Part 8

I might perhaps like opera better, if the secret had not been found of making it a monster that revolts me. Let him go who will to see poor musical tragedies, where the scenes are contrived only to introduce very malapropos two or three ridiculous songs that show off an actress's throat; let him swoon with pleasure who will or who can, at seeing a castrato warble the role of Caesar and Cato, and walk about awkwardly on a stage: for my part, I long ago gave up those paltry things which are today the glory of Italy, and which sovereigns pay for so dearly. Candide argued a little, but with discretion. Martin was entirely of the senator's opinion.

They sat down at table; and, after an excellent dinner, they went into the library. Candide, seeing a magnificently bound Homer, praised the most illustrious lord for his good taste. "Here," said he, "is a book that delighted the great Pangloss, the best philosopher in Germany." "It does not delight me," said Pococurante coldly: "I was made to believe formerly that I took pleasure in reading it; but this continual repetition of battles that all resemble one another, these gods who are always acting to do nothing decisive, this Helen who is the subject of the war, and who is scarce an actress in the play; this Troy that is besieged and never taken; all this caused me the most deadly boredom. I have sometimes asked men of learning whether they were as bored as I at this reading: all sincere persons confessed to me that the book fell from their hands, but that one must always have it in one's library, as a monument of antiquity, and as those rusty medals which can no longer pass as currency."

"Does your excellency not think thus of Virgil?" said Candide. "I grant," said Pococurante, "that the second, fourth, and sixth books of his Aeneid are excellent; but as for his pious Aeneas, and the sturdy Cloanthus, and the friend Achates, and little Ascanius, and the imbecile king Latinus, and the bourgeois Amata, and the insipid Lavinia, I believe there is nothing so cold and more disagreeable. I prefer Tasso and the tall tales of Ariosto."

"Dare I ask you, sir," said Candide, "if you do not take great pleasure in reading Horace?" "There are maxims," said Pococurante, "which a man of the world may profit by, and which, being compressed into energetic verses, are more easily graven on the memory: but I care very little for his journey to Brindisi, and his description of a bad dinner, and the quarrel of porters between I know not what Pupilus[1] whose words, he says, _were full of pus_, and another whose words _were vinegar_[2]. I have read with extreme disgust his coarse verses against old women and against witches; and I see not what merit there can be in saying to his friend Maecenas that, if he is placed by him among the lyric poets, he will strike the stars with his sublime brow[3]. Fools admire everything in an esteemed author. I read only for myself; I love only what is of use to me." Candide, who had been brought up never to judge of anything by himself, was much astonished at what he heard; and Martin found Pococurante's way of thinking quite reasonable.

[1] It is not Pupilus, but Rupilius, whom Horace names, book I, satire VII, line 1: _Rupili pus atque venenum_. B.

[2] _Italo perfusus aceto_, says Horace, in the same piece, line 32. B.

[3] Horace, odes, I, I. B.

"Oh! here is a Cicero," said Candide: "as for that great man, I think you never tire of reading him." "I never read him," answered the Venetian. "What is it to me whether he pleaded for Rabirius or for Cluentius? I have quite enough lawsuits of my own to judge; I should have been better suited by his philosophical works; but when I saw that he doubted of everything, I concluded that I knew as much as he, and that I needed no one to be ignorant."

"Ah! here are eighty volumes of collections of a scientific academy," cried Martin; "there may be something good in them." "There would be," said Pococurante, "if a single one of the authors of those trash had invented only the art of making pins; but in all those books there are only vain systems, and not one useful thing."

"What a number of plays I see there," said Candide, "in Italian, in Spanish, in French!" "Yes," said the senator, "there are three thousand of them, and not three dozen good ones. As for those collections of sermons, which all together are not worth a page of Seneca, and all those thick volumes of theology, you may well think that I never open them, neither I nor anyone."

Martin perceived shelves loaded with English books. "I believe," said he, "that a republican must take pleasure in most of these works written so freely." "Yes," replied Pococurante, "it is fine to write what one thinks; it is the privilege of man. In all our Italy, one writes only what one does not think; those who inhabit the country of the Caesars and the Antonines dare not have an idea without the permission of a Jacobin. I should be pleased with the liberty that inspires the English geniuses, if passion and party spirit did not corrupt all that is estimable in this precious liberty."

Candide, perceiving a Milton, asked him if he did not regard that author as a great man. "Who?" said Pococurante, "that barbarian who makes a long commentary on the first chapter of Genesis, in ten books of harsh verse? that coarse imitator of the Greeks, who disfigures the creation, and who, while Moses represents the Eternal Being producing the world by the word, makes the Messiah take a great pair of compasses in a heavenly closet to trace his work? I should esteem him who spoiled the hell and the devil of Tasso; who disguises Lucifer now as a toad, now as a pygmy; who makes him repeat a hundred times the same speeches; who makes him dispute on theology; who, in seriously imitating the comic invention of fire-arms of Ariosto, makes the devils fire cannon in the sky? Neither I nor anyone in Italy could take pleasure in all those dismal extravagances. The _Marriage of Sin and Death_, and the snakes which Sin gives birth to, make any man of somewhat delicate taste vomit; and his long description of a hospital is fit only for a gravedigger. That obscure, bizarre, and loathsome poem was despised at its birth; I treat it today as it was treated in its own country by its contemporaries[4]. For the rest, I say what I think, and I care very little whether others think as I do." Candide was afflicted by these discourses; he respected Homer, he loved Milton a little. "Alas!" said he softly to Martin, "I much fear this man has a sovereign contempt for our German poets." "There would not be much harm in that," said Martin. "Oh! what a superior man!" said Candide again between his teeth, "what a great genius this Pococurante is! nothing can please him."

[4] See what Voltaire says of Milton's _Paradise Lost_, in chapter IX of the _Essay on Epic Poetry_, printed in volume X, following the _Henriade_. B.

After thus reviewing all the books, they went down into the garden. Candide praised all its beauties. "I know nothing of such bad taste," said the master; "we have here only trifles: but I am going to have one planted tomorrow of a nobler design."

When the two curious persons had taken leave of his excellency: "Well now," said Candide to Martin, "you will agree that this is the happiest of all men, for he is above all that he possesses." "Do you not see," said Martin, "that he is disgusted with all that he possesses? Plato said long ago that the best stomachs are not those that reject all foods. But," said Candide, "is there not pleasure in criticizing everything, in sensing faults where other men believe they see beauties?" "That is to say," replied Martin, "that there is pleasure in having no pleasure?" "Ah well!" said Candide, "then there is no happy man but myself, when I see again mademoiselle Cunegonde." "It is always well to hope," said Martin.

Meanwhile the days, the weeks, slipped by; Cacambo did not return, and Candide was so sunk in his sorrow that he did not even reflect that Paquette and brother Giroflee had not so much as come to thank him.

CHAPTER XXVI. Of a supper that Candide and Martin made with six strangers, and who they were.

One evening, as Candide, followed by Martin, was about to sit down to table with the strangers lodging in the same inn, a man with a soot-colored face came up behind him, and, taking him by the arm, said: "Be ready to depart with us, fail not." He turns round, and sees Cacambo. There was only the sight of Cunegonde that could astonish him and please him more. He was near to going mad with joy. He embraces his dear friend. "Cunegonde is here, no doubt? where is she? take me to her, that I may die of joy with her." "Cunegonde is not here," said Cacambo, "she is at Constantinople." "O heavens! at Constantinople! but were she in China, I fly thither, let us depart." "We shall depart after supper," replied Cacambo; "I can tell you no more; I am a slave, my master awaits me; I must go serve him at table: say nothing, sup, and hold yourself ready."

Candide, divided between joy and grief, charmed to have seen his faithful agent again, astonished to see him a slave, full of the idea of finding his mistress, his heart agitated, his mind overthrown, sat down to table with Martin, who saw all these adventures with cold blood, and with six strangers, who had come to spend the carnival at Venice.

Cacambo, who was pouring drink for one of these six strangers, approached his master's ear at the end of the meal, and said to him: "Sire, your majesty shall depart when it pleases you, the vessel is ready." Having said these words, he went out. The guests, astonished, looked at one another without uttering a single word, when a second domestic approaching his master, said to him: "Sire, your majesty's chair is at Padua, and the boat is ready." The master made a sign, and the domestic departed. All the guests looked at one another again, and the common surprise redoubled. A third valet, approaching a third stranger, said to him: "Sire, believe me, your majesty should not stay here any longer, I am going to prepare everything;" and straightway he vanished.

Candide and Martin then no longer doubted that this was a carnival masquerade. A fourth domestic said to the fourth master: "Your majesty shall depart when it pleases you," and went out like the others. The fifth valet said the same to the fifth master. But the sixth valet spoke differently to the sixth stranger who was beside Candide; he said to him: "My faith, sire, they will give no more credit to your majesty nor to me either, and we might well be locked up tonight, you and I; I am looking to my affairs: farewell."

All the domestics having disappeared, the six strangers, Candide, and Martin, remained in a profound silence. At last Candide broke it: "Gentlemen," said he, "here is a singular jest. Why are you all kings? for my part, I confess to you that neither I nor Martin are so."

The master of Cacambo then took the word gravely, and said in Italian: "I am not jesting, I am called Achmet III[1]; I was grand sultan several years; I dethroned my brother; my nephew dethroned me; they cut the throats of my viziers; I finish my life in the old seraglio; my nephew the grand sultan Mahmoud permits me sometimes to travel for my health; and I have come to spend the carnival at Venice."

[1] Achmet III, of whom mention is made in the _History of Charles XII_ and in the _History of Russia under Peter the Great_, had been deposed in 1730; he died in 1736. B.

A young man who was beside Achmet spoke after him, and said: "I am called Ivan[2]; I was emperor of all the Russias; I was dethroned in the cradle; my father and mother were imprisoned; I was brought up in prison; I sometimes have permission to travel, accompanied by those who guard me; and I have come to spend the carnival at Venice."

[2] Ivan, born in 1730, dethroned the same year, imprisoned, and finally stabbed in 1762. B.

The third said: "I am Charles-Edward[3], king of England; my father yielded me his rights to the kingdom; I fought to uphold them; they tore the heart from eight hundred of my partisans, and beat their cheeks with it; I was put in prison; I am going to Rome to pay a visit to the king my father, dethroned like me and my grandfather; and I have come to spend the carnival at Venice."

[3] On Charles-Edward, see, volume XXI, chapter XXXV of the _Abridgment of the Age of Louis XV_. B.

The fourth then took the word and said: "I am king of the Poles; the fortune of war deprived me of my hereditary states[4]; my father experienced the same reverses; I resign myself to Providence like sultan Achmet, emperor Ivan, and king Charles-Edward, to whom God grant long life; and I have come to spend the carnival at Venice."

[4] Augustus, elector of Saxony and king of Poland, driven from his hereditary states during the war of 1756, took refuge in Poland: see, volume XXI, chapter XXXII of the _Abridgment of the Age of Louis XV_; he died in 1763. B.

The fifth said: "I am also king of the Poles[5]; I lost my kingdom twice; but Providence gave me another state in which I have done more good than all the kings of the Sarmatians together ever could on the banks of the Vistula. I also resign myself to Providence; and I have come to spend the carnival at Venice."

[5] Stanislaus Leczinski, father-in-law of Louis XV: see, volume XXI, chapter IV of the _Abridgment of the Age of Louis XV_; he died in 1763. B.

It remained for the sixth monarch to speak. "Gentlemen," said he, "I am not so great a lord as you; but after all I have been king like another; I am Theodore[6]; they elected me king in Corsica; they called me 'Your Majesty,' and now they scarce call me 'Monsieur'; I had coin struck, and possess not a penny; I had two secretaries of state, and have scarce a valet; I have been seen on a throne, and was long in London in prison on straw; I much fear being treated the same here, though I came, like your majesties, to spend the carnival at Venice."

[6] On the king of Corsica, Theodore, died December 2, 1756, see volume XXI, chapter XL of the _Abridgment of the Age of Louis XV_. B.

The five other kings listened to this speech with a noble compassion. Each gave twenty sequins to king Theodore to have clothes and shirts; Candide made him a present of a diamond of two thousand sequins. "What then is this man," said the five kings, "who is able to give a hundred times as much as each of us, and who gives it? Are you a king also, sir?" "No, gentlemen, and have no wish to be."

At the instant they rose from table, there arrived at the same inn four most serene highnesses who had also lost their states by the fortune of war, and who came to spend the rest of the carnival at Venice; but Candide took no notice even of these new arrivals. He was occupied only with going to find his dear Cunegonde at Constantinople.

CHAPTER XXVII. Voyage of Candide to Constantinople.

The faithful Cacambo had already obtained from the Turkish patron who was to take sultan Achmet back to Constantinople that he would receive Candide and Martin on board. Both went thither after prostrating themselves before his miserable highness. Candide, on the way, said to Martin: "Yet here are six dethroned kings with whom we have supped! and among these six kings there is one to whom I gave alms. Perhaps there are many other princes more unfortunate. For my part, I have lost only a hundred sheep, and I fly into the arms of Cunegonde. My dear Martin, once more, Pangloss was right, all is well." "I wish it," said Martin. "But," said Candide, "here is a very improbable adventure that we had at Venice. Never was seen nor heard tell that six dethroned kings supped together at the tavern." "It is no more extraordinary," said Martin, "than most of the things that have happened to us. It is very common that kings be dethroned; and as for the honor we had of supping with them, it is a trifle that merits not our attention. What matters with whom one sups, provided one sups well?"

Scarcely was Candide on the vessel, than he threw himself on the neck of his old valet, his friend Cacambo. "Well!" said he to him, "how does Cunegonde? is she still a prodigy of beauty? does she still love me? how does she fare? you have, no doubt, bought her a palace at Constantinople?"

"My dear master," replied Cacambo, "Cunegonde washes dishes on the shore of the Propontis, at the house of a prince who has very few dishes; she is a slave in the household of a former sovereign, named Ragotski[1], to whom the Grand Turk gives three crowns a day in his asylum; but, what is much sadder, is that she has lost her beauty, and is become horribly ugly." "Ah! beautiful or ugly," said Candide, "I am an honest man, and my duty is to love her always. But how can she be reduced to so abject a state with the five or six millions you had carried off?" "Come now," said Cacambo, "did I not have to give two of them to the senor don Fernando d'Ibaraa, y Figueora, y Mascarenès, y Lampourdos, y Souza, governor of Buenos Ayres, for permission to take back mademoiselle Cunegonde? and did not a pirate bravely strip us of all the rest? Did not this pirate take us to Cape Matapan, to Milo, to Nicaria, to Samos, to Petra, to the Dardanelles, to Marmara, to Scutari? Cunegonde and the old woman serve in the house of this prince of whom I told you, and I am slave to the dethroned sultan." "What dreadful calamities chained one to another!" said Candide. "But, after all, I still have some diamonds; I shall easily deliver Cunegonde." "It is a great pity she has become so ugly."

[1] Voltaire has spoken of Ragotski in chap. XXII of the _Age of Louis XIV_; see volume XX. Ragotski died in 1785. B.

Then, turning to Martin: "What do you think," said he, "is most to be pitied, emperor Achmet, emperor Ivan, king Charles-Edward, or I?" "I know not," said Martin; "I should need to be in your hearts to know it." "Ah!" said Candide, "if Pangloss were here, he would know it, and would teach us. I know not," said Martin, "with what scales your Pangloss could have weighed the misfortunes of men, and appreciated their sorrows. All I presume is that there are millions of men on earth a hundred times more to be pitied than king Charles-Edward, emperor Ivan, and sultan Achmet." "That may well be," said Candide.

They arrived in a few days on the canal of the Black Sea. Candide began by ransoming Cacambo at great cost; and, without losing time, he threw himself into a galley, with his companions, to go upon the shore of the Propontis to seek Cunegonde, however ugly she might be.

There were in the crew two convicts who rowed very badly, and on whose bare shoulders the Levantine patron from time to time applied some strokes of ox-hide; Candide, by a natural movement, looked at them more attentively than at the other galley-slaves, and approached them with pity. Some features of their disfigured faces seemed to him to have a little resemblance to Pangloss and to that unhappy Jesuit, the baron, brother of mademoiselle Cunegonde. This idea moved and saddened him. He considered them yet more attentively. "In truth," said he to Cacambo, "if I had not seen master Pangloss hanged, and if I had not had the misfortune to kill the baron, I should believe that those are they who row in this galley."

At the names of the baron and Pangloss the two convicts gave a great cry, stopped on their bench, and let fall their oars. The Levantine patron ran upon them, and the strokes of ox-hide redoubled. "Stop! stop! my lord," cried Candide, "I will give you as much money as you wish." "What! it is Candide!" said one of the convicts; "what! it is Candide!" said the other. "Is it a dream?" said Candide; "am I awake? am I in this galley? Is that there monsieur the baron, whom I killed? is that there master Pangloss, whom I saw hanged?"

"It is ourselves, it is ourselves," they answered. "What! is that the great philosopher?" said Martin. "Ah! monsieur the Levantine patron," said Candide, "how much money will you have for the ransom of M. de Thunder-ten-tronckh, one of the first barons of the empire, and of M. Pangloss, the deepest metaphysician of Germany?" "Dog of a Christian," replied the Levantine patron, "since these two dog convict Christians are barons and metaphysicians, which is doubtless a great dignity in their country, you shall give me fifty thousand sequins for them." "You shall have them, sir; take me back like a flash of lightning to Constantinople, and you shall be paid on the spot. But no, take me to mademoiselle Cunegonde." The Levantine patron, at Candide's first offer, had already turned the prow toward the city, and made them row faster than a bird cleaves the air.

Candide embraced the baron and Pangloss a hundred times. "And how did I not kill you, my dear baron? and my dear Pangloss, how are you alive, after being hanged? and why are you both at the galleys in Turkey? Is it truly possible that my dear sister is in this country?" said the baron. "Yes," answered Cacambo. "I see again my dear Candide!" cried Pangloss. Candide presented Martin and Cacambo to them. They embraced all; they all spoke at once. The galley flew, they were already in the port. They sent for a Jew, to whom Candide sold for fifty thousand sequins a diamond worth a hundred thousand, and who swore to him by Abraham that he could give no more. He paid forthwith the ransom of the baron and Pangloss. The latter threw himself at the feet of his deliverer, and bathed them with tears; the other thanked him with a nod, and promised to return him the money at the first opportunity. "But is it possible that my sister is in Turkey?" said he. "Nothing is more possible," replied Cacambo, "since she scours the dishes for a prince of Transylvania." They straightway sent for two Jews; Candide sold more diamonds; and they all set out again in another galley to go deliver Cunegonde.

CHAPTER XXVIII. What happened to Candide, to Cunegonde, to Pangloss, to Martin, etc.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”