Candide (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

After lunch, Candide walked through a large gallery, where he was amazed by the beauty of the paintings. Candide asked who the painter of the two finest was. “They are Raphael’s,”^bs answered the senator. “I spent a great deal of money on them seven years ago, purely out of curiosity as they were said to be the finest pieces in Italy; but I cannot say they please me; the colouring is dark and heavy; the figures do not swell or come out enough; and the drapery is very bad. In short, regardless of the praises lavished upon them, they are not, in my opinion, a true representation of nature. I approveof no paintings except those where I think I see Nature herself ; and there are very few, if any, of that kind. I have what is called a fine collection, but I take no manner of delight in them.”

While dinner was getting ready Pococuranté ordered a concerto to be performed. Candide found the music delightful. “This noise,” said the noble Venetian, “may amuse one for a little while, but if it was to last more than half-an-hour, it would grow tiresome to everybody, though perhaps no one would care to admit that. Music has become only the art of performing what is difficult; and whatever is difficult cannot please for long.

“I believe I might take more pleasure in an opera, if they had not found ways to make it monstrous and revolting to me; and I am amazed at how people can bear to see bad tragedies set to music; where the scenes are contrived for no other reason than to introduce three or four ridiculous songs, to give a favourite actress an opportunity of showing off her voice. Let who will or can swoon with pleasure at the trills of a eunuch quavering through the majestic part of Cæsar^bt or Cato,^bu and strutting in a foolish manner upon the stage. For my part, I have long ago renounced these paltry entertainments, which constitute the glory of modern Italy, and are so dearly purchased by crowned heads.” Candide disputed these sentiments; but he did it in a discreet manner. As for Martin, he was entirely of the old senator’s opinion.

Dinner being served, they sat down to the table, and after a hearty meal, returned to the library. Candide, seeing a copy of Homer^bv in splendid binding, complimented the noble Venetian’s taste. “This,” said he, “is a book that was once the delight of the great Pangloss, the best philosopher in Germany.” “Homer is no favourite of mine,” answered Pococuranté very coolly. “I was made to believe once that I took a pleasure in reading him; but his continual repetitions of battles which are all alike; his gods that are always interfering, but never doing anything decisive; his Helen, who is the cause of the war, and yet hardly acts in the whole performance; his Troy that holds out so long without being taken; in short, all these things together make the poem very boring to me. I have asked some scholars if reading it bored them as much as it bored me. Those who spoke sincerely assured me that he had made them fall asleep, and yet that they could not well avoid giving him a place in their libraries; but that is merely what they do with an antique, like those rusty medals which are kept only for curiosity, and are of no use in commerce.”

“But your excellency does not hold the same opinion of Virgil?” said Candide. “I concede,” replied Pococuranté, “that the second, third, fourth, and sixth books of his Aeneid are excellent; but as for his pious Aeneas, his strong Cloanthus, his friendly Achates, his boy Ascanius, his silly king Latinus, his ill-bred Amata, his insipid Lavinia, and some other characters much in the same strain, I don’t believe there was ever anything more flat and disagreeable. I must confess I prefer Tasso and even that sleepy tale-teller Ariosto.”²⁷

“May I take the liberty to ask if you do not get great pleasure from reading Horace?” said Candide. “There are maxims there,” replied Pococuranté, “from which a man of the world may reap some benefit; and the short measure of the verse makes them more easily remembered. But I see nothing extraordinary in his journey to Brundusium, and his description of his bad dinner; nor in his dirty low quarrel between one Rupilius, whose words, as he expresses it, were full of poisonous filth; and another, whose language was dipped in vinegar. His indelicate verses against old women and witches have frequently given me great offence;²⁸ nor can I see what’s so great about his telling his friend Maecenas^bw that, if he is raised by him to the ranks of lyric poets, his lofty head shall touch the stars.^bx Fods admire everything in an esteemed writer. I read only to please myself. I like only what suits me.” Candide, who had been raised never to judge for himself, was astonished at what he heard; but Martin found that there was a good deal of reason in the senator’s remarks.

“Oh, here is a copy of Cicero!^by” said Candide; “this great man, I assume, you are never tired of reading.” “Indeed, I never read him at all,” replied Pococuranté. “What do I care whether he pleads for Rabirius or Cluentius? As a judge, I have enough trials. I might like his philosophical works better; but when I realized that he had doubts about everything, I figured I knew as much as himself, and had no need of a guide to learn ignorance.”

“Ha!” cried Martin, “here are eighty volumes of the Memoirs of the Academy of Sciences; perhaps there may be something curious and valuable in this collection.” “Yes,” answered Pococuranté. “so there might, if any one of the authors of this rubbish had only invented the art of pin-making. But all these volumes are filled with empty systems, without one single useful thing.”

“I see a lot of plays,” said Candide, “in Italian, Spanish and French.” “Yes,” replied the Venetian; “there are I think three thousand, and not three dozen of them good for anything. As to those huge volumes of divinity, and those enormous collections of sermons, altogether they are not worth one single page of Seneca;^bz and I’m sure you will readily believe that neither myself nor anyone else ever opens them.”

Martin, seeing some shelves filled with English books, said to the senator: “I suppose that a republican must be delighted with the majority of those books written in a land of liberty.” “It is noble to write as we think,” said Pococuranté; “it is the privilege of humanity. Throughout Italy we write only what we do not think; and the present inhabitants of the country of the Caesars and Antoninuses ^ca dare not acquire a single idea without the permission of a Father Dominican.^cb I would be enamoured of the freedom inspired by English genius if passion and partisan spirit did not corrupt all that is estimable in this precious liberty.”

Candide, seeing an edition of a Milton,^cc asked the senator if he did not consider that author a great man. “Who?” said Pococuranté sharply. “That barbarian, who writes a tedious commentary, in ten books of rambling verse, on the first chapter of Genesis! That slovenly imitator of the Greeks, who disfigures creation by making the Messiah take a pair of compasses from Heaven’s cupboard in order to plan the world while Moses represents the Deity as creating the world with a word! You expect me to admire a writer who has spoiled Tasso’s hell and devil; who transforms Lucifer, sometimes into a toad, and at other times into a pigmy; who makes him say the same thing a hundred times over; who makes him argue theology : and who, by an absurdly serious imitation of Ariosto’s comic invention of fire-arms, has the devils firing cannon in heaven! Neither I, nor any other Italian, can possibly take pleasure in such melancholy reveries. But the marriage of sin and death, and snakes that sin gives birth to, are enough to make any person sick whose taste is at all refined. This obscene, whimsical, and disagreeable poem met with the disdain that it deserved at its first publication; and I only treat the author now as he was treated in his own country by his contemporaries.”

Candide was grieved at this speech, as he had a great respect for Homer and was very fond of Milton. “Alas!” said he very softly to Martin, “I am afraid this man holds our German poets in great contempt.” “There would be no great harm in that,” said Martin. “Oh, what a surprising man!” said Candide to himself; “what a great genius this Pococuranté must be! Nothing can please him.”

After finishing their survey of the library, they went down into the garden, and Candide praised its beauties. “I know nothing on earth laid out in such bad taste,” said Pococuranté, “everything about it is childish and trifling; but I will have another laid out tomorrow on a nobler plan.”

As soon as our travellers had taken leave of his excellency, “Well,” said Candide to Martin, “I hope you will own that this man is the happiest of all mortals, for he is above everything he possesses.” “But don’t you see,” answered Martin, “that he dislikes everything he possesses? Plato said a long time ago that the best stomachs are not those which refuse all food.” “True,” said Candide, “but still there must certainly be a pleasure in criticising everything, and in seeing faults where others think they see beauties.” “That is,” replied Martin, “there is a pleasure in having no pleasure.” “Well, well,” said Candide, “I find that I will be the only happy man at last, when I am blessed with the sight of my dear Cunégonde.” “It is good to hope,” said Martin.