Candide, or Optimism (Penguin Classics) by Francois Voltaire

Author:Francois Voltaire
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780141909240
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2013-09-25T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 25

A visit to Signor Pococuranté, a Venetian nobleman

Candide and Martin proceeded by gondola along the Brenta, and duly came to the palace of the noble Pococuranté. The gardens were well laid out and ornamented with fine marble statues, and the palace itself was a fine piece of architecture. The master of the house, a man of sixty, and very wealthy, received his two curious visitors correctly, but with little enthusiasm, which disconcerted Candide and suited Martin.

First, two pretty and elegantly dressed girls served hot chocolate, which they stirred into a creamy froth. Candide could not refrain from praising their beauty, their graciousness and dexterity. ‘They are good creatures, it is true,’ said Senator Pococuranté. ‘I take them into my bed sometimes, for I am rather weary of the society ladies, with their coquetries, and their jealousies, and their quarrels, and their moods, and their spite, and their pride, and their triviality; and I’m tired of composing sonnets, or having sonnets composed, in their honour. But then, on the other hand, I also find myself getting fearfully bored of these two young girls.’

Candide, walking in a long gallery after lunch, was astonished by the beauty of the paintings. Pausing by the first two, he asked which master had painted them. ‘They are by Raphael,’ said the Senator. ‘I bought them out of vanity, and very expensively, some years ago; I am told they are the finest in Italy, but I don’t in the least care for them: the colouring is too sombre, the figures are not sufficiently rounded and lack depth, the draperies bear no resemblance to real material; in short, whatever anybody says, I do not find in them a true imitation of nature.1 I shall only like a picture when I can believe I am looking at nature itself – and there are no such pictures. I have a great many paintings, but I no longer look at any of them.’

While they waited for dinner, Pococuranté gave orders for a concerto2 to be performed. Candide thought the music delightful. ‘It’s a sort of noise,’ said Pococuranté, ‘that whiles away the odd half-hour, but if played for any longer bores everyone, though no one dares to say so. Music nowadays is merely the art of executing what is difficult to play; and in the long run what is merely difficult ceases to amuse.’

‘Perhaps I might prefer opera,’ he continued, ‘had they not managed to turn it into a hybrid monstrosity which revolts me. Let them flock to their wretched tragedies set to music, where the story is merely the clumsy pretext for two or three ludicruous arias, designed to show off some actress’s vocal chords; let them swoon with ecstasy, if they want to, at the spectacle of a castrato piping his way through the role of Caesar or Cato as he struts clumsily about the stage; for my part I have long given up on these paltry spectacles that are the glory of Italy today, and which cost its princes so much expense.

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