This man conducted
Candide and Martin to the playhouse; they were acting a new tragedy.
Candide found himself placed near a cluster of wits: this, however,
did not prevent him from shedding tears at some parts of the piece
which were most affecting, and best acted.
One of these talkers said to him between acts, "You are greatly to
blame to shed tears; that actress plays horribly, and the man that
plays with her still worse, and the piece itself is still more
execrable than the representation. The author does not understand a
word of Arabic, and yet he has laid his scene in Arabia, and what is
more, he is a fellow who does not believe in innate ideas. Tomorrow
I will bring you a score of pamphlets that have been written against
him."
"Pray, sir," said Candide to the abbe, "how many theatrical pieces
have you in France?"
"Five or six thousand," replied the abbe.
"Indeed! that is a great number," said Candide, "but how many good
ones may there be?"
"About fifteen or sixteen."
"Oh! that is a great number," said Martin.
Candide was greatly taken with an actress, who performed the part of
Queen Elizabeth in a dull kind of tragedy that is played sometimes.
"That actress," said he to Martin, "pleases me greatly; she has some
sort of resemblance to Miss Cunegund.
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