Part 2

O Pangloss! cried Candide, what a strange genealogy! was it not the devil who was its root? Not at all, replied this great man; it was an indispensable thing in the best of worlds, a necessary ingredient; for if Columbus had not caught in an island of America that disease[1] which poisons the source of generation, which often even prevents generation, and which is evidently the opposite of the great aim of nature, we should have neither chocolate nor cochineal; it must further be observed that, until today, in our continent, this disease is peculiar to us, as is controversy. The Turks, the Indians, the Persians, the Chinese, the Siamese, the Japanese, do not yet know it; but there is sufficient reason for them to know it in their turn within a few centuries. Meanwhile it has made marvelous progress among us, and especially in those great armies composed of honest, well-bred mercenaries, who decide the destiny of states; it may be affirmed that, when thirty thousand men fight in pitched battle against troops equal in number, there are about twenty thousand pox-ridden on each side.

[1] See volume XXXI, page 7. B.

That is admirable, said Candide; but you must be cured. And how can I be? said Pangloss; I have not a penny, my friend, and throughout the whole extent of this globe one cannot be bled, nor take an enema, without paying, or without someone paying for us.

This last speech determined Candide; he went and threw himself at the feet of his charitable Anabaptist James, and gave him so touching a picture of the state to which his friend was reduced, that the good man did not hesitate to take in Doctor Pangloss; he had him cured at his own expense. Pangloss, in the cure, lost only one eye and one ear. He wrote well, and knew arithmetic perfectly. The Anabaptist James made him his bookkeeper. At the end of two months, being obliged to go to Lisbon on business for his trade, he took his two philosophers aboard his ship. Pangloss explained to him how everything was as well as could be. James was not of this opinion. It must be, said he, that men have somewhat corrupted nature, for they were not born wolves, and they have become wolves. God gave them neither twenty-four-pounders nor bayonets, and they have made themselves bayonets and cannon to destroy one another. I might add bankruptcies, and the law which seizes the goods of bankrupts to defraud the creditors. All that was indispensable, replied the one-eyed doctor, and particular misfortunes make the general good; so that the more particular misfortunes there are, the more everything is well. While he was reasoning, the air grew dark, the winds blew from the four corners of the world, and the ship was assailed by the most horrible tempest, in sight of the port of Lisbon.

CHAPTER V. Tempest, shipwreck, earthquake, and what befell Doctor Pangloss, Candide, and the Anabaptist James.

Half the passengers, weakened, expiring from those inconceivable anguishes which the rolling of a vessel carries into the nerves and into all the humors of the body agitated in contrary directions, had not even the strength to concern themselves with the danger. The other half uttered cries and said prayers; the sails were torn, the masts broken, the vessel split open. Whoever could worked; no one understood another, no one commanded. The Anabaptist helped a little with the maneuver; he was on the deck; a furious sailor strikes him roughly and stretches him on the planks; but from the blow he gave him, he himself had so violent a jolt that he fell out of the ship, head first. He remained suspended and caught on a part of the broken mast. Good James runs to his aid, helps him climb back, and with the effort he makes, is precipitated into the sea before the sailor's eyes, who let him perish without deigning even to look at him. Candide approaches, sees his benefactor reappear for a moment, and then be swallowed up forever. He wants to throw himself into the sea after him: the philosopher Pangloss prevents him, proving to him that the roadstead of Lisbon had been formed expressly so that this Anabaptist might drown there. While he was proving it a priori, the ship splits apart, all perish save Pangloss, Candide, and that brutal sailor who had drowned the virtuous Anabaptist; the scoundrel swam safely to shore, where Pangloss and Candide were carried on a plank.

When they had somewhat recovered, they walked toward Lisbon; they had some money left, with which they hoped to save themselves from hunger after escaping the tempest.

Scarcely had they set foot in the city, weeping for the death of their benefactor, than they feel the earth tremble beneath their steps[1]; the sea rises boiling in the port, and dashes the ships at anchor. Whirlwinds of flame and ash cover the streets and public squares; houses crumble, roofs are overturned upon the foundations, and the foundations scatter; thirty thousand inhabitants of every age and sex are crushed under the ruins. The sailor said, whistling and swearing: there will be something to gain here. What can be the sufficient reason for this phenomenon? said Pangloss. This is the last day of the world! cried Candide. The sailor immediately runs amid the debris, braves death to find money, finds some, seizes it, gets drunk, and having slept off his wine, buys the favors of the first willing girl he meets upon the ruins of destroyed houses, and amid the dying and the dead. Pangloss, however, pulled him by the sleeve: My friend, said he, that is not right, you are lacking in universal reason, you are taking your time ill. Head and blood, answered the other, I am a sailor and born at Batavia; I have trampled the crucifix four times in four voyages to Japan[2]; you've found your man with your universal reason!

[1] The Lisbon earthquake is of 1 November 1755. B.

[2] See volume XVIII, page 470. B.

Some splinters of stone had wounded Candide; he lay in the street covered with debris. He said to Pangloss: Alas! get me a little wine and oil; I am dying. This earthquake is not a new thing, answered Pangloss; the city of Lima experienced the same shocks in America last year; same causes, same effects; there is certainly a train of sulfur under the earth from Lima to Lisbon. Nothing is more probable, said Candide; but, for God's sake, a little oil and wine. How probable? replied the philosopher; I maintain that the thing is demonstrated. Candide lost consciousness, and Pangloss brought him a little water from a nearby fountain.

The next day, having found some provisions by creeping through the rubble, they somewhat restored their strength. Then they worked like the others to relieve the inhabitants escaped from death. Some citizens, helped by them, gave them as good a dinner as could be had in such a disaster: it is true that the meal was sad; the guests watered their bread with their tears; but Pangloss consoled them, assuring them that things could not be otherwise: For, said he, all this is the best there is; for if there is a volcano at Lisbon, it could not be elsewhere; for it is impossible that things should not be where they are, for all is well.

A little dark man, familiar of the Inquisition, who was next to him, took the word politely and said: It appears that monsieur does not believe in original sin; for if all is for the best, then there was neither fall nor punishment.

I most humbly beg your Excellency's pardon, answered Pangloss still more politely, for the fall of man and the curse entered necessarily into the best of possible worlds. Does monsieur then not believe in free will? said the familiar. Your Excellency will excuse me, said Pangloss; free will can subsist with absolute necessity; for it was necessary that we should be free; for in short the determined will… Pangloss was in the middle of his sentence, when the familiar nodded to his footman who served him wine of Porto or Oporto.

CHAPTER VI. How a fine auto-da-fé was held to prevent earthquakes, and how Candide was whipped.

After the earthquake which had destroyed three quarters of Lisbon, the sages of the country had found no more efficacious means to prevent total ruin than to give the people a fine auto-da-fé[1]; it was decided by the University of Coimbra that the spectacle of some persons burned at a slow fire, in great ceremony, is an infallible secret to keep the earth from trembling.

[1] After the Lisbon earthquake, there was indeed an auto-da-fé there, on 20 June 1756; see, volume XXI, chapter XXXI of the Précis du Siècle de Louis XV. B.

Accordingly they had seized a Biscayan convicted of having married his godmother, and two Portuguese who, in eating a chicken, had pulled off the bacon: after dinner they came to bind Doctor Pangloss and his disciple Candide, one for having spoken, and the other for having listened with an air of approbation: both were taken separately to rooms of extreme coolness, in which one was never incommoded by the sun. Eight days after, they were both clad in a san-benito, and their heads adorned with paper miters: the miter and san-benito of Candide were painted with reversed flames, and devils who had neither tails nor claws; but the devils of Pangloss bore claws and tails, and the flames were upright. They marched in procession thus dressed, and heard a very pathetic sermon, followed by fine music in faux-bourdon. Candide was whipped in cadence, while they sang; the Biscayan and the two men who had refused to eat bacon were burned, and Pangloss was hanged, though that is not the custom. The same day the earth trembled again with a frightful crash.

Candide, terrified, stupefied, distraught, all bloody, all palpitating, said to himself: If this is the best of possible worlds, what are the others? it is bad enough that I was whipped, I was so among the Bulgarians; but, O my dear Pangloss! the greatest of philosophers, must you have been seen hanged, without my knowing why! O my dear Anabaptist! the best of men, must you have been drowned in the port! O mademoiselle Cunégonde! the pearl of girls, must they have ripped open your belly!

He was returning, scarcely supporting himself, preached at, whipped, absolved, and blessed, when an old woman accosted him, and said to him: My son, take courage, follow me.

CHAPTER VII How an old woman took care of Candide, and how he found again what he loved.

Candide did not take courage, but he followed the old woman into a hovel: she gave him a pot of ointment to rub himself with, left him food and drink; she showed him a fairly clean little bed; there was a complete suit of clothes near the bed. Eat, drink, sleep, said she to him, and may Our Lady of Atocha[1], my lord Saint Anthony of Padua, and my lord Saint James of Compostela take care of you! I shall return tomorrow. Candide, still astonished at all he had seen, at all he had suffered, and still more at the old woman's charity, wished to kiss her hand. It is not my hand that must be kissed, said the old woman; I shall return tomorrow. Rub yourself with ointment, eat and sleep.

[1] On Our Lady of Atocha, see in the Mélanges, year 1769, one of Voltaire's notes on his Extrait d'un journal (or Mémoires de Dangeau). B.

Candide, despite so many misfortunes, ate and slept. The next day the old woman brings him breakfast, visits his back, rubs him herself with another ointment: she then brings him dinner; she returns in the evening and brings supper. The day after she again performed the same ceremonies. Who are you? Candide kept saying to her; who inspired in you so much goodness? what graces can I render you? The good woman never answered anything. She returned in the evening, and brought no supper: Come with me, said she, and say nothing. She takes him under the arm, and walks with him into the country about a quarter of a mile: they arrive at an isolated house, surrounded by gardens and canals. The old woman knocks at a small door. It opens; she leads Candide, by a hidden staircase, into a gilded cabinet, leaves him on a brocade couch, shuts the door, and goes away. Candide thought he was dreaming, and regarded all his life as a funest dream, and the present moment as a pleasant dream.

The old woman soon reappeared; she was with difficulty supporting a trembling woman, of majestic stature, brilliant with jewels, and covered with a veil. Remove that veil, said the old woman to Candide. The young man approaches; he lifts the veil with a timid hand. What a moment! what a surprise! he thinks he sees mademoiselle Cunégonde; he indeed saw her, it was she herself. Strength fails him, he cannot utter a word, he falls at her feet. Cunégonde falls upon the couch. The old woman overwhelms them with spirits, they recover their senses, they speak to each other: at first these are broken words, questions and answers that cross, sighs, tears, cries. The old woman recommends them to make less noise, and leaves them at liberty. What! is it you, said Candide to her, you live! I find you again in Portugal! then you were not violated? they did not rip open your belly, as the philosopher Pangloss assured me? They did, said the beautiful Cunégonde; but one does not always die of those two accidents. —But your father and mother, were they killed? —Too true, said Cunégonde weeping. —And your brother? —My brother was also killed. —And why are you in Portugal? and how did you know I was here? and by what strange adventure have you had me brought to this house? —I shall tell you all that, replied the lady; but first you must tell me all that has happened to you since the innocent kiss you gave me, and the kicks you received.

Candide obeyed her with profound respect; and though he was bewildered, though his voice was weak and trembling, though his back still hurt him a little, he recounted to her in the most naïve manner all he had experienced since the moment of their separation. Cunégonde raised her eyes to heaven: she gave tears to the death of the good Anabaptist and of Pangloss; after which she spoke thus to Candide, who missed not a word, and devoured her with his eyes.

CHAPTER VIII. History of Cunégonde.

I was in my bed and sleeping soundly, when it pleased heaven to send the Bulgarians into our beautiful castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh; they slit my father's and brother's throats, and cut my mother in pieces. A great Bulgarian, six feet tall, seeing that at this sight I had lost consciousness, set about violating me; that brought me to, I recovered my senses, I cried, I struggled, I bit, I scratched, I wanted to tear out the eyes of this great Bulgarian, not knowing that all that happened in my father's castle was a thing of custom: the brute gave me a knife thrust in the left side, of which I still bear the mark. Alas! I hope well to see it, said the naïve Candide. You shall see it, said Cunégonde; but let us continue. Continue, said Candide.

She thus took up the thread of her story: A Bulgarian captain entered, he saw me all bloody, and the soldier did not move aside. The captain grew angry at the little respect this brute showed him, and killed him upon my body. Then he had me dressed, and took me prisoner of war to his quarters. I washed the few shirts he had, I did his cooking; he found me very pretty, it must be owned; and I shall not deny that he was very well made, and that he had white and soft skin; besides little wit, little philosophy: one plainly saw he had not been brought up by Doctor Pangloss. At the end of three months, having lost all his money, and grown weary of me, he sold me to a Jew named don Issachar, who traded in Holland and Portugal, and passionately loved women. This Jew became much attached to my person, but could not triumph over it; I resisted him better than the Bulgarian soldier: a person of honor may be violated once, but her virtue is strengthened by it. The Jew, to tame me, took me to this country house you see. I had believed until then that nothing on earth was so fine as the castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh; I have been undeceived.

The grand inquisitor noticed me one day at mass; he ogled me much, and had me told he had to speak with me on secret affairs. I was conducted to his palace; I made known my birth to him; he represented to me how far beneath my rank it was to belong to an Israelite. On his behalf it was proposed to don Issachar to yield me to my lord. Don Issachar, who is the court banker, and a man of credit, would do nothing of it. The inquisitor threatened him with an auto-da-fé. Finally my Jew, intimidated, concluded a bargain whereby the house and I should belong to both of them in common; that the Jew should have for himself Mondays, Wednesdays, and the Sabbath day, and the inquisitor should have the other days of the week. This convention has stood for six months. It has not been without quarrels; for often it was undecided whether the night from Saturday to Sunday belonged to the old law or the new. For my part, I have resisted both until now; and I believe it is for this reason that I have always been loved.

Finally, to turn away the scourge of earthquakes, and to intimidate don Issachar, it pleased my lord the inquisitor to celebrate an auto-da-fé. He did me the honor of inviting me to it. I was very well placed; refreshments were served to the ladies between the mass and the execution. I was, to be sure, seized with horror at seeing those two Jews and that honest Biscayan who had married his godmother burned; but what was my surprise, my fright, my confusion, when I saw in a san-benito, and under a miter, a face resembling that of Pangloss! I rubbed my eyes, I looked attentively, I saw him hanged; I fell into a faint. Scarcely had I recovered my senses, than I saw you stripped quite naked; that was the height of horror, of consternation, of grief, of despair. I shall tell you, in truth, that your skin is still whiter, and of a more perfect crimson, than that of my Bulgarian captain. This sight redoubled all the sentiments that overwhelmed me, that devoured me. I cried out, I wanted to say, Stop, barbarians! but my voice failed me, and my cries would have been useless. When you had been well whipped: How can it be, said I, that the amiable Candide and the wise Pangloss are at Lisbon, the one to receive a hundred strokes of the whip, and the other to be hanged by order of my lord the inquisitor, whose beloved I am? Pangloss then cruelly deceived me, when he told me that all goes for the best in the world!

Agitated, distraught, sometimes beside myself, and sometimes ready to die of weakness, my head was full of the massacre of my father, my mother, my brother, the insolence of my vile Bulgarian soldier, the knife thrust he gave me, my slavery, my trade of cook, my Bulgarian captain, my vile don Issachar, my abominable inquisitor, the hanging of Doctor Pangloss, that great miserere in faux-bourdon during which they whipped you, and above all the kiss I had given you behind a screen, the day I saw you for the last time. I praised God, who brought you back to me through so many trials. I recommended to my old woman to take care of you, and to bring you here as soon as she could. She has very well executed my commission; I have tasted the inexpressible pleasure of seeing you again, of hearing you, of speaking with you. You must have a devouring hunger; I have a great appetite; let us begin with supper.

They both sit at table; and, after supper, they seat themselves again on that fine couch already spoken of: they were there when signor don Issachar, one of the masters of the house, arrived. It was the Sabbath day. He came to enjoy his rights, and explain his tender love.

CHAPTER IX. What befell Cunégonde, Candide, the grand inquisitor, and a Jew.

This Issachar was the most choleric Hebrew seen in Israel since the captivity in Babylon. What! said he, dog of a Galilean, is not monsieur the inquisitor enough? must this knave share with me too? Saying this he draws a long poignard he always carried, and, believing his adversary unarmed, throws himself upon Candide; but our good Westphalian had received a fine sword from the old woman with the complete suit. He draws his sword, though his manners were very gentle, and stretches the Israelite dead on the floor, at the feet of the beautiful Cunégonde.

Holy Virgin! cried she, what shall become of us? a man killed in my house! if the law comes, we are lost. If Pangloss had not been hanged, said Candide, he would give us good counsel in this extremity, for he was a great philosopher. In his default, let us consult the old woman. She was very prudent, and was beginning to give her opinion when another small door opened. It was one hour after midnight, it was the beginning of Sunday. That day belonged to my lord the inquisitor. He enters and sees the whipped Candide, sword in hand, a dead man stretched on the ground, Cunégonde terrified, and the old woman giving counsel.

Here is what passed in Candide's soul at this moment, and how he reasoned: If this holy man calls for help, he will infallibly have me burned, he may do the same to Cunégonde; he had me whipped without pity; he is my rival; I am in the way of killing; there is no hesitating. This reasoning was clear and quick; and, without giving the inquisitor time to recover from his surprise, he pierces him through and through, and throws him beside the Jew. Here is another pretty pass, said Cunégonde; there is no remission now; we are excommunicated, our last hour is come! How did you, who were born so gentle, kill a Jew and a prelate in two minutes? My fair lady, answered Candide, when one is in love, jealous, and whipped by the Inquisition, one knows oneself no longer.

The old woman then took the word, and said: There are three Andalusian horses in the stable, with their saddles and bridles, let the brave Candide prepare them; madame has moyadors and diamonds, let us mount quickly, though I can only sit on one buttock, and let us go to Cadiz; it is the finest weather in the world, and it is a great pleasure to travel in the cool of the night.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”