Candide/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
A Tempest, a Shipwreck, an Earthquake; and What Else Befell
Dr. Pangloss, Candide, and James the Anabaptist
One half of the passengers, weakened and half dead with the inconceivable anguish which the rolling of a vessel at sea occasions to the nerves and all the humours of the body, tossed about in opposite directions, were lost to all sense of the danger that surrounded them. The other made loud outcries, or betook themselves to their prayers; the sails were blown into shivers, and the masts were brought by the board. The vessel leaked. Every one was busily employed, but nobody could be either heard or obeyed. The Anabaptist, being upon deck, lent a helping hand as well as the rest, when a brutish sailor gave him a blow, and laid him speechless; but, with the violence of the blow, the tar himself tumbled head foremost overboard, and fell upon a piece of the broken mast, which he immediately grasped. Honest James flew to his assistance, and hauled him in again, but, in the attempt, was thrown overboard himself in sight of the sailor, who left him to perish without taking the least notice of him. Candide, who beheld all that passed, and saw his benefactor one moment rising above water, and the next swallowed up by the merciless waves, was preparing to jump after him; but was prevented by the philosopher Pangloss, who demonstrated to him that the coast of Lisbon had been made on purpose for the Anabaptist to be drowned there. While he was proving his argument à priori, the ship foundered, and the whole crew perished, except Pangloss, Candide, and the brute of a sailor who had been the means of drowning the good Anabaptist. The villain swam ashore; but Pangloss and Candide got to land upon a plank.
As soon as they had recovered a little, they walked towards Lisbon; with what little money they had left they thought to save themselves from starving after having escaped drowning.
Scarce had they done lamenting the loss of their benefactor and set foot in the city, when they perceived the earth to tremble under their feet, and the sea, swelling and foaming in the harbour, dash in pieces the vessels that were riding at anchor. Large sheets of flames and cinders covered the streets and public places; the houses tottered, and were tumbled topsy-turvy, even to their foundations, which were themselves destroyed, and thirty thousand inhabitants of both sexes, young and old, were buried beneath the ruins.
The sailor, whistling and swearing, cried, “Damn it, there’s something to be got here.”
“What can be the sufficing reason of this phenomenon?” said Pangloss.
“It is certainly the day of judgment,” said Candide.
The sailor, defying death in the pursuit of plunder, rushed into the midst of the ruin, where he found some money, with which he got drunk, and after he had slept himself sober, he purchased the favours of the first good-natured wench that came his way, amidst the ruins of demolished houses, and the groans of half-buried and expiring persons. Pangloss pulled him by the sleeve.
“Friend,” said he, “this is not right, you trespass against the universal reason, and have mistaken your time.”
“Death and zounds!” answered the other, “I am a sailor, and born at Batavia, and have trampled four times upon the crucifix in as many voyages to Japan: you are come to a good hand with your universal reason.”
Candide, who had been wounded by some pieces of stone that fell from the houses, lay stretched in the street, almost covered with rubbish.
“For God’s sake,” said he, “get me a little wine and oil. I am dying.”
“This concussion of the earth is no new thing,” replied Pangloss, “the city of Lima, in America, experienced the same last year; the same cause, the same effects: there is certainly a train of sulphur all the way under ground from Lima to Lisbon.”
“Nothing more probable,” said Candide; “but, for the love of God, a little oil and wine.”
“Probable!” replied the philosopher, “I maintain that the thing is demonstrable.”
Candide fainted away, and Pangloss fetched him some water from a neighbouring spring.
The next day, in searching among the ruins, they found some eatables with which they repaired their exhausted strength. After this, they assisted the inhabitants in relieving the distressed and wounded. Some, whom they had humanely assisted, gave them as good a dinner as could be expected under such terrible circumstances. The repast, indeed, was mournful, and the company moistened their bread with their tears; but Pangloss endeavoured to comfort them under this affliction by affirming that things could not be otherwise than they were.
“For,” said he, “all this is for the very best end; for if there is a volcano at Lisbon, it could be on no other spot; for it is impossible for things not to be as they are, for everything is for the best.”
By his side sat a little man dressed in black, who was one of the familiars of the Inquisition. This person, taking him up with great politeness, said, “Possibly, my good Sir, you do not believe in original sin; for if everything is best, there could have been no such thing as the fall or punishment of man.”
“I humbly ask your Excellency’s pardon,” answered Pangloss, still more politely; “for the fall of man, and the curse consequent thereupon necessarily entered into the system of the best of worlds.”
“That is as much as to say, Sir,” rejoined the familiar, “you do not believe in free will.”
“Your Excellency will be so good as to excuse me,” said Pangloss; “free will is consistent with absolute necessity; for it was necessary we should be free, for in that the will”
Pangloss was in the midst of his proposition, when the familiar made a sign to the attendant who was helping him to a glass of port wine.