Candide, or Optimism by Voltaire

A timeless satire of optimism, human folly, and the search for meaning in a world shaped by chance and suffering.

Chapter I

How Candide Was Brought Up in a Fine Castle, and How He Was Expelled from It

In Westphalia, in the castle of Baron Thunder-ten-Tronckh, there lived a young man whom nature had endowed with the gentlest of manners. His face reflected his soul. He had sound judgment and the simplest of minds; I believe that is why he was called Candide. The oldest servants of the house suspected he was the son of the baron’s sister and a good, honest gentleman from the neighborhood, whom she would never marry because he could prove only seventy-one generations of nobility, and the rest of his family tree had been lost to the ravages of time.

The baron was one of the most powerful lords in Westphalia, for his castle had a door and windows. His grand hall was even adorned with a tapestry. All the dogs from his farmyards made up a pack in case of need; his stable boys doubled as his huntsmen; the village priest was his chief chaplain. Everyone called him “My Lord,” and they laughed at his stories.

Madam the baroness, who weighed about three hundred and fifty pounds, was thus highly respected and ran the household with a dignity that made her even more commendable. Her daughter Cunegonde, aged seventeen, was rosy-cheeked, fresh, plump, and attractive. The baron’s son seemed in every way worthy of his father. The tutor, Pangloss, was the oracle of the household, and young Candide listened to his lessons with all the innocence of his age and character.

Pangloss taught metaphysico-theologo-cosmolo-nigology. He admirably demonstrated that there is no effect without a cause, and that in this best of all possible worlds, the baron’s castle was the finest of castles, and madam the best of all possible baronesses.

“It is demonstrated,” he would say, “that things cannot be otherwise: everything is made for a purpose, and everything is necessarily for the best purpose. Notice, for example, that noses were made to wear glasses, and so we have glasses. Legs were visibly designed to be clad in trousers, and so we have trousers. Stones were formed to be shaped and built into castles, and so my lord has a beautiful castle; the greatest baron in the province must have the best house; and since pigs were made to be eaten, we eat pork all year round. Therefore, those who have said all is well were mistaken; it would be more correct to say all is for the best.”

Candide listened closely and believed innocently, for he found Mlle Cunegonde extremely beautiful, though he never dared tell her so. He decided that after the happiness of being born Baron Thunder-ten-Tronckh, the next best thing was to be Mlle Cunegonde; third, to see her every day; and fourth, to hear Master Pangloss, the greatest philosopher in the province and therefore in the whole world.

One day, while walking near the castle in a little wood called the park, Cunegonde saw Dr. Pangloss giving a lesson in experimental physics to her mother’s maid, a pretty, docile brunette. Since Mlle Cunegonde had a flair for science, she watched, silently, the repeated experiments she witnessed; she clearly saw the doctor’s “sufficient reason,” the effects and causes, and returned home agitated, thoughtful, and full of desire to be knowledgeable, thinking she might well be the “sufficient reason” for young Candide, who could, in turn, be hers.

She met Candide while returning to the castle and blushed; Candide blushed too. She greeted him in a faltering voice; and he replied without knowing what he was saying. The next day, after dinner, as everyone was leaving the table, Cunegonde and Candide found themselves behind a screen; Cunegonde dropped her handkerchief, Candide picked it up; she innocently took his hand; the young man innocently kissed her hand with a unique enthusiasm, sensitivity, and grace; their lips met, their eyes sparkled, their knees trembled, their hands wandered. At that moment, the baron passed by the screen and, seeing cause and effect, drove Candide out of the castle with powerful kicks. Cunegonde fainted; as soon as she came to, the baroness slapped her; and all was thrown into disarray in the most beautiful and delightful of all possible castles.

Chapter II

What Happened to Candide Among the Bulgarians

Driven out of his earthly paradise, Candide wandered for a long time without knowing where he was going, weeping and often gazing back at the most beautiful of castles, which held the loveliest of baronesses. He lay down hungry in a field between two furrows; snow was falling in large flakes. Freezing, he dragged himself the next day to a nearby town called Valdberghoff-trarbk-dikdorff, with no money, starving and exhausted. He stopped miserably at the door of an inn. Two men dressed in blue noticed him.

“Comrade,” said one, “here’s a well-built young man, just the right height.” They approached Candide and politely invited him to dinner.

“Gentlemen,” replied Candide modestly, “you do me great honor, but I have nothing with which to pay you.”

“Oh! sir,” said one of the men in blue, “people of your appearance and worth never have to pay: aren’t you five feet five inches tall?”

“Yes, that’s my height,” said Candide, bowing.

“Excellent! Please join us; not only will we pay for your meal, but we will ensure you never lack money. People are meant to help one another.”

“You are right,” said Candide, “that’s what Dr. Pangloss always told me, and I see now that all is for the best.”

They insisted he take a few coins, which he accepted and tried to write a receipt for, but they refused. They sat down to eat. “Do you love tenderly…?”

“Oh yes,” replied Candide, “I love Mlle Cunegonde dearly.”

“No,” said one of the men, “we mean, do you love the King of the Bulgarians?”

“Not at all,” said Candide, “I’ve never met him.”

“What? He’s the most charming of kings! You must drink to his health.”

“Oh, very well, gentlemen.” And he drank.

“That’s enough,” they told him, “you are now the support, the defender, the hero of the Bulgarians—your fortune is made, and your glory is assured.” Immediately, they put irons on his legs and took him to the regiment. He was drilled right and left, taught to handle the stick, aim, fire, and march double time. He was given thirty strokes of the cane. The next day, he performed the drills a bit less badly and received only twenty strokes; the day after, just ten—his comrades now saw him as a prodigy.

Candide, utterly bewildered, still didn’t quite understand how he’d become a hero. One fine spring day, he decided to go for a walk, thinking it was a right of humans and animals alike to use their legs as they wished. He had not gone two leagues before four other heroes, each six feet tall, caught him, tied him up, and locked him in a dungeon. He was formally asked whether he would rather be flogged thirty-six times by the whole regiment, or be shot with twelve bullets in the head. He argued that free will should allow him to refuse both, but he had to choose. Exercising his God-given liberty, he chose to be flogged. He endured two rounds. The regiment had two thousand men; that meant four thousand strokes, which tore up his back from neck to buttocks, exposing muscle and nerves. As they prepared for the third round, Candide, unable to go on, begged to have his head smashed in instead. This request was granted; they blindfolded him and made him kneel.

At that moment, the King of the Bulgarians happened to pass by and inquired about the crime. Being a man of genius, the king quickly understood that Candide was a young philosopher, ignorant of the world, and pardoned him with a mercy that would be praised in all the newspapers and for all time. A skilled surgeon healed Candide in three weeks with soothing remedies taught by Dioscorides. He had some skin again and could walk when the King of the Bulgarians went to war with the King of the Abares.

Chapter III

How Candide Escaped from the Bulgars, and What Became of Him

Nothing was as beautiful, lively, brilliant, or well-organized as the two armies. The trumpets, fifes, oboes, drums, and cannons made a harmony such as had never been heard—even in hell. The cannons immediately felled about six thousand men on each side; then the musket fire took out about nine to ten thousand more scoundrels who were spoiling the earth. The bayonets also provided a sufficient reason for the deaths of several thousand men. In all, about thirty thousand souls were lost. Candide, trembling like a true philosopher, hid himself as best he could during this heroic slaughter.

While both kings had their armies singing Te Deum in their respective camps, Candide decided to go consider cause and effect elsewhere. He passed over heaps of dead and dying, reaching a nearby village; it was in ashes—a village of the Abares, burned by the Bulgars, as was standard practice. Here, old men riddled with wounds watched their murdered wives dying, clutching their bleeding infants; over there, girls who had been violated and disemboweled took their dying breaths; others, half-burned, cried out to be finished off. Brains were scattered on the ground alongside severed arms and legs.

Candide hurried to another village, which belonged to the Bulgars but had been treated just as badly by the Abares. Stepping over twitching limbs and through ruins, he finally escaped the theater of war, carrying a few provisions in his bag and never forgetting Mlle Cunegonde. His food ran out when he reached Holland; but having heard that everyone was rich there and that it was a Christian country, he had no doubt he would be as well cared for as he was in the baron’s castle before he was kicked out for loving Mlle Cunegonde.

He begged several solemn-looking people for charity, but all told him that if he kept it up, he’d be locked in a workhouse to learn how to behave.

He then approached a man who had just spent an hour lecturing a large crowd about charity. This orator, eyeing Candide suspiciously, asked, “What are you doing here? Are you here for the good cause?”

“There is no effect without a cause,” Candide replied modestly; “everything is necessarily connected and arranged for the best. I had to be driven away from Mlle Cunegonde, be flogged, and now beg for bread until I can earn some; it could not have happened otherwise.”

“My friend,” said the orator, “do you believe the Pope is the Antichrist?”

“I hadn’t heard that before,” Candide answered, “but whether he is or isn’t, I just need some bread.”

“You don’t deserve any,” said the other. “Go away, you wretch, never come near me again.”

The orator’s wife, seeing a man who doubted that the Pope was the Antichrist, poured a ... [chamber pot] over his head. O heavens! To what extremes religious zeal can drive a lady!

A man who had not been baptized, a good Anabaptist named Jacques, saw the cruel and disgraceful way Candide was treated. He took him home, cleaned him up, gave him bread and beer, gave him two florins, and even wanted to teach him to work in his Persian cloth factory. Candide, nearly falling to his knees, exclaimed, “Master Pangloss was right—everything is for the best, because I am far more moved by your generosity than by the harshness of that man in the black cloak and his wife.”

The next day while walking, Candide met a beggar covered with sores, with lifeless eyes, his nose eaten away, mouth twisted, black teeth, and a hoarse voice, tormented by a violent cough and spitting out a tooth at every word.

Chapter IV

How Candide Met His Old Philosophy Teacher, Dr. Pangloss, and What Happened Next

Candide, moved more by compassion than horror, gave the wretched beggar the two florins he had received from the kindly Anabaptist Jacques. The ghostly figure stared at him, burst into tears, and threw his arms around him. Candide, frightened, stepped back.
“Alas!” said the miserable man to the other miserable man, “Don’t you recognize your dear Pangloss?”
“What do I hear? You, my dear teacher! In this terrible state? What misfortune has happened to you? Why aren’t you in the finest of castles? What became of Mlle Cunegonde, the pearl of girls, nature’s masterpiece?”
“I can’t go on,” said Pangloss.

Candide immediately took him to the stable of the Anabaptist, where he gave him some bread. When Pangloss had revived, Candide asked, “Well, what about Cunegonde?”
“She’s dead,” answered Pangloss.

Candide fainted at these words. His friend brought him to his senses with some bad vinegar that happened to be in the stable. Candide opened his eyes.
“Cunegonde is dead! Oh, best of all possible worlds, where are you? But what did she die of? Was it from seeing me kicked out of her father’s beautiful castle?”
“No,” said Pangloss, “she was disemboweled by Bulgar soldiers, after being raped as much as one possibly can be; they smashed the baron’s head when he tried to defend her; the baroness was cut to pieces; my poor pupil was treated like his sister; and as for the castle, not a stone was left standing, not a barn, not a sheep, not a duck, not a tree. But we were well avenged—the Abares did the same in a neighboring barony belonging to a Bulgar lord.”

At this, Candide fainted again. When he came to, he asked Pangloss what had caused him to end up in such a pitiful state.
“Alas!” replied Pangloss, “it was love—the comforter of humankind, the preserver of the universe, the soul of all sensitive beings: tender love.”
“Alas!” said Candide, “I have known this love, this ruler of hearts, and it brought me nothing but a kiss and twenty kicks in the backside. How could such a beautiful cause have such a horrible effect on you?”

Pangloss explained:
“Oh, my dear Candide! You knew Paquette, that pretty maid of our noble baroness. I experienced paradise in her arms, which led to the hellish torments you now see. She was infected, and may even be dead by now. Paquette got this ‘gift’ from a learned Franciscan, who got it from a countess, who got it from a cavalry captain, who got it from a marquise, who got it from a page, who got it from a Jesuit novice, who got it from one of Columbus’s companions. As for me, I’ll pass it on to no one, for I’m dying of it.”

“Oh Pangloss!” cried Candide, “what a strange genealogy! Wasn’t it the devil who started it all?”

“Not at all,” replied the philosopher. “It was a necessary thing in the best of all possible worlds—a required ingredient. If Columbus hadn’t caught this disease in an American island, which poisons the source of generation and often even prevents generation—clearly contrary to nature’s great aim—we wouldn’t have chocolate or cochineal. Besides, until now, this disease is unique to our continent, like our arguments. The Turks, Indians, Persians, Chinese, Siamese, and Japanese don’t have it yet, but there’s a sufficient reason they’ll get it in a few centuries. Meanwhile, it has made great progress among us, especially in those great armies of well-bred mercenaries who decide the fate of states. Truly, when thirty thousand men fight in a battle, about twenty thousand are infected on each side.”

“Amazing,” said Candide, “but you must be cured.”

“And how can I be?” said Pangloss. “I don’t have a penny, and everywhere on this globe, you can’t get bloodletting or an enema without paying, or without someone paying for you.”

This last remark motivated Candide. He threw himself at the feet of the charitable Anabaptist Jacques, painting such a moving picture of Pangloss’s situation that the good man didn’t hesitate to take him in and pay for his cure. Pangloss lost only an eye and an ear in the process. He still wrote well and knew arithmetic perfectly. Jacques made him his bookkeeper.

Two months later, needing to go to Lisbon for business, Jacques took both philosophers on his ship. Pangloss explained how everything was for the best. Jacques disagreed: “Men must have corrupted nature a bit, for they weren’t born wolves, but they have become wolves. God didn’t give them twenty-four-pound cannons or bayonets, but they made them to destroy each other. I could also mention bankruptcies and the justice system taking the assets of bankrupts to deprive creditors.”

“All this was necessary,” replied the one-eyed doctor, “and private misfortunes contribute to the general good; so, the more private misfortunes there are, the better everything is.”

While they were reasoning, the sky darkened, the winds blew from all directions, and the ship was hit by the most dreadful storm just as they were in sight of Lisbon.

Chapter V

Storm, Shipwreck, Earthquake, and What Became of Dr. Pangloss, Candide, and the Anabaptist Jacques

Half the passengers, weakened and exhausted by the unimaginable misery caused by the ship’s tossing, didn’t even have the strength to worry about the danger. The other half screamed and prayed; the sails were shredded, the masts broken, the ship was splitting apart. Whoever could, worked; no one could hear or command anyone else. The Anabaptist Jacques was helping as best he could on deck when a furious sailor struck him hard and knocked him down. But from the force of his own blow, the sailor himself was thrown headfirst overboard and was left clinging to a piece of broken mast. Good Jacques rushed to help him, tried to pull him back on board, but in doing so was thrown into the sea himself, right in front of the sailor—who let him drown without even a glance.

Candide rushed over and saw his benefactor reappear briefly before vanishing forever. He tried to jump in after him, but Pangloss stopped him, proving to him that the harbor at Lisbon had been created expressly so the Anabaptist would drown there. As Pangloss was proving this a priori, the ship broke apart; everyone perished except Pangloss, Candide, and the brutal sailor who let the virtuous Jacques drown. The scoundrel swam safely to shore, and Pangloss and Candide were washed up on a plank.

When they regained their senses, they made their way toward Lisbon. They had a little money left, which they hoped would save them from starvation after surviving the storm.

No sooner had they set foot in the city, mourning the death of their benefactor, than the ground began to shake beneath them. The sea boiled up in the harbor, smashing anchored ships. Whirlwinds of flame and ash covered the streets and squares; houses collapsed, roofs fell onto their foundations, and the foundations crumbled. Thirty thousand people of all ages and sexes were crushed beneath the ruins. The sailor, whistling and cursing, said, “Looks like there’ll be some profit here.”
“What could be the sufficient reason for this phenomenon?” asked Pangloss.
“This is the end of the world!” cried Candide.

The sailor immediately ran into the wreckage, risking his life to find money, which he did—he took it, got drunk, and then bought the favors of the first willing woman he met among the ruined houses, even among the dying and the dead. Pangloss tugged at his sleeve, saying, “My friend, this is not right, you’re offending universal reason, and your timing is very poor.”
“Damn it, I’m a sailor from Batavia,” replied the other, “I’ve stepped on the crucifix four times in Japan, you won’t get far with your universal reason here!”

Some falling stones had injured Candide; he lay in the street, covered in rubble, and said to Pangloss, “Oh! fetch me a little wine and oil—I’m dying.”
“This earthquake is nothing new,” replied Pangloss. “Lima in America had similar shocks last year. Same causes, same effects; there must be a trail of sulfur underground from Lima to Lisbon.”
“Most likely,” said Candide, “but for God’s sake, a little oil and wine!”
“How can you say ‘most likely’?” replied Pangloss. “I insist it’s proven.”
Candide fainted, and Pangloss fetched him some water from a nearby fountain.

The next day, after finding some food among the ruins, they regained some strength. Then, like others, they worked to help the survivors. Some grateful citizens gave them as good a dinner as one could expect in such disaster, but the meal was somber; the guests soaked their bread with tears. Pangloss tried to comfort them, assuring them it could not have been otherwise:
“All this is for the best. If there’s a volcano in Lisbon, it couldn’t have been anywhere else; things cannot be other than they are, for everything is for the best.”

A small, dark man—an officer of the Inquisition—who was sitting nearby, politely spoke up:
“Apparently, sir, you do not believe in original sin; for if everything is for the best, there was neither fall nor punishment.”
“I most humbly beg your pardon, your Excellency,” replied Pangloss, even more politely, “for the fall of man and the curse were absolutely necessary in the best of all possible worlds.”
“Then, sir, you do not believe in free will?” asked the officer.
“Your Excellency, forgive me,” said Pangloss, “free will can exist with absolute necessity, for it was necessary that we should be free, for, after all, the will is determined…”

Pangloss was in the middle of his phrase when the officer nodded to his attendant, who was serving him some wine.

Chapter VI

How a Splendid Auto-da-fé Was Held to Prevent Earthquakes, and How Candide Was Flogged

After the earthquake that destroyed three-quarters of Lisbon, the wise men of the country could find no better way to prevent absolute ruin than to give the people a grand auto-da-fé (public burning of heretics). The University of Coimbra had decided that watching a few people burned alive in great ceremony was a sure way to stop the earth from trembling.

Accordingly, they arrested a Biscayan man for marrying his godmother, and two Portuguese men for removing the bacon from a chicken while eating it. After dinner, Dr. Pangloss and his pupil Candide were also tied up—one for speaking his mind, the other for listening and nodding approvingly. Both were taken to very cool rooms where they were never bothered by the sun. Eight days later, they were dressed in a sanbenito (a penitential garment), and their heads adorned with paper miters. Candide’s miter and robe were painted with upside-down flames and devils without tails or claws; Pangloss’s devils had tails and claws, and the flames pointed straight up.

They marched in procession dressed this way and listened to a very moving sermon, followed by solemn music. Candide was flogged in rhythm while the choir sang; the Biscayan and the two men who didn’t want to eat bacon were burned, and Pangloss was hanged, although that wasn’t the usual custom. On the same day, the earth quaked again with a terrifying noise.

Candide, horrified, stunned, and bleeding, said to himself, “If this is the best of all possible worlds, what must the others be like? It would be bearable if all I got was a flogging—after all, I’ve been flogged before by the Bulgars. But oh, my dear Pangloss, the greatest of philosophers! Must I see you hanged, without even knowing why? Oh, my dear Anabaptist, the best of men! Must you be drowned in the harbor? Oh, Mlle Cunegonde, the pearl of girls! Must you be disemboweled?”

As he staggered away, barely able to stand—preached at, flogged, absolved, and blessed—a strange old womanapproached him and said:
“My child, take heart and follow me.”

Chapter VII

How an Old Woman Took Care of Candide, and How He Found What He Loved

Candide did not gain much courage, but he followed the old woman into a shabby little house. She gave him a jar of ointment for his wounds, left him food and drink, and showed him a rather clean little bed. There was a complete set of clothes next to it.
“Eat, drink, and sleep,” she told him, “and may Our Lady of Atocha, Saint Anthony of Padua, and Saint James of Compostela watch over you! I’ll return tomorrow.”
Candide, still stunned by everything he had seen and suffered—and even more by the old woman’s kindness—tried to kiss her hand.
“That’s not the hand you should be kissing,” she said. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Rub yourself with the ointment, eat, and sleep.”

Despite all his misfortunes, Candide ate and slept. The next day, the old woman brought him breakfast, checked his back, rubbed him with another ointment, brought him lunch, and came again in the evening with supper. The following day she repeated these rituals.
“Who are you?” Candide asked her again and again. “What inspires you to be so kind? How can I ever repay you?”
She never answered. That evening, she did not bring supper.
“Come with me, and say nothing,” she told him.

She took him by the arm and led him out of the city for about a quarter of a mile, to a secluded house surrounded by gardens and canals. She knocked on a small door, which was quietly opened. She led Candide up a hidden staircase into a gilded sitting room, left him on a brocade couch, closed the door, and disappeared. Candide thought he was dreaming—his whole life seemed like a nightmare, and this moment like a pleasant dream.

Soon, the old woman returned, supporting with difficulty a trembling woman of majestic bearing, glittering with jewels, and covered with a veil.
“Take off this veil,” the old woman said to Candide.

The young man approached and timidly lifted the veil. What a moment! What a surprise! He thought he saw Mlle Cunégonde; in fact, it was her. Overcome, he couldn’t say a word and collapsed at her feet. Cunégonde fell onto the couch. The old woman sprinkled them both with spirits; they regained consciousness and spoke—first in broken phrases, with questions and answers tangled up with sighs, tears, and cries. The old woman urged them to be quieter and left them alone.

“What! Is it really you?” Candide exclaimed. “You’re alive! I find you in Portugal! So you weren’t raped or disemboweled, as Pangloss claimed?”
“Oh, but I was,” replied the beautiful Cunégonde, “but you don’t always die from those things.”
“But your father and mother—were they killed?”
“All too true,” Cunégonde said, weeping.
“And your brother?”
“He was killed as well.”
“But why are you in Portugal? How did you know I was here? How did you arrange to have me brought to this house?”
“I’ll tell you everything,” she replied, “but first, you must tell me everything that’s happened to you since the innocent kiss you gave me and the kicks you received.”

Candide obeyed with profound respect. Though he was still dazed, his voice weak and trembling, and his back still sore, he told her as simply as possible everything he had experienced since they parted. Cunégonde looked up to heaven and wept for the deaths of the good Anabaptist and Pangloss. Then, she began to tell her own story to Candide, who listened to every word and could not take his eyes off her.

Chapter VIII

Cunégonde’s Story

“I was asleep in my bed when heaven allowed the Bulgars to invade our beautiful castle of Thunder-ten-Tronckh. They slashed my father’s and brother’s throats and cut my mother into pieces. A huge Bulgar, six feet tall, seeing that I’d fainted at the sight, began to rape me. That brought me back to my senses—I screamed, struggled, bit, scratched, tried to gouge out his eyes, not realizing that everything happening in my father’s castle was ‘normal practice.’ The brute stabbed me in the left side—I still have the scar.”
‘Alas! I hope I can see it one day,’ said the innocent Candide.
‘You will,’ said Cunégonde, ‘but let me continue.’
“Go on,” said Candide.

She resumed:
“A Bulgar captain entered, saw me covered in blood, and was furious at the disrespect shown by the soldier. He killed the man right on top of me, then had me treated for my wounds and took me as a prisoner of war to his camp. I washed his few shirts and cooked for him. He found me very pretty, I must admit; and I won’t deny he was quite handsome, with soft, fair skin, though not much brains or philosophy—obviously not a student of Dr. Pangloss. After three months, having lost all his money and grown tired of me, he sold me to a Jew named Don Issachar, who traded in Holland and Portugal and had a passion for women. This Jew was very attached to me, but he couldn’t win me over; I resisted him better than I had the Bulgar soldier—a person of honor might be raped once, but her virtue grows stronger for it. To win me over, Don Issachar brought me to this country house you see. Until then, I thought there was nothing on earth as beautiful as Thunder-ten-Tronckh; I was wrong.

“One day, the Grand Inquisitor saw me at Mass. He stared at me and then had me brought to his palace for a ‘secret matter.’ I told him my birth and background; he pointed out that it was beneath my rank to belong to a Jew. On his behalf, he proposed to Don Issachar that I be given to him. Don Issachar, being the court banker and a man of influence, refused. The Inquisitor threatened him with an auto-da-fé. Finally, intimidated, Don Issachar agreed to a deal: the house and I would belong to them both, to be shared. The Jew would have me on Mondays, Wednesdays, and the Sabbath, and the Inquisitor the other days. The arrangement has lasted six months, not without quarrels—sometimes they argued whether the night from Saturday to Sunday belonged to the old law or the new. For my part, I have resisted them both so far; I think that is why they still love me.

“To prevent earthquakes and to frighten Don Issachar, the Inquisitor decided to hold an auto-da-fé. He honored me with an invitation—I had a very good seat. They even served refreshments to the ladies between Mass and the executions. I was truly horrified to see two Jews and that honest Biscayan man burned alive for marrying his godmother. But my real shock and terror came when I saw, in a sanbenito and miter, someone who looked just like Pangloss! I rubbed my eyes, looked closely, and saw him hanged. I fainted. As soon as I came to, I saw you stripped naked—this was the height of horror, despair, and confusion. I must say, your skin is even whiter and more perfect than my Bulgar captain’s. Seeing you doubled all the feelings that overwhelmed me. I tried to cry out, ‘Stop, you barbarians!’ but no sound came, and it would have been useless.

“When you were flogged, I thought, ‘How is it possible that the kind Candide and wise Pangloss are in Lisbon—one to be whipped, the other hanged by order of the Inquisitor, who claims to love me?’ Pangloss must have cruelly deceived me when he said everything was for the best.

“Shaken, out of my mind, my head full of memories—my family’s massacre, the soldier’s assault, the stab wound, my captivity and work as a cook, the Bulgar captain, the awful Don Issachar, the abominable Inquisitor, Pangloss’s hanging, the sad chanting at your flogging, and above all, the kiss you gave me behind the screen the last time I saw you—I praised God for bringing you back to me through so many trials. I asked my old servant to take care of you and bring you here as soon as possible. She did exactly as I asked, and I’ve had the indescribable pleasure of seeing you, hearing you, and talking to you again. You must be starving; I am too. Let’s have supper first.”

And so they sat down to eat; after supper, they returned to the beautiful couch just mentioned, and were sitting there when Signor Don Issachar, one of the masters of the house, arrived. It was the Sabbath. He had come to claim his rights and express his tender love.

Chapter IX

What Became of Cunégonde, Candide, the Grand Inquisitor, and a Jew

Don Issachar was the angriest Hebrew seen in Israel since the Babylonian captivity. “What!” he shouted, “you Galilean slut, isn’t the Inquisitor enough? Must this scoundrel share you with me too?” As he said this, he drew a long dagger—always at his side—and, not thinking his rival was armed, lunged at Candide. But our good Westphalian, who had received a fine sword from the old woman along with his new clothes, drew his sword (despite his gentle nature) and promptly ran the Israelite through, dead at Cunégonde’s feet.

“Holy Virgin!” she cried. “What will become of us? A man killed in my house! If the law comes, we’re lost.”
“If only Pangloss hadn’t been hanged,” said Candide, “he’d give us good advice in this situation—he was a great philosopher. In his absence, let’s ask the old woman.” She was quite wise and began to give her opinion when another small door opened. It was just past midnight, the beginning of Sunday. This day belonged to the Inquisitor. He entered and saw Candide (still sore from flogging), sword in hand, a corpse on the floor, Cunégonde alarmed, and the old woman giving advice.

Here’s what went through Candide’s mind: “If this holy man calls for help, he’ll have me burned without question, and Cunégonde too. He had me flogged mercilessly; he’s my rival; I’ve already killed once—there’s no time to hesitate.”
His reasoning was quick and clear: before the Inquisitor could recover from his shock, Candide ran him through and dropped him beside the Jew.

“Well, this is something else!” said Cunégonde. “There’s no forgiveness for us now; we’re excommunicated—our last hour has come! How could you, so gentle by nature, kill a Jew and a prelate in two minutes?”
“My dear lady,” replied Candide, “when you’re in love, jealous, and flogged by the Inquisition, you stop knowing yourself.”

The old woman then spoke: “There are three Andalusian horses in the stable, saddled and bridled. Brave Candide, get them ready; madam has gold coins and diamonds. Let’s ride to Cadiz—even though I can only sit on one cheek. The weather is perfect, and it’s such a pleasure to travel in the cool of the night.”

At once, Candide saddled the three horses. Cunégonde, the old woman, and he rode thirty miles without stopping. While they were on the road, the Holy Brotherhood arrived at the house: the Grand Inquisitor was buried in a fine church, and Issachar was tossed into the garbage.

Candide, Cunégonde, and the old woman were already in the little town of Avacena, in the mountains of the Sierra Morena, and they spoke together in a tavern.

Chapter X

The Distress of Candide, Cunégonde, and the Old Woman Upon Reaching Cadiz, and Their Departure

“Who could have stolen my gold and diamonds?” Cunégonde cried, weeping. “How will we live? What will we do? Where can I find inquisitors or Jews to give me more?”
“Alas,” said the old woman, “I strongly suspect a certain Franciscan friar who stayed in the same inn with us in Badajoz. Heaven forbid I judge hastily! But he entered our room twice and left long before we did.”
“Alas!” said Candide, “good Pangloss often proved to me that the goods of this earth are common to all men, and everyone has an equal right to them. That friar should at least have left us enough to finish our journey by those principles. So you have nothing left at all, my dear Cunégonde?”
“Not a penny,” she replied.
“What can we do?” asked Candide.
“Let’s sell one of the horses,” said the old woman. “I’ll ride behind mademoiselle, even if I can only sit on one cheek, and we’ll make it to Cadiz.”

There was a Benedictine prior staying at the same inn, and he bought the horse for a good price. Candide, Cunégonde, and the old woman passed through Lucena, Chillas, and Lebrixa, and finally reached Cadiz. There, a fleet was being prepared and troops gathered to subdue the Jesuit fathers of Paraguay, who were accused of stirring up a rebellion near the city of the Holy Sacrament.

Having served with the Bulgars, Candide performed the Bulgar drill for the general of the small army with such skill, speed, pride, and agility that he was given command of an infantry company. Now a captain, he set sail with Mlle Cunégonde, the old woman, two servants, and the two Andalusian horses that had belonged to the Grand Inquisitor of Portugal.

During the entire voyage, they talked a lot about poor Pangloss’s philosophy. “We’re going to another world,” said Candide. “Surely, in this one, everything will be for the best, because, let’s face it, there’s a lot to complain about in ours, both physically and morally.”
“I love you with all my heart,” said Cunégonde, “but my soul is still terrified by everything I’ve seen and suffered.”
“All will be well,” replied Candide. “The sea in this new world is already calmer than ours in Europe; the winds are steadier. Surely, the new world is the best of all possible worlds.”
“God grant it!” said Cunégonde. “But I’ve been so horribly unhappy in mine that my heart is almost closed to hope.”
“You complain?” said the old woman. “Alas! you haven’t suffered misfortunes like mine.”

Cunégonde almost laughed, finding it amusing that the old woman thought herself more unfortunate. “Alas, dear woman, unless you’ve been raped by two Bulgars, stabbed twice in the belly, had two castles destroyed, watched two mothers and two fathers murdered before your eyes, and seen two lovers flogged at an auto-da-fé, I don’t see how you could possibly outdo me. Besides, I was born a baroness with seventy-two generations of nobility, and I’ve been a cook.”
“Mademoiselle,” replied the old woman, “you don’t know my background. If I showed you my behind, you would not speak as you do and you would suspend your judgment.”

This speech piqued the extreme curiosity of both Cunégonde and Candide. The old woman began her story.

Chapter XI

The Old Woman’s Story

“I didn’t always have red-rimmed eyes and a nose touching my chin. I was not always a servant. I am the daughter of Pope Urban X and the princess of Palestrina. I was raised until the age of fourteen in a palace that would make all your German barons’ castles look like stables; just one of my dresses was worth more than all the splendor of Westphalia. I grew in beauty, charm, and talent, surrounded by pleasure, respect, and hope. I inspired love; my figure was developing—what a figure! My skin was white and firm, my eyes and eyebrows dazzling, and people said the glimmer in my eyes outshone the stars. The women who dressed and undressed me admired me from every angle, and every man wished he could trade places with them.

I was engaged to a ruling prince of Massa-Carrara—as handsome as I was, full of sweetness and wit, and burning with love. I adored him as only one can love for the first time, with adoration and passion. The wedding was prepared with unheard-of pomp and celebration; there were endless festivals and operas; all of Italy wrote sonnets for me—none of them any good. I was on the verge of happiness when a marquise, who had once been my prince’s mistress, invited him for chocolate at her house. He died within two hours in terrible convulsions—but that was just a trifle.

My mother, desperate but less upset than I was, wanted to leave that tragic place for a while. She owned a beautiful estate near Gaeta, so we sailed there on a galley as golden as the altar of St. Peter’s in Rome. Suddenly, a pirate from Salé attacked us; our soldiers tried to defend us, but like all papal soldiers, they quickly knelt, threw down their arms, and begged the pirates for last rites.

Immediately, we were all stripped naked—my mother, our maids of honor, and myself. The speed with which these men undressed everyone was amazing, but what surprised me even more was when they stuck a finger in a place where, as women, we’re not used to letting anyone put anything except a medical instrument. I found this very odd—such are the judgments you make when you haven’t left your own country. I soon learned it was to see if we had hidden any diamonds; it’s an established custom among civilized seafaring nations. I’ve heard that the Knights of Malta never fail to do this to Turkish captives; it’s a law of nations that’s never been broken.

I won’t describe how hard it is for a young princess to be taken as a slave to Morocco with her mother—you can imagine what we went through on that pirate ship. My mother was still beautiful, our ladies-in-waiting more charming than anyone in Africa, and I myself was radiant, graceful, and still a virgin—but not for long. The pirate captain, an abominable black man, took my virginity, believing he was doing me a great honor. My mother and I must have been strong to survive what we did before arriving in Morocco! But let’s move on; such things are so common, they’re hardly worth mentioning.

When we arrived, Morocco was drenched in blood. Fifty sons of Emperor Muley Ismael each had their own faction, which meant fifty civil wars—black against black, black against brown, brown against brown, mulatto against mulatto—a constant massacre across the empire.

Barely had we landed before some Moors from a rival faction attacked to steal my captor’s spoils. After the gold and diamonds, we were considered the most precious prize. I saw fighting fiercer than anything in Europe: northern nations don’t have such hot blood—they don’t rage for women like they do in Africa. Your Europeans have milk in their veins; here, it’s like fire. Our Italian maids and my mother were all torn apart and killed by the monsters fighting over them. The prisoners, the captors, the soldiers, sailors, blacks, browns, whites, mulattos—even my pirate captain—everyone was killed, and I was left half-dead on a heap of corpses.

I managed to free myself from the pile of bloody bodies and dragged myself under a large orange tree by a stream. There I collapsed from terror, exhaustion, horror, despair, and hunger. Soon, my senses gave way to a sleep more like fainting than rest. In this state, between life and death, I felt something moving on top of me. I opened my eyes and saw a handsome white man sighing, saying under his breath, ‘O che sciagura d’essere senza coglioni!’ (‘Oh, what misfortune to be without testicles!’)

Chapter XII

Further Misfortunes of the Old Woman

“Amazed and delighted to hear my native language—and surprised by what this man was saying—I told him there were far greater misfortunes than the one he was lamenting. I quickly explained the horrors I’d endured, then fainted again. He carried me to a nearby house, put me to bed, had me fed, cared for, comforted, and flattered me. He told me he’d never seen anyone as beautiful as I was, and that he had never so much regretted what no one could restore to him.

‘I was born in Naples,’ he told me. ‘Every year, two or three thousand boys are castrated there; some die, some gain voices lovelier than women’s, others go on to govern states. The operation was done to me very successfully, and I became a musician in the chapel of the Princess of Palestrina.’
‘My mother!’ I cried.
‘Your mother?’ he sobbed. ‘Could you be the young princess I raised until the age of six, who was already so beautiful?’
‘That’s me; my mother is four hundred yards from here, cut into pieces under a heap of corpses…’

I told him everything that had happened to me; he told me his story, and how he’d been sent to the king of Morocco by a Christian power to arrange a treaty to supply him with powder, cannons, and ships to help destroy the trade of other Christians.
‘My mission is over,’ said this honest eunuch. ‘I’m heading to Ceuta, and I’ll take you back to Italy. Ma che sciagura d’essere senza coglioni!’

I thanked him through tears, but instead of taking me to Italy, he brought me to Algiers and sold me to the dey of that province. Scarcely had I been sold when the plague—which had swept Africa, Asia, and Europe—broke out furiously in Algiers. You’ve seen earthquakes, but, mademoiselle, have you ever had the plague?”

“Never,” replied Cunégonde.

“If you had,” continued the old woman, “you’d know it’s far worse than an earthquake. It’s common in Africa, and I caught it. Imagine the situation: a pope’s daughter, fifteen years old, who in three months had experienced poverty, slavery, was raped almost daily, saw her mother quartered, suffered hunger and war, and now was dying of plague in Algiers! Yet I didn’t die; but my eunuch and the dey and almost all of the harem perished.

After the first ravages of the terrible plague, the dey’s slaves were sold. A merchant bought me and took me to Tunis; he sold me to another, who sold me in Tripoli; from Tripoli, I was sold in Alexandria, then in Smyrna, and finally in Constantinople. I ended up belonging to an aga of the janissaries, who was soon ordered to defend Azov against the Russians.

The aga, who was very gallant, took his whole harem with him and housed us in a little fort on the Palus-Maeotis, guarded by two black eunuchs and twenty soldiers. Many Russians were killed, but they returned the favor: Azov was sacked and burned, and no one was spared. Only our little fort was left. The enemy tried to starve us out. The twenty janissaries swore never to surrender. Driven by hunger, they ate our two eunuchs rather than break their oath. After a few days, they decided to eat the women.

We had a very pious and compassionate imam, who gave them a fine sermon persuading them not to kill us outright. ‘Just cut off one buttock from each lady,’ he said, ‘you’ll dine well; and if you need more, there’ll be another serving in a few days. Heaven will be grateful for such charity, and you will be rescued.’

He was persuasive, so they agreed: we endured this horrible operation. The imam applied the same ointment used on newborns after circumcision. We were all close to death.

No sooner had the janissaries finished their meal than the Russians arrived on flat-bottomed boats. Not a single janissary survived. The Russians paid no attention to our condition. There are French surgeons everywhere; one, who was very skilled, took care of us and healed us. I’ll never forget that, once my wounds had closed, he made advances to me. He told us to take heart: in many sieges, he said, such things had happened, and it was the law of war.

As soon as my companions could walk, they were sent to Moscow; I was given to a boyar, who made me his gardener and whipped me twenty times a day. But this lord was soon broken on the wheel with thirty other boyars for some court intrigue; I took advantage of the confusion to escape. I crossed all of Russia and spent years as a tavern maid in Riga, then Rostock, Wismar, Leipzig, Kassel, Utrecht, Leiden, The Hague, Rotterdam—growing old in misery and disgrace, with only half a backside, always remembering I was a pope’s daughter. I tried a hundred times to kill myself, but I still loved life. This ridiculous weakness is perhaps one of our most tragic instincts: what could be sillier than to keep carrying a burden we want to throw down, to hate our existence and yet cling to it, to fondle the serpent that devours us until it has eaten our heart?

I have seen, in the countries I’ve traveled and the taverns where I’ve served, a prodigious number of people who cursed their own existence; but I have known only twelve who voluntarily ended their misery: three negroes, four Englishmen, four Genevans, and a German professor named Robeck. I ended up as servant to Don Issachar the Jew; he placed me with you, my beautiful young lady, and I became more involved in your fate than my own. I’d never have spoken of my misfortunes if you hadn’t pricked my pride, and if it were not the custom on a ship to pass the time with stories. In short, mademoiselle, I have experience and know the world: do yourself a favor and ask every passenger to tell their story. If you find one who has never cursed their life or thought themselves the most miserable of people, throw me headfirst into the sea.”

Chapter XIII

How Candide Was Forced to Part from the Beautiful Cunégonde and the Old Woman

After hearing the old woman’s story, the beautiful Cunégonde showed her all the courtesy due a person of her rank and merit. She accepted the suggestion and asked every passenger, one by one, to tell their stories. Candide and Cunégonde both admitted the old woman was right:
“It’s a real shame,” said Candide, “that wise Pangloss was hanged (against custom) in an auto-da-fé; he would have told us marvelous things about the physical and moral evils that fill the world, and I’d have enough courage to respectfully question him.”

As each person told their tale, the ship continued its journey, finally arriving at Buenos Aires. Cunégonde, Captain Candide, and the old woman went to visit the governor, Don Fernando d’Ibaraa, y Figueora, y Mascarenes, y Lampourdos, y Souza. This man had the pride fitting for someone with so many names. He spoke to people with the utmost scorn, his nose held high, voice booming, and manner so pompous that anyone who greeted him wanted to hit him. He was madly fond of women, and Cunégonde seemed to him the most beautiful he’d ever seen. The first thing he did was ask whether she was the captain’s wife. The way he asked made Candide uneasy; he couldn’t say she was his wife (because she wasn’t), nor his sister (because that wasn’t true either); and though this little lie was once fashionable among the ancients and could be useful nowadays, Candide was too honest to lie.
“Mlle Cunégonde,” he said, “is going to do me the honor of marrying me, and we beg Your Excellency to perform the ceremony.”

Don Fernando, twirling his mustache, smiled bitterly and ordered Captain Candide to review his company. Candide obeyed, leaving the governor alone with Cunégonde. The governor declared his passion and promised to marry her the next day—either in church or however she wished. Cunégonde asked for a quarter of an hour to collect her thoughts, consult the old woman, and make up her mind.

The old woman said, “Mademoiselle, you have seventy-two generations of nobility and not a penny; you could become the wife of the greatest lord in South America, who has a fine mustache. Is this the time to be overly scrupulous about fidelity? You’ve been raped by Bulgars; a Jew and an inquisitor have both enjoyed your favors—misfortune gives you certain rights. If I were in your place, I’d have no qualms about marrying the governor and securing Captain Candide’s fortune.”

While the old woman spoke with the wisdom of age and experience, a small ship entered the port. It carried a magistrate and officers, and here’s what had happened:

The old woman was right—it was a certain friar with large sleeves who had stolen Cunégonde’s money and jewels in Badajoz as she fled with Candide. The friar tried to sell some gems to a jeweler, who recognized them as the Grand Inquisitor’s. Before being hanged, the friar admitted to the theft and revealed the people involved and their route. News of Cunégonde and Candide’s flight had already spread. Pursuers were sent from Cadiz, and a ship was now in the port of Buenos Aires. News spread that a magistrate was about to land, and that the murderers of the Grand Inquisitor were being sought.

The wise old woman quickly saw what needed to be done.
“You cannot flee,” she told Cunégonde, “but you have nothing to fear: you didn’t kill the Inquisitor, and the governor, who loves you, won’t let you be harmed. Stay here.” She hurried to Candide:
“Run!” she said, “or in an hour you’ll be burned.” There was not a moment to lose—but how could he part from Cunégonde, and where could he go?

Chapter XIV

How Candide and Cacambo Were Received by the Jesuits of Paraguay

Candide had brought with him from Cadiz a servant like many found on the Spanish coast and in the colonies. He was part Spanish, born of a mestizo in Tucuman; he’d been a choirboy, sacristan, sailor, monk, courier, soldier, and valet. His name was Cacambo, and he was devoted to his master because Candide was a very good man.

He quickly saddled the two Andalusian horses. “Let’s go, master—let’s follow the old woman’s advice and run for it without looking back.”
Candide wept. “Oh, my dear Cunégonde! Must I leave you just when the governor is going to marry us? You’ve come so far—what will become of you?”
“She’ll manage,” said Cacambo. “Women are never at a loss for solutions; God provides for them. Let’s run.”
“But where are you taking me? Where will we go without Cunégonde?” cried Candide.
“By Saint James of Compostela,” said Cacambo, “since you were about to fight the Jesuits, let’s go fight for them instead! I know all the roads—I’ll take you into their territory. They’ll be thrilled to have a captain who can drill like a Bulgar. You’ll make your fortune there: when you can’t find your place in one world, you find it in another. It’s great fun to try new things.”

“You’ve been to Paraguay before?” asked Candide.
“Of course!” said Cacambo. “I was a servant in the college at the Assumption, and I know how the padres rule—better than I know the streets of Cadiz. Their government is amazing. The country is more than three hundred leagues across, divided into thirty provinces. The padres have everything, the people nothing—truly a masterpiece of reason and justice. For me, nothing is more divine than these padres who make war here on the kings of Spain and Portugal, and who, in Europe, hear their confessions and send them to heaven. Here they kill Spaniards; in Madrid, they send them off to glory. I love it! Let’s move. The padres will be delighted to have a captain who knows the Bulgar drill!”

When they reached the first outpost, Cacambo told the guards a captain wished to see the commander. The main guard was informed. A Paraguayan officer hurried to announce the visitors. Candide and Cacambo were first disarmed, and their two Andalusian horses were taken. The foreigners were led between two lines of soldiers; at the end stood the commander, wearing a three-cornered hat, a rolled-up robe, sword at his side, and a pike in hand. He signaled, and immediately twenty-four soldiers surrounded the new arrivals.

A sergeant told them they must wait: the commander couldn’t speak to them yet, as the reverend father provincial allowed no Spaniard to speak in his presence or remain in the country for more than three hours.
“Where is the reverend father provincial?” asked Cacambo.
“He’s at parade after saying Mass,” replied the sergeant. “You can’t kiss his spurs for another three hours.”
“But,” said Cacambo, “my captain, who’s starving like me, isn’t Spanish—he’s German. Could we at least have breakfast while waiting?”

The sergeant immediately relayed this to the commander.
“Thank God!” said the latter, “since he’s German, I can speak to him. Bring him to my quarters.”

Candide was led into a green salon, decorated with a pretty colonnade of green and gold marble, and trellises filled with parrots, hummingbirds, guinea fowl, and rare birds. An excellent breakfast was laid out in golden dishes, while the Paraguayan soldiers ate corn in wooden bowls in the open sun. The commander entered.

He was a handsome young man, with a full, rosy face, arched brows, lively eyes, red ears, red lips, and a proud air—not quite that of a Spaniard or a Jesuit. Candide and Cacambo had their arms and horses returned; Cacambo fed the horses nearby, always keeping an eye out.

Candide first kissed the hem of the commander’s robe, and they sat down to eat.
“So, you’re German?” said the Jesuit, in that language.
“Yes, reverend father,” replied Candide.

Both looked at each other in astonishment, with emotion they could barely contain.
“And from which part of Germany do you come?” asked the Jesuit.
“From the filthy province of Westphalia,” said Candide, “born at the castle of Thunder-ten-Tronckh.”
“Heavens! Is it possible?” cried the commander.
“What a miracle!” cried Candide.
“Could it be you?” said the commander.
“It can’t be,” said Candide.

They both fell back in shock, embraced, and wept torrents of tears.
“What! Is it really you, reverend father? The brother of beautiful Cunégonde! You, killed by the Bulgars! The baron’s son! Now a Jesuit in Paraguay! One must admit this world is a strange place. Oh Pangloss! How happy you’d be if you hadn’t been hanged!”

The commander had the black slaves and Paraguayan attendants dismissed. He thanked God and Saint Ignatius a thousand times and held Candide close, both weeping.
“You’d be even more astonished,” said Candide, “if I told you that Mlle Cunégonde, your sister, whom you thought was killed, is alive and well.”
“Where?”
“Nearby, with the governor of Buenos Aires; I was coming to make war on you.”

Every word they spoke was another miracle. Their whole souls flew to their tongues, ears, and eyes. Being Germans, they sat at table talking for a long time while waiting for the reverend father provincial. The commander said to his dear Candide:

Chapter XV

How Candide Killed His Dear Cunégonde’s Brother

“I will never forget the horrible day when I saw my father and mother killed and my sister violated. When the Bulgars left, my beloved sister was nowhere to be found. My mother, father, myself, two maids, and three murdered boys were put in a cart to be buried at a Jesuit chapel two leagues from our home. A Jesuit sprinkled holy water on us—it was terribly salty; some got into my eyes, and the priest noticed my eyelid twitching. He felt my heart and found it beating. I was saved, and after three weeks, I was as good as new.

You know, dear Candide, I was very handsome—and became even more so. The Reverend Father Croust, head of the house, grew very fond of me. I became a novice, and soon after was sent to Rome. The Father General needed young German Jesuits for the Paraguay missions. The rulers in Paraguay accept as few Spanish Jesuits as possible—they prefer foreigners, who are easier to control. The Father General decided I was fit for the work. I left with a Pole and a Tyrolean. When I arrived, I was made subdeacon and lieutenant; now I am colonel and priest. We’ll vigorously resist the Spanish king’s troops; I assure you, they’ll be both excommunicated and beaten. Providence has sent you here to help us! But is it really true that my dear sister Cunégonde is alive, near here, with the governor of Buenos Aires?”

Candide swore it was absolutely true, and they both wept again.

The baron could not stop embracing Candide, calling him brother and savior. “Ah! Perhaps, my dear Candide, we can enter the city as victors and rescue my sister Cunégonde together.”

“That’s all I wish for,” said Candide, “because I plan to marry her, and I still hope to do so.”

“You, insolent wretch!” cried the baron. “You dare to marry my sister, who has seventy-two generations of nobility? How bold to even suggest such a thing!”

Candide, stunned by this response, replied, “Reverend father, all the nobility in the world means nothing. I rescued your sister from a Jew and an inquisitor; she owes me, and she wants to marry me. Master Pangloss always said that all men are equal—and I will certainly marry her.”

“We’ll see about that, scoundrel!” said the baron, and struck Candide in the face with the flat of his sword. Instantly, Candide drew his own sword and plunged it up to the hilt in the baron’s belly. As he pulled it out, trembling, he began to cry:
“Alas! My God! I’ve killed my old master, my friend, my brother-in-law. I’m the kindest man in the world, and yet I’ve already killed three men—and two of them are priests!”

Cacambo, who had been keeping watch at the door, rushed in.
“We have to sell our lives dearly,” said Candide. “They’ll come in after us—let’s die fighting.”

Cacambo, experienced in such matters, kept his cool. He took the Jesuit robe from the baron’s body, dressed Candide in it, put the dead man’s hat on his head, and got him on a horse—all in a flash.
“Let’s ride, master! Everyone will think you’re a Jesuit going to give orders, and we’ll be across the border before they can catch us!” He was already galloping away, shouting in Spanish:
“Make way for the Reverend Father Colonel!”

Chapter XVI

What Happened to the Two Travelers with Two Girls, Two Monkeys, and the Savages Called Oreillons

Candide and his servant passed beyond the borders, and no one in the camp yet knew of the German Jesuit’s death. The watchful Cacambo had filled his bag with bread, chocolate, ham, fruit, and a few bottles of wine. They rode their Andalusian horses deep into an unknown land, finding no roads. Eventually, they came to a beautiful meadow laced with streams. The travelers let their horses graze. Cacambo suggested they eat, and set the example.
“How can I eat ham,” Candide said, “when I’ve killed the baron’s son and will never see my dear Cunégonde again? What’s the use of dragging out these miserable days, far from her, in guilt and despair? And what will the Journal de Trévoux say?”

Despite his words, he ate anyway. As the sun set, they heard some small cries—possibly from women—though they couldn’t tell if they were cries of pain or joy. Rising with anxious curiosity (as anyone would in a strange land), they found two naked girls running lightly along the edge of the meadow, chased by two monkeys who were biting their buttocks. Candide, moved by pity (and being a good shot, trained by the Bulgars), took his Spanish rifle and killed both monkeys.
“Thank God, dear Cacambo! I’ve saved these poor creatures from a terrible danger. If I sinned by killing an inquisitor and a Jesuit, I’ve made up for it by saving two women. They might be noble ladies, and this could bring us great rewards here!”

He was about to continue, but was struck dumb when he saw the two girls tenderly embrace the monkeys, weep over their bodies, and fill the air with their cries of grief.
“I never expected such kindness,” he said to Cacambo.
“You’ve really done it now, master,” said Cacambo. “You’ve killed the lovers of these girls.”
“Their lovers? That’s impossible! You’re joking, Cacambo. How can that be?”
“My dear master, you’re always surprised by everything. Why should it be odd that in some countries monkeys are favored by ladies? They’re a quarter human, just as I’m a quarter Spanish.”
“Alas!” said Candide, “Master Pangloss once said such things happened long ago, producing satyrs and fauns; but I thought those were just stories.”
“Now you see it’s true,” said Cacambo. “What I’m worried about is that these ladies might get us into trouble.”

These solid reflections made Candide leave the meadow and plunge into the forest. They had supper, cursed the Inquisitor, the governor of Buenos Aires, and the baron, then fell asleep on a bed of moss.

When they awoke, they found they could not move; during the night, the Oreillons—the local people, alerted by the two girls—had bound them with cords made of tree bark. They were surrounded by about fifty Oreillons, all naked, armed with arrows, clubs, and stone axes. Some were heating a large cauldron, others sharpening spits, and all were shouting:
“It’s a Jesuit! It’s a Jesuit! We’ll have our revenge and a great feast! Let’s eat the Jesuit!”

“I warned you, master,” Cacambo said sadly, “those girls would get us into trouble.”
Candide, seeing the cauldron and spits, cried, “We’re certainly going to be roasted or boiled! Oh, what would Pangloss say if he saw how ‘pure nature’ works! All is for the best—fine! But it’s hard to accept losing Mlle Cunégonde and being roasted by Oreillons.”
Cacambo, never losing his head, said, “Don’t despair. I know a little of their language—I’ll speak to them.”
“And be sure,” said Candide, “to explain the inhumanity of cooking people, and how un-Christian it is.”

“Gentlemen,” said Cacambo, “so you plan to eat a Jesuit? That’s perfectly reasonable—nothing’s more just than punishing your enemies. Natural law teaches us to kill our neighbors, and that’s how it is everywhere. If we don’t eat them, it’s because we have other good food; but you might not, so it’s better to eat your enemies than leave them for the crows. But surely, you don’t want to eat your friends. You think you’re about to roast a Jesuit, but you’re actually about to cook your defender, the enemy of your enemies. My master just killed a Jesuit officer—he’s wearing his uniform. Check for yourselves: take his robe to the first Jesuit outpost, ask if my master killed a Jesuit officer. If I’m lying, you can eat us; but if it’s true, you know enough about justice and law to let us go.”

The Oreillons found this argument very reasonable. They sent two men to check the story, who quickly returned with good news. The Oreillons untied their two captives, treated them with every courtesy, offered them women, gave them refreshments, and escorted them to the edge of their territory, shouting joyfully, “He’s not a Jesuit! He’s not a Jesuit!”

Candide could not stop marveling at their deliverance.
“What a people! What men! What customs! If I hadn’t had the luck to run a sword through Mlle Cunégonde’s brother, I would’ve been eaten without mercy. But in the end, nature is good—these people, instead of eating me, have showered me with kindness as soon as they learned I wasn’t a Jesuit.”

Chapter XVII

Candide and His Servant Arrive in the Land of El Dorado, and What They Saw There

When they reached the borders of the Oreillons, Cacambo said to Candide, “You see, this hemisphere isn’t any better than the other. Believe me, let’s head back to Europe by the shortest route.”
“How can we go back, and where?” asked Candide. “If I return home, the Bulgars and Abares are massacring everyone; if I go back to Portugal, I’ll be burned; if we stay here, we risk being roasted at any moment. But how can I leave the part of the world where Mlle Cunégonde lives?”
“Let’s head toward Cayenne,” said Cacambo. “We’ll find some Frenchmen there, they’re everywhere; maybe they can help us. God may take pity on us.”

Getting to Cayenne wasn’t easy. They knew roughly which way to go, but mountains, rivers, cliffs, bandits, and wild people blocked the way. Their horses died from exhaustion; their supplies ran out; they lived for a month on wild fruit, and finally found themselves by a small river lined with coconut trees, which kept them alive and hopeful.

Cacambo, always resourceful, said, “We can’t go any farther. I see a canoe on the bank—let’s fill it with coconuts, get in, and let the river carry us. Rivers always lead to inhabited places. If we don’t find something pleasant, at least we’ll find something new.”
“Let’s go,” said Candide. “Let’s trust Providence.”

They floated for several leagues, sometimes through flowery banks, sometimes barren, sometimes flat, sometimes steep. The river kept widening, until it disappeared beneath a vault of terrifying rocks that rose to the sky. The travelers bravely let the current sweep them through this dark tunnel. The river, squeezed tight here, rushed them forward with terrifying speed and noise. After twenty-four hours, they saw daylight again, but their canoe was smashed against the rocks; they had to scramble from rock to rock for a whole league. Finally, they saw a vast horizon, bordered by inaccessible mountains. The land was cultivated for both pleasure and necessity; everywhere, usefulness was made beautiful. The roads were covered—or rather, decorated—with shining vehicles of unknown shape and material, carrying men and women of remarkable beauty, pulled rapidly by large red sheep that ran faster than the finest horses of Andalusia, Tetouan, or Meknes.

“Now, this is a country better than Westphalia,” said Candide. He and Cacambo dismounted by the first village they saw. Some children in gold-brocaded clothes were playing at the edge of town. The two travelers watched them: their playthings were large, round, yellow, red, and green discs that shone brightly. The travelers wanted to pick some up—these were gold, emeralds, and rubies, any one of which would have been the greatest treasure in the Mughal’s palace.
“Obviously,” said Cacambo, “these must be the king’s children playing.” At that moment, the village schoolmaster appeared to call the children inside.
“That’s the royal tutor,” Candide said.

The children immediately abandoned their game, leaving their gold and jewels behind. Candide picked them up and, by signs, tried to hand them to the tutor, indicating the royal children had forgotten their gold and gems. The tutor smiled, tossed them back on the ground, stared at Candide with amazement, and went on his way.

The travelers eagerly gathered up the gold, rubies, and emeralds.
“Where are we?” exclaimed Candide. “The children here must be well brought up if they’re taught to despise gold and jewels.” Cacambo was just as astonished.

They went to the first house in the village, which was built like a European palace. A crowd gathered at the door and inside; pleasant music played, and there was the delicious smell of cooking. Cacambo approached and heard Peruvian spoken—it was his native language, for everyone knows Cacambo was born in Tucuman, in a village where only that tongue was spoken.
“I’ll act as interpreter,” he said to Candide. “Let’s go in—this must be an inn.”

At once, two waiters and two waitresses dressed in gold cloth with ribbons in their hair invited them to the host’s table. They were served four soups, each with two parrots, a boiled joint weighing 200 pounds, two delicious roast monkeys, 300 hummingbirds on one platter, and 600 on another, along with exquisite stews and pastries, all served on crystal dishes. The waiters poured many kinds of sugarcane liquors.

The other guests, mostly merchants and drivers, were extremely polite. They asked Cacambo a few questions with careful discretion and answered his in a way that satisfied him.

When the meal was over, Cacambo and Candide thought they’d pay their bill by leaving two of the large gold discs they’d found. The host and hostess burst out laughing and held their sides for a long time. Finally, the host said, “Gentlemen, it’s clear you’re strangers—foreigners are rare here. Forgive us for laughing when you tried to pay us with pebbles from our roads. You must not have the local currency, but it isn’t needed to eat here. All inns are paid for by the government for the sake of commerce. You’ve had poor fare here, because this is just a small village, but everywhere else you’ll be received as you deserve.”

Cacambo translated everything for Candide, who listened with amazement.
“What is this country, unknown to the rest of the world, where everything in nature is so different from ours? This must be the place where all is truly for the best—there has to be such a place somewhere. Whatever Pangloss said, I often noticed things went badly in Westphalia.”

Chapter XVIII

What They Saw in the Land of El Dorado

Cacambo expressed all his curiosity to their host, who replied, “I am quite ignorant myself, but we have an old man here who has retired from the court—he is the most learned and communicative man in the kingdom.” At once, he took Cacambo and Candide to meet this man. Candide now played second fiddle to his valet.

They entered a very simple house: the door was only silver, and the paneling was just gold, though crafted so tastefully that the richest paneling elsewhere couldn’t outshine it. The antechamber was only inlaid with rubies and emeralds, but the order and arrangement more than made up for such “simplicity.”

The old man welcomed the strangers on a sofa stuffed with hummingbird feathers, and served them drinks in diamond cups. He answered their curiosity as follows:

“I am 172 years old, and I learned from my late father, who was the king’s equerry, about the amazing revolutions in Peru which he witnessed firsthand. This kingdom is the ancient homeland of the Incas, who foolishly left it to conquer part of the world, and were eventually destroyed by the Spaniards. The princes of their family who stayed here were wiser; they decreed, with the nation’s consent, that no one would ever leave our kingdom. That is what preserved our innocence and happiness. The Spaniards heard vague rumors about this place and called it El Dorado; an Englishman named Sir Raleigh came near a hundred years ago, but as we are surrounded by impassable rocks and precipices, we have always been safe from the greed of European nations, who have an incomprehensible passion for our earth’s pebbles and mud, and who would kill us all to get them.”

The conversation turned to the government, customs, women, public spectacles, and the arts. Finally, Candide—always a fan of metaphysics—had Cacambo ask if there was any religion in the country.

The old man blushed a little. “How could you doubt it? Do you take us for ungrateful people?” Cacambo humbly asked what religion they followed. The old man blushed again: “Could there be more than one? I believe we have the religion of everyone; we worship God from evening to morning.”
“Do you worship only one God?” Cacambo translated Candide’s question.
“Of course—surely there are not two, three, or four. I must say, people in your world ask very odd questions.” Candide couldn’t stop asking questions, and wanted to know how they prayed.
“We don’t pray,” replied the wise old man; “we have nothing to ask for, God has given us everything. We thank him constantly.”
Candide wanted to see priests.
“Friends,” the old man smiled, “we are all priests here. The king and all the heads of families sing solemn hymns of thanksgiving every morning, accompanied by five or six thousand musicians.”
“What! You have no monks who teach, debate, govern, plot, and burn people who disagree?”
“We’d have to be mad,” said the old man. “We all agree here, and we don’t know what you mean by monks.”

Candide was in awe: “This is so different from Westphalia and Baron Thunder-ten-Tronckh’s castle! If Pangloss had seen El Dorado, he would never have claimed Thunder-ten-Tronckh was the finest place on earth. Clearly, one must travel.”

After this long conversation, the old man had a carriage drawn by six sheep prepared, and gave them twelve servants to take them to the court. “Forgive me,” he said, “for my age keeps me from going with you. The king will receive you well. Please forgive our customs if any displease you.”

Candide and Cacambo got in; the six sheep sped on, and in less than four hours they reached the royal palace at the edge of the capital. The gate was 220 feet tall and 100 wide, its materials far superior to the pebbles and sand we call gold and jewels.

Twenty beautiful young women from the royal guard welcomed them, brought them to the baths, dressed them in robes made of hummingbird down; then the great officers led them to the king’s chambers, between rows of a thousand musicians each. When they approached the throne room, Cacambo asked how one should greet the king—kneel, bow, lie flat, put hands on one’s head or backside, lick the floor?
“The custom,” said a grand officer, “is to embrace and kiss the king on both cheeks.”
Candide and Cacambo hugged the king, who received them graciously and invited them to dinner.

Meanwhile, they visited the city: public buildings towering to the sky, markets full of columns, fountains of clear water, fountains of rose water, and fountains of sugarcane liquor flowing in squares paved with perfumed stones. Candide asked to see the court or parliament; he was told there were none, for there were no lawsuits. He asked about prisons; there were none. What delighted him most was the palace of science, with a gallery of 2,000 steps filled with mathematical and scientific instruments.

After seeing maybe a thousandth of the city, they were brought back to the king. Candide dined at the royal table with Cacambo and several ladies. Never had a meal been better, nor conversation more brilliant. Cacambo translated the king’s jokes, and even in translation they were witty.

They spent a month there. But Candide kept saying to Cacambo, “It’s true, my friend, the castle where I was born is nothing compared to this place. But Mlle Cunégonde isn’t here, and you probably have someone in Europe too. If we stay, we’ll be just like everyone else; but if we return to our world with twelve sheep loaded with El Dorado’s stones, we’ll be richer than all the kings, free from inquisitors, and able to get Mlle Cunégonde back.”

Cacambo agreed—they both longed to return home, to impress others and tell of their adventures. They decided to ask the king’s permission to leave.

“You’re making a mistake,” said the king. “I know my country is nothing much, but when you’re well off somewhere, you should stay. Of course, I can’t keep foreigners here against their will; everyone is free, but leaving is difficult. You can’t go back up the river, and the mountains around the kingdom are ten thousand feet high, straight as walls, and more than ten leagues wide. You can only descend by dangerous precipices. But since you insist, I’ll have a machine built to carry you out. Once you’re over the mountains, no one can go with you—my subjects have vowed never to leave, and are too wise to break that vow. Ask me for anything else you like.”

“We ask only for some sheep loaded with food, stones, and mud from your country,” said Cacambo.
The king laughed: “I don’t see why Europeans like our yellow mud, but take as much as you wish!”

He ordered his engineers to build a machine to lift them out, which was ready in fifteen days (and cost only 20 million pounds). Candide and Cacambo set off with two saddle sheep, twenty pack sheep with provisions, thirty with local curiosities, and fifty loaded with gold, gems, and diamonds. The king embraced them warmly.

It was a grand sight to see them depart, and the ingenious way they and their sheep were raised over the mountains. The scientists bade them farewell, and Candide now wanted nothing more than to present his riches to Mlle Cunégonde.
“We have enough to buy back Cunégonde, even if she’s put up for auction. Let’s march to Cayenne, set sail, and then see what kingdom we can buy!”

Chapter XIX

What Happened to Them at Surinam, and How Candide Met Martin

The first day of travel was pleasant for Candide and Cacambo, as they delighted in having more treasure than all of Asia, Europe, and Africa could gather. Overjoyed, Candide even carved Cunégonde’s name into trees. But on the second day, two of their sheep sank into a swamp with their loads; two others died of exhaustion a few days later; seven or eight more starved in the wilderness; others fell down cliffs. After traveling a hundred days, only two sheep remained.
Candide said to Cacambo, “See how fragile the riches of this world are; nothing is lasting except virtue and the happiness of seeing Mlle Cunégonde again.”
“I agree,” said Cacambo, “but we still have two sheep with more wealth than the king of Spain will ever have—and I see a city ahead, which I think is Surinam, a Dutch colony. Our troubles are over, and happiness begins.”

As they approached the city, they came upon a Black man lying on the ground wearing only half a pair of blue linen trousers, missing his left leg and right hand.
“Oh, my God!” Candide said in Dutch, “what are you doing here in such a dreadful state?”
“I’m waiting for my master, Mr. Vanderdendur, the famous merchant,” replied the Black man.
“Is it Mr. Vanderdendur who treated you like this?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, “it’s the custom. We’re given a pair of linen trousers twice a year. When we work in the sugar mills and a finger gets caught in the millstone, they cut off our hand; if we try to run away, they cut off a leg. I’ve had both done to me. That’s the price you pay for sugar in Europe. When my mother sold me for ten patagons on the coast of Guinea, she said, ‘Bless our fetishes, worship them always, and they’ll make you happy. You have the great honor of being a slave to our lords the whites, and thus you make your parents’ fortune.’ Alas, I don’t know if I made their fortune—but they certainly didn’t make mine. Dogs, monkeys, and parrots are a thousand times happier than we are. The Dutch fetishes who converted me tell me every Sunday that we’re all children of Adam, both Black and white. I’m not a genealogist, but if these preachers are telling the truth, we’re all cousins. Surely, people shouldn’t treat their relatives so horribly.”

“Oh, Pangloss!” cried Candide, “you never guessed at this abomination! I’m done with your optimism.”
“What is optimism?” asked Cacambo.
“Alas!” said Candide, “it’s the stubbornness of insisting things are good when they’re very bad.” He wept as he looked at the Black man, and entered Surinam in tears.

The first thing they asked was whether there was a ship that could take them to Buenos Aires. The man they spoke to was a Spanish captain who offered to make a fair deal. He arranged to meet them at an inn; Candide and Cacambo waited there with their two sheep.

Candide, open-hearted as always, told the Spaniard all his adventures and confessed he wanted to rescue Mlle Cunégonde.
“I won’t take you to Buenos Aires,” said the captain. “I’d be hanged—and so would you. Cunégonde is the governor’s favorite.”
That struck Candide like lightning; he wept for a long time, then pulled Cacambo aside.
“Here’s what you have to do, my friend. We each have five or six million in diamonds. You’re cleverer than me: go to Buenos Aires and get Cunégonde. If the governor resists, give him a million; if he still refuses, give him two. You haven’t killed an inquisitor, so no one will suspect you. I’ll hire another ship and wait for you in Venice—a free country where we’ll have nothing to fear from Bulgars, Abares, Jews, or inquisitors.”
Cacambo agreed. He was sad to part from his good master and new friend, but the joy of helping him outweighed the pain. They embraced in tears; Candide begged him not to forget the old woman. Cacambo left that very day—truly a good man.

Candide stayed in Surinam, waiting for a new captain to take him and his two sheep to Italy. He hired servants and bought everything needed for a long voyage. At last, Mr. Vanderdendur, owner of a large ship, offered his services.
“How much to take me, my people, my luggage, and those two sheep straight to Venice?” Candide asked.
The captain asked for 10,000 piastres; Candide agreed.
“Aha!” thought Vanderdendur, “this man pays 10,000 piastres at once? He must be rich.” A moment later, he said he couldn’t sail for less than 20,000.
“Fine, you’ll have 20,000,” replied Candide.
“Aha, he gives 20,000 as easily as 10,000!” thought the captain.
He came back again and said he couldn’t go for less than 30,000.
“Then you’ll have 30,000,” said Candide.
“Clearly, these sheep carry enormous treasures,” thought the captain. “Let’s get the money first, then we’ll see.”

Candide sold two small diamonds, each worth more than the captain’s price. He paid in advance, and the two sheep were loaded. As Candide followed in a small boat to reach the ship at anchor, the captain set sail and left him behind. The wind was favorable, and Candide soon lost sight of the ship.
“Alas!” he cried, “such is the way of the old world!” He returned to shore, devastated—he had lost enough to make twenty kings rich.

He went to the Dutch judge. Flustered, he knocked loudly, entered, told his story, and raised his voice more than was proper. The judge fined him 10,000 piastres for making a disturbance, then patiently listened to his case, promising to look into it as soon as the captain returned—and charged another 10,000 piastres for legal fees.

This treatment plunged Candide into despair. He had suffered far worse misfortunes, but the cold-bloodedness of the judge and the cheating captain enraged him and left him in dark melancholy. He saw only the cruelty of mankind, and his mind was filled with sad thoughts. Finally, as a French ship was about to sail for Bordeaux, and since he had no more sheep loaded with diamonds, he rented a cabin at a fair price and advertised in the city that he would pay for passage, food, and 2,000 piastres to any honest man who wished to travel with him—provided that man was the most disgusted with his condition and the most miserable person in the province.

A crowd appeared, more than the ship could hold. Candide chose a group of about twenty who seemed sociable and all claimed to deserve the prize. He gathered them at an inn and gave them supper, on condition that each would swear to tell his story truthfully, promising to choose the most miserable and to give a consolation prize to the others.

The meeting lasted until four in the morning. As Candide listened to their stories, he recalled what the old woman said on the way to Buenos Aires—that there’s no one on a ship who hasn’t suffered great misfortunes. He thought of Pangloss:
“Pangloss would have a hard time defending his philosophy here. If everything is good, it’s only in El Dorado, not in the rest of the world.”

Finally, he chose a poor scholar who had worked ten years for Amsterdam booksellers. Candide judged that there was no job more miserable. This scholar had been robbed by his wife, beaten by his son, and abandoned by his daughter, who ran off with a Portuguese. He had just lost his only source of income and was persecuted by the preachers of Surinam, who thought he was a Socinian. The others were at least as miserable, but Candide hoped the scholar would keep him entertained on the voyage. The rest he soothed by giving each a hundred piastres.

Chapter XX

What Happened at Sea to Candide and Martin

The old scholar, whose name was Martin, set sail for Bordeaux with Candide. Both had seen and suffered much; even if their ship had to sail from Surinam to Japan via the Cape of Good Hope, they would have had enough to say about moral and physical evil for the whole trip.

Candide, however, had a big advantage over Martin: he still hoped to see Cunégonde again, while Martin had nothing to hope for. Candide also had gold and diamonds left; and although he’d lost a hundred red sheep loaded with treasure and still felt the sting of the Dutch captain’s theft, when he thought of what he had left in his pockets and spoke of Cunégonde—especially after meals—he would begin to favor Pangloss’s optimistic philosophy.

“But you, Mr. Martin,” he asked the scholar, “what do you think about all this? What’s your opinion on moral and physical evil?”
“Sir,” Martin answered, “my priests accused me of being a Socinian, but the truth is I’m a Manichaean.”
“You’re joking,” said Candide, “there are no Manichaeans left in the world!”
“There’s me,” said Martin. “I can’t help it; I can’t think otherwise.”
“You must have the devil in you,” said Candide.
“He meddles so much in the world’s affairs,” said Martin, “that he could well be in my body, just as everywhere else. Honestly, when I look at this globe—or rather, this little globule—I think God has abandoned it to some evil being, except for Eldorado. I’ve rarely seen a city that didn’t want the ruin of its neighbor, or a family that didn’t want to destroy another. Everywhere, the weak hate the powerful before whom they grovel, and the powerful treat them like livestock, selling their wool and flesh. A million armed murderers roam Europe, killing and robbing for a living because there’s no more honest work; and in the cities that seem peaceful and prosperous, men are eaten up with envy, worry, and anxiety even worse than a besieged city’s suffering. Secret sorrows are even harsher than public miseries. In short, I’ve seen and suffered so much that I’m a Manichaean.”
“But there is some good in the world!” protested Candide.
“That may be,” said Martin, “but I haven’t seen it.”

As they argued, they heard cannon fire. The noise grew louder. Everyone took out their telescopes. Two ships were fighting about three miles away; the wind brought them close to the French ship, so everyone could watch the battle. At last, one ship fired a broadside so well aimed that it sank the other. Candide and Martin could clearly see about a hundred men on the deck of the sinking ship, all raising their hands to the sky and crying out in terror—then they vanished beneath the waves.

“Well,” said Martin, “that’s how men treat each other.”
“It’s true,” said Candide, “there’s something devilish about all this.”
As he spoke, he saw something bright red floating near the ship. The crew sent out a boat to investigate—it was one of Candide’s sheep. Candide was happier to recover this sheep than he’d been sad to lose the hundred others loaded with Eldorado’s diamonds.

The French captain soon learned that the victorious ship was Spanish, and the sunken ship was a Dutch pirate—the very one that had robbed Candide. All the immense riches stolen from Candide were lost at sea, except for the one surviving sheep.
“You see,” Candide said to Martin, “crime is sometimes punished! That Dutch captain got what he deserved.”
“Yes,” said Martin, “but did the passengers on his ship deserve to perish too? God punished the thief, but the devil drowned the rest.”

The French and Spanish ships continued on their way, and Candide continued his conversations with Martin. They debated for fifteen days and ended up no further along than when they started. But at least they talked, shared ideas, and comforted each other. Candide petted his sheep.
“Since I’ve found you again,” he said, “maybe I’ll find Cunégonde too.”

Chapter XXI

Candide and Martin Approach the Coast of France and Discuss

At last, they saw the coast of France.
“Have you ever been to France, Mr. Martin?” asked Candide.
“Yes,” said Martin, “I’ve traveled through several provinces. In some, half the people are mad; in others, they’re too cunning; some are generally gentle but rather foolish; others pride themselves on being witty. In all of them, the main occupation is love, the second is gossip, and the third is talking nonsense.”
“But, Mr. Martin, have you seen Paris?”
“Yes, I’ve seen Paris—it has a bit of all those things. It’s a chaos, a crush where everyone looks for pleasure and almost no one finds it, at least from what I saw. I stayed there only a short while; when I arrived, I was robbed of everything at the Saint-Germain fair by pickpockets, then mistaken for a thief myself and spent eight days in jail. After that, I became a proofreader to earn enough to walk back to Holland. I met the rabble of writers, plotters, and fanatics. People say there are very polite folks in that city—I’ll take their word for it.”

“As for me, I have no desire to see France,” said Candide. “You can guess that after spending a month in Eldorado, nothing else on earth interests me except Mlle Cunégonde. I’m going to wait for her in Venice; we’ll cross France to get to Italy—will you come with me?”
“Gladly,” said Martin. “They say Venice is only good for Venetian nobles, but that foreigners are treated very well if they have plenty of money. I have none; you have some, so I’ll follow you anywhere.”
“By the way,” asked Candide, “do you think the earth was originally a sea, as that big book belonging to the captain claims?”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Martin, “nor any of the other nonsense people have been spouting lately.”
“Then why do you think this world was made?” asked Candide.
“To drive us mad,” answered Martin.
“Aren’t you surprised,” Candide continued, “at the love those two Oreillon girls had for the two monkeys, as I told you?”
“Not at all,” said Martin. “I’ve seen so many strange things that nothing surprises me anymore.”
“Do you think,” asked Candide, “that men have always killed each other, lied, been traitors, ungrateful, weak, fickle, cowardly, envious, greedy, ambitious, bloodthirsty, slanderous, depraved, fanatical, hypocritical, and foolish, as they are now?”
“Do you think hawks have always eaten pigeons when they find them?” asked Martin.
“Of course,” said Candide.
“Well then,” said Martin, “if hawks have always had the same nature, why would you think men have changed theirs?”
“Oh,” said Candide, “but there’s free will...”
Reasoning like this, they arrived in Bordeaux.

Chapter XXII

What Happened to Candide and Martin in France

Candide stayed in Bordeaux only long enough to sell some of his El Dorado gems and arrange for a good two-seater carriage—he couldn’t be without his philosopher Martin. He was only sorry to part with his sheep, which he left with the Academy of Sciences in Bordeaux. The Academy made its annual prize question: why was the sheep’s wool red? The prize went to a scholar from the North, who proved—with a formula—that the sheep had to be red and die of disease.

Every traveler Candide met on the road told him, “We’re going to Paris.” This wave of enthusiasm made him want to see the capital too—it wasn’t much out of the way to Venice. Entering by the Saint-Marceau suburb, he thought he was in the ugliest village in Westphalia.

No sooner had Candide reached his inn than he came down with a mild illness from his travels. Because he wore a huge diamond and had a heavy chest in his luggage, he was immediately surrounded by two doctors (whom he had not called), a few “close friends” who wouldn’t leave his side, and two devout women making him broth. Martin said,
“I remember being sick in Paris on my first trip—I was very poor, and so had no friends, no devout women, no doctors. And I got well.”

But with so many medicines and bleedings, Candide’s illness became serious. A local church official gently asked him for a paid-for pass to heaven; Candide refused. The devout women insisted it was the latest fashion; Candide replied he was not a man of fashion. Martin wanted to throw the official out the window. The clerk swore Candide would not be buried; Martin swore he’d bury the clerk if he kept bothering them. The fight got heated; Martin threw him out, causing a scandal that was reported.

Candide recovered, and during his convalescence he hosted fine suppers. He gambled, surprised that he never won; Martin was not surprised at all.

Among those showing them around was a little abbé from Périgord—one of those eager, sly, helpful types who hunt down foreigners, tell them scandal, and offer all possible pleasures. This abbé first took Candide and Martin to the theater, where a new tragedy was being played. Candide sat near some “wits.” He wept during the most moving scenes, despite their comments.
“You’re wrong to cry,” someone said. “That actress is terrible, the actor worse, the play even worse—the author doesn’t know Arabic, yet the play is set in Arabia. Plus, he doesn’t believe in innate ideas; I’ll bring you twenty pamphlets against him tomorrow.”
“How many plays are there in France?” Candide asked the abbé.
“Five or six thousand,” replied the abbé.
“That’s a lot! How many are good?”
“Fifteen or sixteen.”
“That’s a lot,” said Martin.

Candide was enchanted by an actress playing Queen Elizabeth in a rather dull tragedy sometimes performed. “She reminds me of Mlle Cunégonde. I’d like to meet her.” The abbé offered to introduce him. Candide, raised in Germany, asked about the etiquette.
“In the provinces, they take queens to taverns; in Paris, they’re respected when beautiful and tossed aside when dead.”
“Queens thrown out?”
“Yes,” said Martin, “the abbé is right. I was in Paris when Mlle Monime died; she was refused burial in a decent grave and was buried alone on a street corner.”
“That’s very rude,” said Candide.
“That’s just how they are,” said Martin. “Imagine every contradiction and incompatibility; you’ll find them in government, courts, churches, and theaters here.”
“Is it true people always laugh in Paris?”
“Yes,” said the abbé, “but they do it angrily; they complain about everything with loud laughter, and even commit their worst deeds laughing.”

“Who was that man criticizing the play I loved?”
“He’s a hack who makes his living criticizing every play and book; he hates anyone successful, like eunuchs hate those who enjoy pleasure. He’s a pamphleteer—a Fréron.”
“What’s a pamphleteer?”
“One who writes little papers,” said the abbé, “a Fréron.”

Candide, Martin, and the abbé discussed this on the stairs as the crowd left the theater.
“Though I’m eager to see Mlle Cunégonde, I’d like to dine with Mlle Clairon—she was wonderful.”
“She’s busy tonight, but I can take you to a lady of quality and you’ll know Paris as if you’d lived here four years.”

Naturally curious, Candide let himself be taken to a lady’s house in the Saint-Honoré suburb. They found a card game in progress—twelve sad gamblers, anxious banker, watchful hostess—the marquise de Parolignac. Her 15-year-old daughter was among the gamblers, signaling to her mother about the other players’ tricks. The abbé, Candide, and Martin entered; no one looked up or greeted them, so absorbed were they in their cards.
“Baroness Thunder-ten-Tronckh was more polite,” said Candide.

The abbé whispered to the marquise, who smiled at Candide and nodded to Martin. She offered Candide a seat and cards—he lost 50,000 francs in two deals. Afterward, everyone was amazed that he wasn’t upset; the footmen whispered, “He must be an English milord.”

The supper was typical for Paris: silence at first, then noisy chatter, dull jokes, false news, bad reasoning, some politics, and much gossip. They spoke of new books.
“Have you seen Gauchat’s novel?” asked the abbé.
“Yes, but I couldn’t finish it. We have a flood of terrible books, but Gauchat’s is the very worst. I’m so tired of them I’ve started gambling instead.”
“And Trublet’s Essays?” asked the abbé.
“Oh, what a bore! He explains what everyone knows, discusses what’s not worth discussing, steals others’ ideas without wit, and ruins what he steals.”
A scholar at the table agreed. They then talked about tragedies, and the marquise asked why some plays are performed but not read. The scholar explained how a play can be interesting without real merit, how to be original without being bizarre, sublime but natural, know the human heart, and never let characters sound like poets. He said, “Without these, you might create a few popular plays but never be counted among the greats. There are very few good tragedies; most are just well-written dialogues, political arguments, or overwrought speeches.”

Candide listened with admiration and, sitting beside the marquise, asked who this man was.
“He’s a scholar who doesn’t gamble, whom the abbé brings sometimes. He knows plays and books, has written a play that flopped, and a book only I have read.”
“A great man!” said Candide. “Another Pangloss.”

Candide turned to him:
“Sir, do you think everything is for the best in this world, and nothing could be otherwise?”
“Not at all,” replied the scholar. “Everything here is out of order—no one knows his place, what he’s doing, or should do. Except for supper, which is cheerful, everything else is endless quarrels: Jansenists vs. Molinists, parliament vs. church, writers vs. writers, courtiers vs. courtiers, financiers vs. people, wives vs. husbands, relatives vs. relatives. It’s eternal war.”

Candide replied, “I’ve seen worse. But a wise man—who was later hanged—taught me that all this is splendid, just shadows on a beautiful painting.”
“He was mocking you,” said Martin; “those shadows are ugly stains.”
“They’re made by men, and they can’t help it.”
“Then it’s not their fault,” said Martin.

Most of the players, not understanding, drank, while Martin debated the scholar, and Candide told his story to the hostess.

After supper, the marquise took Candide to her boudoir, sat him beside her, and asked if he still loved Cunégonde.
“Yes, madam,” he replied.
She smiled, “You answer like a young man from Westphalia. A Frenchman would say: ‘I once loved Mlle Cunégonde, but now, seeing you, I fear I love her no more.’”
“Alas, madam, I’ll answer however you wish.”
“Your passion began with picking up her handkerchief; I want you to pick up my garter.”
“With all my heart,” said Candide, and he did.
“But I want you to put it back on me.” He did so.
“You’re a foreigner; I make my Parisian lovers wait two weeks, but with you, I give in the first night. We must honor our country for a foreign visitor.”
Seeing his two huge diamonds, she praised them so sincerely that they soon adorned her own fingers.

Leaving with the abbé, Candide felt some remorse for betraying Cunégonde. The abbé sympathized, but was more interested in taking advantage of Candide’s wealth. He spoke much of Cunégonde, and Candide said he would ask her forgiveness for his infidelity when he saw her in Venice.

The abbé became even more attentive, showing a keen interest in everything Candide said or did.
“So, you have a rendezvous in Venice?”
“Yes, I must find Mlle Cunégonde,” said Candide, and he told more of his story.

“I believe Mlle Cunégonde is clever and writes charming letters,” said the abbé.
“I’ve never received any,” said Candide, “for after I was banished from the castle, I couldn’t write. Then I heard she was dead, then found her, then lost her again, and sent a messenger 2,500 leagues away, whose reply I’m waiting for.”

The abbé listened closely and seemed thoughtful. He soon bid the two foreigners farewell. The next morning, Candide received a letter:

“Dearest love,
I have been sick in this city for eight days. I hear you are here. I would fly into your arms if I could move. I heard of your passing through Bordeaux; I left faithful Cacambo and the old woman there, who will soon join me. The governor of Buenos Aires took everything, but I still have your heart. Come to me; your presence will restore me or make me die of joy.”

This unexpected letter filled Candide with immense joy—and also anguish over Cunégonde’s illness. Torn between these feelings, he took his gold and diamonds and hurried with Martin to the hotel where Cunégonde was staying. Trembling with emotion, he asked to see her.
“Don’t bring in light,” said her attendant. “It will kill her.” The curtains were quickly closed.
“My dear Cunégonde, how are you? If you can’t see me, at least speak.”
“She cannot speak,” said the attendant.
The lady then stuck out a plump hand, which Candide bathed in tears and filled with diamonds, leaving a bag of gold on the chair.

Amid his joy, an officer arrived with the abbé and guards.
“So, these are the suspicious foreigners!”
They were arrested and ordered to prison.
“This isn’t how travelers are treated in Eldorado,” said Candide.
“I’m more of a Manichaean than ever,” said Martin.

“Where are you taking us?” asked Candide.
“To a dungeon,” said the officer.

Martin, regaining his composure, judged that the “Cunégonde” was a fraud, the abbé a swindler who had quickly exploited Candide’s innocence, and the officer another rogue who could be bribed.

Rather than face justice, Candide (on Martin’s advice and always impatient to see the real Cunégonde) offered the officer three small diamonds, each worth about 3,000 pistoles.
“Ah, sir!” said the man with the ivory baton, “if you’d committed every crime imaginable, you’re the most honest man in the world. Three diamonds! I’d die for you. We arrest all foreigners, but let me handle this. I have a brother in Dieppe, Normandy. I’ll take you there. If you have a diamond for him, he’ll take care of you as I do.”
“But why arrest all foreigners?” asked Candide.

The abbé answered:
“It’s because a beggar from Artois heard some nonsense, which made him commit a murder—not like in May 1610, but like in December 1594, and like many others committed by beggars who heard nonsense.”

The officer explained the case.
“What monsters!” cried Candide. “Such horrors among a people who dance and sing! Can I never leave this place where monkeys torment tigers? I’ve seen bears in my country, but only men in El Dorado. For God’s sake, take me to Venice to wait for Cunégonde.”
“I can only take you to Lower Normandy,” said the officer.

He quickly removed their chains, claimed it was a mistake, dismissed his men, and took Candide and Martin to Dieppe to his brother. There was a small Dutch ship in port. The Norman, with three more diamonds, became the most helpful of men, and got Candide and his companions on a ship bound for Portsmouth, England. It wasn’t the route to Venice, but Candide felt he was escaping hell and planned to go to Venice at the first opportunity.

Chapter XXIII

Candide and Martin Visit the Coast of England; What They See There

“Ah, Pangloss! Pangloss! Ah, Martin! Martin! Ah, my dear Cunégonde! What is this world?” Candide said aboard the Dutch ship.
“Something very mad and very abominable,” Martin replied.
“You know England—is it as crazy as France?”
“It’s a different kind of madness,” said Martin. “You know these two nations are at war over a few acres of snow in Canada, and they spend more on the war than all of Canada is worth. I can’t say if there are more lunatics in one country than another, but I do know the people we’re about to meet are very gloomy in general.”

As they talked, they landed at Portsmouth. A huge crowd was on the shore, watching a rather large man kneeling, blindfolded, on the deck of a ship. Four soldiers calmly fired three bullets each into his head, and the crowd left extremely satisfied.
“What’s all this?” asked Candide. “What demon rules everywhere?” He asked who the man was.
“He’s an admiral,” they told him.
“Why kill an admiral?”
“Because he didn’t kill enough people. He fought a French admiral, but they decided he didn’t get close enough.”
“But,” said Candide, “the French admiral was just as far from the English admiral as the Englishman was from him!”
“Absolutely true,” was the reply, “but in this country, it’s good to shoot an admiral every now and then, to encourage the others.”

Candide was so stunned and horrified by what he saw and heard that he refused even to set foot on English soil. He quickly made a deal with the Dutch captain (even if he got cheated like in Surinam) to take him straight to Venice.

The captain was ready in two days. They sailed along the French coast, passed the sight of Lisbon (which made Candide shudder), entered the Strait, then the Mediterranean, and finally arrived in Venice.
“Thank God!” said Candide, hugging Martin. “This is where I’ll meet my beautiful Cunégonde again. I trust Cacambo as much as myself. All is well, everything’s fine, everything is for the best.”

Chapter XXIV

About Paquette and Brother Giroflée

As soon as he arrived in Venice, Candide searched everywhere for Cacambo—in every tavern, café, and brothel—but found no trace. He sent people out daily to check every ship and boat—still no news.
“What!” he said to Martin, “I’ve traveled from Surinam to Bordeaux, Bordeaux to Paris, Paris to Dieppe, Dieppe to Portsmouth, along the coasts of Portugal and Spain, across the entire Mediterranean, spent months in Venice—and still no Cunégonde! Instead, I met only a trickster and a Périgord abbé. Cunégonde must be dead. I might as well die too. It would have been better to stay in the paradise of El Dorado than return to this cursed Europe. How right you are, dear Martin! All is illusion and misery.”

He fell into a deep melancholy and took no part in the opera or carnival festivities; not a single woman tempted him.
Martin said, “You’re quite naïve to think a mixed-race servant with millions in his pocket would search the world to bring your lover to you in Venice. If he finds her, he’ll keep her for himself; if not, he’ll find someone else. Forget both Cacambo and Cunégonde.”
Martin was not comforting. Candide’s depression grew, and Martin kept proving that there was little virtue or happiness on earth—except perhaps in El Dorado, where no one could go.

As they were arguing this point and waiting for Cunégonde, Candide noticed a young Theatine monk in St. Mark’s Square, walking arm-in-arm with a girl. The monk looked fresh, plump, and confident, with shining eyes and a proud stride. The girl was very pretty, singing, and kept pinching his cheeks affectionately.
“You must admit,” said Candide, “that at least these two are happy. Everywhere except El Dorado, I’ve seen only the miserable; but I bet this girl and this monk are very happy.”
“I bet they’re not,” said Martin.
“Let’s invite them to dinner, and you’ll see if I’m wrong,” said Candide.

He immediately approached them, greeted them, and invited them to enjoy a meal of macaroni, Lombard partridges, sturgeon eggs, and wines of Montepulciano, Lacryma Christi, Cyprus, and Samos. The young woman blushed, the monk accepted, and she followed him, casting surprised and uneasy glances at Candide, eyes brightened by a few tears. As soon as she entered Candide’s room, she exclaimed, “What! Monsieur Candide doesn’t recognize Paquette anymore?”

Candide, who until then hadn’t really looked at her because he was preoccupied with Cunégonde, replied, “Alas, my poor child, so you’re the one who put Doctor Pangloss in that dreadful state?”

“Alas, sir, it was me,” said Paquette. “I see you know everything. I heard about the dreadful misfortunes that befell the baron’s house and the beautiful Cunégonde. I swear my own fate has been hardly less tragic. I was innocent when you knew me. My confessor, a friar, seduced me easily. The consequences were terrible; I had to leave the castle after the baron kicked you out. If a famous doctor hadn’t taken pity on me, I would have died. Out of gratitude, I became his mistress for a while. His wife, crazed by jealousy, beat me every day—it was hell. The doctor was the ugliest man alive, and I the most miserable creature, beaten every day for a man I didn’t love. You know how dangerous it is for a shrewish woman to be married to a doctor. One day, furious with his wife, the doctor gave her a ‘medicine’ for a cold that killed her in two hours of horrible convulsions. Her family sued him; he fled, and I was put in prison. My innocence wouldn’t have saved me if I hadn’t been a little pretty. The judge set me free on the condition I became his mistress. Soon, I was replaced by a rival, thrown out with nothing, forced to continue the wretched profession you men find so amusing, but for us is a pit of misery. I came to Venice to ply my trade. Ah, sir, if you could imagine what it’s like to have to please, without discrimination, old merchants, lawyers, monks, gondoliers, abbés; to endure insults and abuse; to borrow a skirt just to have it lifted by some disgusting man; to be robbed by one of what another paid; to be shaken down by officers of the law; and to know that only a wretched old age, the hospital, or a dung heap awaits—you’d see I’m one of the most miserable creatures alive.”

Paquette poured out her heart in a private room, while Martin said, “You see, I’ve already half won our wager.”

Brother Giroflée had stayed in the dining room, drinking while waiting for dinner.
“But,” said Candide to Paquette, “you looked so happy when I saw you—singing, caressing the monk with natural affection. You seemed as happy as you now claim to be wretched.”
“Ah, sir,” replied Paquette, “that’s just another misery of this job. Yesterday I was robbed and beaten by an officer, and today I must appear cheerful to please a monk.”

Candide needed no more proof; he admitted Martin was right. They sat down to dinner with Paquette and the monk. The meal was pleasant, and as it went on, people grew more open.
“Father,” said Candide to the monk, “you seem to have a life everyone must envy; you’re healthy, happy-looking, have a lovely girl for company, and seem content as a Theatine.”

“Honestly, sir,” said Brother Giroflée, “I wish all Theatines were at the bottom of the sea. I’ve often been tempted to burn down the monastery and become a Turk. My parents forced me into this detestable robe at fifteen, so my older brother could inherit everything. Jealousy, discord, and rage reign in the convent. I’ve preached some lousy sermons that earned me a little money—half of which the prior steals; the rest I spend on women. But every night when I return to the monastery, I want to bash my head against the dormitory wall. All my fellow monks feel the same.”

Martin turned to Candide: “Well, haven’t I won the whole wager?”
Candide gave 2,000 piastres to Paquette and 1,000 to Brother Giroflée.
“With this, I guarantee they’ll be happy,” said Candide.
“I doubt it,” replied Martin. “You may just make them even more miserable.”
“We’ll see,” said Candide. “But at least people do sometimes turn up when you least expect it: since I’ve found my red sheep and Paquette again, maybe I’ll find Cunégonde too.”
“I hope she brings you happiness,” said Martin, “but I really doubt it.”
“You’re so hard,” said Candide.
“I’ve lived,” said Martin.

“But look at those gondoliers,” said Candide. “Don’t they sing all day?”
“You don’t see them at home, with their wives and children,” said Martin. “The doge has his troubles, the gondoliers have theirs. Being a gondolier is probably better than being a doge, but the difference is so slight it’s hardly worth discussing.”

“They say a senator called Pococurante lives in that beautiful palace on the Brenta and treats foreigners well. They say he’s never had a care in the world.”
“I’d like to see such a rare creature,” said Martin.
Candide immediately sent a request to visit Senator Pococurante the next day.

Chapter XXV

A Visit to Lord Pococurante, a Venetian Nobleman

Candide and Martin took a gondola along the Brenta and arrived at the palace of the nobleman Pococurante. The gardens were well-kept and decorated with beautiful marble statues; the palace itself was splendidly built. The master of the house, a wealthy sixty-year-old, received the two visitors politely, but without much enthusiasm—something that unsettled Candide but did not bother Martin.

First, two pretty and neatly dressed girls served them chocolate, making the foam just right. Candide couldn’t help admiring their beauty, grace, and skill.
“They’re decent enough,” said Senator Pococurante. “I sometimes have them in my bed, as I’m tired of city women, their flirtations, jealousy, quarrels, moods, pettiness, pride, stupidity, and the sonnets you have to write or commission for them. But, honestly, even these two girls are beginning to bore me.”

After breakfast, while walking through a long gallery, Candide was amazed by the beauty of the paintings. He asked about the first two.
“They’re by Raphael,” said the senator. “I bought them years ago out of vanity for a high price. People say they’re among the finest in Italy, but I don’t like them at all: the colors are too dark, the figures aren’t rounded enough, the drapery doesn’t look like fabric—in short, whatever people say, I don’t see true imitation of nature. I’ll like a painting only when I feel like I’m seeing nature itself, but I haven’t found one like that. I have lots of paintings, but I never look at them anymore.”

While waiting for lunch, Pococurante had a concerto played. Candide found the music delightful.
“That sound,” said Pococurante, “is entertaining for half an hour, but if it lasts longer, it tires everyone—though no one dares admit it. Music nowadays is just the art of performing difficult things, and what’s merely difficult is not pleasing for long.

“I might like opera better if it hadn’t become a monstrosity. Let those who wish go see bad tragedies set to music, just to set up a few ridiculous songs that showcase an actress’s throat; let those who can swoon at the sight of a castrato singing the role of Caesar or Cato, strutting awkwardly onstage—personally, I gave up long ago on these things that now make Italy famous, and for which princes pay so dearly.”
Candide disagreed, but politely. Martin wholly agreed with the senator.

They sat down to an excellent lunch, then entered the library. Candide, noticing a beautifully bound Homer, complimented the host on his taste.
“That,” said Pococurante, “was a favorite of the great Pangloss, the best philosopher in Germany.”
“It’s not one of mine,” replied Pococurante. “I was once convinced I enjoyed it, but the endless repetition of similar battles, the gods who always act without doing anything decisive, Helen—who is supposed to be the reason for the war but barely appears—Troy besieged but never taken: all this bored me to death. I’ve asked scholars if they find it as dull as I do; honest ones admit the book falls from their hands, but you have to keep it as a monument to antiquity, like rusty medals no one uses.”

“You don’t feel the same about Virgil, do you?” asked Candide.
“I admit the second, fourth, and sixth books of the Aeneid are excellent, but the rest—his dutiful Aeneas, strong Cloanthes, loyal Achates, little Ascanius, the foolish King Latinus, the dull Amata and Lavinia—are cold and unpleasant. I prefer Tasso and Ariosto’s wild tales.”

“May I ask if you enjoy reading Horace?”
“There are some maxims useful for a man of the world, and because they’re in energetic verse, they’re easier to remember. But I don’t care for his trip to Brindisi, his bad dinner, or the quarrel between Pupillus, whose words are ‘full of pus,’ and another whose words are vinegar. I found his crude verses against old women and witches disgusting, and I can’t see any merit in telling Maecenas that if he’s ranked among lyric poets, he’ll strike the stars with his lofty forehead. Fools admire everything from a famous author. I read only for myself: I like only what’s useful to me.”
Candide, raised never to judge for himself, was surprised by what he heard; Martin thought Pococurante’s attitude was reasonable.

“Oh, here’s Cicero,” said Candide. “Surely you never tire of reading him?”
“I never read him,” replied the Venetian. “Why should I care that he pleaded for Rabirius or Cluentius? I deal with enough lawsuits myself. I’d have preferred his philosophical works, but when I saw he doubted everything, I realized I knew as much as he did and didn’t need anyone else to be ignorant.”

“Look at those eighty volumes from the Academy of Sciences,” said Martin. “There must be something good there.”
“There could be,” said Pococurante, “if one of these authors had invented even the art of making pins. But there’s nothing useful in any of these books—just empty systems.”

“What a collection of plays!” said Candide, seeing books in Italian, Spanish, and French.
“Yes,” said the senator, “there are three thousand of them, but not three dozen good ones. As for those collections of sermons, which altogether aren’t worth a page of Seneca, and all those volumes of theology—you can be sure I never open them, nor does anyone else.”

Martin spotted shelves of English books.
“I suppose a republican would enjoy these,” he said.
“It’s wonderful to write what you think,” answered Pococurante, “that’s man’s privilege. In all Italy, people only write what they don’t think; those living in the land of the Caesars and Antonines dare not have ideas without a Dominican’s permission. I would admire English liberty if their party spirit and passion didn’t spoil what’s best in it.”

Candide, seeing a Milton, asked if Pococurante considered him a great man.
“Who? That barbarian, who turns the first chapter of Genesis into ten books of hard verse? That clumsy Greek imitator who botches Creation—making the Messiah draw circles with a compass in Heaven—while Moses simply has God create the world with a word? I can’t admire someone who ruins Tasso’s hell and devil, disguises Lucifer as a toad or a pygmy, makes him repeat the same speeches, argue theology, and, echoing Ariosto’s comic invention, has devils fire cannons in Heaven? No one in Italy can stomach such extravagance. The marriage of Sin and Death, the snakes Sin gives birth to, would sicken anyone of taste; and his long hospital description is fit only for an undertaker. This obscure, awkward, and disgusting poem was despised at home when it was published—I treat it the same way now. I just say what I think and don’t care what others think.”
Candide was distressed by all this; he respected Homer and rather liked Milton.
“Alas,” he whispered to Martin, “I fear this man must despise our German poets, too.”
“That wouldn’t be a great loss,” said Martin.
“Oh, what a superior man!” Candide whispered, “What a mind—nothing can please him.”

After touring all the books, they went to the garden. Candide praised its beauty.
“I think it’s all in terrible taste,” said the master. “We have nothing but trinkets—I’ll have it redone tomorrow in a nobler style.”

When they took their leave:
“Well,” said Candide to Martin, “you must admit this is the happiest man alive, since he’s above everything he owns.”
“Don’t you see,” said Martin, “that he’s disgusted with everything he owns? Plato once said the best stomachs are not those that reject all food.”
“But isn’t there pleasure in criticism, in finding flaws where others see beauty?”
“In other words,” Martin replied, “is there pleasure in having no pleasure?”
“Well, then,” said Candide, “the only happy one must be me, when I find Mlle Cunégonde again.”
“It’s always good to hope,” said Martin.

Meanwhile, days and weeks passed; Cacambo did not return, and Candide was so sunk in sorrow he didn’t even notice that Paquette and Brother Giroflée never came back to thank him.

Chapter XXVI

A Supper Candide and Martin Had with Six Strangers—and Who They Were

One evening, as Candide and Martin were about to dine with some foreign guests at their inn, a man with a sooty face came up behind Candide, took his arm, and whispered, “Be ready to leave with us—don’t fail.” Candide turned and saw Cacambo. Only Cunégonde’s presence could have surprised and delighted him more. He nearly went mad with joy, hugged his dear friend, and exclaimed, “Cunégonde must be here! Where is she? Take me to her so I can die of happiness!”
“Cunégonde isn’t here,” said Cacambo. “She’s in Constantinople.”
“Heavens, in Constantinople! Even if she were in China, I’d fly to her. Let’s go!”
“We’ll leave after supper,” replied Cacambo. “I can’t say more—I’m a slave, and my master expects me at his table. Don’t say a word. Eat, and be ready.”

Candide, torn between joy and sorrow, delighted to see his loyal servant yet shocked to find him a slave, obsessed with the thought of Cunégonde, sat down to dinner with Martin (who took all these adventures calmly) and six strangers, all in Venice for the carnival.

Cacambo, pouring wine for one of the strangers, leaned over to his master at the end of the meal and whispered, “Sire, Your Majesty may leave when you wish—the ship is ready.” He left. The guests stared at each other in silence. Another servant approached his master and said, “Sire, Your Majesty’s carriage is at Padua, and the boat is ready.” The master signaled, and the servant left. The guests looked at one another, even more surprised. A third servant told his master, “Sire, I advise you not to stay here any longer—I’ll prepare everything.” He left immediately.

Candide and Martin now suspected this was a carnival masquerade. A fourth servant told a fourth guest, “Your Majesty may depart at your pleasure,” then left. The fifth did the same for his master. The sixth servant, however, told the sixth guest—who was seated next to Candide—“Honestly, sire, no one will give credit to Your Majesty or to me any longer, and we could both be arrested tonight. I’m going to take care of my affairs—goodbye.”

Once all the servants had disappeared, the six strangers, Candide, and Martin sat in deep silence. At last Candide spoke:
“Gentlemen, this is a strange joke. Why are you all kings? As for me, I confess that neither Martin nor I are kings.”

Cacambo’s master then spoke gravely in Italian:
“I am no joker. My name is Achmet III. I was Grand Sultan for several years. I overthrew my brother; my nephew overthrew me. My viziers were beheaded. I now live in the old seraglio. My nephew, the reigning Sultan Mahmoud, lets me travel sometimes for my health, and I came to spend the carnival in Venice.”

A young man beside Achmet spoke next:
“My name is Ivan. I was Emperor of all the Russias. I was dethroned as an infant; my parents were imprisoned; I was raised in captivity. Sometimes I’m allowed to travel, accompanied by my guards, and I came to Venice for the carnival.”

The third said:
“I am Charles Edward, King of England. My father gave me his claim to the throne. I fought to defend it; 800 of my supporters had their hearts cut out and slapped against their faces. I was imprisoned. I’m on my way to Rome to visit my father, who, like me and my grandfather, was dethroned. I came to Venice for the carnival.”

The fourth spoke:
“I am King of Poland. The fortunes of war deprived me of my hereditary states. My father suffered the same fate. I resign myself to Providence, like Sultan Achmet, Emperor Ivan, and King Charles Edward. I came to Venice for the carnival.”

The fifth said:
“I am also King of Poland. I lost my kingdom twice. Providence gave me another state, where I did more good than all the Sarmatian kings ever did on the banks of the Vistula. I also submit to Providence, and I came to Venice for the carnival.”

The sixth said:
“Gentlemen, I’m not as great a lord as you, but I was a king too. I am Theodore. I was elected King of Corsica, was called Your Majesty, and now I’m barely called Mister. I had coins struck, but now I don’t have a penny. I had two secretaries of state, now I hardly have a servant. I once sat on a throne, and later spent a long time in a London prison on straw. I fear I might end up the same here, though I also came to Venice for the carnival.”

The five other kings listened with noble sympathy. Each gave King Theodore twenty sequins so he could buy clothes and shirts. Candide gave him a diamond worth two thousand sequins.
“Who is this man,” the five kings asked, “who can give a hundred times more than any of us, and does so? Are you also a king, sir?”
“No, gentlemen, and I have no desire to be.”

As they were leaving the table, four more highnesses entered the inn—each also having lost his state through war, and also come to Venice for the rest of the carnival. But Candide paid no attention—he was thinking only of finding his dear Cunégonde in Constantinople.

Chapter XXVII

Candide’s Journey to Constantinople

Faithful Cacambo had already arranged with the Turkish captain taking Sultan Achmet back to Constantinople that Candide and Martin could join them aboard. Both men went and bowed before His miserable Highness. On the way, Candide said to Martin, “We’ve just had supper with six dethroned kings! And I even gave alms to one of them. Maybe there are many more princes even more unfortunate. As for me, all I’ve lost is a hundred sheep, and now I’m flying into Cunégonde’s arms. My dear Martin, Pangloss was right after all: all is for the best.”
“I hope so,” said Martin.
“But isn’t it incredible, what happened in Venice? No one’s ever heard of six dethroned kings supping together in a tavern.”
“No more incredible,” Martin replied, “than most things that have happened to us. It’s quite common for kings to be dethroned; as for the honor of dining with them, that’s a trivial thing not worth our attention. What matters is whether the food is good.”

As soon as Candide was on board, he rushed to embrace his old servant and friend Cacambo.
“Well, what about Cunégonde? Is she still a miracle of beauty? Does she still love me? How is she? Surely you bought her a palace in Constantinople?”
“My dear master,” Cacambo replied, “Cunégonde is scrubbing dishes on the shores of the Sea of Marmara, for a prince with very few dishes to his name. She’s a slave in the house of a former sovereign called Ragotski, to whom the Grand Turk gives three crowns a day for his asylum. But what’s worse, she’s lost her beauty and become horribly ugly.”
“Ugly or beautiful,” said Candide, “I am an honest man, and it’s my duty to love her always. But how could she have ended up in such misery with the five or six million you took with you?”
“Oh, sir, I had to give two million to Señor Don Fernando d’Ibaraa, y Figueora, y Mascarenès, y Lampourdos, y Souza, the governor of Buenos Aires, just to get permission to take Mlle Cunégonde. And then a pirate robbed us of the rest. The pirate took us to Matapan, then Milo, Nicarie, Samos, Petra, the Dardanelles, Marmara, and Scutari. Cunégonde and the old woman are servants in the prince’s house, and I’m a slave to the dethroned sultan.”
“What a chain of terrible misfortunes!” said Candide. “But at least I still have some diamonds; I’ll easily buy Cunégonde’s freedom. It’s a shame she’s become so ugly.”

Then, turning to Martin:
“Who do you think is most to be pitied—Emperor Achmet, Emperor Ivan, King Charles Edward, or me?”
“I have no idea,” said Martin. “I’d have to be inside your hearts to know.”
“If only Pangloss were here, he’d know the answer,” said Candide.
“I don’t know what scales Pangloss would use to weigh men’s misfortunes,” said Martin. “All I know is there are millions of people on earth a hundred times more miserable than King Charles Edward, Emperor Ivan, and Sultan Achmet.”
“That might well be,” said Candide.

In a few days, they reached the Bosporus. Candide paid a high price to ransom Cacambo, and then, without delay, hurried with his companions to the shore of the Sea of Marmara in search of Cunégonde, however ugly she might be.

In the galley’s rowers’ benches, two convicts rowed very badly, and the overseer whipped their bare backs with an ox-hide. Candide, moved by pity, looked at them more closely and noticed a resemblance to Pangloss and that unfortunate Jesuit, Cunégonde’s brother, the baron. The idea struck and saddened him. He looked even more closely.
“Honestly, Cacambo, if I hadn’t seen Pangloss hanged and hadn’t had the misfortune of killing the baron, I’d think these two were rowing here in this galley.”

At the mention of the baron and Pangloss, the two convicts cried out, stopped rowing, and dropped their oars. The overseer rushed at them, whipping them harder.
“Stop! Stop! Sir!” Candide cried, “I’ll pay you whatever you want!”
“What! Is that Candide?” one convict said.
“What! Is that Candide?” echoed the other.
“Is this a dream?” Candide asked. “Am I awake? Am I really in this galley? Is this the baron I killed? Is this Pangloss, whom I saw hanged?”
“It’s us, it’s us!” they answered.
“What! That’s the great philosopher?” said Martin.
“Sir,” said Candide to the overseer, “how much do you want for the ransom of Baron Thunder-ten-Tronckh, one of the empire’s leading barons, and Mr. Pangloss, the greatest metaphysician in Germany?”
“Christian dog,” said the overseer, “since these two Christian galley slaves are barons and metaphysicians—surely a great title in their country—you’ll pay me fifty thousand sequins.”
“You’ll have it! Take me at once to Constantinople and you’ll be paid on the spot. No—take me to Mlle Cunégonde!”
The overseer, hearing Candide’s offer, immediately turned the boat toward the city and made the rowers move faster than a bird in flight.

Candide hugged the baron and Pangloss a hundred times.
“How did I not kill you, dear baron? And my dear Pangloss, how are you alive after being hanged? Why are you both galley slaves in Turkey?”
“Is it true my dear sister is in this country?” asked the baron.
“Yes,” said Cacambo.
“And I see my dear Candide again!” Pangloss exclaimed.

Candide introduced Martin and Cacambo. They all embraced and talked at once. The galley flew across the water—they were soon in port. Candide summoned a Jew and sold a diamond worth a hundred thousand sequins for fifty thousand, the best price he could get. He immediately paid the ransom for the baron and Pangloss. Pangloss fell at his feet, weeping; the baron thanked him with a nod and promised to pay him back at the first opportunity.
“But is it really true my sister is in Turkey?”
“Absolutely,” Cacambo replied, “she’s working as a scullery maid for a Transylvanian prince.”

Candide immediately sold more diamonds to two more Jews; then they all set off in another galley to rescue Cunégonde.

Chapter XXVIII

What Happened to Candide, Cunégonde, Pangloss, Martin, etc.

“Forgive me again,” Candide said to the baron, “for running you through with my sword.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” the baron replied. “I was a bit too hasty, I admit. But since you want to know how I ended up as a galley slave, I’ll tell you: after I recovered from my wound thanks to the college’s apothecary, I was captured by a Spanish patrol and thrown in prison in Buenos Aires, just as my sister left. I asked to return to Rome to the general of our order. I was assigned as chaplain to the French ambassador in Constantinople. After just eight days, I happened upon a very handsome young icoglan (a palace page). It was very hot, and the young man wanted to bathe; I decided to bathe too. I didn’t know it was a capital crime for a Christian to be found naked with a young Muslim. A judge had me given a hundred blows on the soles of my feet and sentenced me to the galleys. I can’t imagine a greater injustice. But I’d like to know how my sister ended up in the kitchen of a Transylvanian prince, a refugee among the Turks.”

“And you, my dear Pangloss,” asked Candide, “how can I be seeing you alive?”

“It’s true,” said Pangloss, “you saw me hanged; I was supposed to be burned, but you’ll remember it poured rain as they tried to roast me. The storm was so bad they gave up trying to light the fire and hanged me instead, since that was all they could do. A surgeon bought my body and took me home to dissect me. He made a crucial incision from my navel to my collarbone. I couldn’t have been hanged more poorly. The Inquisition’s executioner, who was a subdeacon, was good at burning people, but not at hanging them: the rope was wet and slipped, the knot was bad, so I was still breathing. The incision made me cry out so loudly that the surgeon fell over, thinking he was dissecting the devil, and fled in terror, tripping on the stairs. His wife heard the commotion, ran in, saw me lying on the table with my body cut open, and was even more terrified—she ran and fell on top of him. When they recovered, I heard the wife say to her husband, ‘Why did you try to dissect a heretic? Don’t you know the devil is always inside those people? I’m going to fetch a priest for an exorcism!’ This terrified me, and I gathered my strength to cry, ‘Have mercy on me!’ Finally, the Portuguese barber was brave enough to sew me back up; his wife even took care of me, and I was on my feet in two weeks. The barber found me a job as a servant to a Knight of Malta traveling to Venice; but since the knight couldn’t pay me, I took service with a Venetian merchant and followed him to Constantinople.

“One day I decided to enter a mosque. Only an old imam and a pretty young devotee were there; her chest was bare, and between her breasts was a bouquet of tulips, roses, anemones, ranunculus, hyacinths, and bear’s ears. She dropped her bouquet; I picked it up and handed it to her with great respect. I took so long returning it that the imam grew angry and, seeing I was a Christian, raised the alarm. I was taken to the judge, who gave me a hundred blows on the soles of my feet and sent me to the galleys. I was chained to the same bench as the baron. There were also four young men from Marseilles, five Neapolitan priests, and two monks from Corfu who told us such things happened every day. The baron insisted he’d suffered a worse injustice than I had; I insisted it was more permissible to hand a bouquet to a woman than to bathe naked with a page. We argued constantly and received twenty lashes a day, until fate brought you to our galley and you ransomed us.”

“Well, my dear Pangloss,” said Candide, “after being hanged, dissected, beaten, and sent to the galleys, do you still believe all is for the best?”

“I’m still of the same opinion,” Pangloss replied. “I am a philosopher: I can’t take back what I’ve said. Leibniz can’t be wrong, and the pre-established harmony is the finest thing in the world, just like the fullness and subtlety of matter.”

Chapter XXIX

How Candide Found Cunégonde and the Old Woman Again

While Candide, the baron, Pangloss, Martin, and Cacambo were sharing their adventures and debating the nature of events, the causes and effects, moral and physical evil, freedom and necessity, and the comforts to be found even as galley slaves in Turkey, they arrived at the shore of the Sea of Marmara, at the house of the Prince of Transylvania. The first sight that greeted them was Cunégonde and the old woman, hanging towels to dry on clotheslines.

The baron turned pale at the sight. Tender Candide, seeing his beloved Cunégonde tanned, with dull eyes, dry chest, wrinkled cheeks, and red, scaly arms, recoiled three steps in horror before stepping forward out of politeness. Cunégonde embraced Candide and her brother; everyone hugged the old woman, and Candide bought the freedom of both women.

There was a small farm nearby. The old woman suggested they move in for the time being, until their fate improved. Cunégonde did not know she had become ugly—nobody had told her. She reminded Candide of his promises in such a commanding tone that the good Candide didn’t dare refuse. So he told the baron he was going to marry his sister.
“I will never allow,” said the baron, “such a disgrace from her, or such insolence from you. I will never let it be said that my family is so dishonored; my sister’s children would not be able to join the German chapters. No, my sister shall only marry a baron of the Empire.”
Cunégonde fell at his feet, bathing them in tears, but he remained unmoved.
“You fool,” said Candide, “I rescued you from the galleys, paid your ransom, and your sister’s; she was washing dishes here, she’s ugly, and I am kind enough to marry her—yet you still oppose me! I’d kill you again if I listened to my anger.”
“You may kill me again,” replied the baron, “but you’ll never marry my sister while I’m alive.”

Chapter XXX

Conclusion

In his heart, Candide had no real desire to marry Cunégonde; but the baron’s extreme arrogance made him determined to go through with it, and Cunégonde’s constant pressure left him no way out. He consulted Pangloss, Martin, and faithful Cacambo. Pangloss wrote a learned treatise proving the baron had no right over his sister, and that, according to every law of the Empire, she could marry Candide with only a left-handed blessing. Martin suggested simply throwing the baron into the sea. Cacambo proposed that they return him to the slave galley and ship him to Rome to his order’s general. Everyone liked this plan; the old woman approved; nothing was said to Cunégonde. It was done for a little money, and they had the pleasure of capturing a Jesuit and punishing the pride of a German baron.

It would be natural to think that after so many disasters, Candide—now married to his beloved, living with philosopher Pangloss, philosopher Martin, clever Cacambo, and the old woman, and having brought home so many diamonds from Eldorado—would live the happiest life in the world. But he was so swindled by various traders that nothing was left but his small farm. His wife, growing uglier by the day, became quarrelsome and unbearable; the old woman, now infirm, was even grumpier than Cunégonde. Cacambo, working the garden and selling vegetables in Constantinople, was exhausted and cursed his fate. Pangloss despaired at not being a famous professor in some German university. Martin remained convinced that people are miserable everywhere, though he bore it with patience. Sometimes Candide, Martin, and Pangloss would dispute metaphysics and morals.

They often saw boats pass by their windows, carrying effendis, pashas, and judges into exile, and others arriving to take their places, only to be expelled soon after; they saw severed heads being paraded through the streets. These spectacles stirred up endless arguments; and when they weren’t arguing, the boredom was so great that the old woman once said:
“I’d like to know which is worse: being raped a hundred times by pirates, having a buttock cut off, running the gauntlet among the Bulgars, being whipped and hanged at an auto-da-fé, dissected, chained to an oar in a galley, and suffering all the miseries we’ve endured—or just sitting here doing nothing?”
“That’s a big question,” said Candide.

This led to new debates, and Martin concluded that humans are born to live between the convulsions of anxiety and the lethargy of boredom. Candide didn’t quite agree, but he was unsure. Pangloss admitted he had always suffered horribly, but having once declared that all was for the best, he kept saying so, though he no longer believed it.

One last thing confirmed Martin’s bleak worldview, made Candide more uncertain, and confused Pangloss even more: One day, Paquette and Brother Giroflée arrived at the farm, utterly destitute. They had quickly spent their three thousand piastres, broke up, made up, quarreled again, been thrown in jail, escaped, and finally Brother Giroflée had become a Muslim. Paquette still wandered from place to place in her trade, earning nothing.
“I told you,” Martin said to Candide, “your gifts would be wasted, and would only make them more miserable. You and Cacambo had millions, and you’re no happier than they are.”
“Ah, Paquette,” Pangloss said, “Heaven has brought you back among us. My poor child, do you realize you cost me the tip of my nose, an eye, and an ear? What a state you’re in!—What is this world?”
This new turn of events made them philosophize more than ever.

Nearby lived a famous dervish, considered the wisest man in Turkey; so they went to consult him. Pangloss spoke for the group:
“Master, we come to ask why such a strange creature as man was created.”
“What business is that of yours?” the dervish replied. “Is that your concern?”
“But, Reverend Father,” said Candide, “there’s so much evil on earth.”
“What does it matter,” said the dervish, “whether there’s evil or good? When His Highness sends a ship to Egypt, does he care if the mice on board are at ease or not?”
“So what should we do?” asked Pangloss.
“Be silent,” said the dervish.
“I was hoping,” Pangloss said, “to discuss with you the causes and effects, the best of all possible worlds, the origin of evil, the nature of the soul, and the harmony pre-established—”
But at these words, the dervish shut the door in their faces.

While they were talking, news spread that two viziers and the mufti had just been strangled in Constantinople, and several of their friends impaled. The whole city was in an uproar for a few hours. On their way back to the farm, Pangloss, Candide, and Martin met a kindly old man sitting under an orange arbor outside his door. Pangloss, always curious, asked him what the name of the mufti was who’d just been strangled.
“I don’t know,” the old man replied, “and I’ve never known the name of any mufti or vizier. I know nothing of the events you mention; I presume that those who meddle in public affairs sometimes die miserably and deserve it; but I never concern myself with what goes on in Constantinople—I only send the fruit from my garden to market.”
With that, he welcomed the strangers into his home; his two daughters and two sons served them homemade sherbets, kaïmak with candied citron peel, oranges, lemons, limes, pineapples, dates, pistachios, and Mocha coffee (not mixed with the bad coffee from Batavia). Then the daughters perfumed the beards of Candide, Pangloss, and Martin.

“You must have a vast and beautiful estate,” Candide said to the Turk.
“I have only twenty acres,” the man replied. “I work them with my children. Work keeps away three great evils: boredom, vice, and need.”

As they returned to their little farm, Candide reflected deeply on the Turk’s words. He said to Pangloss and Martin:
“That good old man seems to have found a life far better than that of the six kings we once dined with.”
“Greatness,” said Pangloss, “is very dangerous, as all the philosophers say. Think what happened to Eglon, king of Moab, killed by Ehud; to Absalom, hanged and stabbed; to King Nadab, son of Jeroboam, killed by Baasha; King Elah by Zimri; Ahaziah by Jehu; Athaliah by Jehoiada; kings Jehoiakim, Jeconiah, and Zedekiah became slaves. You know about Croesus, Astyages, Darius, Dionysius of Syracuse, Pyrrhus, Perseus, Hannibal, Jugurtha, Ariovistus, Caesar, Pompey, Nero, Otho, Vitellius, Domitian, Richard II of England, Edward II, Henry VI, Richard III, Mary Stuart, Charles I, the three Henrys of France, Emperor Henry IV? You know—”
“I also know,” said Candide, “that we must cultivate our garden.”
“You are right,” said Pangloss; “for when man was placed in the Garden of Eden, it was to work it, which proves that man was not born for idleness.”
“Let’s work without arguing,” said Martin. “It’s the only way to make life bearable.”

The whole little community followed this wise plan. Everyone set about using their talents. The small farm produced plenty. Cunégonde, though truly ugly, became an excellent pastry cook; Paquette did embroidery; the old woman looked after the linen. Even Brother Giroflée was useful—he became a good carpenter and even an honest man. And sometimes, Pangloss would say to Candide:
“All events are linked in this best of possible worlds; for if you hadn’t been driven from your fine castle for loving Mlle Cunégonde, if you hadn’t been put through the Inquisition, if you hadn’t traveled across America on foot, if you hadn’t stabbed the baron, if you hadn’t lost all your sheep from the land of Eldorado, you wouldn’t be here now eating candied citron and pistachios.”
“That’s well said,” Candide replied, “but we must cultivate our garden.”

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Copyright © Wilma Baltus. All rights reserved.