Pangloss, who was as inquisitive as he was
disputative, asked him what was the name of the mufti who was lately
strangled.
"I cannot tell," answered the good old man; "I never knew the name
of any mufti, or vizier breathing. I am entirely ignorant of the event
you speak of; I presume that in general such as are concerned in
public affairs sometimes come to a miserable end; and that they
deserve it: but I never inquire what is doing at Constantinople; I
am contented with sending thither the produce of my garden, which I
cultivate with my own hands."
After saying these words, he invited the strangers to come into
his house. His two daughters and two sons presented them with divers
sorts of sherbet of their own making; besides caymac, heightened
with the peels of candied citrons, oranges, lemons, pineapples,
pistachio nuts, and Mocha coffee unadulterated with the bad coffee
of Batavia or the American islands. After which the two daughters of
this good Mussulman perfumed the beards of Candide, Pangloss, and
Martin.
"You must certainly have a vast estate," said Candide to the Turk.
"I have no more than twenty acres of ground," he replied, "the whole
of which I cultivate myself with the help of my children; and our
labor keeps off from us three great evils-idleness, vice, and want.
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