look at these gondoliers, said Candide; aren’t they always singing?
—You don’t see them at home, said Martin, with their wives and squalling children. The doge91 has his troubles, the gondoliers theirs. It’s true that on the whole one is better off as a gondolier than as a doge; but the difference is so slight, I don’t suppose it’s worth the trouble of discussing.
—There’s a lot of talk here, said Candide, of this Senator Pococurante,92 who has a fine palace on the Brenta and is hospitable to foreigners. They say he is a man who has never known a moment’s grief.
—I’d like to see such a rare specimen, said Martin.
Candide promptly sent to Lord Pococurante, asking permission to call on him tomorrow.
CHAPTER 25
Visit to Lord Pococurante, Venetian Nobleman
Candide and Martin took a gondola on the Brenta, and soon reached the palace of the noble Pococurante. The gardens were large and filled with beautiful marble statues; the palace was handsomely designed. The master of the house, sixty years old and very rich, received his two inquisitive visitors perfectly politely, but with very little warmth; Candide was disconcerted and Martin not at all displeased.
First two pretty and neatly dressed girls served chocolate, which they whipped to a froth. Candide could not forbear praising their beauty, their grace, their skill.
—They are pretty good creatures, said Pococurante; I sometimes have them into my bed, for I’m tired of the ladies of the town, with their stupid tricks, quarrels, jealousies, fits of ill humor and petty pride, and all the sonnets one has to make or order for them; but, after all, these two girls are starting to bore me too.
After lunch, Candide strolled through a long gallery, and was amazed at the beauty of the pictures. He asked who was the painter of the two finest.
—They are by Raphael,93 said the senator; I bought them for a lot of money, out of vanity, some years ago; people say they’re the finest in Italy, but they don’t please me at all; the colors have all turned brown, the figures aren’t well modeled and don’t stand out enough, the draperies bear no resemblance to real cloth. In a word, whatever people may say, I don’t find in them a real imitation of nature. I like a picture only when I can see in it a touch of nature itself, and there are none of this sort. I have many paintings, but I no longer look at them.
As they waited for dinner, Pococurante ordered a concerto performed. Candide found the music delightful.
—That noise? said Pococurante. It may amuse you for half an hour, but if it goes on any longer, it tires everybody though no one dares to admit it. Music today is only the art of performing difficult pieces, and what is merely difficult cannot please for long. Perhaps I should prefer the opera, if they had not found ways to make it revolting and monstrous. Anyone who likes bad tragedies set to music is welcome to them; in these performances the scenes serve only to introduce, inappropriately, two or three ridiculous songs designed to show off the actress’s sound box. Anyone who wants to, or who can, is welcome to swoon with pleasure at the sight of a castrate wriggling through the role of Caesar or Cato, and strutting awkwardly about the stage. For my part, I have long since given up these paltry trifles which are called the glory of modern Italy, and for which monarchs pay such ruinous prices.
Candide argued a bit, but timidly; Martin was entirely of a mind with the senator.
They sat down to dinner, and after an excellent meal adjourned to the library. Candide, seeing a copy of Homer94 in a splendid binding, complimented the noble lord on his good taste.
—That is an author, said he, who was the special delight of great Pangloss, the best philosopher in all Germany.
—He’s no special delight of mine, said Pococurante coldly. I was once made to believe that I took pleasure in reading him; but that constant recital of fights which are all alike, those gods who are always interfering but never decisively, that Helen who is the cause of the war and then scarcely takes any part in the story, that Troy which is always under siege and never taken—all that bores me to tears. I have sometimes asked scholars if reading it bored them as much as it bores me; everyone who answered frankly told me the book dropped from his hands like lead, but that they had to have it in their libraries as a monument of antiquity, like those old rusty coins which can’t be used in real trade.
—Your Excellence doesn’t hold the same opinion of Virgil? said Candide.
—I concede, said Pococurante, that the second, fourth, and sixth books of his Aeneid are fine; but as for his pious Aeneas, and strong Cloanthes, and faithful Achates, and little Ascanius, and that imbecile King Latinus, and middle-class Amata, and insipid Lavinia, I don’t suppose there was ever anything so cold and unpleasant.95 I prefer Tasso and those sleepwalkers’ stories of Ariosto.96
—Dare I ask, sir, said Candide, if you don’t get great enjoyment from reading Horace?
—There are some maxims there, said Pococurante, from which a man of the world can profit, and which, because they are formed into vigorous couplets, are more easily remembered; but I care very little for his trip to Brindisi, his description of a bad dinner, or his account of a quibblers’ squabble between some fellow Pupilus, whose words he says were ful
l of pus, and another whose words were full of vinegar.97 I feel nothing but extreme disgust at his verses against old women and witches; and I can’t see what’s so great in his telling his friend Maecenas that if he is raised by him to the ranks of lyric poets, he will strike the stars with his lofty forehead. Fools admire everything in a well-known author. I read only for my own pleasure; I like only what is in my style.
Candide, who had been trained never to judge for himself, was much astonished by what he heard; and Martin found Pococurante’s way of thinking quite rational.
—Oh, here is a copy of Cicero,98 said Candide. Now this great man I suppose you’re never tired of reading.
—I never read him at all, replied the Venetian. What do I care whether he pleaded for Rabirius or Cluentius? As a judge, I have my hands full of lawsuits. I might like his philosophical works better, but when I saw that he had doubts about everything, I concluded that I knew as much as he did, and that I needed no help to be ignorant.
—Ah, here are eighty volumes of collected papers from a scientific academy, cried Martin; maybe there is something good in them.
—There would be indeed, said Pococurante, if one of these silly authors had merely discovered a new way of making pins; but in all those volumes there is nothing but empty systems, not a single useful discovery.
—What a lot of stage plays I see over there, said Candide, some in Italian, some in Spanish and French.
—Yes, said the senator, three thousand of them, and not three dozen good ones. As for those collections of sermons, which all together are not worth a page of Seneca, and all these heavy volumes of theology, you may be sure I never open them, nor does anybody else.
Martin noticed some shelves full of English books.
—I suppose, said he, that a republican must delight in most of these books written in the land of liberty.
—Yes, replied Pococurante, it’s a fine thing to write as you think; it is mankind’s privilege. In all our Italy, people write only what they do not think; men who inhabit the land of the Caesars and Antonines dare not have an idea without the permission of a Dominican. I would rejoice in the freedom that breathes through English genius, if partisan passions did not corrupt all that is good in that precious freedom.