Chapter 7: How an old woman cared for Candide, and how he found his love.

Candide did not take courage, but he followed the woman to a hovel: she gave him a pot of ointment to rub on his wounds, and left him to eat and drink. She gave him a little bed, and next to it lay a full set of clothing. 

“Eat, drink, sleep,” she told him, “and I pray that Our Lady of Atocha, St. Anthony of Padua, and Jacques of Compostelle take care of you. I will see you tomorrow.”

Candide, thoroughly amazed by all he had witnessed and suffered, as well as the charity of the old woman, kissed her hand. 

“It’s not my hand you should kiss,” said the woman. “I’ll return tomorrow. Make use of the ointment, then eat and sleep.”

Candide, despite all the day’s miseries, did indeed eat and sleep. The next day, the old woman appeared to bring him breakfast, attend to the wounds of his back, and later returned to give him an evening meal.

The day after that one proceeded similarly. “Who are you?” Candide constantly asked, “and what inspired this kindness?” The good woman never replied. She returned that evening, but without bringing anything to eat.

“Come with me,” she said, “and stay quiet.” She took Candide in her arms and walked with him in the country for about a quarter of a mile, until they arrived at an isolated house between a garden and canal. The old woman knocked on the house’s little door. It opened, and she led Candide up some concealed stairs within a gilded cabinet and brocade canopy bed, then closed the door and went away. Candide thought he was dreaming, and that his dream had just changed from one of suffering to one of glee.

The woman returned soon after. She was guiding a trembling woman of majestic stature, beautiful as gemstones, covered in a veil.

“Take off her veil,” the old woman said to Candide. He approached, lifting the veil of the timid woman. What a moment! What a surprise! He saw Cunegonde, actually saw her. He fell at her feet, unable to say a word. Cunegonde fell upon the canopy bed. They were two overwhelmed spirits coming to their senses, speaking to each other, interrupting in their haste to reconnect, to hear each other’s responses. They sighed, exclaimed, and cried. The old woman told them not to make such noise, but they ignored her. 

“How? It’s you,” Candide said, “you’re alive! I found you in Portugal! So you weren’t attacked; you didn’t have your stomach cut open, despite all that Pangloss assured me of!”

“No, I did,” said the beautiful Cunegonde, “but one is not guaranteed death from such accidents.”

“But your mother and father were killed,” Candide inquired.

“Yes, that is only too true,” she said tearfully. 

“And your brother?” said Candide. 

“He was killed as well,” Cunegonde answered.

“And why are you in Portugal, and how did you find out I was here, and what strange adventure brought you to this house?” said Candide.

“I will answer all your questions,” Cunegonde began, “but you must first tell me of all that has happened to you since that innocent kiss we shared, and of all the suffering you have surely endured.”

Candide obeyed her with the most profound respect, and though it felt forbidden, though his weak voice trembled as he spoke, though it brought back painful memories, he recounted in the most naive of manners how he had been treated since the moment of their separation. Cunegonde lifted her eyes to the sky, shedding countless tears for the deaths of the good anabaptist and Pangloss, and when she in turn told her story to Candide, he did not forget a word of it.

Translator’s Note: This chapter illustrates a theme that will become rather consistent throughout this work: miraculous resurrection. With all that Cunegonde suffered, one could honestly think she might be better off dead. Candide, of course, thought that she was dead and gone. This stunning revelation of her continued survival seems almost unrealistic, given what she went through. In real life, she almost certainly wouldn’t have survived being raped and attacked, for soldiers during the Seven Years’ War had a reputation for treating civilians with utter brutality. By bringing characters back only to (spoiler alert) have them suffer even more, he begins to call into question the idea that everything is happening for the best. It feels more like the world is utterly refusing to give any of our protagonists a sense of peace.

In terms of translation, this chapter remained unusually literal in many regards. Most sentences were translated almost word-for-word from the original French, with terms only occasionally being altered for clarity (e.g. the stairs were described as dérobée, which can mean secret, stolen, or concealed. I chose to translate it as concealed, because this word makes the most sense in context). As readers will have gathered, I tend to choose the translation of intended meaning over literal words whenever it is impossible to do both at once, but this chapter proved relatively straightforward.