WHAT HAPPENED TO CANDIDE AND MARTIN IN
FRANCE
Candide stayed no longer at Bordeaux than was necessary to dispose of a
few of the pebbles he had brought from El Dorado, and to provide himself
with a post-chaise for two persons, for he could no longer stir a step without
his philosopher Martin. The only thing that give him concern was being
obliged to leave his sheep behind him, which he intrusted to the care of the
Academy of Sciences at Bordeaux, who proposed, as a prize subject for
the year, to prove why the wool of this sheep was red; and the prize was
adjudged to a northern sage, who demonstrated by A plus B, minus C,
divided by Z, that the sheep must necessarily be red, and die of the mange.
In the meantime, all travelers whom Candide met with in the inns, or on the
road, told him to a man, 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 Saint-Marceau, and thought himself in
one of the vilest hamlets in all Westphalia.
Candide had not been long at his inn, before he was seized with a slight
disorder, owing to the fatigue he had undergone. As he wore a diamond of
an enormous size on his finger and had among the rest of his equipage a
strong box that seemed very weighty, 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 quit his bedside, and two women
devotees, who were very careful in providing him hot broths.
"I remember", said Martin to him, "that the first time I came to Paris I was
likewise taken ill. I was very poor, and accordingly I had neither friends,
nurses, nor physicians, and yet I did very well."
However, by dint of purging and bleeding, Candide's disorder became very
serious. The priest of the parish came with all imaginable politeness to
desire a note of him, payable to the bearer in the other world. Candide
refused to comply with his request; but the two devotees assured him that it
was a new fashion. Candide replied, that he was not one that followed the
fashion. Martin was for throwing the priest out of the window. The clerk
swore Candide should not have Christian burial. Martin swore in his turn that
he would bury the clerk alive if he continued to plague them any longer. The
dispute grew warm; Martin took him by the shoulders and turned him out of
the room, which gave great scandal, and occasioned a proces-verbal.
Candide recovered, and till he was in a condition to go abroad had a great
deal of good company to pass the evenings with him in his chamber. They
played deep. Candide was surprised to find he could never turn a trick; and
Martin was not at all surprised at the matter.
Among those who did him the honors of the place was a little spruce abbe of
Perigord, one of those insinuating, busy, fawning, impudent, necessary
fellows, that lay wait for strangers on their arrival, tell them all the scandal of
the town, and offer to minister to their pleasures at various prices. This man
conducted Candide and Martin to the playhouse; they were acting a new
tragedy. Candide found himself placed near a cluster of wits: this, however,
did not prevent him from shedding tears at some parts of the piece which
were most affecting, and best acted.
One of these talkers said to him between acts, "You are greatly to blame to
shed tears; that actress plays horribly, and the man that plays with her still
worse, and the piece itself is still more execrable than the representation.
The author does not understand a word of Arabic, and yet he has laid his
scene in Arabia, and what is more, he is a fellow who does not believe in
innate ideas. Tomorrow I will bring you a score of pamphlets that have been
written against him."
"Pray, sir", said Candide to the abbe, "how many theatrical pieces have you
in France?"
"Five or six thousand", replied the abbe.
"Indeed! that is a great number", said Candide, "but how many good ones
may there be?"
"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 dull kind of tragedy that is played sometimes.
"That actress", said he to Martin, "pleases me greatly; she has some sort of
resemblance to Miss Cunegonde. I should be very glad to pay my respects
to her."
The abbe of Perigord offered his service to introduce him to her at her own
house. Candide, who was brought up in Germany, desired to know what
might be the ceremonial used on those occasions, and how a queen of
England was treated in France.
"There is a necessary distinction to be observed in these matters", said the
abbe. "In a country town we take them to a tavern; here in Paris, they are
treated with great respect during their lifetime, provided they are handsome,
and when they die we throw their bodies upon a dunghill."
"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 at 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. They buried her at
the corner of Burgundy Street, which must certainly have shocked her
extremely, as she had very exalted notions of things."
"This is acting very impolitely", said Candide.
"Lord!" said Martin, "what can be said to it? It is the way of these people.
Figure to yourself 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 abbe, "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 ill to
me of the piece with which I was so much affected, and of the players who
gave me so much pleasure?"
"A very good-for-nothing sort of a man I assure you", answered the abbe,
"one who gets his livelihood by abusing every new book and play that is
written or performed; he dislikes much to see anyone meet with success,
like eunuchs, who detest everyone that 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-manger!" said Candide, "what is that?"
"Why, a pamphlet-manger", replied the abbe, "is a writer of pamphlets-a
fool."
Candide, Martin, and the abbe of Perigord argued thus on the staircase,
while they stood to see the people go out of the playhouse.
"Though I am very anxious to see Miss Cunegonde again", said Candide,
"yet I have a great inclination to sup with Miss Clairon, for I am really much
taken with her."
The abbe was not a person to show his face at this lady's house, which was
frequented by none but the best company.
"She is engaged this evening", said he, "but I will do myself the honor to
introduce 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 here for forty
years."
Candide, who was naturally curious, suffered himself to be conducted to
this lady's house, which was in the suburbs of Saint-Honore. The company
was engaged at basser; twelve melancholy punters held each in his hand a
small pack of cards, the corners of which were doubled down, and were so
many registers of their ill fortune. A profound silence reigned throughout the
assembly, a pallid dread had taken possession of the countenances of the
punters, and restless inquietude stretched every muscle of the face of him
who kept the bank; and the lady of the house, who was seated next to him,
observed with lynx's eyes every play made, and noted those who tallied, and
made them undouble their cards with a severe exactness, though mixed with
a politeness, which she thought necessary not to frighten away her
customers. This lady assumed the title of Marchioness of Parolignac. Her
daughter, a girl of about fifteen years of age, was one of the punters, and
took care to give her mamma a hint, by signs, when any one of the players
attempted to repair the rigor of their ill fortune by a little innocent deception.
The company were thus occupied when Candide, Martin, and the abbe
made their entrance; not a creature rose to salute them, or indeed took the
least notice of them, being wholly intent upon the business at hand.
"Ah!" said Candide, "My Lady Baroness of Thunder-ten-tronckh would have
behaved more civilly."
However, the abbe whispered in the ear of the Marchioness, who half
raising herself from her seat, honored Candide with a gracious smile, and
gave Martin a nod of her head, with an air of inexpressible dignity. She then
ordered a seat for Candide, and desired him to make one of their party at
play; he did so, and in a few deals lost near a thousand pieces; after which
they supped very elegantly, and everyone was surprised at seeing Candide
lose so much money without appearing to be the least disturbed at it. The
servants in waiting said to each other, "This is certainly some English lord."
The supper was like most others of its kind in Paris. At first everyone was
silent; then followed a few confused murmurs, and afterwards several insipid
jokes passed and repassed, with false reports, false reasonings, a little
politics, and a great deal of scandal. The conversation then turned upon the
new productions in literature.
"Pray", said the abbe, "good folks, have you seen the romance written by a
certain Gauchat, Doctor of Divinity?"
"Yes", answered one of the company, "but I had not patience to go through
it. The town is pestered with a swarm of impertinent productions, but this of
Dr. Gauchat's outdoes them all. In short, I was so cursedly tired of reading
this vile stuff that I even resolved to come here, and make a party at basset."
"But what say you to the archdeacon T-'s miscellaneous collection", said the
abbe.
"Oh my God!" cried the Marchioness of Parolignac, "never mention the
tedious creature! Only think what pains he is at to tell one things that all the
world knows; and how he labors an argument that is 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 enough in
conscience to satisfy anyone."
There was at the table a person of learning and taste, who supported what
the Marchioness had advanced. They next began to talk of tragedies. The
lady desired to know how it came about that there were several tragedies,
which still continued to be played, though they would not bear reading? The
man of taste explained very clearly how a piece may be in some manner
interesting without having a grain of merit. He showed, in a few words, that it
is not sufficient to throw together a few incidents that are to be met with in
every romance, and that to dazzle the spectator the thoughts should be new,
without being farfetched; 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 showing an affectation of it
in any of the characters of his piece; he should be a perfect master of his
language, speak it with all its purity, and with the utmost harmony, and yet
so as not to make the sense a slave to the rhyme.
"Whoever", added he, "neglects any one of these rules, though he may
write two or three tragedies with tolerable success, will never be reckoned in
the number of good authors. There are very few good tragedies; some are
idylls, in very well-written and harmonious dialogue; and others a chain of
political reasonings that set one asleep, or else pompous and high-flown
amplification, that disgust rather than please. Others again are the ravings
of a madman, in an uncouth style, unmeaning flights, or long apostrophes to
the deities, for want of knowing how to address mankind; in a word a
collection of false maxims and dull commonplace."
Candide listened to this discourse with great attention, and conceived 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 her softly in
the ear and ask who this person was that spoke so well.
"He is a man of letters", replied Her Ladyship, "who never plays, and whom
the abbe brings with him to my house sometimes to spend an evening. He is
a great judge of writing, especially in tragedy; he has composed one
himself, which was damned, and has written a book that was never seen out
of his bookseller's shop, excepting only one copy, which he sent me with a
dedication, to which he had prefixed my name."
"Oh the great man", cried Candide, "he is a second Pangloss."
Then turning towards him, "Sir", said he, "you are doubtless of 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, "I think no such thing, I assure you; I find
that all in this world is set the wrong end uppermost. No one knows what is
his rank, his office, nor what he does, nor what he should do. With the
exception of our evenings, which we generally pass tolerably merrily, the
rest of our time is spent in idle disputes and quarrels, Jansenists against
Molinists, 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 continued
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
marvelously well, and that these evils you are speaking of were only so
many shades in a beautiful picture."
"Your hempen sage", said Martin, "laughed at you; these shades, as you
call them, are most horrible blemishes."
"The men make these blemishes", rejoined Candide, "and they cannot do
otherwise."
"Then it is not their fault", added Martin.
The greatest part of the gamesters, 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 dressingroom,
and made him sit down under a canopy.
"Well", said she, "are you still so violently fond of Miss Cunegonde 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 a great passion for 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 make you what answer you please."
"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."
"With all my heart, madam", said Candide, and he picked it up.
"But you must tie it on again", said the lady.
Candide tied it on again.
"Look ye, young man", said the Marchioness, "you are a stranger; I make
some of my lovers here in Paris languish for me a whole fortnight; but I
surrender to you at first sight, because I am willing to do the honors of my
country to a young Westphalian."
The fair one having cast her eye on two very large diamonds that were upon
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 abbe he felt some qualms of
conscience for having been guilty of infidelity to Miss Cunegonde. The abbe
took part with him in his uneasiness; he had but an inconsiderable share in
the thousand pieces Candide had lost at play, and the two diamonds which
had been in a manner extorted from him; and therefore very prudently
designed to make the most he could of his new acquaintance, which
chance had thrown in his way. He talked much of Miss Cunegonde, and
Candide assured him that he would heartily ask pardon of that fair one for
his infidelity to her, when he saw her at Venice.
The abbe redoubled his civilities 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'Abbe", answered Candide, "I must absolutely wait upon
Miss Cunegonde", and then the pleasure he took in talking about the object
he loved, led him insensibly to relate, according to custom, part of his
adventures with that illustrious Westphalian beauty.
"I fancy", said the abbe, "Miss Cunegonde has a great deal of wit, and that
her letters must be very entertaining."
"I never received any from her", said Candide; "for you are to consider that,
being expelled from the castle upon her account, I could not write to her,
especially as soon after my departure I heard she was dead; but thank God
I found afterwards she was living. I left her again after this, and now I have
sent a messenger to her near two thousand leagues from here, and wait
here for his return with an answer from her."
The artful abbe let not 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 billet:
"My Dearest Lover- I have been ill in this city these eight days. I have heard
of your arrival, and should fly to your arms were I able to stir. I was
informed of your being on the way hither at Bordeaux, 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 on the receipt of this. Your
presence will either give me new life, or kill me with the pleasure."
At the receipt of this charming, this unexpected letter, Candide felt the
utmost transports of joy; though, on the other hand, the indisposition of his
beloved Miss Cunegonde overwhelmed him with grief. Distracted between
these two passions he took his gold and his diamonds, and procured a
person to conduct him and Martin to the house where Miss Cunegonde
lodged. Upon entering the room he felt his limbs tremble, his heart flutter, his
tongue falter; he attempted to undraw the curtain, and called for a light to the
bedside.
"Lord sir", cried a maidservant, who was waiting in the room, "take care
what you do, Miss cannot bear the least light", and so saying she pulled the
curtain close again.
"Cunegonde! my dear cried Candide, bathed in tears, "how do you do? If
you cannot bear the light, speak to me at least."
"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 tears, then filled it with diamonds, leaving a purse of gold upon the
easy chair.
In the midst of his transports came an officer into the room, followed by the
abbe, and a file of musketeers.
"There", said he, "are the two suspected foreigners." At the same time he
ordered them to be seized and carried to prison.
"Travelers 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 pray, good sir, where are you going to carry us?" said Candide.
"To a dungeon, my dear sir", replied the officer.
When Martin had a little recovered himself, so as to form a cool judgment of
what had passed, he plainly perceived that the person who had acted the
part of Miss Cunegonde was a cheat; that the abbe of Perigord was a
sharper who had imposed upon the honest simplicity of Candide, and that
the officer was a knave, whom they might easily get rid of.
Candide following the advice of his friend Martin, and burning with
impatience to see the real Miss Cunegonde, rather than be obliged to
appear at a court of justice, proposed to the officer to make him a present
of three small diamonds, each of them worth three thousand pistoles.
"Ah, sir", said the understrapper of justice, "had you commited ever so
much villainy, this would render you the honestest man living, in my eyes.
Three diamonds worth three thousand pistoles! Why, my dear sir, so far
from carrying you to jail, I would lose my life to serve you. There are orders
for stopping all strangers; but leave it to me, I have a brother at Dieppe, in
Normandy. I myself will conduct you thither, and if you have a diamond left
to give him he will take as much care of you as I myself should."
"But why", said Candide, "do they stop all strangers?"
The abbe of Perigord made answer that it was because a poor devil of the
country of Atrebata heard somebody tell foolish stories, and this induced
him to commit a parricide; not such a one as that in the month of May,
1610, but such as that in the month of December in the year 1594, and
such as many that have been perpetrated in other months and years, by
other poor devils who had heard foolish stories.
The officer then explained to them what the abbe meant.
"Horrid monsters", exclaimed Candide, "is it possible that such scenes
should pass among a people who are perpetually singing and dancing? Is
there no flying this abominable country immediately, this execrable kingdom
where monkeys provoke tigers? I have seen bears in my country, but men I
have beheld nowhere but in El Dorado. In the name of God, sir", said he to
the officer, "do me the kindness to conduct me to Venice, where I am to
wait for Miss Cunegonde."
"Really, sir", replied the officer, "I cannot possibly wait on you farther than
Lower Normandy."
So saying, he ordered Candide's irons to be struck off, acknowledged
himself mistaken, and sent his followers about their business, after which he
conducted Candide and Martin to Dieppe, and left them to the care of his
brother.
There happened just then to be a small Dutch ship in the harbor. The
Norman, whom the other three diamonds had converted into the most
obliging, serviceable being that ever breathed, took care to see Candide
and his attendants safe on board this vessel, that was just ready to sail for
Portsmouth in England. This was not the nearest way to Venice, indeed, but
Candide thought himself escaped out of Hell, and did not, in the least, doubt
but he should quickly find an opportunity of resuming his voyage to Venice.