Chapter 2: Who Candide became among the Bulgares

Candide, hunting for terrestrial paradise, wandered endlessly, crying, looking to the sky, and often back in the direction of the beautiful house which held his beautiful Cunegonde; he went to sleep without dinner through a multitude of forests, crossing the furrows into unknown territory. Snow fell in great flakes, covering his footsteps in icy powder. 

After one white night, Candide dragged himself toward a neighboring town, which went by the name of Valdberghoff-trarbk-dikdorff. It lacked money, citizens dying in weary famine. Candide ended his journey there, at the door of a town cabaret. Two men, dressed in blue, remarked, “Comrade, look at that one, the young man. He’s well-made, and just the size we need.” They advanced toward Candide, and asked him to join them for a civil dinner. Candide was unaware of the national loyalties the two men held to a certain Bulgarian state.

“Gentlemen,” said Candide with modest charm, “you have given me quite an honor, but I have no way to pay for my meal.”

“Ah, sir,” said one of the blues, “people of your figure and merit need not pay. Are you not five feet and five thumbs tall?”

“Yes, sirs, that’s my size,” Candide said reverently.

“Then, sire, let us find a table. We will not let a man suffer for want of money; men were made to rescue others.”

“You have a point,” Candide said. “That’s what Master Pangloss always told me, and I see well that all must be at its best, in this best of all possible worlds.” 

“Indeed. We pray you would accept our protection,” the blues said. “We don’t want anything but to sit at this table.” Candide believed them jovially.

“So,” they continued, “why are you here alone? Do you not have anyone whom you love?”

“Oh, I do,” Candide responded, “I harbor a tender love for Mademoiselle Cunegonde.”

“No!” said one of the men. “You mean to tell us that your love, your tender love, does not go to the King of the Bulgares?”

“Precisely,” Candide said, “for I have never seen such a man.”

“Why, he is the most charming of kings, and we should drink to his health.”

“Oh! Wondrous, gentleman.” Candide took a drink. He was quite enjoying himself, and thoroughly full of liquor. Then, the situation changed.

“That’s enough,” one of the blue-dressed men said “You are now the help, the supporter, the defendant and hero of the Bulgars! Your fortune is made, your glory assured.” Suddenly, they took Candide and put him in irons, then led him to his new regiment.

In the following days, marched right, left, loaded a gun, unloaded a gun, lied down, threw, went double-pace, and was sentenced to thirty lashes by the whip. The next day, he exercised a little less badly, only receiving twenty lashes. The day after that, he only faced ten, and was regarded by his comrades as a soldierly prodigy.

Candide, rather stupefied, didn’t quite unravel why he was a hero. He noticed it was a beautiful spring day to go for a walk, and walked forward, thinking such an action was a privilege of the human species, like it was for animals, to move one’s legs as they pleased. He had not even gone two leagues before four six-foot heroes of Prussia reached him and led him to a dungeon.

They asked him at the subsequent court martial if he would like to be flogged 36 times each by the entire regiment, or would rather receive a dozen lead bullets to his brain. No matter how much Candide tried to explain that volunteers were free to wander as they pleased, they would not change their minds, so he made a choice: he determined, in the virtue God had given his good name, to endure the flogging. 

The regiment was composed of two thousand men. Candide was not aware of this, and recognized with astonishment that he would have to endure thousands of floggings. After tearing apart his skin, especially in such weak areas as the nape of his neck, Candide’s floggers discovered his muscles and nerves. They were about to proceed with the third lash of the whip, the first two already mangling Candide past what he could endure, when the young man began to beg for bulleted death. He was granted this favor, and was blindfolded and forced to kneel.

At that moment, the king of the Bulgares passed by, and was informed of the crime of his young soldier. Like a great genie granting fortune, he realized that Candide was simply a philosopher, ignorant of the world, and offered him a pardon that will be remembered throughout all history. 

A brave surgeon healed Candide in three weeks with the admirable teachings of Dioscorides. The young man returned to his former condition bit by bit, finally able to walk, when the king of the Bulgares went to battle against the king of the Abares.

Translator’s Note: Voltaire’s style of writing in this chapter was heavily influenced by witnessing the destruction of the Seven Years’ War firsthand. He was a vocal critic of the greed and violence that were destroying Europe, and overall disliked the idea of French colonialism in North America. Later on in this book, in Chapter 23, he describes Canada as, “a few acres of snow,” and claimed that more money was being invested into this struggle than Canada’s entire monetary value. Furthermore, by this point in his life, he’d had a hard falling-out with Frederick the Great, and thoroughly disliked what he viewed as the king’s warmongering. Voltaire’s choice to label France as the Abares, and Prussia as the Bulgares (sometimes translated as Bulgarian, but I chose to maintain the French form in order to prevent accidental associations with the modern nation of Bulgaria), was actually its own level of criticism, as both allude to insults of their own. Bulgare is meant to sound similar to bouger, which means “bugger.” Abares (sometimes translated as Avars) refer to an ancient Scythian nomadic group.