Chapter 3: How Candide escaped the Bulgares, and what became of him.

Nothing could be so beautiful, so brilliant, so well-ordained as the sight of the two armies. The trumpets, the fifes, the oboes, the drums, the cannons; they all formed a harmony such as the battlefield had never seen before. The cannons overturned nearly six thousand men on each side; then, the musketeers inhabited the best of all worlds as they cleared nine or ten thousand of the rebellious men who infected its surface. The bayonets, too, played their part, killing a few thousand more soldiers. In all, thirty thousand souls were released to the heavens. Candide, trembling like the philosopher he was, hid from the heroic butchery.

Finally, after the two kings had sung Te Deum, each in his own camp, Candide was ready to leave, and go think through the nature of causes and effects like a good philosopher. He snuck out of camp, passing the dead and the dying, and found himself in a little village; it was in cinders, a place the Bulgares had burned, according to public law. Here the old cripples watched the deaths of engorged women, with their children and bloody mammals. Farther onward, the young women, who the young heroes had found to be a source of animalistic pleasure, were breathing their last breaths after being so brutally raped. Others, half-burned, cried out their desire for death. Brains were spread across the earth, along with severed arms and legs.

Candide went quickly onward to another village; it belonged to the Abares, and the heroes had given it the same treatment as Candide’s previous place of exploration. Continuing his march, Candide walked among ruins, littered with the survivors of such violence. 

Finally, he found himself out of the theatre of war, with only a few provisions remaining. But, despite all this hardship, he never forgot Cunegonde. His provisions finally exhausted themselves when Candide was in Holland, but he had heard that everyone was rich in that country, and all good Christians, so he had no doubt that life there would be just as good as it had been in the Baron’s household.

He asked for alms from a few grave passersby, who all told him that, if he continued such a pursuit, someone would lock him up in a corrective house until he learned a better way to get a living.

Candide at one point addressed a minister, who was going to speak for an hour on the nature of charity to a great assembly. This orator, looking askance at Candide, said to him, “What are you doing here? Do you have good cause to be out like this?”

Candide informed him that there was no effect without its cause, recognizing the wise teachings of Pangloss in this man. “This is all necessary, and all for the best! I’ve been chased from my home with Cunegonde, endured lashings and battle, had to beg for bread, and won through all of it. It could not be otherwise!”

“My friend,” said the orator, without caring for Candide’s troubles, “do you think the pope is the antichrist?”

“I’m not sure what to say about that,” Candide replied. “Maybe he is, or maybe he isn’t. Either way, I need bread.” 

“You are not deserving of food,” the minister said, his mood darkened. “Go, pig! Go, you miserable creature, and never approach me again for the rest of your life!”

The wife of the orator, having put her head out the window, and advised the doubting Candide that the pope was, indeed, the antichrist, and poured a chamber pot’s contents on the young man’s head. What excess there was, in the religious beliefs of women.

A man who had not been baptized, who thought himself nonetheless a good anabaptist, whose name was Jack, saw the cruel way that his fellow man was treated, despite the fact that he was a creature with two feet and a soul; he brought Candide into his home and gave him bread and beer, and two florins, and even wanted to teach them the ways of Persian fabric manufacturing, which was the man’s job and business. In this way, he allowed our protagonist to recover. Candide, after having received the kindness of Jack, was thoroughly appreciative.

Candide, prostrating himself before this kind soul, cried, “Master Pangloss told me all is best in this world, and I am infinitely touched by your extreme generosity, especially after the cruelty of that black-coated man and his wife.” Indeed, Candide remained deeply stung by the treatment of the orator.

The next day, Candide was walking and saw a beggar covered in pustules, with dead eyes and a reddened nose. The creature had a crooked mouth, blackened teeth, and when he spoke in his throaty voice, could not help but lose a tooth with the effort of forming each word.

Translator’s Note: By overstating every element of battle, as if it’s a glorious occasion, Voltaire aimed to attack the still-prevalent perception of battle as a glorious and noble pursuit. He exposed the barbary and senselessness of such endeavors through Candide’s terror and the images of suffering endured by everyday citizens. Writing such as this was not nearly as common in the 18th century as it was in the post-war 20th, so it’s quite interesting to see a major author exposing the brutality of war during this period.