Candide and Martin went in a gondola on the Brenta, and arrived at the palace of the noble Signor Pococurante. The gardens, laid out with taste, were adorned with fine marble statues. The palace was beautifully built. The master of the house was a man of sixty, and very rich. He received the two travellers with polite indifference, which put Candide a little out of countenance, but was not at all disagreeable to Martin.
Candide and Martin rode a gondola along the Brenta and reached the palace of the noble Signor Pococurante. The gardens were tastefully arranged and filled with fine marble statues. The palace itself was handsomely built. The owner was a sixty-year-old man and very wealthy. He greeted the two travellers with polite indifference. This embarrassed Candide a little, but Martin did not mind at all.
First, two pretty girls, very neatly dressed, served them with chocolate, which was frothed exceedingly well. Candide could not refrain from commending their beauty, grace, and address.
First, two pretty girls, neatly dressed, served them chocolate. The chocolate was frothed very well. Candide could not help praising their beauty, grace, and skill.
"They are good enough creatures," said the Senator. "I make them lie with me sometimes, for I am very tired of the ladies of the town, of their coquetries, of their jealousies, of their quarrels, of their humours, of their pettinesses, of their prides, of their follies, and of the sonnets which one must make, or have made, for them. But after all, these two girls begin to weary me."
"They are good enough creatures," said the Senator. "I make them sleep with me sometimes, for I am very tired of the ladies of the town. I am tired of their flirting, their jealousies, their quarrels, their moods, their pettiness, their pride, their follies, and the sonnets one must write, or have written, for them. But after all, these two girls are beginning to bore me."
After breakfast, Candide walking into a long gallery was surprised by the beautiful pictures. He asked, by what master were the two first.
After breakfast, Candide walked into a long gallery. He was surprised by the beautiful paintings. He asked who had painted the first two.
"They are by Raphael," said the Senator. "I bought them at a great price, out of vanity, some years ago. They are said to be the finest things in Italy, but they do not please me at all. The colours are too dark, the figures are not sufficiently rounded, nor in good relief; the draperies in no way resemble stuffs. In a word, whatever may be said, I do not find there a true imitation of nature. I only care for a picture when I think I see nature itself; and there are none of this sort. I have a great many pictures, but I prize them very little."
"They are by Raphael," said the Senator. "I bought them years ago, for a high price, out of vanity. They are said to be the finest things in Italy. Still, they do not please me. The colors are too dark. The figures are not rounded enough and lack proper relief. The draperies do not look like real fabric. In short, whatever people say, I do not see a true imitation of nature. I only value a painting when I feel it shows nature itself. There are none like that here. I have many paintings, but I value them very little."
While they were waiting for dinner Pococurante ordered a concert. Candide found the music delicious.
While they waited for dinner, Pococurante ordered a concert. Candide enjoyed the music.
"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. Perhaps I should be fonder of the opera if they had not found the secret of making of it a monster which shocks me. Let who will go to see bad tragedies set to music, where the scenes are contrived for no other end than to introduce two or three songs ridiculously out of place, to show off an actress's voice. Let who will, or who can, die away with pleasure at the sight of an eunuch quavering the rôle of Cæsar, or of Cato, and strutting awkwardly upon the stage. For my part I have long since renounced those paltry entertainments which constitute the glory of modern Italy, and are purchased so dearly by sovereigns."
"This noise," said the Senator, "may amuse one for half an hour. But if it lasted longer, it would grow tiresome to everyone, though they would not admit it. Today, music is only the art of performing difficult things. Something that is only difficult cannot please for long. Perhaps I would like the opera more. But they have found a way to make it into a monster that shocks me. Anyone may go to see bad tragedies set to music. The scenes are arranged for no other purpose than to introduce two or three songs. These songs are absurdly out of place and meant to show off an actress's voice. Anyone who wants, or who can, may swoon with pleasure at the sight of an eunuch quavering the rôle of Caesar or of Cato. He struts awkwardly on the stage. As for me, I long ago renounced those paltry entertainments. They make up the glory of modern Italy and are bought so dearly by sovereigns."
Candide disputed the point a little, but with discretion. Martin was entirely of the Senator's opinion.
Candide questioned the point a little, but did so cautiously. Martin completely agreed with the Senator.
They sat down to table, and after an excellent dinner they went into the library. Candide, seeing a Homer magnificently bound, commended the virtuoso on his good taste.
They sat down at the table. After an excellent dinner, they went to the library. Candide saw a beautifully bound edition of Homer. He praised the collector's good taste.
"There," said he, "is a book that was once the delight of the great Pangloss, the best philosopher in Germany."
"There," he said. "This is a book that used to be a favorite 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. But that continual repetition of battles, so extremely like one another; those gods that are always active without doing anything decisive; that Helen who is the cause of the war, and who yet scarcely appears in the piece; that Troy, so long besieged without being taken; all these together caused me great weariness. 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."
"It is not mine," answered Pococurante coolly. "At one time they used to make me believe that I took pleasure in reading him. But there is that endless repetition of battles, all so very like one another. There are those gods who are always active without doing anything decisive. There is that Helen who is the cause of the war, and who yet hardly appears in the poem. There is that Troy, besieged so long without being taken. All these together made me very weary. I have sometimes asked learned men whether they were not as weary of that work as I was. Those who were sincere admitted to me that the poem put them to sleep. Yet they had to keep it in their library as a monument of antiquity, like those rusty old coins that are no longer of use in trade."
"But your Excellency does not think thus of Virgil?" said Candide.
"But you do not think that way about Virgil, do you?" said Candide.
"I grant," said the Senator, "that the second, fourth, and sixth books of his Æneid are excellent, but as for his pious Æneas, his strong Cloanthus, his friend Achates, his little Ascanius, his silly King Latinus, his bourgeois Amata, his insipid Lavinia, I think there can be nothing more flat and disagreeable. I prefer Tasso a good deal, or even the soporific tales of Ariosto."
"I grant," said the Senator, "that the second, fourth, and sixth books of his Æneid are excellent. But as for his pious Æneas, his strong Cloanthus, his friend Achates, his little Ascanius, his silly King Latinus, his bourgeois Amata, and his insipid Lavinia, I think nothing could be more flat and disagreeable. I much prefer Tasso, or even the sleep-inducing tales of Ariosto."
"May I presume to ask you, sir," said Candide, "whether you do not receive a great deal of pleasure from reading Horace?"
"May I ask you, sir," said Candide. "Don't you get a lot of pleasure from reading Horace?"
"There are maxims in this writer," answered Pococurante, "from which a man of the world may reap great benefit, and being written in energetic verse they are more easily impressed upon the memory. But I care little for his journey to Brundusium, and his account of a bad dinner, or of his low quarrel between one Rupilius whose words he says were full of poisonous filth, and another whose language was imbued with vinegar. I have read with much distaste his indelicate verses against old women and witches; nor do I see any merit in telling his friend Mæcenas that if he will but rank him in the choir of lyric poets, his lofty head shall touch the stars. 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."
"There are maxims in this writer," answered Pococurante. "A worldly man can gain much from them. They are written in forceful verse, so they stick in the memory. But I do not care for his trip to Brundusium, or his account of a bad dinner. I care nothing for his petty quarrel either. He calls one man, Rupilius, full of poisonous filth, and says another's language is soaked in vinegar. I read with distaste his indecent verses about old women and witches. I see no merit in his saying that to his friend Mæcenas. He claims that if Mæcenas places him among the lyric poets, his lofty head will touch the stars. Fools admire everything by an author with a reputation. As for me, I read only to please myself. I only like what suits my purpose."
Candide, having been educated never to judge for himself, was much surprised at what he heard. Martin found there was a good deal of reason in Pococurante's remarks.
Candide had been taught not to judge for himself. He was very surprised by what he heard. Martin thought Pococurante's remarks made a lot of sense.
"Oh! here is Cicero," said Candide. "Here is the great man whom I fancy you are never tired of reading."
"Oh, here is Cicero!" Candide said. "Here is the great man I think you never get tired of reading."
"I never read him," replied the Venetian. "What is it to me whether he pleads for Rabirius or Cluentius? I try causes enough myself; 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."
"I've never read him," the Venetian replied. "What does it matter to me whether he defends Rabirius or Cluentius? I handle enough cases myself. I think his philosophical works are better. But when I discovered he doubted everything, I decided I knew as much as he did. I didn't need a guide to learn ignorance."
"Ha! here are four-score volumes of the Academy of Sciences," cried Martin. "Perhaps there is something valuable in this collection."
"Ha! Here are eighty volumes of the Academy of Sciences," cried Martin. "Maybe there is something valuable in this collection."
"There might be," said Pococurante, "if only one of those rakers of rubbish had shown how to make pins; but in all these volumes there is nothing but chimerical systems, and not a single useful thing."
"There might be," said Pococurante, "if even one of those rakers of rubbish had shown how to make pins. But in all these volumes there is nothing but fanciful systems, and not a single useful thing."
"And what dramatic works I see here," said Candide, "in Italian, Spanish, and French."
"What plays I see here!" said Candide. "They are in Italian, Spanish, and French."
"Yes," replied the Senator, "there are three thousand, and not three dozen of them good for anything. As to those collections of sermons, which altogether are not worth a single page of Seneca, and those huge volumes of theology, you may well imagine that neither I nor any one else ever opens them."
"Yes," replied the Senator. "There are three thousand of them, and not three dozen are any good. As for those collections of sermons, they are not worth a single page of Seneca. And those huge volumes of theology, you can imagine that neither I nor anyone else ever opens them."
Martin saw some shelves filled with English books.
Martin saw some shelves full of English books.
"I have a notion," said he, "that a Republican must be greatly pleased with most of these books, which are written with a spirit of freedom."
"I think," said he, "that a Republican would be very pleased with most of these books. They are written in a spirit of freedom."
"Yes," answered Pococurante, "it is noble to write as one thinks; this is the privilege of humanity. In all our Italy we write only what we do not think; those who inhabit the country of the Cæsars and the Antoninuses dare not acquire a single idea without the permission of a Dominican friar. I should be pleased with the liberty which inspires the English genius if passion and party spirit did not corrupt all that is estimable in this precious liberty."
"Yes," answered Pococurante, "it is noble to write as one thinks. This is the privilege of humanity. In all our Italy we write only what we do not think. Those who live in the country of the Cæsars and the Antoninuses dare not acquire a single idea without the permission of a Dominican friar. I would be pleased with the liberty that inspires the English genius, if passion and party spirit did not corrupt all that is valuable in this precious liberty."
Candide, observing a Milton, asked whether he did not look upon this author as a great man.
Candide, looking at a copy of Milton, asked whether he did not consider that author a great man.
"Who?" said Pococurante, "that barbarian, who writes a long commentary in ten books of harsh verse on the first chapter of Genesis; that coarse imitator of the Greeks, who disfigures the Creation, and who, while Moses represents the Eternal producing the world by a word, makes the Messiah take a great pair of compasses from the armoury of heaven to circumscribe His work? How can I have any esteem for a writer who has spoiled Tasso's hell and the devil, who transforms Lucifer sometimes into a toad and other times into a pigmy, who makes him repeat the same things a hundred times, who makes him dispute on theology, who, by a serious imitation of Ariosto's comic invention of firearms, represents the devils cannonading in heaven? Neither I nor any man in Italy could take pleasure in those melancholy extravagances; and the marriage of Sin and Death, and the snakes brought forth by Sin, are enough to turn the stomach of any one with the least taste, [and his long description of a pest-house is good only for a grave-digger]. This obscure, whimsical, and disagreeable poem was despised upon its first publication, and I only treat it now as it was treated in its own country by contemporaries. For the matter of that I say what I think, and I care very little whether others think as I do."
"Who?" said Pococurante. "That barbarian who writes a long commentary in ten books of harsh verse on the first chapter of Genesis. That crude imitator of the Greeks who distorts the Creation. Moses shows the Eternal producing the world with a word. This writer makes the Messiah take a great pair of compasses from heaven's armory to draw his work. How can I respect a writer who has ruined Tasso's Hell and his devil? He sometimes turns Lucifer into a toad and other times into a pygmy. He makes him repeat the same things a hundred times. He makes him argue about theology. In a serious imitation of Ariosto's comic invention of firearms, he even depicts devils cannonading in heaven. Neither I nor anyone in Italy could take pleasure in those gloomy extravagances. The marriage of Sin and Death, and the snakes born of Sin, are enough to turn the stomach of anyone with the least taste. [and his long description of a pest-house is good only for a grave-digger]. This obscure, whimsical, and disagreeable poem was despised when it was first published, and I treat it now as contemporaries in his own country treated it. For my part, I say what I think, and I care very little whether others agree with me."
Candide was grieved at this speech, for he had a respect for Homer and was fond of Milton.
Candide was upset by this remark. He respected Homer and admired Milton.
"Alas!" said he softly to Martin, "I am afraid that this man holds our German poets in very great contempt."
"Oh no," he said softly to Martin. "I'm afraid this man looks down on our German poets."
"There would not be much harm in that," said Martin.
"That wouldn't cause much harm," Martin said.
"Oh! what a superior man," said Candide below his breath. "What a great genius is this Pococurante! Nothing can please him."
"Oh! what a superior man," said Candide under his breath. "What a great genius this Pococurante is! Nothing can please him."
After their survey of the library they went down into the garden, where Candide praised its several beauties.
They finished looking through the library. Then they went down into the garden. Candide praised its many beauties.
"I know of nothing in so bad a taste," said the master. "All you see here is merely trifling. After to-morrow I will have it planted with a nobler design."
"I know nothing so tasteless," said the master. "Everything you see here is just trivial. Tomorrow I will have it planted with a nobler design."
"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."
"Well," said Candide to Martin after they had said goodbye, "you'll agree that this is the happiest of mortals. He is above all his possessions."
"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 don't you see," Martin answered. "He is disgusted with everything he owns. Plato observed long ago that stomachs that refuse all kinds of food are not the best."
"But is there not a pleasure," said Candide, "in criticising everything, in pointing out faults where others see nothing but beauties?"
"But isn't there a pleasure in criticizing everything?" said Candide. "In pointing out faults where others see only beauty?"
"That is to say," replied Martin, "that there is some pleasure in having no pleasure."
"In other words," said Martin, "there is a certain pleasure in having no pleasure."
"Well, well," said Candide, "I find that I shall be the only happy man when I am blessed with the sight of my dear Cunegonde."
"Well, well," said Candide. "I realize I will be the only happy man when I see my dear Cunegonde."
"It is always well to hope," said Martin.
"It's always good to hope," said Martin.
However, the days and the weeks passed. Cacambo did not come, and Candide was so overwhelmed with grief that he did not even reflect that Paquette and Friar Giroflée did not return to thank him.
Days and weeks passed. Cacambo did not come. Candide was so overwhelmed with grief. He did not even notice that Paquette and Friar Giroflée had not come back to thank him.