Candide

by Voltaire

He was asked which he would like the best, to be whipped six-and-thirty times through all the regiment, or to receive at once twelve balls of lead in his brain. He vainly said that human will is free, and that he chose neither the one nor the other. He was forced to make a choice; he determined, in virtue of that gift of God called liberty, to run the gauntlet six-and-thirty times.

“My friend,” said the orator to him, “do you believe the Pope to be Anti-Christ?” “I have not heard it,” answered Candide; “but whether he be, or whether he be not, I want bread.”

à priori,

A hundred times I was upon the point of killing myself; but still I loved life. This ridiculous foible is perhaps one of our most fatal characteristics; for is there anything more absurd than to wish to carry continually a burden which one can always throw down? to detest existence and yet to cling to one’s existence? in brief, to caress the serpent which devours us, till he has eaten our very heart?

I am determined to share your fate, and have been much more affected with your misfortunes than with my own. I would never even have spoken to you of my misfortunes, had you not piqued me a little, and if it were not customary to tell stories on board a ship in order to pass away the time. In short, Miss Cunegonde, I have had experience, I know the world; therefore I advise you to divert yourself, and prevail upon each passenger to tell his story; and if there be one of them all, that has not cursed his life many a time, that has not frequently looked upon himself as the unhappiest of mortals, I give you leave to throw me headforemost into the sea.”

“What is this optimism?” said Cacambo. “Alas!” said Candide, “it is the madness of maintaining that everything is right when it is wrong.”

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.

“There are, however, some things good,” said Candide. “That may be,” said Martin; “but I know them not.”

He first took Candide and Martin to La Comédie, 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 Abbé. “Five or six thousand.” “What a number!” said Candide. “How many good?” “Fifteen or sixteen,” replied the other. “What a number!” said Martin.

“Who,” said Candide, “is that great pig who spoke so ill of the piece at which I wept, and of the actors who gave me so much pleasure?” “He is a bad character,” answered the Abbé, “who gains his livelihood by saying evil of all plays and of all books. He hates whatever succeeds,

The supper passed at first like most Parisian suppers, in silence, followed by a noise of words which could not be distinguished, then with pleasantries of which most were insipid, with false news, with bad reasoning, a little politics, and much evil speaking; they also discussed new books.

“Ah!” said the Marchioness of Parolignac, “the wearisome mortal! How curiously he repeats to you all that the world knows! How heavily he discusses that which is not worth the trouble of lightly remarking upon! How, without wit, he appropriates the wit of others! How he spoils what he steals! How he disgusts me! But he will disgust me no longer—it is enough to have read a few of the Archdeacon’s pages.”

There was at table a wise man of taste, who supported the Marchioness. They spoke afterwards of tragedies; the lady asked why there were tragedies which were sometimes played and which could not be read. The man of taste explained very well how a piece could have some interest, and have almost no merit; he proved in few words that it was not enough to introduce one or two of those situations which one finds in all romances, and which always seduce the spectator, but that it was necessary to be new without being odd, often sublime and always natural, to know the human heart and to make it speak; to be a great poet without allowing any person in the piece to appear to be a poet; to know language perfectly—to speak it with purity, with continuous harmony and without rhythm ever taking anything from sense.

“I wish,” said Martin, “she may one day make you very happy; but I doubt it very much.” “You are very hard of belief,” said Candide. “I have lived,” said Martin.

While they were waiting for dinner Pococurante ordered a concert. Candide found the music delicious. “This noise,” said the Senator, “may amuse one for half an hour; but if it were to last longer it would grow tiresome to everybody, though they durst not own it. Music, to-day, is only the art of executing difficult things, and that which is only difficult cannot please long.

“There,” said he, “is a book that was once the delight of the great Pangloss, the best philosopher in Germany.” “It is not mine,” answered Pococurante coolly. “They used at one time to make me believe that I took a pleasure in reading him.

I have sometimes asked learned men whether they were not as weary as I of that work. Those who were sincere have owned to me that the poem made them fall asleep; yet it was necessary to have it in their library as a monument of antiquity, or like those rusty medals which are no longer of use in commerce.”

Fools admire everything in an author of reputation. For my part, I read only to please myself. I like only that which serves my purpose.” Candide, having been educated never to judge for himself, was much surprised at what he heard.

his philosophical works seem to me better, but when I found that he doubted of everything, I concluded that I knew as much as he, and that I had no need of a guide to learn ignorance.”

skepticism as an excuse for ignorance and self-satisfaction

“Oh! what a superior man,” said Candide below his breath. “What a great genius is this Pococurante! Nothing can please him.”

“Well,” said Candide to Martin when they had taken their leave, “you will agree that this is the happiest of mortals, for he is above everything he possesses.” “But do you not see,” answered Martin, “that he is disgusted with all he possesses? Plato observed a long while ago that those stomachs are not the best that reject all sorts of food.” “But is there not a pleasure,” said Candide, “in criticising everything, in pointing out faults where others see nothing but beauties?” “That is to say,” replied Martin, “that there is some pleasure in having no pleasure.”

turning towards Martin: “Who do you think,” said he, “is most to be pitied—the Sultan Achmet, the Emperor Ivan, King Charles Edward, or I?” “How should I know!” answered Martin. “I must see into your hearts to be able to tell.” “Ah!” said Candide, “if Pangloss were here, he could tell.” “I know not,” said Martin, “in what sort of scales your Pangloss would weigh the misfortunes of mankind and set a just estimate on their sorrows. All that I can presume to say is, that there are millions of people upon earth who have a hundred times more to complain of than King Charles Edward, the Emperor Ivan, or the Sultan Achmet.”

“Well, my dear Pangloss,” said Candide to him, “when you had been hanged, dissected, whipped, and were tugging at the oar, did you always think that everything happens for the best?” “I am still of my first opinion,” answered Pangloss, “for I am a philosopher and I cannot retract, especially as Leibnitz could never be wrong; and besides, the pre-established harmony is the finest thing in the world,

For Martin, he was firmly persuaded that he would be as badly off elsewhere, and therefore bore things patiently.

“I want to know which is worse, to be ravished a hundred times by negro pirates, to have a buttock cut off, to run the gauntlet among the Bulgarians, to be whipped and hanged at an auto-da-fé, to be dissected, to row in the galleys—in short, to go through all the miseries we have undergone, or to stay here and have nothing to do?” “It is a great question,” said Candide. This discourse gave rise to new reflections, and Martin especially concluded that man was born to live either in a state of distracting inquietude or of lethargic disgust. Candide did not quite agree to that, but he affirmed nothing. Pangloss owned that he had always suffered horribly, but as he had once asserted that everything went wonderfully well, he asserted it still, though he no longer believed it.

In the neighbourhood there lived a very famous Dervish who was esteemed the best philosopher in all Turkey, and they went to consult him. Pangloss was the speaker. “Master,” said he, “we come to beg you to tell why so strange an animal as man was made.” “With what meddlest thou?” said the Dervish; “is it thy business?” “But, reverend father,” said Candide, “there is horrible evil in this world.” “What signifies it,” said the Dervish, “whether there be evil or good? When his highness sends a ship to Egypt, does he trouble his head whether the mice on board are at their ease or not?” “What, then, must we do?” said Pangloss. “Hold your tongue,” answered the Dervish. “I was in hopes,” said Pangloss, “that I should reason with you a little about causes and effects, about the best of possible worlds, the origin of evil, the nature of the soul, and the pre-established harmony.” At these words, the Dervish shut the door in their faces.

I am entirely ignorant of the event you mention; I presume in general that they who meddle with the administration of public affairs die sometimes miserably, and that they deserve it; but I never trouble my head about what is transacting at Constantinople; I content myself with sending there for sale the fruits of the garden which I cultivate.”

“You must have a vast and magnificent estate,” said Candide to the Turk. “I have only twenty acres,” replied the old man; “I and my children cultivate them; our labour preserves us from three great evils—weariness, vice, and want.”

ut operaretur eum,