CHAPTER XXII
What Happened to Candide and Martin in France
Candide stayed no longer at Bordeaux than was necessary to dispose of a few of the pebbles he had brought from El Dorado, and to provide himself with a post-chaise for two persons, for he could no longer stir a step without his philosopher Martin. The only thing that gave him concern was the being obliged to leave his sheep behind him, which he entrusted to the care of the Academy of Sciences at Bordeaux. The academicians proposed, as a prize-subject for the year, to prove why the wool of this sheep was red; and the prize was adjudged to a northern sage, who demonstrated by A plus B, minus C, divided by Z, that the sheep must necessarily be red, and die of the rot.
In the meantime, all the travellers whom Candide met with in the inns, or on the road, told him to a man that they were going to Paris. This general eagerness gave him likewise a great desire to see this capital, and it was not much out of his way to Venice.
He entered the city by the suburbs of St. Marceau, and thought himself in one of the vilest hamlets in all Westphalia.
Candide had not been long at his inn before he was seized with a slight disorder owing to the fatigue he had undergone. As he wore a diamond of an enormous size on his finger, and had, among the rest of his equipage, a strong box that seemed very weighty, he soon found himself between two physicians whom he had not sent for, a number of intimate friends whom he had never seen, and who would not quit his bedside, and two female devotees who warmed his soup for him.
“I remember,” said Martin to him, "that the first time I came to Paris I was likewise taken ill; I was very poor, and, accordingly, I had neither friends, nurses, nor physicians, and yet I did very well.”
However, by dint of purging and bleeding Candide’s disorder became very serious. The priest of the parish came with all imaginable politeness to desire a note of him, payable to the bearer in the other world. Candide refused to comply with his request; but the two devotees assured him that it was a new fashion. Candide replied that he was not one that followed the fashion. Martin was for throwing the priest out of the window. The clerk swore Candide should not have Christian burial. Martin swore in his turn that he would bury the clerk alive, if he continued to plague them any longer. The dispute grew warm; Martin took him by the shoulders, and turned him out of the room, which gave great scandal, and occasioned a lawsuit.
Candide recovered; and, till he was in a condition to go abroad, had a great deal of very good company to pass the evenings with him in his chamber. They played deep. Candide was surprised to find he could never turn a trick; and Martin was not at all surprised at the matter.
Among those who did him the honours of the place, was a little spruce Abbé from Périgord, one of those insinuating, busy, fawning, impudent, accommodating fellows, that lie in wait for strangers at their arrival, tell them all the scandal of the town, and offer to minister to their pleasures at various prices. This man conducted Candide and Martin to the playhouse: they were acting a new tragedy. Candide found himself placed near a cluster of wits: this, however, did not prevent him from shedding tears at some scenes which were perfectly acted. One of these talkers said to him between the acts:
“You are greatly to blame in shedding tears; that actress plays horribly, and the man that plays with her still worse, and the piece itself is still more execrable than the representation. I he author does not understand a word of Arabia, and yet he has laid his scene in Arabia; and what is more, he is a fellow who does not believe in innate ideas. To-morrow I will bring you a score of pamphlets that have been written against him.”
Pray, Sir, said Candide to the Abbé, “how many theatrical pieces have you in France?”
“Five or six thousand,” replied the other.
“Indeed! that is a great number,” said Candide: “but how many good ones may there be?”
“About fifteen or sixteen.”
“Oh! that is a great number,” said Martin.
Candide was greatly taken with an actress who performed the part of Queen Elizabeth in a dull kind of tragedy that is played sometimes.
“That actress,” said he to Martin, “pleases me greatly; she has some sort of resemblance to Miss Cunegund. I should be very glad to pav my respects to her.”
The Abbé of Périgord offered his services to introduce him to her at her own house. Candide, who was brought up in Germany, desired to know what might be the ceremonial used on those occasions, and how a Queen of England was treated in France.
“There is a necessary distinction to be observed in these matters,” said the Abbé. “In a country town we take them to a tavern; here in Paris, they are treated with great respect during their lifetime, provided they are handsome, and when they die, we throw their bodies upon a dunghill.”
“How,” said Candide, “throw a queen’s body upon a dunghill!”
“The gentleman is quite right,” said Martin; “he tells you nothing but the truth. I happened to be in Paris when Mile. Monime made her exit, as one may say, out of this world into another. She was refused what they call here the rights of sepulture; that is to say, she was denied the privilege of rotting in a churchyard by the side of all the beggars in the parish. She was buried alone by her troupe at the corner of Burgundy Street, which must certainly have shocked her extremely, as she had very exalted notions of things.”
“This is acting very impolitely,” said Candide.
“Lord!” said Martin, “what can be said to it? It is the way of these people. Figure to yourself all the contradictions, all the inconsistencies possible, and you may meet with them in the government, the courts of justice, the churches, and the public spectacles of this odd nation.”
“Is it true,” said Candide, “that the people of Paris are always laughing?”
“Yes,” replied the Abbé, “but it is with anger in their hearts; they express all their complaints by loud bursts of laughter, and commit the most detestable crimes with a smile on their faces.”
“Who was that great overgrown beast,” said Candide, “who spoke so ill to me of the piece with which I was so much affected, and of the players who gave me so much pleasure?”
“A good-for-nothing sort of a man,” answered the Abbé, “one who gets his livelihood by abusing every new book and play; he abominates to see anyone meet with success, like eunuchs, who detest every one that possesses those powers they are deprived of; he is one of those vipers in literature who nourish themselves with their own venom; a pamphlet-monger.”
“A pamphlet-monger!” said Candide, “what is that?”
“Why, a pamphlet-monger,” replied the Abbé, “is a writer of pamphlets, a Fréron.”
Candide, Martin, and the Abbé of Périgord argued thus on the staircase, while they stood to see people go out of the playhouse.
“Though I am very earnest to see Miss Cunegund again,” said Candide, “yet I have a great inclination to sup with Mlle. Clairon, for I am really much taken with her.”
The Abbé was not a person to show his face at this lady’s house, which was frequented by none but the best company.
“She is engaged this evening,” said he; “but I will do myself the honour of introducing you to a lady of quality of my acquaintance, at whose house you will see as much of the manners of Paris as if you had lived here for four years.” Candide, who was naturally curious, suffered himself to be conducted to this lady’s house, which was in the suburb of St. Honoré. The company were engaged at faro; twelve melancholy punters held each in his hand a small pack of cards, the corners of which doubled down were so many registers of their ill fortune. A profound silence reigned throughout the assembly, a pallid dread was in the countenances of the punters, and restless anxiety in the face of him who kept the bank; and the lady of the house, who was seated next to him, observed pitilessly with lynx’s eyes every parole, and sept-et-le-va as they were going, as likewise those who tallied, and made them undouble their cards with a severe exactness, though mixed with a politeness which she thought necessary not to frighten away her customers. This lady assumed the title of Marchioness of Parolignac. Her daughter, a girl of about fifteen years of age, was one of the punters, and took care to give her mamma an item, by signs, when any one of them attempted to repair the rigour of their ill fortune by a little innocent deception. The company were thus occupied when Candide, Martin, and the Abbé made their entrance: not a creature rose to salute them, or indeed took the least notice of them, being wholly intent upon the business in hand.
“Ah!’ said Candide, “my lady Baroness of Thunder-ten-tronckh would have behaved more civilly.”
However, the Abbé whispered in the ear of the marchioness, who half rose, and honoured Candide with a gracious smile and Martin with a dignified inclination of her head. She then ordered a seat for Candide and a hand of cards. He lost fifty thousand francs in two rounds. After that, they supped very elegantly, and every one was astounded that Candide was not disturbed at his loss. The servants said to each other in their servants’ language:
“This must be some English lord!”
Supper was like most others of this kind in Paris; at first there was silence, then there was an indistinguishable babel of words, then jokes, most of them insipid, false reports, bad reasonings, a little political talk, and much scandal. They spoke also of new books.
“Have you seen,” said the Abbé of Périgord, “the romance written by Monsieur Gauchat, the doctor of theology?”
“Yes,” replied one of the guests, “but I had not the patience to go through it. We have a throng of impertinent writers, but all of them together do not approach Gauchat, the doctor of theology, in impertinence. I am so sated with reading these piles of vile stuff that flood upon us that I even resolved to come here and make a party at faro.”
“But what say you to Archdeacon Trublet’s miscellanies?” said the Abbé. “Oh,” cried the Marchioness of Parolignac, “tedious creature. What pains he is at to tell one things that all the world knows. How he labours an argument that is hardly worth the slightest consideration! How absurdly he makes use of other people’s wit! How he mangles what he pilfers from them! How he disgusts me! But he will disgust me no more. It is enough to have read a few pages of the Archdeacon.”
There was at the table a person of learning and taste, who supported what the Marchioness had advanced. They next began to talk of tragedies. The lady desired to know how it came about that there were several tragedies which still continued to be played, but which were unreadable. The man of taste explained very clearly how a piece may be in some manner interesting, without having a grain of merit. He showed, in a few words, that it is not sufficient to throw together a few incidents that are to be met with in every romance, and that dazzle the spectator; the thoughts should be new without being far-fetched; frequently sublime, but always natural; the author should have a thorough knowledge of the human heart and make it speak properly. He should be a complete poet, without showing an affectation of it in any of the characters of his piece; he should be a perfect master of his language, speak it with all its purity, and with the utmost harmony, and yet not so as to make the sense a slave to the rhyme.
“Whoever,” added he, “neglects any of these rules, though he may write two or three tragedies with tolerable success, will never be reckoned in the number of good authors. There are a few good tragedies, some are idylls, in well-written and harmonious dialogue, and others a chain of political reasonings that send one to sleep, or else pompous and high-flown amplifications that disgust rather than please. Others again are the ravings of a madman, in an uncouth style, with unmeaning flights, or long apostrophes, to the deities, for want of knowing how to address mankind; in a word, a collection of false maxims and dull commonplaces.”
Candide listened to this discourse with great attention, and conceived a high opinion for the person who delivered it; and as the Marchioness had taken care to place him at her side, he took the liberty to whisper softly in her ear and ask who this person was who spoke so well.
“It is a man of letters,” replied her ladyship, “who never plays and whom the Abbé brings with him to my house sometimes to spend an evening. He is a great judge of writing, especially in tragedy; he has composed one himself which was damned, and has written a book which was never seen out of his bookseller’s shop, excepting only one copy, which he sent me with a dedication.”
“What a great man,” cried Candide, “he is a second Pangloss.”
Then, turning towards him, “Sir,” said he, “you are doubtless of opinion that everything is for the best in the physical and moral world and that nothing could be otherwise than it is?”
“I, Sir,” replied the man of letters, ‘‘I think no such thing, I assure you. I find that all in this world is set the wrong end uppermost. No one knows what is his rank, his office, nor what he does, nor what he should do; and that except for our evenings which we generally pass tolerably merrily, the rest of our time is spent in idle disputes and quarrels, Jansenists against Molinists, the Parliament against the Church, men of letters against men of letters, countries against countries, financiers against the people, wives against husbands, relations against relations. In short, there is eternal warfare.”
“Yes,” said Candide, “and I have seen worse than all that; and yet a learned man, who had the misfortune to be hanged, taught me that everything was marvellously well, and that these evils you are speaking of were only so many shadows in a beautiful picture.”
“Your hempen sage,” said Martin, “laughed at you. These shadows as you call them are most horrible blemishes.”
“It is men who make these blemishes,” rejoined Candide, “and they cannot do otherwise.”
“Then it is not their fault,” added Martin.
The greater part of the gamesters, who did not understand a syllable of this discourse, continued to drink, while Martin reasoned with the learned gentleman, and Candide recounted some of his adventures to the lady of the house.
After supper, the Marchioness conducted Candide into her dressing-room, and made him sit down on a sofa.
“Well,” said she, “are you still so violently fond of Miss Cunegund of Thunder-ten-tronckh?”
“Yes, Madam,” replied Candide.
The Marchioness said to him with a tender smile, “You answer like a young man from Westphalia. A Frenchman would have said, ‘It is true, Madam, I had a great passion for Miss Cunegund, but since I have seen you, I fear I can no longer love her as I did.’ ”
“Alas! Madam,” replied Candide, “I’ll make you what answer you please.”
“You fell in love with her, I find, in picking up her handkerchief. You shall pick up my garter.”
“With all my heart,” said Candide.
“But you must tie it on,” said the lady; and Candide tied it on.
“Look you,” said the lady, “you are a stranger. I make some of my lovers here in Paris languish for me a fortnight, but I surrender to you the first night, because I am willing to do the honours of my country to a young Westphalian.”
The fair one having cast her eye on two large diamonds on the young stranger’s finger, praised them in so earnest a manner that they passed from Candide’s fingers to those of the marchioness.
As Candide was going home with the Abbé, he felt some qualms of conscience for having been guilty of infidelity to Miss Cunegund. The Abbé shared with him in his uneasiness; he had but an inconsiderable share in the fifty thousand francs that Candide had lost at play, and in the value of the two jewels, half given, half extorted from him. His plan was to profit as much as he could from the advantages which his acquaintance with Candide could procure for him. He spoke to him much of Miss Cunegund, and Candide assured him that he would heartily ask pardon of that fair one for his infidelity to her, when he saw her at Venice.
The Abbé redoubled his civilities and seemed to interest himself warmly in everything that Candide said, did, or seemed inclined to do.
“And so, Sir, you have a rendezvous at Venice?”
“Yes, Monsieur l’Abbé,” answered Candide. “I must indeed go and find Miss Cunegund.”
Then the pleasure he took in talking about the object he loved led him insensibly to relate, according to custom, part of his adventures with the illustrious Westphalian beauty.
“I fancy,” said the Abbé, “Miss Cunegund has a great deal of wit, and that her letters must be very entertaining.”
“I never received any from her,” said Candide, “for you are to consider that being kicked out of the castle on her account, I could not write to her; especially as, soon after my departure, I heard she was dead; that though I found her again, I lost her, and that I have sent a messenger to her two thousand five hundred leagues from here, and I wait here for his return with an answer from her.”
The Abbé listened attentively—and seemed a little thoughtful. He soon took leave of the two strangers, after having embraced them tenderly. The next day, immediately on waking, Candide received a letter couched in these terms:
“My dearest lover, I have been ill in this city these eight days. I have heard of your arrival and should fly to your arms, were I able to move a limb of me. I was informed of your procedure at Bordeaux. I left there the faithful Cacambo and the old woman who will soon follow me. The Governor of Buenos Ayres has taken everything from me; but I still have your heart. Come. Your presence will restore me to life or will make me die with pleasure.”
At the receipt of this charming, this unexpected letter, Candide felt the utmost joy, though the malady of his beloved Cunegund overwhelmed him with grief. Distracted between these two passions, he took his gold and his diamonds and procured a person to direct him with Martin to the house where Miss Cunegund lodged. He entered, trembling with emotion, his heart flut-
tered, his tongue faltered. He attempted to draw the curtain apart, and called for a light to the bedside.
“Take care,” said the servant, “the light is unbearable to her”; and immediately she closed the curtains again.
“My beloved,” said Candide, weeping, “how are you? If you cannot see me, at least speak to me.”
“She cannot speak,” said the servant. The lady then put from the bed a plump hand which Candide bathed with his tears; then filled with diamonds, leaving a purse full of gold on the arm-chair.
In the midst of his transports there arrived an officer, followed by the Abbé of Périgord and a file of musketeers.
“There,” said he, “are the two suspected foreigners.”
He had them seized forthwith and bade the soldiers carry them off to prison.
“Travellers are not treated in this manner in El Dorado,” said Candide.
“I am more of a Manichæan now than ever,” said Martin.
“But pray, good Sir, where are you taking us?” asked Candide.
“To a dungeon,” said the officer.
Martin having recovered his calm judged that the lady who pretended tobe Cunegund was a cheat, that the Abbé of Périgord was a sharper, who had imposed upon Candide’s simplicity so quickly as he could, and the officer another knave whom they might easily get rid of.
Candide, following the advice of his friend Martin, and burning with impatience to see the real Cunegund, rather than be obliged to appear at a court of justice, proposed to the officer to make him a present of three small diamonds, each of them worth three thousand pistoles.
“Ah, Sir,” said this understrapper of justice, “had you committed ever so much villainy, this would render you the honestest man living in my eyes. Three diamonds, worth three thousand pistoles. Why, my dear Sir, so far from leading you to jail, I would lose my life to serve you. There are orders to arrest all strangers, but leave it to me. I have a brother at Dieppe in Normandy. I myself will conduct you thither, and if you have a diamond left to give him, he will take as much care of you as I myself should.”
“But why,” said Candide, “do they arrest all strangers?”
The Abbé of Périgord answered that it was because a poor devil of the province of Atrébatie heard somebody tell foolish stories, and this induced him to commit a parricide; not such a one as that in the month of May, 1610, but such as that in the month of December in the year 1594, and such as many that have been perpetrated in other months and years by other poor devils who had heard foolish stories.
The officer then explained to them what the Abbé meant.
“Monsters,” exclaimed Candide. “Is it possible that such horrors should pass among a people who are continually singing and dancing? Is there no immediate means of flying this abominable country, where monkeys provoke tigers? I have seen bears in my country, but men I have beheld nowhere but in El Dorado. In the name of God, Sir,” said he to the officer, “do me the kindness to conduct me to Venice, where I am to wait upon Miss Cunegund.”
“I cannot conduct you further than Lower Normandy,” said the officer.
So saying, he ordered Candide’s irons to be struck off and sent his followers about their business, after which he conducted Candide and Martin to Dieppe, and left them to the care of his brother. There happened just then to be a small Dutch ship in the roads. The Norman, whom the other three diamonds had converted into the most obliging, serviceable being that ever breathed, took care to see Candide and his attendants safe on board the vessel, that was just ready to sail for Portsmouth in England. This was not the nearest way to Venice indeed; but Candide thought himself escaped out of hell, and did not in the least doubt but he should quickly find an opportunity of resuming his voyage to Venice.