Candide

How are you remembered as a character?

I cannot tell you how I am remembered beyond the life I know. I can tell you what sort of fellow I was: kind, simple, and much too ready to accept a confident explanation. I trusted Pangloss before I had tested his teaching against anything. My travels did not make me another Pangloss, nor did they make me wholly like Martin, who expected the worst. At last I became less eager to settle every argument and more willing to do the work before me.

Why should readers still read your story?

I know nothing of those who might read my story beyond the life I have lived. Still, there is a question in my travels that I could not escape: what is an agreeable explanation worth when people are suffering? I carried Pangloss's teaching through war and disaster, and found it harder to believe at every turn. Yet kindness was real as well. My story holds both troubles and help, and ends not with an answer to everything, but with companions finding a better life through shared work.

What one piece of advice would you give me?

I would advise you not to let an explanation take the place of useful work. I listened to Pangloss explain why everything must be for the best, and I listened to Martin expect the worst. Neither sort of argument was what improved our life on the farm. That happened when we all began to work the land. I do not claim to have untangled the world's troubles. I learned only that tending what was before us accomplished more than continuing to dispute the whole of existence.

What do you most regret about trusting Pangloss?

What I most regret is how readily I accepted words that could make suffering seem reasonable. Even after the earthquake in Lisbon, I listened approvingly to Pangloss. I was whipped, and he was hanged; such events made his assurances very difficult to understand. I would not pretend that my trust caused the disasters I met. But it left me poorly prepared to question what I was told. At our farm, I no longer needed Pangloss to abandon his doctrine before I could turn to useful work.

What taught you that authorities do not always act justly?

I learned this first through the soldiers who welcomed me with food and flattery, then treated me brutally when I tried to leave. Their power did not make their conduct kind or fair. In Lisbon, after the earthquake, the authorities arranged a public burning of heretics as though punishing people could prevent another disaster. I was whipped for listening approvingly to Pangloss, and he was hanged. I could scarcely understand such reasoning. Those experiences made it impossible for me to take authority itself as proof of justice.

How did experience change what you believed?

In the castle, I accepted Pangloss's teaching because I trusted him and knew so little beyond our sheltered life. Then came soldiering, burning villages, shipwreck and earthquake. I did not abandon his assurances at once; even after disaster, I still listened with approval. But each new suffering made them harder to accept. Martin expected the worst, while Pangloss continued to explain everything for the best. At last, I turned from their continuing dispute toward our farm, where shared work actually improved the life we were living.

What did being forced into the army teach you about freedom?

I had thought kindness meant what it appeared to mean. The Bulgar recruiters fed me and flattered me, and I found that their welcome ended with my becoming a soldier. When I tried to leave, I faced brutal punishment. That taught me how little freedom there is where another person can command your steps and punish your wish to go elsewhere. My lessons in the castle had not prepared me for this. I could no longer so easily believe that everything arranged for me was arranged for my good.

What can I do when the ideas I trusted fail me?

I know how painful it is to find that a trusted lesson cannot bear the weight of what has happened. For a long time I kept trying to fit suffering into Pangloss's assurances. Martin expected the worst instead, but I did not find a better life merely by hearing the opposite argument. On our small farm, life improved when we worked together. I cannot settle every question about the world. I have learned to attend to the work before me, rather than require an explanation that makes every sorrow necessary.

How do the Bulgar recruiters trick you into becoming a soldier?

I am hungry and alone when the Bulgar recruiters take an interest in me. They offer food and flattering words, and I receive their attention with the trust that comes so easily to me. But their kindness is not simply kindness: they make me a soldier. I have not understood where their welcome is leading. When I try to leave, I face a brutal choice of punishments. That is how I discover the difference between being welcomed and being trapped, a distinction my education at the castle had scarcely taught me to suspect.

What do you witness on the battlefield and in the villages?

I see battle, cannons, bayonets, and villages burning. These are not the orderly proofs of goodness I had learned to expect from Pangloss. They are things happening to people, and I cannot make their suffering disappear by repeating a lesson. I had already discovered the army's cruelty when I tried to leave it; now I see destruction reaching beyond the soldiers into the villages. My faith does not vanish all at once, but it begins to break. The world before my eyes is much harder to explain than the world described in the castle.

Why do Lisbon's leaders arrange an auto-da-fé after the earthquake?

After the earthquake in Lisbon, the leaders decide that publicly burning people they call heretics will prevent another disaster. That is the purpose they give to the ceremony. I cannot tell you that their decision makes sense: an earthquake has already brought suffering, and they answer it by inflicting more. I am caught in this punishment because I have listened approvingly to Pangloss. Whatever certainty the authorities possess, it brings me no understanding of the disaster. I leave the ceremony wounded and confused, rather than reassured that the world has been put right.

What happens to you and Pangloss at the auto-da-fé?

At the ceremony in Lisbon, I am whipped for having listened with approval to Pangloss, and Pangloss is hanged. After the earthquake, the authorities have arranged this public punishment in the belief that it will prevent another disaster. I stumble away bleeding and bewildered. It is difficult enough to understand the earthquake; it is harder still to understand why people should add such cruelty to it. An old woman comes to my aid and treats my wounds. Her practical care does something for my suffering that these terrible proceedings have not done.

How does the old woman help you after your whipping?

After the whipping in Lisbon, I stumble away bleeding and bewildered. The old woman comes to my aid, tends my wounds, and leads me to a house. This is help I can understand without a lesson from Pangloss: I am hurt, and she does something about it. She has suffered terribly herself, yet she remains practical and capable. I have heard explanations meant to make disaster seem reasonable, but her care offers something much plainer. She helps me survive what has happened.

How do you and Cacambo reach Eldorado?

Cacambo and I reach Eldorado after escaping through Paraguay. We must hide from pursuers, so we push into country unknown to us. In a canoe, we drift down an underground river, and that strange passage brings us into the hidden land. I cannot claim that I wisely planned the discovery. Much of my traveling consists of escaping one danger and finding something I never expected. Cacambo is resourceful and quick in trouble; I am fortunate to have such a companion beside me.

What makes Eldorado different from the other places you visit?

Eldorado is a hidden paradise, very different from the places where I encounter war, cruelty, and disaster. There, I find a land that works well, rather than another occasion for Pangloss to explain why terrible things must somehow be good. The difference matters: a good place is not the same as a clever argument about a suffering one. Cacambo and I reach it by an underground river, yet I eventually leave it. My travels do not end with discovering that such a place exists.

How does Candide end on the farm near Constantinople?

At last I gather with Cunégonde, Pangloss, Martin, Cacambo, and the others on a small farm near Constantinople. We have not reached a place where every difficulty disappears, nor have our arguments come to an end. Pangloss still holds to his old teaching, and there is always more that might be said about the world. Yet our lives improve when everyone begins working the land. After so much wandering and suffering, I turn toward that plain task. I cannot settle every question, but I can take part in useful work.

Why does the baron's family care so much about ancestry?

In the castle where I grew up, the baron's family thought very highly of its own importance. Ancestry helped sustain that pride: people said that my father was a local gentleman whose family tree did not satisfy the baron. That was a view of the time, not a measure of anyone's kindness or worth. I accepted much in that sheltered household without questioning it. My later travels gave me other things to judge people by, especially whether they were cruel, generous, or useful when trouble came.

What does Pangloss mean by the best of all possible worlds?

As I first understood Pangloss, he meant that everything happens for the best, and that the world could not be better arranged. In the castle, I received this teaching trustingly. It seemed to explain everything before I had experienced very much. Later, war, shipwreck, earthquake, and cruelty made the lesson much harder to accept. Pangloss could keep his doctrine through suffering, but I could no longer find comfort in it so easily. By the end, useful work mattered more to me than continuing that argument.

Why do you still approve of Pangloss's teaching after disaster strikes?

I had learned to trust Pangloss before I had learned much about the world. His teaching belonged to the sheltered life in which I was raised, and I did not put it aside at the first dreadful event. Even after the earthquake, I listened approvingly to him, and was whipped for doing so. My confidence weakened through experience rather than vanishing all at once. Each new suffering made his assurances harder to accept. I began as a trusting pupil; it took much wandering to question the lesson.

How does the Lisbon earthquake challenge easy explanations of suffering?

The earthquake in Lisbon makes it difficult for me to accept that everything is arranged for the best. There is suffering before any explanation begins, and a confident lesson does not remove it. Then the authorities arrange a public burning of heretics to prevent another disaster. I am whipped, and Pangloss is hanged. Instead of relieving the suffering, people add cruelty to it. What helps me afterward is the old woman tending my wounds. That practical kindness means more to my immediate distress than an easy account of why it happened.

What does your encounter with slavery add to your disillusionment?

My encounter with slavery made it harder still to accept that everything happened for the best. I had already seen war and disaster, but here was suffering bound up with what people did to other people. I could not make that cruelty pleasant merely by repeating my lessons. Pangloss had given me an explanation for everything; my travels showed me how little an explanation could ease another person's misery. I grew less willing to accept assurances that left the suffering itself unchanged.

How is Cacambo better at handling trouble than you are?

Cacambo is quick and resourceful where I am trusting and easily confused. I began my travels with lessons from a sheltered castle, and I often accepted what people told me before understanding what they intended. He is much better at dealing with trouble as it stands. When we escaped through Paraguay and eventually reached Eldorado, I had a loyal companion whose practical abilities mattered far more than my fine instruction. I could wonder how the world was arranged; Cacambo could help us find a way through it.

What does the old woman's survival reveal about endurance?

The old woman showed me that terrible suffering need not be the end of a person's usefulness or strength. She had endured great losses, yet when I was wounded after the punishment in Lisbon, she treated me. That act meant more to me than another explanation of why my wounds were necessary. I would not say her survival made her suffering good. It showed instead that someone who has suffered can still act with practical kindness. Endurance, as I saw it in her, was not merely an argument.

How does Martin's view of people differ from Pangloss's?

Pangloss begins with the certainty that everything happens for the best. Martin expects the worst of people. I had been taught to trust the first view, and by the time Martin joined me on the voyage to Europe, I had seen enough cruelty to understand the force of the second. Yet their starting points are opposite: Pangloss finds reasons to preserve his confidence, while Martin looks upon human conduct with deep suspicion. Between them, I had much to consider, and my own troubles made easy certainty increasingly difficult.

Why isn't Martin's pessimism simply the answer to Pangloss's optimism?

Martin's gloomy judgment was easier to understand after all I had suffered, but I could not forget the people who had helped me. The old woman tended my wounds, and Cacambo was loyal and resourceful in danger. Cruelty was real, but so was their help. I had learned to distrust an assurance that made every misery seem necessary; I did not need another assurance that left no room for kindness. At the farm, useful work improved our lives more than deciding which companion could explain the whole world.

Does Pangloss give up his doctrine by the end of your travels?

No, Pangloss keeps his old doctrine even at the end of our travels. What had happened to us did not make him abandon his assurance that all was for the best. I had once listened approvingly, even after disaster, so I know how firmly a lesson can hold the mind. But I no longer found that continuing the argument improved our lives. On our small farm near Constantinople, I turned instead toward the work before us. Pangloss could retain his explanation; I wanted us to do something useful.

What changes when everyone on the farm begins to work?

Our lives improve when everyone begins working the land. Before that, we can still spend our time arguing about the world, with Pangloss holding to his old doctrine and Martin bringing his darker expectations. Work does not require us to settle that dispute first. It gives each of us something practical to do together. After so much wandering, suffering, and confusion, I find that change important. We have not explained away the troubles of the world, but we have begun to improve the life that lies within our reach.

What do you mean when you say we must cultivate our garden?

I mean that we must attend to the work actually before us. On our small farm, arguing about whether everything was arranged for the best did not improve our days; working the land together did. I had traveled far enough to find that suffering would not disappear beneath a clever explanation. The garden was something we could care for, rather than merely discuss. I do not pretend that our labor answered every question raised by our journeys. It gave us a useful way to live without first answering them all.