Candide
lost one hundred large red sheep, laden with the greatest treasure upon
earth; though the knavery of the Dutch skipper still sat heavy upon his
mind; yet when he reflected upon what he had still left, and when he
mentioned the name of Cunegonde, especially towards the latter end of a
repast, he inclined to Pangloss's doctrine.
"But you, Mr. Martin," said he to the philosopher, "what do you think
of all this? what are your ideas on moral and natural evil?"
"Sir," answered Martin, "our priests accused me of being a Socinian, but
the real fact is I am a Manichean."[21]
"You jest," said Candide; "there are no longer Manicheans in the world."
"I am one," said Martin. "I cannot help it; I know not how to think
otherwise."
"Surely you must be possessed by the devil," said Candide.
"He is so deeply concerned in the affairs of this world," answered
Martin, "that he may very well be in me, as well as in everybody else;
but I own to you that when I cast an eye on this globe, or rather on
this little ball, I cannot help thinking that God has abandoned it to
some malignant being. I except, always, El Dorado. I scarcely ever knew
a city that did not desire the destruction of a neighbouring city, nor a
family that did not wish to exterminate some other family. Everywhere
the weak execrate the powerful, before whom they cringe; and the
powerful beat them like sheep whose wool and flesh they sell. A million
regimented assassins, from one extremity of Europe to the other, get
their bread by disciplined depredation and murder, for want of more
honest employment. Even in those cities which seem to enjoy peace, and
where the arts flourish, the inhabitants are devoured by more envy,
care, and uneasiness than are experienced by a besieged town. Secret
griefs are more cruel than public calamities. In a word I have seen so
much, and experienced so much that I am a Manichean."
"There are, however, some things good," said Candide.
"That may be," said Martin; "but I know them not."
In the middle of this dispute they heard the report of cannon; it
redoubled every instant. Each took out his glass. They saw two ships in
close fight about three miles off. The wind brought both so near to the
French vessel that our travellers had the pleasure of seeing the fight
at their ease. At length one let off a broadside, so low and so truly
aimed, that the other sank to the bottom. Candide and Martin could
plainly perceive a hundred men on the deck of the sinking vessel; they
raised their hands to heaven and uttered terrible outcries, and the next
moment were swallowed up by the sea.
"Well," said Martin, "this is how men treat one another."
"It is true," said Candide; "there is something diabolical in this
affair."
While speaking, he saw he knew not what, of a shining red, swimming
close to the vessel. They put out the long-boat to see what it could
be: it was one of his sheep! Candide was more rejoiced at the recovery
of this one sheep than he had been grieved at the loss of the hundred
laden with the large diamonds of El Dorado.
The French captain soon saw that the captain of the victorious vessel
was a Spaniard, and that the other was a Dutch pirate, and the very same
one who had robbed Candide. The immense plunder which this villain had
amassed, was buried with him in the sea, and out of the whole only one
sheep was saved.
"You see," said Candide to Martin, "that crime is sometimes punished.
This rogue of a Dutch skipper has met with the fate he deserved."
"Yes," said Martin; "but why should the passengers be doomed also to
destruction? God has punished the knave, and the devil has drowned the
rest."
The French and Spanish ships continued their course, and Candide
continued his conversation with Martin. They disputed fifteen successive
days, and on the last of those fifteen days, they were as far advanced
as on the first. But, however, they chatted, they communicated ideas,
they consoled each other. Candide caressed his sheep.
"Since I have found thee again," said he, "I may likewise chance to find
my Cunegonde."
XXI
CANDIDE AND MARTIN, REASONING, DRAW NEAR THE COAST OF FRANCE.
At length they descried the coast of France.
"Were you ever in France, Mr. Martin?" said Candide.
"Yes," said Martin, "I have been in several provinces. In some one-half
of the people are fools, in others they are too cunning; in some they
are weak and simple, in others they affect to be witty; in all, the
principal occupation is love, the next is slander, and the third is
talking nonsense."
"But, Mr. Martin, have you seen Paris?"
"Yes, I have. All these kinds are found there. It is a chaos--a confused
multitude, where everybody seeks pleasure and scarcely any one finds it,
at least as it appeared to me. I made a short stay there. On my arrival
I was robbed of all I had by pickpockets at the fair of St. Germain. I
myself was taken for a robber and was imprisoned for eight days, after
which I served as corrector of the press to gain the money necessary for
my return to Holland on foot. I knew the whole scribbling rabble, the
party rabble, the fanatic rabble. It is said that there are very polite
people in that city, and I wish to believe it."
"For my part, I have no curiosity to see France," said Candide. "You may
easily imagine that after spending a month at El Dorado I can desire to
behold nothing upon earth but Miss Cunegonde. I go to await her at
Venice. We shall pass through France on our way to Italy. Will you bear
me company?"
"With all my heart," said Martin. "It is said that Venice is fit only
for its own nobility, but that strangers meet with a very good reception
if they have a good deal of money. I have none of it; you have,
therefore I will follow you all over the world."
"But do you believe," said Candide, "that the earth was originally a
sea, as we find it asserted in that large book belonging to the
captain?"
"I do not believe a word of it," said Martin, "any more than I do of the
many ravings which have been published lately."
"But for what end, then, has this world been formed?" said Candide.
"To plague us to death," answered Martin.
"Are you not greatly surprised," continued Candide, "at the love which
these two girls of the Oreillons had for those monkeys, of which I have
already told you?"
"Not at all," said Martin. "I do not see that that passion was strange.
I have seen so many extraordinary things that I have ceased to be
surprised."
"Do you believe," said Candide, "that men have always massacred each
other as they do to-day, that they have always been liars, cheats,
traitors, ingrates, brigands, idiots, thieves, scoundrels, gluttons,
drunkards, misers, envious, ambitious, bloody-minded, calumniators,
debauchees, fanatics, hypocrites, and fools?"
"Do you believe," said Martin, "that hawks have always eaten pigeons
when they have found them?"
"Yes, without doubt," said Candide.
"Well, then," said Martin, "if hawks have always had the same character
why should you imagine that men may have changed theirs?"
"Oh!" said Candide, "there is a vast deal of difference, for free
will----"
And reasoning thus they arrived at Bordeaux.
XXII
WHAT HAPPENED IN FRANCE TO CANDIDE AND MARTIN.
Candide stayed in Bordeaux no longer than was necessary for the selling
of a few of the pebbles of El Dorado, and for hiring a good chaise to
hold two passengers; for he could not travel without his Philosopher
Martin. He was only vexed at parting with his sheep, which he left to
the Bordeaux Academy of Sciences, who set as a subject for that year's
prize, "to find why this sheep's wool was red;" and the prize was
awarded to a learned man of the North, who demonstrated by A plus B
minus C divided by Z, that the sheep must be red, and die of the rot.
Meanwhile, all the travellers whom Candide met in the inns along his
route, said to him, "We go to Paris." This general eagerness at length
gave him, too, a desire to see this capital; and it was not so very
great a _detour_ from the road to Venice.
He entered Paris by the suburb of St. Marceau, and fancied that he was
in the dirtiest village of Westphalia.
Scarcely was Candide arrived at his inn, than he found himself attacked
by a slight illness, caused by fatigue. As he had a very large diamond
on his finger, and the people of the inn had taken notice of a
prodigiously heavy box among his baggage, there were two physicians to
attend him, though he had never sent for them, and two devotees who
warmed his broths.
"I remember," Martin said, "also to have been sick at Paris in my first
voyage; I was very poor, thus I had neither friends, devotees, nor
doctors, and I recovered."
However, what with physic and bleeding, Candide's illness became
serious. A parson of the neighborhood came with great meekness to ask
for a bill for the other world payable to the bearer. Candide would do
nothing for him; but the devotees assured him it was the new fashion. He
answered that he was not a man of fashion. Martin wished to throw the
priest out of the window. The priest swore that they would not bury
Candide. Martin swore that he would bury the priest if he continued to
be troublesome. The quarrel grew heated. Martin took him by the
shoulders and roughly turned him out of doors; which occasioned great
scandal and a law-suit.
Candide got well again, and during his convalescence he had very good
company to sup with him. They played high. Candide wondered why it was
that the ace never came to him; but Martin was not at all astonished.
Among those who did him the honours of the town was a little Abbe of
Perigord, one of those busybodies who are ever alert, officious,
forward, fawning, and complaisant; who watch for strangers in their
passage through the capital, tell them the scandalous history of the
town, and offer them pleasure at all prices. He first took Candide and
Martin to La Comedie, where they played a new tragedy. Candide happened
to be seated near some of the fashionable wits. This did not prevent his
shedding tears at the well-acted scenes. One of these critics at his
side said to him between the acts:
"Your tears are misplaced; that is a shocking actress; the actor who
plays with her is yet worse; and the play is still worse than the
actors. The author does not know a word of Arabic, yet the scene is in
Arabia; moreover he is a man that does not believe in innate ideas; and
I will bring you, to-morrow, twenty pamphlets written against him."[22]
"How many dramas have you in France, sir?" said Candide to the Abbe.
"Five or six thousand."
"What a number!" said Candide. "How many good?"
"Fifteen or sixteen," replied the other.
"What a number!" said Martin.
Candide was very pleased with an actress who played Queen Elizabeth in a
somewhat insipid tragedy[23] sometimes acted.
"That actress," said he to Martin, "pleases me much; she has a likeness
to Miss Cunegonde; I should be very glad to wait upon her."
The Perigordian Abbe offered to introduce him. Candide, brought up in
Germany, asked what was the etiquette, and how they treated queens of
England in France.
"It is necessary to make distinctions," said the Abbe. "In the provinces
one takes them to the inn; in Paris, one respects them when they are
beautiful, and throws them on the highway when they are dead."[24]
"Queens on the highway!" said Candide.
"Yes, truly," said Martin, "the Abbe is right. I was in Paris when Miss
Monime passed, as the saying is, from this life to the other. She was
refused what people call the _honours of sepulture_--that is to say, of
rotting with all the beggars of the neighbourhood in an ugly cemetery;
she was interred all alone by her company at the corner of the Rue de