Great Performances (1971–…): Season 33, Episode 3 - Leonard Bernstein's Candide, a Comic Operetta in Two Acts - full transcript
A concert performance of Bernstein's famous musical.
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and welcome to our concert.
What you've just heard was the overture to Leonard Bernstein's Candide
which is not to be confused
with Voltaire's Candide upon which it is based.
Voltaire's Candide is a small novella
in which no one sings
whereas Leonard Bernstein's Candide
is a large operetta in which almost everyone
insists upon it.
We begin our story in Westphalia,
a German backwater whose charms are, for the French,
"Roughly equivalent to Mr. Al Capp's immortal Dogpatch."
The setting is Schloss Thunder-ten-Tronck,
ancestral home to the baron and the baroness,
both of whom are more than its match in solidity and refinement.
And four extremely happy young people.
Happy because they know they're living in the best of all possible schlosses,
in the best of all possible countries,
in the best of all possible worlds.
And happiest of them all is our hero,
Candide.
Gentle,
pure,
innocent,
and a bastard.
Life is happiness indeed.
Mares to ride and books to read.
Though of noble birth I'm not,
I'm delighted with my lot.
Though I've no distinctive features
and I've no official mother,
I love all my fellow creatures
and the creatures love each other!
The next most happy of the four
is probably the serving maid, Paquette.
She enjoys the honor of dressing the baroness
in the presence of the baron himself
and for her willingness to cooperate
is a favorite with all.
My dear,
if you could spare this young wench for a few minutes,
she could grease my riding boots.
-Of course, my lord.
-I'll await you in the stables.
Bring the lubricant.
Oh yes, my lord. Willingly, my lord.
Also extremely happy is the baron's virgin daughter,
Cunegonde.
Cunegonde knows that she is not only the highest born
maiden in the land,
but also the prettiest.
She is assured that she can look forward to a tremendously
advantageous marriage.
Life is happiness indeed.
I have everything I need.
I am rich and unattached
and my beauty is unmatched.
With the rose my only rival
I'll admit to some frustration.
What a pity its survival
is of limited duration.
At the moment, the least happy of the four, though still happy,
is the baron's son Maximillian.
Maximillian, being the handsomest youth in Westphalia,
is naturally and very sincerely devoted to his own person.
Life is absolute perfection
as is true of my complexion.
Every time I look and see me,
I'm reminded life is dreamy.
Although I do get tired
being endlessly admired,
people will go on about me.
How could they go on without me?
If the talk at times is vicious, that's the
price you pay when you're delicious.
Life is pleasant. Life is simple.
Oh my god, is that a pimple.
No, it's just the odd reflection,
life and I are still perfection.
I am everything I need.
Life is happiness indeed.
Oh my god! It is a pimple!
If there is the faintest shadow to darken the idyllic existence
of these children, it lies in the fact that Candide,
except when hunting, can think of little else but
the glorious hair and eyes of Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
Oh, Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
While Cunegonde,
in spite of her exalted birth,
is alarmingly conscious of her bastard cousin's
strong young thighs.
Oh, Candide.
However, except for this tiny flaw,
and the pimple,
their innocent happiness is unstained.
Now, you may ask, if you are of a cynical turn of mind
how even in this best of all possible castles
such unique happiness should prevail.
Well, the answer is simple.
These admirable children had the great good fortune
to be instructed in the realities of life
by the wisest of all possible philosophers
and scientists.
A man to whom none of the secrets
of God's universe lie unrevealed.
And who is this dazzling individual?
Who is this paragon of human virtues?
Dr. Pangloss!
Syllogism Number One.
Since this is the only possible world
it follows then--
That this is the best of all possible worlds.
Correct.
Ergo, since this is the best of all possible worlds
-it follows--
-That everything that
happens in this world is for the best.
Correct.
So if any man said that all is well.
-He lies.
-Everything is not well.
Everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds.
Let us review Lesson Eleven.
Paragraph two, axiom seven.
Once one dismisses the rest of all possible worlds,
one finds that this is the best of all possible worlds.
Once one dismisses the rest of all possible worlds,
one finds that this is the best of all possible worlds.
Pray, classify pigeons and camels.
Pigeons can fly.
Camels are mammals.
There is a reason for everything under the sun.
There is a season for everything under the sun.
Objection.
What about snakes?
Snakes.
'Twas snake that tempted mother Eve. Because of snake we now believe
that though depraved, we can be saved
from hellfire and damnation.
Because of snake's temptation.
If snake had not seduced our lot
and primed us for salvation,
Jehovah could not pardon all
the sins that we call cardinal
involving bed and bottle.
Now on to Aristotle.
Mankind is one. All men are brothers.
As you have done,
do onto others.
It's understood in this best of all possible worlds.
All is for the good in this best of all possible worlds.
Objection.
What about war?
War.
Though war may seem a bloody curse,
it is a blessing in reverse.
When cannons roar, both rich and poor
by danger are united.
'Til every wrong is righted.
Philosophers made evident the point that I have cited.
This war makes equal, as it were,
the noble and the commoner.
Thus war improves relations.
Now on to conjugations.
Amo. Amas. Amat. Amamus.
Proving that this is the best of all possible worlds.
With love and kisses, the best of all possible worlds.
Quod erat demonstrandum.
Quod erat demonstrandum.
In this best of all possible, possible,
possible worlds.
Quod erat demonstrandum!
Class is dismissed.
It is time for Mademoiselle Paquette's lesson
in advanced physics.
-Off. Off.
-Good day, Dr. Pangloss.
The relative specific gravity of two bodies.
Yes.
Cunegonde ever thirsty for knowledge
observes from a distance.
Inspired
she seeks out Candide.
-Good day, Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
-Good day, dear Candide.
-Candide?
-Yes, Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
As my faithful friend and companion from the cradle,
would you consider attempting one of our dear master's
physical experiments,
even though it is somewhat ahead of our curriculum?
Oh, anything for you Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
You are very civil.
It concerns the relative specific gravity
of the male and female bodies.
You put your arms around me.
So. So.
Next the lips make contact.
-Oh, Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
-Oh, Candide.
-It is impossible!
-It is impossible!
And yet for many months I have been dreaming of just such a contact.
I too have dreamed.
But what are dreams, but fancies?
Oh, worthy Dr. Pangloss to have shown scientifically
that this is the best of all possible juxtapositions.
It has been proved that I have been put in this world
to complement you.
In the holy marriage bond.
Soon when we feel we can afford it
we'll build a modest little farm.
We'll buy a yacht and live aboard it,
rolling in luxury and stylish charm.
-Cows and chickens.
-Social whirls.
-Peas and cabbage.
-Ropes of pearls.
Soon there'll be little ones beside us.
We'll have a sweet Westphalian home.
Somehow we'll grow as rich as Midas.
We'll live in Paris when we're not in Rome.
-Smiling babies.
-Marble halls.
-Sunday picnics.
-Costume balls.
Oh, won't my robes of silk and satin be chic.
I'll have all that I desire.
Pangloss will tutor us in Latin and Greek
while we sit before the fire.
-Glowing rubies.
-Glowing logs.
-Faithful servants.
-Faithful dogs.
We'll round the world enjoying high life.
All bubbly pink champagne and gold.
We'll lead a rustic and a shy life,
feeding the pigs and sweetly growing old.
-Breast of peacock.
-Apple pie.
-I love marriage.
-So do I.
Oh, happy pair. Oh, happy we.
It's very rare how we agree.
Oh, happy pair. Oh, happy we.
It's very rare how we agree.
Oh, happy pair. Oh, happy we.
It's very rare how we agree.
What is he doing to my sister?
What are you doing to my sister?
You can't do that to my sister.
Foolish boy, run away and play.
Look! Look what they're doing! Look, mommy.
It's just an experiment.
One of Dr. Pangloss' noble experiments in physics
-which has proved--
-Pangloss!
-Sir, are you responsible for this?
-Never, sir.
An outrageous violation of all that I stand for.
Me too.
-But, father, I love him.
-And I love her.
We will be married at once.
-Married?
-Married?
-My daughter?
-To a bastard?
Curses on the day my Christian charity
bid me give asylum to
the sideswiped offspring of my sluttish sister.
-Out.
-Out.
-Candide?
-Oh, dear Cunegonde.
Out, out, out, out.
Dare to set foot again in Westphalia
and I'll have you strung up from the highest gibbet.
The honor of our family is restored.
I wanna go back with...
Exiled from paradise
poor Candide wanders alone
with only his faith in optimism to cling to.
My world is dust now
and all I loved is dead.
Oh, let me trust now
in what my master said.
"There is a sweetness
in every woe."
It must be so.
The dawn will find me
alone in some strange land.
But men are kindly,
they'll give a helping hand.
So said my master
and he must know.
It must be so.
The helping hand mankind finally extends to Candide
is attached to soldiers from the Bulgarian Army
who promptly railroad him into military service against Westphalia itself.
Now, before we go on
it's important for you all to understand that in Voltaire's time
Europe was a veritable hotbed of nationalistic sentiment
with territorial armies swarming hither and yon
hacking each other to bits over nothing more important than
a slight difference in, in religion or ancestry.
I know that's hard for you to understand today
but you really must try.
Candide, having no wish to kill anyone,
attempts to desert.
He is offered a choice.
Thirty-six strokes of the lash from every man in the regiment
or 12 bullets in the brain.
As he ponders his decision,
war breaks out.
In the midst of the battle
we find the baron and his family leading all Westphalia
in solemn prayer.
Fa Re Fa Si La Sol Fa Fa.
Almighty God who, in the beginning of time,
bequeath this sacred serfdom to my most Christian ancestors.
Look down in your infinite mercy
and tear the heathen Bulgarian invaders limb from limb.
Be welcome in Westphalia.
Oh, blessed Holy Mother,
I vow a holy candle for every swinish infidel
that bites the dust
and two candles if they.
A scene of sweet simplicity.
Oh God, who has blessed me with the incomparable gift of beauty,
see to it that, whatever holocaust occurs,
my features may escape disfigurement.
For my admirers' sake.
Amen.
Teutonical rusticity.
Dear Lord,
send my beloved, Candide, back to me
for surely he, and only he,
can save me from the dreadful fate
of ravishment.
All hail Westphalia.
Westphalia is taken by surprise.
Run!
Not my face.
The rapturous Cunegonde is raped
repeatedly
before a saber ends her agony.
What?
Oh.
Candide, liberated by the battle, searches for his lady
among the corpses lying in heaps.
Amidst the ruins of his beloved schloss.
Alone and starving
Candide is reduced to beggary.
Yeah?
I said beggary.
But his tender heart
causes him to squander the few coins he is given
on an old beggar
with a tin nose
and stumps for several fingers.
Oh, poor, unfortunate creature.
A blessing on your happy head.
How about a few cruzados instead?
-No.
-No?
Dear Dr. Pangloss.
-Dear Candide.
-What of all the others?
How are they all at home? How is Mademoiselle Cunegonde?
-Dead.
-Dead?
Dead or raped. Slaughtered. All of them.
Dead? Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
Raped and dead?
And raped?
Oh, dear Dr. Pangloss,
how can such ghastly horrors befallen
a world where all is for the best?
Just think my son,
were they all to have lived longer
who knows what crueler fate may have been in store for them.
Excuse me.
But, master, your nose.
Oh, a mere nothing. Just a necessary side feature
of God's most exquisite gift to his faithful children.
-Love.
-Love?
You remember, of course, Mademoiselle Paquette.
In her arms I enjoyed the delights of paradise
which brought with them inevitably the equivalent tortures of hell.
The great law of compensation.
Good boy!
Syphilis,
f-for that is the name of the ailment,
was discovered in the new world.
And if the new world had not been discovered,
how could we have been blessed
with chocolate, tobacco and the potato?
I am, I admit, extremely fond of the potato.
So you see,
everything in this world is indeed for the best.
Dear boy, you will not hear me speak
with sorrow or with rancor
of what has shriveled up my cheek
and blasted it with canker.
'Twas love, great love that did the deed,
through nature's gentle laws,
and how should ill effects proceed
from so divine a cause?
Dear boy,
sweet honey comes from bees that sting,
as you are well aware.
To one adept in reasoning,
whatever pains disease may bring
are but the tangy seasoning
to love's delicious fare.
Dear boy.
Dear boy.
Each nation guards its native land
with cannon and with sentry.
Inspectors look for contraband
at every point of entry.
Yet nothing can prevent the spread
of love's divine disease,
It rounds the world from bed to bed
as pretty as you please.
Dear boy,
men worship Venus everywhere
as may be plainly seen.
Her decorations which I bear
are nobler than the Croix de Guerre,
and gained in service of our fair
and universal queen.
Dear boy.
Dear boy.
Dear boy.
Candide and Dr. Pangloss board a crowded ship bound for Lisbon.
Picaresquely, it splits in half and sinks.
Since everything in the world happens for the best reason
it so happened that all arbitrarily die.
Except for our two heroes.
Who float ashore on a convenient wooden plank.
At which moment, for no particular reason,
a volcano near Lisbon fulfills its natural function
and erupts.
Thirty-thousand souls pointlessly die,
probably for the best of all possible reasons.
Candide and Pangloss, being foreigners,
are quite naturally blamed
and accused of being heretics.
They find themselves in the middle of the Spanish Inquisition
and its national pastime, the auto-da-fé.
What a day, what a day for an auto-da-fé.
What a sunny summer sky. What a day, what a day
for an auto-da-fé.
It's a lovely day for drinking and for watching people fry.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry,
hurry, hurry, hurry, watch ‘em die.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry,
hurry, hurry, hurry, hang ‘em high.
What a day, what a day for an auto-da-fé.
Let the unbelievers die.
Souls in sin cannot win,
let them plead what they may,
we will wring confession from them,
then we'll go to watch 'em fry.
What a day. What a treat. Did you save me a seat?
In the back near the rack, but away from the heat.
Though we won't see the bones,
we'll hear most of the groans.
And we'll still get a thrill throwing stones.
-Did you see?
-Yes, I saw.
Oh, they've broken his jaw.
Don't you know we must go.
It's your father-in-law.
-Will he burn? What's your guess?
-I suppose he'll confess.
What a bore. I adore your new dress.
It's the usual bunch to cremate and to crunch.
-There's a dean.
-And a queen.
And a nun with a hunch.
-See you soon, we must dash.
-When they've swept up the ash,
we can meet down the street and have lunch.
It's the usual bunch to cremate and to crunch.
There's a dean and a queen
and a nun with a hunch.
See you soon, we must dash. When they've swept up the ash,
we can meet down the street and have lunch.
What a day, what a day for an auto-da-fé.
It's a lovely day for drinking and for watching people fry.
Shall we let the sinner go or try him?
Try him.
Is the culprit innocent or guilty?
Guilty.
Shall we pardon him or burn him?
Burn him.
No.
You're fired.
Oh. Lovely day. Jolly day. It's a holiday.
What a lovely day. Jolly day. It's a holiday.
When foreigners like this come
to criticize and spy,
we sing a ‘pax vobiscum’
and hang the bastards high.
My Lord, this unregenerate youth consented to listen to blasphemy.
No!
Flog him.
Pray for us.
Fons pietatis. Pray for us.
Davidis turris. Pray for us.
Rex majestatis. Pray for us.
Davidis turris. Pray for us.
Pray for us.
This pernicious lamb of Satan
denied the existence of original sin.
No!
Hang him.
Ladies and gentlemen, one final word.
God, in his wisdom, made it possible to invent the rope.
And what is a rope for but to create a noose.
And glory be, what is the noose for...?
Lovely day. Jolly day. It's a holiday.
Holiday, holiday, holiday.
Holiday.
My master hanged.
And I,
after countless humiliations,
flogged by the holy mother church herself
for no cause whatsoever.
Oh, how can a man believe in a benign providence
and still keep his sanity.
For what purpose was this world created.
Cunegonde.
Cunegonde.
Cunegonde.
Is this all then,
this the world?
Death and envy,
greed and blindness?
What is kindness but a lie?
What to live for but to die?
I would never miss this world.
Never this one, which is hateful.
Let me die then,
only grateful Cunegonde,
dying sooner, was spared this world.
What is kindness but a lie?
And what to live for but to die?
Haphazardly
and with many picaresque adventures, too numerous to mention,
Candide happens to arrive in Paris.
While Candide wanders the streets of Paris
a mysterious masked beauty is the talk of the town.
First she attracted the amorous attentions of Don Issachar,
a tremendously rich Jew.
This was a most satisfactory arrangement until one day
at high mass the implacable cardinal archbischop of Notre Dame
set eyes on her and claimed her as his own.
A delicate situation until a logical compromise
between the two faiths was reached.
The Jew had her on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and the Sabbath
while the grand inquisitor took his pleasure for the rest of the week.
There was a certain friction as to who possessed her
on the night between Saturday and Sunday,
but let that pass.
As for the poor beauty, she lives for Mondays
when she rests
under the watchful eye of her constant companion and chaperon,
the Old Lady.
My song. You go.
Go.
Glitter and be gay,
that's the part I play.
Here I am in Paris,
France.
Forced to bend my soul
to a sordid role.
Victimized by bitter,
bitter circumstance.
Alas for me,
had I remained beside my lady mother
my virtue had remained unstained
until my maiden hand was gained
by some grand duke
or other.
Ah,
'twas not to be
harsh necessity
brought me to this gilded cage.
Born to higher things,
here I droop my wings. Ah!
Singing of a sorrow
nothing can assuage.
And yet, of course, I rather like to revel. Ha ha!
I have no strong objection to champagne. Ha ha!
My wardrobe is expensive as the devil. Ha ha!
Perhaps it is ignoble to complain.
Enough, enough.
Of being basely tearful.
I'll show my noble stuff
by being
bright and cheerful.
Pearls
and ruby rings.
Ah, how can worldly things take the place of honor lost?
Can they compensate for my fallen state?
Purchased as they were at such an awful cost?
Bracelets, lavalieres,
can they dry my tears?
Can they blind my eyes to shame?
Can the brightest brooch shield me from reproach?
Can the purest diamond purify my name?
And yet, of course, these trinkets are endearing. Ha ha!
I'm oh so glad my sapphire is a star. Ha ha!
I rather like a 20-carat earring. Ha ha!
If I'm not pure at least my jewels are.
Enough, enough.
I'll take their diamond necklace
and show my noble stuff
by being
gay and reckless.
Observe how bravely I conceal the dreadful,
dreadful shame I feel.
Suddenly Candide rushes in
having heard an E-flat he knows almost as well as his own.
-Oh.
-Oh.
-Is is true?
-Is it you?
-Cunegonde.
-Candide.
-Oh.
-Oh.
-Is is true?
-Is it you?
-Cunegonde.
-Candide.
-Oh my love, dear love.
-Dear, my love.
Dearest, how can this be so?
You were dead, you know. You were shot and bayoneted, too.
That is very true.
Ah, but love will find a way.
-Then what did you do?
-We'll go into that another day.
Now let's talk of you.
You are looking very well.
-Weren't you clever dear to survive?
-I've a sorry tale to tell.
I escaped more dead than alive.
-Love of mine, where did you go?
-Oh, I wandered to and fro.
-Oh, what torture. Oh, what pain.
-Holland, Portugal, and Spain.
-Oh, what torture.
-Holland, Portu...
-Oh, what torture.
-I would do it all again
to find you at last.
Reunited after so much pain.
-But the pain is past.
-We are one again.
We are one at last.
One again. One at last.
One.
One.
One.
One.
At last.
-Quick! Madam, the Jew.
-The Jew?
-The Jew?
-Don Issachar.
Quick, madam. As you value your life.
Pardon me, Mademoiselle Cunegonde but who is the Jew?
Oh, Candide, so much has happened to me since we parted.
All of it for the best, I'm sure,
but not at all as I had expected it. You see.
What? What? What is this? What?
Is it not enough that you deceive me
with his Holiness the Archbishop?
Must I, sneered at and cheated as I am in this city
of godless goyim,
endure this additional humiliation?
Cur. Cur. Cur of a Christian Dog.
Oh, here, sir. Your sword, sir.
I have killed.
I have killed a fellow human being.
I, who have nothing but love in my heart.
-How could it have happened?
-Never reproach yourself.
Oh, Candide, now I can tell you.
Although he was gentle for a Jew,
for the past three months,
he has been taking advantage of me.
-Advantage?
-Yes.
And yet one fact has been triumphantly revealed to me.
Repeated ravishment of the body cannot affect the heart.
Through it all, my love for you has remained unsullied.
Oh beloved, now we are together again
and now all will be well.
Oh, fair one, it is midnight.
Yet another delicious Sabbath awaits us.
And...
-Sir?
-Sir?
Pardon me, Mademoiselle Cunegonde, but who is this gentleman.
Do you not recognize him? Why, it is the archbishop himself.
And his jealousy is implacable.
Jealousy? You mean him too?
Both of them. Sharing me.
Separate days.
You will both be burned at the stake tomorrow.
-You see?
-The man who defiled my love.
Repeatedly. For several months.
A dilemma indeed.
I know as a faithful Christian
I should submit myself to His Holiness in all matters.
And yet, under these circumstances.
Under these circumstances.
Pardon me, sir, perhaps my master, had he lived,
would have advised otherwise.
But I see no other alternative.
Pax vobiscum.
Again?
I have killed again.
Leave you alone for five minutes.
Oh, noble Old Lady, save us. Save us.
-Cádiz!
-Cádiz?
Cádiz. There are two horses in the stables.
The night is dark.
We will be across the border by morning.
Painful though it will be for me with only one buttock,
I will ride behind my mistress.
Quick. Young man, the jewels, the gold.
Oh, praise be to God my lady's two seducers
were men of property.
Would I had been that lucky.
Oh, well.
His Holiness will be buried in the cathedral
with the greatest pope
while the Jew will be thrown in the sewer.
There are advantages to being a Christian after all.
-Hurry.
-I'm coming.
Quick, quick, let us flee.
Pardon me, madam, did you say one buttock?
A time may come, young man, when I will freeze your ears
with the tale of my many calamities,
but that time is not now.
To the stables!
The flight across the border is achieved without a hitch.
-So many misfortunes.
-You think you have suffered, my lady?
In contrast to my afflictions
yours have been no more than the sting of a midge in June.
Madam, unless you have been raped by two Bulgarian regiments,
seen two fathers, two mothers, two brothers slaughtered,
two lovers flogged by the auto-da-fé
and undergone seduction by two Jews and two cardinal archbishops,
you are ill-equipped to make light of my sufferings.
Puff!
Were you but to see my ravished backside alone
you would not dare to attempt so frivolous a calumny.
Shall I speak to you of my manifold misfortunes?
Oh please, madam. Stressing the lost buttock.
I for one would listen with the greatest interest
and sympathy.
Very well.
I shall proceed to set your hair on end.
Sailor,
music of much woe from your flute, please.
You think of me as mere serving maid of lowliest origins?
Wrong. How laughably wrong.
I am, in fact, the daughter of the high archimandrite
of all the Russias
and that paragon of loveliness,
the Princess Wanda von Rovno Gubernya.
Raised with all privileges and honor
in the most majestic castle in all Eastern Poland.
As a burgeoning maiden, what beauty was mine.
What flashing eyes. What sinuous form.
What breasts.
What women who dressed me fell into ecstasies
when they beheld me from the front
and behind.
And every man in Poland yearned to be in their shoes.
What surprise, then, when my hand was requested in marriage
by the Duke of Massa-Carrara, the greatest prince in all the Italies.
But then... Woe, oh, woe.
But then?
Laden with jewels and rich garments worthy of my high estate,
I set sail for Massa-Carrara with my saintly mother
and myself and all the noblest of attendant ladies
in a splendid galleon only to, to...
Only to, to, what?
Barbary pirates
boarding us, slaying the sailors,
dragging my poor mother, myself, and all our attendant ladies
onto their foul vessel where on the instant they stripped us stark-naked.
Stark-naked?
Wave your arms. Wave your arms.
Where was I?
Oh, yes.
Oh, yes.
Far greater tribulations were in store for me.
The pirate captain, an abominable negro, black as pitch
ravished me incessantly until our arrival at a port of Morocco.
Incessantly?
And bid me to consider it a high honor to boot.
But that was a mere trifle
to what lay ahead on land.
In Morocco civil war was raging
between the black Moors and the less black Moors.
On landing we were instantly assailed.
Considerately the negro captain shielded me behind his muscular back,
but what did I witness?
Before my very eyes a black Moor seized one of my mother's arms,
a less black Moor her foot.
Others fell on our attendant ladies
tearing them to pieces in their overeagerness to mount them.
So
imagine the ghastly death of my mother.
Imagine my protector slain.
Imagine me staggering more dead than alive
to the shade of a palm tree.
Imagine me swooning and then...
-And then?
-Unconscious though I was
I felt myself oppressed beneath the weight of a massive body.
My eyelids flickered open to reveal,
straddled upon me,
a gigantic white man of modest appearance and bearing.
And, as his lips met mine,
he gave the most heartfelt sigh.
A sigh?
He moaned. He muttered between his teeth
and then, tears streaming from his eyes,
they were blue.
He spoke.
-What did he say?
-He said,
"How maddening at this moment to be a eunuch."
Pardon me, madam,
but aren't you omitting one item?
-What item?
-The loss, madam, of your buttock.
Alas, young man, I have merely scratched the surface of the disasters.
-Oh no! Oh no!
-Beloved, what is it?
My jewels, my diamonds, my gold. Gone, gone, all gone.
Oh, where shall I find other generous Jews and cardinal archbishops
to reimburse us?
The jewels gone?
Gone.
It must have been that Franciscan father who shared my bed last night.
Madam, at your age?
For some, young man, my charms have far from waned.
Oh well, since the blame is attached to me
it is my responsibility to repair our fortunes.
-But, madam, how do you propose--
-Wait, young man, and see.
Buenas tardes, señores.
It is your privilege to encounter the greatest courtesan from Paris, France.
All one needs to enjoy her immortal favors
is a princely sum.
I was not born in sunny Hispania.
My father came from Rovno Gubernya.
But now I'm here, I'm dancing a tango.
Di dee di. Dee di dee di.
I am easily assimilated.
I am so easily assimilated.
I never learned a human language.
My father spoke a high middle Polish.
In one half hour I'm talking in Spanish.
Por favor. Toreador. I am easily assimilated.
I am so easily assimilated.
It's easy. It's ever so easy.
I'm Spanish. I'm suddenly Spanish.
And you must be Spanish too.
Do like the natives do.
These days you have to be
in the majority.
Tus labios rubí, dos rosas que se abren a mí,
conquistan mi corazón, y sólo con una canción.
Mís labios rubí,
dreiviertel takt, mon très cher ami,
oui oui, si si, ja ja ja, yes yes, da da.
Je ne sais quoi.
Me muero, me saleuna hernia.
A long way from Rovno Gubernya.
Tus labios rubí, dos rosas que se abren a mí,
conquistan mí corazón, y sólo con una divina canción
de tus labios rubí.
Rubí. Rubí. Hey.
Me muero, me saleuna hernia.
A long way from Rovno Gubernya.
Tus labios rubí, dos rosas que se abren a mí,
conquistan mí corazón, y sólo con una divina canción
de tus labios rubí.
Rubí. Rubí.
-The rues, though captivated--
-Naturally.
...are impoverished.
Providentially a totally unknown man from the tavern
offers Candide a captain's commission fighting for the Jesuits in Montevideo.
Montevideo? The new world.
Oh, at last. In the new world we will find that truly
harmonious existence for which our dear master prepared us.
And so our friends prepare to embark
for the new world
as act one optimistically ends.
Once again we must be gone,
moving onward to the new world.
Shall our hopes be answered there
in that land so good and fair?
In that land across the sea,
when our quest at last has ended
and all our fortunes shall be mended.
We shall dwell there,
free of every care,
-happy we.
-Stripped though we are
of our possessions, my dear,
we shall go far through our professions, my dear.
If this new world has plenty of gallants,
we'll right our balance using our talents, my dear.
Go now and save Montevideo, Candide.
Faithful and brave, go on your way, o Candide.
You must deter the heathen invader,
drive out the raider, like a crusader, Candide.
I was in a funk, my confidence was failing.
I was feeling sunk, but once again I'm sailing.
I was depressed and my spirits were failing,
all's for the best now because we are sailing.
Sailing.
Welcome back. Our picaresque story now
takes us to Montevideo,
South America, to be exact.
It is very hot.
So in his wisdom, the King of Spain
has sent to protect its simple inhabitants
an extremely hot blooded Governor.
There is, in fact, no local mother, wife, daughter,
or widow who has not, at one time,
received his warm personal attentions.
We begin our second act in this fascinating city
which at the moment is buzzing
with a festive auction of slave girls.
Gobernador, gobernador, the new slaves have arrived.
Male or female?
Female, sir. Four of them.
-Can it be? Paquette?
-Master Maximillian?
-You, a slave.
-And you a female slave.
Ugh, if you only knew.
First almost slaughtered, left for dead,
-and then...
-And then?
-As incredible as this may sound--
-Silence!
Gobernador, for your approval.
No sale.
Goodbye, dear one. Fortune speed you.
You too, old friend, farewell.
What exquisite beauty.
Seldom have I seen a maiden who pleases me more.
-But, sir.
-My dear, you are bought.
I am?
And since I am in a bountiful mood
I shall even grant you the honor of sharing my bed tonight.
Tonight?
Poets have said love is undying, my love.
Don't be misled they were all lying, my love.
Love's on the wing, but now while he hovers,
let us be lovers.
One soon recovers, my love.
Soon the fever's fled, for love's a transient blessing.
Just a week in bed and we'll be convalescing.
Why think of morals when springtime is flying?
Why end in quarrels, reproaches and sighing,
crying for love?
My love.
I cannot entertain your shocking proposition.
How could I regain my virginal condition?
I am so pure that before you may bed me,
you must assure me that first you will wed me.
Wed me.
Well, then.
Since you're so pure, I shall betroth you, my love.
Though I feel sure I'll come to loathe you, my love.
Still for the thrill I'm perfectly willing.
For if we must wed before we may bed,
then come let us wed,
my love.
Father Bernard,
marry us, reverend father
like you married me to that stiff-necked British governess,
-remember?
-Yes, your honor.
Your honor,
Don Fernando d'Ibarra y Figueroa
y Mascarenes y Lampourdos y Souza,
-do you take this maiden?
-I certainly do.
-Good God! A man!
-A man!
-String him up.
-String him up.
Oh, no, sir. Please, sir. You see it was the slave captain.
A man of very special taste, sir.
Struck by my beauty
he insisted upon dressing me in his deceased wife's garments and,
and molesting me.
Interesting.
On second thought, perhaps,
but I think not. String him up!
String him up.
Excuse me, your honor.
What is it, father Bernard?
If you have no further use for this innocent youth.
He is of the type which would be most serviceable
in our holy fraternity.
I am prepared to offer a small sum.
Very well, he's yours. But no more favors for the monks.
At this moment,
Candide, Cunegonde, and the Old Lady arrive in the new world
without, you will be happy to know, a single picaresque event to have disturbed them on their journey.
Cunegonde at once attracts the notice
of Don Fernando d'Ibarra y Figueroa y Mascarenes y Lampourdos.
-Y Souza.
-Y Souza.
Capitán Candide.
Señora Cunegonde.
-You are married?
-I must tell you the truth, sir.
Mademoiselle Cunegonde has promised to marry me
and I hope you will give her your blessing.
I will give her more than that.
Capitán, why don't you go review your new company while I
review mine.
I love you.
Marry me.
This is so sudden, señor something, something, something.
The captain of the frigate which brought our friends to the new world rushes on.
Señor capitán,
a magistrate has disembarked with a warrant for your death.
The Franciscan who robbed you recognized Don Issachar's jewels
and those of the cardinal archbishop.
Before he was hanged, he denounced you.
-What shall I do?
-Flee.
-Flee?
-Flee.
But what of Mademoiselle Cunegonde?
She will be safe under the governor's protection.
Escape or you will be burned at the stake in an hour. Now flee.
-Flee.
-Flee.
-Flee!
-Now.
I will wait for you in my chambers.
Well, it seems my virginal purity
must again be sacrificed.
As the governor prepares himself for conjugal bliss
the Old Lady and Cunegonde celebrate the triumph of
their feminine charms.
We are women. We are women.
We are women. Little women.
Little, little women
are we.
Not a man ever born ever could resist
a well-turned calf, a slender wrist,
a silhouette as airy as the morning mist,
and a dainty dimpled knee.
Every male I may meet
must acclaim for weeks
my twinkling thighs, my flaxen cheeks,
my memorable mammaries like Alpine peaks,
high above a wine-dark sea.
We've necks like swans.
-And sexly legs.
-And oh, so sexly legs.
We're so light-footed we could dance on eggs.
A pair of nymphs from fairyland,
and every day in every way our charms expand.
-You may add.
-If you wish.
To that growing list.
-A mouth so fair.
-It must be kissed.
And parts we cannot mention
but we know exist
in a rich abundancy.
Not a man ever born
ever could resist a pretty little thing like me.
-Baseball is a really boring sport.
-It's better than soccer.
It's like slow hockey.
Will a man ever born ever could resist
a well-turned calf, a slender wrist,
a silhouette as airy as a morning mist,
and a dainty dimpled knee.
Every male I may meet
must acclaim for weeks
my twinkling thighs, my flaxen cheeks,
my memorable mammaries like Alpine peaks,
high above a wine-dark sea.
We've Giotto hands.
-Da Vinci smiles.
-And Mona Lisa smiles.
We're brava divina to balletophiles.
A pair of nymphs from fairyland,
and every day in every way our charms expand.
-You may add.
-If you wish.
To that growing list.
-A mouth so fair.
-It must be kissed.
And parts we cannot mention
but we know exist
in a rich abundancy.
Not a man ever born
ever could resist a pretty little thing like me.
We are women. We are women.
We are women, little, little women.
Little, little, little women
are we.
Meanwhile,
Candide stumbles on through the South American jungle.
Eventually Candide comes upon the encampment of Jesuits
for whom he has been commissioned to fight.
Alleluia.
Excuse me reverend youth,
but I have been sent to relieve you from the heathen.
Oh, sir, I wasn't anticipating so warm a welcome.
Oh, master Candide, surely you recognize me.
-Paquette!
-The same.
You must be wondering why I am so attired?
There are some of the holy brethren who still prefer the weaker sex.
And why deprive them. Poor dears in this godforsaken country.
Candide!
-Beloved foster brother!
-Maximillian!
-But they slaughtered you.
-Oh, no, they didn't.
It was a miracle!
Alleluia.
Oh, if only a similar miracle
could've befallen my beloved sister.
-It has.
-It has?
-Cunegone lives.
-What bliss! Where is she now?
Back in Montevideo,
but if it takes me my whole life,
I will be with her once again.
Oh, that's my good fellow. Just the old Candide.
I will be with her again and marry her.
Marry her?
You? My sister marry a bastard?
But did not our dear master teach us
that all men are equal in the face of God?
The face of God?
I'll show you the face of God.
Alleluia.
Again.
I have killed again.
Oh, look at me,
the most virtuous man in the world
and I have killed three men,
two of them priests.
And now dear heavens,
I cannot have killed my beloved foster brother.
Do not blame yourself, master Candide,
for had he lived longer who knows what crueler faith
may have been in store for him.
-But quick, we must fly.
-Flee.
-Fly.
-Flee.
Just go!
Oh, of course, if I were hanged for murder
who is there left to rescue my beloved Cunegonde.
Oh, wait.
Dressed as a soldier of fortune
you would be caught hours before we cross the border.
-Here, help me.
-Okay.
Oh, that resourceful Paquette.
Back in Montevideo three years picaresquely pass.
Cunegonde, though continuing to share the governor's marriage bed,
is still without the holy blessings of marriage.
Quiet!
Even the pope himself is in favor of long engagements.
I thought the Jew, the pope, the archbishop,
and the Bulgarian Army treated me bad.
The pope? When?
Couple Saturday nights between the Sabbaths.
-But you.
-Quiet.
Quiet.
No, doubt you'll think I'm giving in
to petulance and malice.
But in candor I am forced to say
that I'm sick of gracious living in this stuffy little palace
and I wish that I could leave today.
I have suffered a lot and I'm certainly not
unaware that this life has its black side.
I have starved in a ditch,
I've been burned for a witch,
and I'm missing the half of my backside.
I've been beaten and whipped,
and repeatedly stripped,
I've been forced into all kinds of whoredom.
But I'm finding of late,
that the very worst fate,
is to perish of comfort and boredom.
Quiet.
It was three years ago, as you very well know,
that you said we would soon have a wedding.
Every day you forget what you promised, and yet
you continue to rumple my bedding.
I'll no longer bring shame on my family name.
No, I'd rather lie down and be buried.
No, I'll not lead the life of an unwedded wife.
Tell me, when are we going to be married?
Quiet.
I was once, what is more,
nearly sawn in four,
by a specially clumsy magician.
And you'd think I would feel
after such an ordeal
that there's charm in my present position.
But I'd far rather be in a tempest at sea,
or a bloody North African riot,
than to sit in this dump on what's left of my rump
-and put up with this terrible quiet.
-When are we going to be married?
Quiet.
In yet another dizzying shift of locale we find Candide still dutifully fleeing
and finally emerging into a strange country
surrounded entirely by unscalable mountains.
El Dorado,
why it is even more beautiful than Westphalia.
Oh, look, master,
the stones and the dust.
They are precious stones.
Dust. It's gold dust.
-Gold dust?
-Why, what is this place?
It must be the place Dr. Pangloss was always talking of.
Candide has indeed stumbled upon
the paradise of his Panglossian dreams,
El Dorado.
Not only are streets indeed paved with gold
but dreams and greed and envy and hatred are nonexistent.
Poverty and want unknown.
The inhabitants of El Dorado are gentle,
kind, and witty
even in translation.
There is love without possession, freedom without license,
justice without lawyers,
and sheep.
Lots of sheep.
Articulate sheep. And if you don't believe me just listen.
Every sky is blue and sunny.
Every face you see is glad.
There's no greed or need for money
or a synonym for baaaad.
-Here is paradise at last.
-At last.
One could be happy to live here forever.
Forever.
And yet.
Oh, where is my beloved?
Where is Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
Here each man is each man's brother.
Here the cows give golden cream.
Every day is like the other.
If we don't leave soon,
I'll scream.
Confronted with the first people ever to wish to leave paradise,
the perplexed but cooperative people of El Dorado
construct a miraculous machine to lift Candide,
Paquette, and numerous jewel laden golden sheep over the unscalable mountains.
Now it's true, jewels and golden sheep are so common
as to be valueless in El Dorado,
but to Candide they are the means of both ransoming his beloved Cunegonde
and making himself her social equal.
Once again, they fight their way through treacherous jungle,
across dismal swamps, down dizzying precipices.
How often is Candide to regret the halcyon
if somewhat tedious paradise they have left behind them.
Up a seashell mountain,
across a primrose sea,
to a jungle fountain high up in a tree.
Then past a primrose mountain,
across a seashell sea,
to a land of happy people,
just and kind and bold and free.
To Eldorado, to Eldorado.
They bathe each dawn in a golden lake,
emeralds hang up on the vine.
All is there for all to take,
food and God and books and wine.
They have no words for fear and greed,
for lies and war, revenge and rage.
They sing and dance and think and read.
They live in peace and die of age.
In Eldorado, in Eldorado.
They gave me home, they called me friend,
they taught me how to live in grace.
Seasons passed without an end
in that sweet and blessed place.
But I grew sad and could not stay,
without my love my heart grew cold,
so they sadly sent me on my way
with gracious gifts of sheep and gold.
From Eldorado, from Eldorado.
"Goodbye," they said,
"we pray you may safely cross the sea."
"Go," they said,
"and may you find your bride to be."
Then past the jungle fountain,
along a silver shore,
I've come by sea and mountain,
to be with my love once more.
From Eldorado, from Eldorado.
To be with my love
once more.
Having arrived in Suriname,
Candide is given news of his beloved, Cunegonde.
Apparently el señor gobernador
named his price for Mademoiselle Cunegonde and the Old Lady.
You mean he is willing to sell my beloved?
-Two million in gold.
-Who are you?
At this point in the act, just let him give the exposition.
-Fine with me.
-Me too.
Alas, on the way we were robbed, attacked by pirates.
Those scurvy pirates abducted poor Cunegonde and the Old Lady.
-Where are they now?
-Constantinople.
-Constantinople?
-Constantinople.
-You clear?
-Yeah.
Moving along.
How will we ever get to Constantinople?
At which point, a local Dutch merchant named Vanderdendur
notices Candide's sheep.
Luck is with you, fair youth.
It so happens that I have a splendid vessel
bound for Constantinople, the Santa Rosalia.
She sails in three hours.
In exchange for one of the sheep he gives Candide the boat
and Candide and Paquette set sail the very next day for Constantinople.
Candide's faith in optimism
is once again flying at full mast
as the merry villagers of Suriname gather at the shore to sing him off.
Bon voyage, dear fellow, dear benefactor of your fellow man.
May good luck attend you. Do come again and see us when you can.
Oh, but I'm bad. Ever so bad. Playing such a very dirty trick on such a fine lad.
I'm a low cad, I'm a low cad,
every time I do this sort of thing it makes me so sad,
ever so sad. Oh, but I'm bad. Ever so bad.
Bon voyage, bon voyage. Bon voyage, bon voyage.
Bon voyage.
Bon voyage, we'll see ya. Do have a jolly trip across the foam.
Santa Rosalia, do have a safe and pleasant journey home.
Journey home. Bon voyage, bon voyage.
I'm so rich that my life is an utter bore,
there is just not a thing that I need.
My desires are as dry as an apple core,
and my only emotion is greed.
Which is why though I've nothing to spend it for,
I have swindled this gold from Candididididididididididide,
poor Candide.
But I never would swindle the humble poor,
for you can't get a turnip to bleed.
When you swindle the rich you get so much more,
which is why I have swindled Candide.
Oh dear, I fear he's going down, he's going to drown.
Poor Candide.
Bon voyage, dear stranger, hope that the crossing will not prove too grim.
You seem to be in danger. But we expect that you know how to swim.
What a dumb goat, what a dumb goat,
handing me a fortune for a perfect wreck of a boat.
Never did float, never did float.
This is going to make a most amusing anecdote.
Never did float, wreck of a boat. What a dumb goat.
Bon voyage, bon voyage, bon voyage, bon voyage.
Bon voyage.
Bon voyage, best wishes. Seems to have been a bit of sabotage.
Things don't look propitious, still from the heart we wish you
bon voyage.
Dear fellow, bon voyage.
Of course, the ship sinks
probably for the best of all possible... Oh, forget it.
However, Candide, Paquette, and his last remaining sheep
are saved by a passing galley rowed by slaves.
In yet another miracle, the galley actually arrives in Constantinople.
There we find Cunegonde and the Old Lady
working in the private gaming room in the palace of the evil
prince Ragotski.
You're wanted in the great saloon.
Why?
Why do you think?
The prince wishes the gamblers to gamble
and who better, my lady, to inspire them.
-Right.
-Ah, there you are, my little darling.
Now remember it is your duty to create wealth
in order to help those lesser well-off in society, like myself.
So to your duty in the next room.
And remember,
stop smiling for an instant
and I shall have you skinned alive to the plucking of newts.
Right.
-As for you, Old Lady.
-Yes, I know.
Make money.
I have always been wily and clever
at deceiving and swindling and such,
and I feel just as clever as ever,
but I seem to be losing my touch.
Oh, I'm losing my touch.
Yes, I'm clever, but where does it get me?
My employer gets all of my take.
All I get is my daily spaghetti,
while he gorges on truffles and cake.
What's the use? What's the use?
There's no profit in cheating,
it's all so defeating and wrong, oh, so wrong,
that I just have to pass it along.
That old hag is no use in this gyp-joint.
Not a sou have I made on her yet,
and the one thing that pays in this clip joint
is my fraudulent game of roulette,
it's my game of roulette.
But I have to pay so much protection
to the chief of police and his men,
that each day when he makes his collection
I'm a poor man all over again.
What's the use? What's the use?
Of dishonest endeavor and being so clever?
It's wrong, oh, so wrong,
if you just have to pass it along.
It's a very fine thing to be prefect
shaking down all the gamblers in town.
My position has only one defect,
that there's someone who's shaking me down,
who is shaking me down.
For this fellow unhappily knows me,
and he's on to the game that I play,
and he threatens to shame and expose me,
if I do not incessantly pay.
What's the use? What's the use
of this sneaky conniving and slimy contriving?
It's wrong, oh, so wrong,
if you just have to pass it along.
I could live very well by extortion,
but I simply can't keep what I earn,
for I haven't a sense of proportion,
and roulette is my only concern,
it's my only concern.
I've a system that's fiendishly clever,
which I learned from a croupier friend,
and I should go on winning forever
but I do seem to lose in the end.
What's the use? What's the use?
Of this cheating and plotting, you end up with nothing.
It's wrong, oh, so wrong
if you just have to pass it along.
Pass it along.
Oh, what's the use? What's the use?
Oh, there's no use in cheating, it's all so defeating
and wrong, oh, so wrong,
if you just have to pass it along.
Again, again, good sirs, the evening is still young.
Splendid. Splendid. And now
to add a little extra zest,
you girl, come here.
What is your name, girl?
They call me Snowflake, oh mighty prince,
for the exceptional whiteness of my skin.
Snowflake, eh?
Gentlemen,
I grant to the highest winner of the next turn of the wheel
free access tonight to this little Snowflake,
who, I'm sure,
will melt deliciously in his arms.
Spin, croupier slave. Spin.
This must be Constantinople.
Cunegonde.
Candide.
-Oh.
-Oh.
-Is it true?
-Is it you?
-Cunegonde.
-Candide.
-Cunegonde.
-Can...
-Oh.
-Oh.
-Is it true?
-Is it you?
-Cunegonde.
-Candide.
-Oh my love, dear love.
-Dear, my love.
Unhand that odalisque.
-Candide!
-Cunegonde!
Wait, master. You're rich now, why fight for her?
Buy her.
Noble sire,
regard these bags stuffed with gold and jewels.
They are yours for the odalisque.
All but one, sir,
for this is all the wealth that we possess.
You drive a very hard bargain, sir.
The odalisque is yours.
Pardon me, sir. Would you consider buying me too?
My beloved foster brother.
-But I slaughtered you.
-Well, no, you didn't.
Actually, it was like this...
Oh, never mind now, just buy me, please.
Sir, only one bag of gold remains,
but if in your generosity--
That one?
A most unsatisfactory slave in every way. He's yours.
But enough of these sordid transactions.
Let us now adjourn to the Garden of a Thousand Perfumes
where every conceivable delight of the flesh awaits you
at reasonable hourly rates.
-Oh beloved Cunegonde.
-Oh dearest Candide.
It's all very well for you two
but what do we do with our penny to our names?
-You wish the future solved?
-Oh, yes.
-Solved.
-Solved?
Many years ago, close to these parts,
just before they ate my buttock.
Ate it?
The famished Mongols at the siege of Palus Maeotis.
Ate it?
As I was saying,
close to these parts,
there was talk of the wisest man in the world
who lived in a cave.
There was not a problem, they claim, which he cannot unravel.
Come.
Let us start a new live, based, I hope,
on a wiser philosophy than that which has guided us hitherto.
A new philosophy?
Why not? And yet
what is wrong with the old which has reunited us once again?
Look!
The wisest man in the world!
Oh, sir?
Are you addressing me?
Oh, sir, we have suffered so terribly in this bewildering world.
Tell us how we can at last find happiness?
Happiness. Unfortunately the wisest man in the world
has just gone out for a moment
leaving the notes of his meditations with me,
his humble disciple.
Dr. Pangloss!
Ah, well, yeah, I seem to remember something of the sort.
But pardon me, am I familiar with you?
But dearest master,
who are we but your own Candide and Cunegonde and Paquette and Maximillian,
Patti LuPone.
Here we are. Here we are.
Never seek for happiness,
it will merely elude the seeker.
Never strive for knowledge,
it is beyond man's scope.
Never think,
for in thought lies all the ills of mankind.
The wise man, like the rat,
the crocodile, the fly,
merely fulfills his natural function.
And now if you'll forgive me,
I'm new at the job and rather behind with my meditation.
But dear master, even if you don't remember us
please tell us what is the natural function of man?
Here, why don't you read it for yourself.
Here it is.
"What is the natural function of man?
What was it in the Garden of Eden?
Dig, spin,
work without regret for yesterday
or hope for tomorrow.
For man, it is only work that makes life endurable."
Come, we will seek a few modest little acres
and build a small farm.
And casting aside all vain speculations
as to the meaning of this meaningless world,
we will fulfill our function
working God's earth from dawn to dusk.
You've been a fool and so have I,
but come and be my wife,
and let us try before we die
to make some sense of life.
We're neither pure nor wise nor good.
We'll do the best we know.
We'll build our house, and chop our wood,
and make our garden grow,
and make our garden grow.
I thought the world was sugarcake,
for so our master said,
but now I'll teach my hands to bake
our loaf of daily bread.
We're neither pure nor wise nor good.
We'll do the best we know.
We'll build our house, and chop our wood,
and make our garden grow,
and make our garden grow.
Let dreamers dream what worlds they please,
those Edens can't be found.
The sweetest flowers, the fairest trees
are grown in solid ground.
We're neither pure nor wise nor good.
We'll do the best we know.
We'll build our house, and chop our wood,
and make our garden grow,
and make our garden grow.
Any questions?
Subtitle: mhvis.
What you've just heard was the overture to Leonard Bernstein's Candide
which is not to be confused
with Voltaire's Candide upon which it is based.
Voltaire's Candide is a small novella
in which no one sings
whereas Leonard Bernstein's Candide
is a large operetta in which almost everyone
insists upon it.
We begin our story in Westphalia,
a German backwater whose charms are, for the French,
"Roughly equivalent to Mr. Al Capp's immortal Dogpatch."
The setting is Schloss Thunder-ten-Tronck,
ancestral home to the baron and the baroness,
both of whom are more than its match in solidity and refinement.
And four extremely happy young people.
Happy because they know they're living in the best of all possible schlosses,
in the best of all possible countries,
in the best of all possible worlds.
And happiest of them all is our hero,
Candide.
Gentle,
pure,
innocent,
and a bastard.
Life is happiness indeed.
Mares to ride and books to read.
Though of noble birth I'm not,
I'm delighted with my lot.
Though I've no distinctive features
and I've no official mother,
I love all my fellow creatures
and the creatures love each other!
The next most happy of the four
is probably the serving maid, Paquette.
She enjoys the honor of dressing the baroness
in the presence of the baron himself
and for her willingness to cooperate
is a favorite with all.
My dear,
if you could spare this young wench for a few minutes,
she could grease my riding boots.
-Of course, my lord.
-I'll await you in the stables.
Bring the lubricant.
Oh yes, my lord. Willingly, my lord.
Also extremely happy is the baron's virgin daughter,
Cunegonde.
Cunegonde knows that she is not only the highest born
maiden in the land,
but also the prettiest.
She is assured that she can look forward to a tremendously
advantageous marriage.
Life is happiness indeed.
I have everything I need.
I am rich and unattached
and my beauty is unmatched.
With the rose my only rival
I'll admit to some frustration.
What a pity its survival
is of limited duration.
At the moment, the least happy of the four, though still happy,
is the baron's son Maximillian.
Maximillian, being the handsomest youth in Westphalia,
is naturally and very sincerely devoted to his own person.
Life is absolute perfection
as is true of my complexion.
Every time I look and see me,
I'm reminded life is dreamy.
Although I do get tired
being endlessly admired,
people will go on about me.
How could they go on without me?
If the talk at times is vicious, that's the
price you pay when you're delicious.
Life is pleasant. Life is simple.
Oh my god, is that a pimple.
No, it's just the odd reflection,
life and I are still perfection.
I am everything I need.
Life is happiness indeed.
Oh my god! It is a pimple!
If there is the faintest shadow to darken the idyllic existence
of these children, it lies in the fact that Candide,
except when hunting, can think of little else but
the glorious hair and eyes of Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
Oh, Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
While Cunegonde,
in spite of her exalted birth,
is alarmingly conscious of her bastard cousin's
strong young thighs.
Oh, Candide.
However, except for this tiny flaw,
and the pimple,
their innocent happiness is unstained.
Now, you may ask, if you are of a cynical turn of mind
how even in this best of all possible castles
such unique happiness should prevail.
Well, the answer is simple.
These admirable children had the great good fortune
to be instructed in the realities of life
by the wisest of all possible philosophers
and scientists.
A man to whom none of the secrets
of God's universe lie unrevealed.
And who is this dazzling individual?
Who is this paragon of human virtues?
Dr. Pangloss!
Syllogism Number One.
Since this is the only possible world
it follows then--
That this is the best of all possible worlds.
Correct.
Ergo, since this is the best of all possible worlds
-it follows--
-That everything that
happens in this world is for the best.
Correct.
So if any man said that all is well.
-He lies.
-Everything is not well.
Everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds.
Let us review Lesson Eleven.
Paragraph two, axiom seven.
Once one dismisses the rest of all possible worlds,
one finds that this is the best of all possible worlds.
Once one dismisses the rest of all possible worlds,
one finds that this is the best of all possible worlds.
Pray, classify pigeons and camels.
Pigeons can fly.
Camels are mammals.
There is a reason for everything under the sun.
There is a season for everything under the sun.
Objection.
What about snakes?
Snakes.
'Twas snake that tempted mother Eve. Because of snake we now believe
that though depraved, we can be saved
from hellfire and damnation.
Because of snake's temptation.
If snake had not seduced our lot
and primed us for salvation,
Jehovah could not pardon all
the sins that we call cardinal
involving bed and bottle.
Now on to Aristotle.
Mankind is one. All men are brothers.
As you have done,
do onto others.
It's understood in this best of all possible worlds.
All is for the good in this best of all possible worlds.
Objection.
What about war?
War.
Though war may seem a bloody curse,
it is a blessing in reverse.
When cannons roar, both rich and poor
by danger are united.
'Til every wrong is righted.
Philosophers made evident the point that I have cited.
This war makes equal, as it were,
the noble and the commoner.
Thus war improves relations.
Now on to conjugations.
Amo. Amas. Amat. Amamus.
Proving that this is the best of all possible worlds.
With love and kisses, the best of all possible worlds.
Quod erat demonstrandum.
Quod erat demonstrandum.
In this best of all possible, possible,
possible worlds.
Quod erat demonstrandum!
Class is dismissed.
It is time for Mademoiselle Paquette's lesson
in advanced physics.
-Off. Off.
-Good day, Dr. Pangloss.
The relative specific gravity of two bodies.
Yes.
Cunegonde ever thirsty for knowledge
observes from a distance.
Inspired
she seeks out Candide.
-Good day, Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
-Good day, dear Candide.
-Candide?
-Yes, Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
As my faithful friend and companion from the cradle,
would you consider attempting one of our dear master's
physical experiments,
even though it is somewhat ahead of our curriculum?
Oh, anything for you Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
You are very civil.
It concerns the relative specific gravity
of the male and female bodies.
You put your arms around me.
So. So.
Next the lips make contact.
-Oh, Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
-Oh, Candide.
-It is impossible!
-It is impossible!
And yet for many months I have been dreaming of just such a contact.
I too have dreamed.
But what are dreams, but fancies?
Oh, worthy Dr. Pangloss to have shown scientifically
that this is the best of all possible juxtapositions.
It has been proved that I have been put in this world
to complement you.
In the holy marriage bond.
Soon when we feel we can afford it
we'll build a modest little farm.
We'll buy a yacht and live aboard it,
rolling in luxury and stylish charm.
-Cows and chickens.
-Social whirls.
-Peas and cabbage.
-Ropes of pearls.
Soon there'll be little ones beside us.
We'll have a sweet Westphalian home.
Somehow we'll grow as rich as Midas.
We'll live in Paris when we're not in Rome.
-Smiling babies.
-Marble halls.
-Sunday picnics.
-Costume balls.
Oh, won't my robes of silk and satin be chic.
I'll have all that I desire.
Pangloss will tutor us in Latin and Greek
while we sit before the fire.
-Glowing rubies.
-Glowing logs.
-Faithful servants.
-Faithful dogs.
We'll round the world enjoying high life.
All bubbly pink champagne and gold.
We'll lead a rustic and a shy life,
feeding the pigs and sweetly growing old.
-Breast of peacock.
-Apple pie.
-I love marriage.
-So do I.
Oh, happy pair. Oh, happy we.
It's very rare how we agree.
Oh, happy pair. Oh, happy we.
It's very rare how we agree.
Oh, happy pair. Oh, happy we.
It's very rare how we agree.
What is he doing to my sister?
What are you doing to my sister?
You can't do that to my sister.
Foolish boy, run away and play.
Look! Look what they're doing! Look, mommy.
It's just an experiment.
One of Dr. Pangloss' noble experiments in physics
-which has proved--
-Pangloss!
-Sir, are you responsible for this?
-Never, sir.
An outrageous violation of all that I stand for.
Me too.
-But, father, I love him.
-And I love her.
We will be married at once.
-Married?
-Married?
-My daughter?
-To a bastard?
Curses on the day my Christian charity
bid me give asylum to
the sideswiped offspring of my sluttish sister.
-Out.
-Out.
-Candide?
-Oh, dear Cunegonde.
Out, out, out, out.
Dare to set foot again in Westphalia
and I'll have you strung up from the highest gibbet.
The honor of our family is restored.
I wanna go back with...
Exiled from paradise
poor Candide wanders alone
with only his faith in optimism to cling to.
My world is dust now
and all I loved is dead.
Oh, let me trust now
in what my master said.
"There is a sweetness
in every woe."
It must be so.
The dawn will find me
alone in some strange land.
But men are kindly,
they'll give a helping hand.
So said my master
and he must know.
It must be so.
The helping hand mankind finally extends to Candide
is attached to soldiers from the Bulgarian Army
who promptly railroad him into military service against Westphalia itself.
Now, before we go on
it's important for you all to understand that in Voltaire's time
Europe was a veritable hotbed of nationalistic sentiment
with territorial armies swarming hither and yon
hacking each other to bits over nothing more important than
a slight difference in, in religion or ancestry.
I know that's hard for you to understand today
but you really must try.
Candide, having no wish to kill anyone,
attempts to desert.
He is offered a choice.
Thirty-six strokes of the lash from every man in the regiment
or 12 bullets in the brain.
As he ponders his decision,
war breaks out.
In the midst of the battle
we find the baron and his family leading all Westphalia
in solemn prayer.
Fa Re Fa Si La Sol Fa Fa.
Almighty God who, in the beginning of time,
bequeath this sacred serfdom to my most Christian ancestors.
Look down in your infinite mercy
and tear the heathen Bulgarian invaders limb from limb.
Be welcome in Westphalia.
Oh, blessed Holy Mother,
I vow a holy candle for every swinish infidel
that bites the dust
and two candles if they.
A scene of sweet simplicity.
Oh God, who has blessed me with the incomparable gift of beauty,
see to it that, whatever holocaust occurs,
my features may escape disfigurement.
For my admirers' sake.
Amen.
Teutonical rusticity.
Dear Lord,
send my beloved, Candide, back to me
for surely he, and only he,
can save me from the dreadful fate
of ravishment.
All hail Westphalia.
Westphalia is taken by surprise.
Run!
Not my face.
The rapturous Cunegonde is raped
repeatedly
before a saber ends her agony.
What?
Oh.
Candide, liberated by the battle, searches for his lady
among the corpses lying in heaps.
Amidst the ruins of his beloved schloss.
Alone and starving
Candide is reduced to beggary.
Yeah?
I said beggary.
But his tender heart
causes him to squander the few coins he is given
on an old beggar
with a tin nose
and stumps for several fingers.
Oh, poor, unfortunate creature.
A blessing on your happy head.
How about a few cruzados instead?
-No.
-No?
Dear Dr. Pangloss.
-Dear Candide.
-What of all the others?
How are they all at home? How is Mademoiselle Cunegonde?
-Dead.
-Dead?
Dead or raped. Slaughtered. All of them.
Dead? Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
Raped and dead?
And raped?
Oh, dear Dr. Pangloss,
how can such ghastly horrors befallen
a world where all is for the best?
Just think my son,
were they all to have lived longer
who knows what crueler fate may have been in store for them.
Excuse me.
But, master, your nose.
Oh, a mere nothing. Just a necessary side feature
of God's most exquisite gift to his faithful children.
-Love.
-Love?
You remember, of course, Mademoiselle Paquette.
In her arms I enjoyed the delights of paradise
which brought with them inevitably the equivalent tortures of hell.
The great law of compensation.
Good boy!
Syphilis,
f-for that is the name of the ailment,
was discovered in the new world.
And if the new world had not been discovered,
how could we have been blessed
with chocolate, tobacco and the potato?
I am, I admit, extremely fond of the potato.
So you see,
everything in this world is indeed for the best.
Dear boy, you will not hear me speak
with sorrow or with rancor
of what has shriveled up my cheek
and blasted it with canker.
'Twas love, great love that did the deed,
through nature's gentle laws,
and how should ill effects proceed
from so divine a cause?
Dear boy,
sweet honey comes from bees that sting,
as you are well aware.
To one adept in reasoning,
whatever pains disease may bring
are but the tangy seasoning
to love's delicious fare.
Dear boy.
Dear boy.
Each nation guards its native land
with cannon and with sentry.
Inspectors look for contraband
at every point of entry.
Yet nothing can prevent the spread
of love's divine disease,
It rounds the world from bed to bed
as pretty as you please.
Dear boy,
men worship Venus everywhere
as may be plainly seen.
Her decorations which I bear
are nobler than the Croix de Guerre,
and gained in service of our fair
and universal queen.
Dear boy.
Dear boy.
Dear boy.
Candide and Dr. Pangloss board a crowded ship bound for Lisbon.
Picaresquely, it splits in half and sinks.
Since everything in the world happens for the best reason
it so happened that all arbitrarily die.
Except for our two heroes.
Who float ashore on a convenient wooden plank.
At which moment, for no particular reason,
a volcano near Lisbon fulfills its natural function
and erupts.
Thirty-thousand souls pointlessly die,
probably for the best of all possible reasons.
Candide and Pangloss, being foreigners,
are quite naturally blamed
and accused of being heretics.
They find themselves in the middle of the Spanish Inquisition
and its national pastime, the auto-da-fé.
What a day, what a day for an auto-da-fé.
What a sunny summer sky. What a day, what a day
for an auto-da-fé.
It's a lovely day for drinking and for watching people fry.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry,
hurry, hurry, hurry, watch ‘em die.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry,
hurry, hurry, hurry, hang ‘em high.
What a day, what a day for an auto-da-fé.
Let the unbelievers die.
Souls in sin cannot win,
let them plead what they may,
we will wring confession from them,
then we'll go to watch 'em fry.
What a day. What a treat. Did you save me a seat?
In the back near the rack, but away from the heat.
Though we won't see the bones,
we'll hear most of the groans.
And we'll still get a thrill throwing stones.
-Did you see?
-Yes, I saw.
Oh, they've broken his jaw.
Don't you know we must go.
It's your father-in-law.
-Will he burn? What's your guess?
-I suppose he'll confess.
What a bore. I adore your new dress.
It's the usual bunch to cremate and to crunch.
-There's a dean.
-And a queen.
And a nun with a hunch.
-See you soon, we must dash.
-When they've swept up the ash,
we can meet down the street and have lunch.
It's the usual bunch to cremate and to crunch.
There's a dean and a queen
and a nun with a hunch.
See you soon, we must dash. When they've swept up the ash,
we can meet down the street and have lunch.
What a day, what a day for an auto-da-fé.
It's a lovely day for drinking and for watching people fry.
Shall we let the sinner go or try him?
Try him.
Is the culprit innocent or guilty?
Guilty.
Shall we pardon him or burn him?
Burn him.
No.
You're fired.
Oh. Lovely day. Jolly day. It's a holiday.
What a lovely day. Jolly day. It's a holiday.
When foreigners like this come
to criticize and spy,
we sing a ‘pax vobiscum’
and hang the bastards high.
My Lord, this unregenerate youth consented to listen to blasphemy.
No!
Flog him.
Pray for us.
Fons pietatis. Pray for us.
Davidis turris. Pray for us.
Rex majestatis. Pray for us.
Davidis turris. Pray for us.
Pray for us.
This pernicious lamb of Satan
denied the existence of original sin.
No!
Hang him.
Ladies and gentlemen, one final word.
God, in his wisdom, made it possible to invent the rope.
And what is a rope for but to create a noose.
And glory be, what is the noose for...?
Lovely day. Jolly day. It's a holiday.
Holiday, holiday, holiday.
Holiday.
My master hanged.
And I,
after countless humiliations,
flogged by the holy mother church herself
for no cause whatsoever.
Oh, how can a man believe in a benign providence
and still keep his sanity.
For what purpose was this world created.
Cunegonde.
Cunegonde.
Cunegonde.
Is this all then,
this the world?
Death and envy,
greed and blindness?
What is kindness but a lie?
What to live for but to die?
I would never miss this world.
Never this one, which is hateful.
Let me die then,
only grateful Cunegonde,
dying sooner, was spared this world.
What is kindness but a lie?
And what to live for but to die?
Haphazardly
and with many picaresque adventures, too numerous to mention,
Candide happens to arrive in Paris.
While Candide wanders the streets of Paris
a mysterious masked beauty is the talk of the town.
First she attracted the amorous attentions of Don Issachar,
a tremendously rich Jew.
This was a most satisfactory arrangement until one day
at high mass the implacable cardinal archbischop of Notre Dame
set eyes on her and claimed her as his own.
A delicate situation until a logical compromise
between the two faiths was reached.
The Jew had her on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and the Sabbath
while the grand inquisitor took his pleasure for the rest of the week.
There was a certain friction as to who possessed her
on the night between Saturday and Sunday,
but let that pass.
As for the poor beauty, she lives for Mondays
when she rests
under the watchful eye of her constant companion and chaperon,
the Old Lady.
My song. You go.
Go.
Glitter and be gay,
that's the part I play.
Here I am in Paris,
France.
Forced to bend my soul
to a sordid role.
Victimized by bitter,
bitter circumstance.
Alas for me,
had I remained beside my lady mother
my virtue had remained unstained
until my maiden hand was gained
by some grand duke
or other.
Ah,
'twas not to be
harsh necessity
brought me to this gilded cage.
Born to higher things,
here I droop my wings. Ah!
Singing of a sorrow
nothing can assuage.
And yet, of course, I rather like to revel. Ha ha!
I have no strong objection to champagne. Ha ha!
My wardrobe is expensive as the devil. Ha ha!
Perhaps it is ignoble to complain.
Enough, enough.
Of being basely tearful.
I'll show my noble stuff
by being
bright and cheerful.
Pearls
and ruby rings.
Ah, how can worldly things take the place of honor lost?
Can they compensate for my fallen state?
Purchased as they were at such an awful cost?
Bracelets, lavalieres,
can they dry my tears?
Can they blind my eyes to shame?
Can the brightest brooch shield me from reproach?
Can the purest diamond purify my name?
And yet, of course, these trinkets are endearing. Ha ha!
I'm oh so glad my sapphire is a star. Ha ha!
I rather like a 20-carat earring. Ha ha!
If I'm not pure at least my jewels are.
Enough, enough.
I'll take their diamond necklace
and show my noble stuff
by being
gay and reckless.
Observe how bravely I conceal the dreadful,
dreadful shame I feel.
Suddenly Candide rushes in
having heard an E-flat he knows almost as well as his own.
-Oh.
-Oh.
-Is is true?
-Is it you?
-Cunegonde.
-Candide.
-Oh.
-Oh.
-Is is true?
-Is it you?
-Cunegonde.
-Candide.
-Oh my love, dear love.
-Dear, my love.
Dearest, how can this be so?
You were dead, you know. You were shot and bayoneted, too.
That is very true.
Ah, but love will find a way.
-Then what did you do?
-We'll go into that another day.
Now let's talk of you.
You are looking very well.
-Weren't you clever dear to survive?
-I've a sorry tale to tell.
I escaped more dead than alive.
-Love of mine, where did you go?
-Oh, I wandered to and fro.
-Oh, what torture. Oh, what pain.
-Holland, Portugal, and Spain.
-Oh, what torture.
-Holland, Portu...
-Oh, what torture.
-I would do it all again
to find you at last.
Reunited after so much pain.
-But the pain is past.
-We are one again.
We are one at last.
One again. One at last.
One.
One.
One.
One.
At last.
-Quick! Madam, the Jew.
-The Jew?
-The Jew?
-Don Issachar.
Quick, madam. As you value your life.
Pardon me, Mademoiselle Cunegonde but who is the Jew?
Oh, Candide, so much has happened to me since we parted.
All of it for the best, I'm sure,
but not at all as I had expected it. You see.
What? What? What is this? What?
Is it not enough that you deceive me
with his Holiness the Archbishop?
Must I, sneered at and cheated as I am in this city
of godless goyim,
endure this additional humiliation?
Cur. Cur. Cur of a Christian Dog.
Oh, here, sir. Your sword, sir.
I have killed.
I have killed a fellow human being.
I, who have nothing but love in my heart.
-How could it have happened?
-Never reproach yourself.
Oh, Candide, now I can tell you.
Although he was gentle for a Jew,
for the past three months,
he has been taking advantage of me.
-Advantage?
-Yes.
And yet one fact has been triumphantly revealed to me.
Repeated ravishment of the body cannot affect the heart.
Through it all, my love for you has remained unsullied.
Oh beloved, now we are together again
and now all will be well.
Oh, fair one, it is midnight.
Yet another delicious Sabbath awaits us.
And...
-Sir?
-Sir?
Pardon me, Mademoiselle Cunegonde, but who is this gentleman.
Do you not recognize him? Why, it is the archbishop himself.
And his jealousy is implacable.
Jealousy? You mean him too?
Both of them. Sharing me.
Separate days.
You will both be burned at the stake tomorrow.
-You see?
-The man who defiled my love.
Repeatedly. For several months.
A dilemma indeed.
I know as a faithful Christian
I should submit myself to His Holiness in all matters.
And yet, under these circumstances.
Under these circumstances.
Pardon me, sir, perhaps my master, had he lived,
would have advised otherwise.
But I see no other alternative.
Pax vobiscum.
Again?
I have killed again.
Leave you alone for five minutes.
Oh, noble Old Lady, save us. Save us.
-Cádiz!
-Cádiz?
Cádiz. There are two horses in the stables.
The night is dark.
We will be across the border by morning.
Painful though it will be for me with only one buttock,
I will ride behind my mistress.
Quick. Young man, the jewels, the gold.
Oh, praise be to God my lady's two seducers
were men of property.
Would I had been that lucky.
Oh, well.
His Holiness will be buried in the cathedral
with the greatest pope
while the Jew will be thrown in the sewer.
There are advantages to being a Christian after all.
-Hurry.
-I'm coming.
Quick, quick, let us flee.
Pardon me, madam, did you say one buttock?
A time may come, young man, when I will freeze your ears
with the tale of my many calamities,
but that time is not now.
To the stables!
The flight across the border is achieved without a hitch.
-So many misfortunes.
-You think you have suffered, my lady?
In contrast to my afflictions
yours have been no more than the sting of a midge in June.
Madam, unless you have been raped by two Bulgarian regiments,
seen two fathers, two mothers, two brothers slaughtered,
two lovers flogged by the auto-da-fé
and undergone seduction by two Jews and two cardinal archbishops,
you are ill-equipped to make light of my sufferings.
Puff!
Were you but to see my ravished backside alone
you would not dare to attempt so frivolous a calumny.
Shall I speak to you of my manifold misfortunes?
Oh please, madam. Stressing the lost buttock.
I for one would listen with the greatest interest
and sympathy.
Very well.
I shall proceed to set your hair on end.
Sailor,
music of much woe from your flute, please.
You think of me as mere serving maid of lowliest origins?
Wrong. How laughably wrong.
I am, in fact, the daughter of the high archimandrite
of all the Russias
and that paragon of loveliness,
the Princess Wanda von Rovno Gubernya.
Raised with all privileges and honor
in the most majestic castle in all Eastern Poland.
As a burgeoning maiden, what beauty was mine.
What flashing eyes. What sinuous form.
What breasts.
What women who dressed me fell into ecstasies
when they beheld me from the front
and behind.
And every man in Poland yearned to be in their shoes.
What surprise, then, when my hand was requested in marriage
by the Duke of Massa-Carrara, the greatest prince in all the Italies.
But then... Woe, oh, woe.
But then?
Laden with jewels and rich garments worthy of my high estate,
I set sail for Massa-Carrara with my saintly mother
and myself and all the noblest of attendant ladies
in a splendid galleon only to, to...
Only to, to, what?
Barbary pirates
boarding us, slaying the sailors,
dragging my poor mother, myself, and all our attendant ladies
onto their foul vessel where on the instant they stripped us stark-naked.
Stark-naked?
Wave your arms. Wave your arms.
Where was I?
Oh, yes.
Oh, yes.
Far greater tribulations were in store for me.
The pirate captain, an abominable negro, black as pitch
ravished me incessantly until our arrival at a port of Morocco.
Incessantly?
And bid me to consider it a high honor to boot.
But that was a mere trifle
to what lay ahead on land.
In Morocco civil war was raging
between the black Moors and the less black Moors.
On landing we were instantly assailed.
Considerately the negro captain shielded me behind his muscular back,
but what did I witness?
Before my very eyes a black Moor seized one of my mother's arms,
a less black Moor her foot.
Others fell on our attendant ladies
tearing them to pieces in their overeagerness to mount them.
So
imagine the ghastly death of my mother.
Imagine my protector slain.
Imagine me staggering more dead than alive
to the shade of a palm tree.
Imagine me swooning and then...
-And then?
-Unconscious though I was
I felt myself oppressed beneath the weight of a massive body.
My eyelids flickered open to reveal,
straddled upon me,
a gigantic white man of modest appearance and bearing.
And, as his lips met mine,
he gave the most heartfelt sigh.
A sigh?
He moaned. He muttered between his teeth
and then, tears streaming from his eyes,
they were blue.
He spoke.
-What did he say?
-He said,
"How maddening at this moment to be a eunuch."
Pardon me, madam,
but aren't you omitting one item?
-What item?
-The loss, madam, of your buttock.
Alas, young man, I have merely scratched the surface of the disasters.
-Oh no! Oh no!
-Beloved, what is it?
My jewels, my diamonds, my gold. Gone, gone, all gone.
Oh, where shall I find other generous Jews and cardinal archbishops
to reimburse us?
The jewels gone?
Gone.
It must have been that Franciscan father who shared my bed last night.
Madam, at your age?
For some, young man, my charms have far from waned.
Oh well, since the blame is attached to me
it is my responsibility to repair our fortunes.
-But, madam, how do you propose--
-Wait, young man, and see.
Buenas tardes, señores.
It is your privilege to encounter the greatest courtesan from Paris, France.
All one needs to enjoy her immortal favors
is a princely sum.
I was not born in sunny Hispania.
My father came from Rovno Gubernya.
But now I'm here, I'm dancing a tango.
Di dee di. Dee di dee di.
I am easily assimilated.
I am so easily assimilated.
I never learned a human language.
My father spoke a high middle Polish.
In one half hour I'm talking in Spanish.
Por favor. Toreador. I am easily assimilated.
I am so easily assimilated.
It's easy. It's ever so easy.
I'm Spanish. I'm suddenly Spanish.
And you must be Spanish too.
Do like the natives do.
These days you have to be
in the majority.
Tus labios rubí, dos rosas que se abren a mí,
conquistan mi corazón, y sólo con una canción.
Mís labios rubí,
dreiviertel takt, mon très cher ami,
oui oui, si si, ja ja ja, yes yes, da da.
Je ne sais quoi.
Me muero, me saleuna hernia.
A long way from Rovno Gubernya.
Tus labios rubí, dos rosas que se abren a mí,
conquistan mí corazón, y sólo con una divina canción
de tus labios rubí.
Rubí. Rubí. Hey.
Me muero, me saleuna hernia.
A long way from Rovno Gubernya.
Tus labios rubí, dos rosas que se abren a mí,
conquistan mí corazón, y sólo con una divina canción
de tus labios rubí.
Rubí. Rubí.
-The rues, though captivated--
-Naturally.
...are impoverished.
Providentially a totally unknown man from the tavern
offers Candide a captain's commission fighting for the Jesuits in Montevideo.
Montevideo? The new world.
Oh, at last. In the new world we will find that truly
harmonious existence for which our dear master prepared us.
And so our friends prepare to embark
for the new world
as act one optimistically ends.
Once again we must be gone,
moving onward to the new world.
Shall our hopes be answered there
in that land so good and fair?
In that land across the sea,
when our quest at last has ended
and all our fortunes shall be mended.
We shall dwell there,
free of every care,
-happy we.
-Stripped though we are
of our possessions, my dear,
we shall go far through our professions, my dear.
If this new world has plenty of gallants,
we'll right our balance using our talents, my dear.
Go now and save Montevideo, Candide.
Faithful and brave, go on your way, o Candide.
You must deter the heathen invader,
drive out the raider, like a crusader, Candide.
I was in a funk, my confidence was failing.
I was feeling sunk, but once again I'm sailing.
I was depressed and my spirits were failing,
all's for the best now because we are sailing.
Sailing.
Welcome back. Our picaresque story now
takes us to Montevideo,
South America, to be exact.
It is very hot.
So in his wisdom, the King of Spain
has sent to protect its simple inhabitants
an extremely hot blooded Governor.
There is, in fact, no local mother, wife, daughter,
or widow who has not, at one time,
received his warm personal attentions.
We begin our second act in this fascinating city
which at the moment is buzzing
with a festive auction of slave girls.
Gobernador, gobernador, the new slaves have arrived.
Male or female?
Female, sir. Four of them.
-Can it be? Paquette?
-Master Maximillian?
-You, a slave.
-And you a female slave.
Ugh, if you only knew.
First almost slaughtered, left for dead,
-and then...
-And then?
-As incredible as this may sound--
-Silence!
Gobernador, for your approval.
No sale.
Goodbye, dear one. Fortune speed you.
You too, old friend, farewell.
What exquisite beauty.
Seldom have I seen a maiden who pleases me more.
-But, sir.
-My dear, you are bought.
I am?
And since I am in a bountiful mood
I shall even grant you the honor of sharing my bed tonight.
Tonight?
Poets have said love is undying, my love.
Don't be misled they were all lying, my love.
Love's on the wing, but now while he hovers,
let us be lovers.
One soon recovers, my love.
Soon the fever's fled, for love's a transient blessing.
Just a week in bed and we'll be convalescing.
Why think of morals when springtime is flying?
Why end in quarrels, reproaches and sighing,
crying for love?
My love.
I cannot entertain your shocking proposition.
How could I regain my virginal condition?
I am so pure that before you may bed me,
you must assure me that first you will wed me.
Wed me.
Well, then.
Since you're so pure, I shall betroth you, my love.
Though I feel sure I'll come to loathe you, my love.
Still for the thrill I'm perfectly willing.
For if we must wed before we may bed,
then come let us wed,
my love.
Father Bernard,
marry us, reverend father
like you married me to that stiff-necked British governess,
-remember?
-Yes, your honor.
Your honor,
Don Fernando d'Ibarra y Figueroa
y Mascarenes y Lampourdos y Souza,
-do you take this maiden?
-I certainly do.
-Good God! A man!
-A man!
-String him up.
-String him up.
Oh, no, sir. Please, sir. You see it was the slave captain.
A man of very special taste, sir.
Struck by my beauty
he insisted upon dressing me in his deceased wife's garments and,
and molesting me.
Interesting.
On second thought, perhaps,
but I think not. String him up!
String him up.
Excuse me, your honor.
What is it, father Bernard?
If you have no further use for this innocent youth.
He is of the type which would be most serviceable
in our holy fraternity.
I am prepared to offer a small sum.
Very well, he's yours. But no more favors for the monks.
At this moment,
Candide, Cunegonde, and the Old Lady arrive in the new world
without, you will be happy to know, a single picaresque event to have disturbed them on their journey.
Cunegonde at once attracts the notice
of Don Fernando d'Ibarra y Figueroa y Mascarenes y Lampourdos.
-Y Souza.
-Y Souza.
Capitán Candide.
Señora Cunegonde.
-You are married?
-I must tell you the truth, sir.
Mademoiselle Cunegonde has promised to marry me
and I hope you will give her your blessing.
I will give her more than that.
Capitán, why don't you go review your new company while I
review mine.
I love you.
Marry me.
This is so sudden, señor something, something, something.
The captain of the frigate which brought our friends to the new world rushes on.
Señor capitán,
a magistrate has disembarked with a warrant for your death.
The Franciscan who robbed you recognized Don Issachar's jewels
and those of the cardinal archbishop.
Before he was hanged, he denounced you.
-What shall I do?
-Flee.
-Flee?
-Flee.
But what of Mademoiselle Cunegonde?
She will be safe under the governor's protection.
Escape or you will be burned at the stake in an hour. Now flee.
-Flee.
-Flee.
-Flee!
-Now.
I will wait for you in my chambers.
Well, it seems my virginal purity
must again be sacrificed.
As the governor prepares himself for conjugal bliss
the Old Lady and Cunegonde celebrate the triumph of
their feminine charms.
We are women. We are women.
We are women. Little women.
Little, little women
are we.
Not a man ever born ever could resist
a well-turned calf, a slender wrist,
a silhouette as airy as the morning mist,
and a dainty dimpled knee.
Every male I may meet
must acclaim for weeks
my twinkling thighs, my flaxen cheeks,
my memorable mammaries like Alpine peaks,
high above a wine-dark sea.
We've necks like swans.
-And sexly legs.
-And oh, so sexly legs.
We're so light-footed we could dance on eggs.
A pair of nymphs from fairyland,
and every day in every way our charms expand.
-You may add.
-If you wish.
To that growing list.
-A mouth so fair.
-It must be kissed.
And parts we cannot mention
but we know exist
in a rich abundancy.
Not a man ever born
ever could resist a pretty little thing like me.
-Baseball is a really boring sport.
-It's better than soccer.
It's like slow hockey.
Will a man ever born ever could resist
a well-turned calf, a slender wrist,
a silhouette as airy as a morning mist,
and a dainty dimpled knee.
Every male I may meet
must acclaim for weeks
my twinkling thighs, my flaxen cheeks,
my memorable mammaries like Alpine peaks,
high above a wine-dark sea.
We've Giotto hands.
-Da Vinci smiles.
-And Mona Lisa smiles.
We're brava divina to balletophiles.
A pair of nymphs from fairyland,
and every day in every way our charms expand.
-You may add.
-If you wish.
To that growing list.
-A mouth so fair.
-It must be kissed.
And parts we cannot mention
but we know exist
in a rich abundancy.
Not a man ever born
ever could resist a pretty little thing like me.
We are women. We are women.
We are women, little, little women.
Little, little, little women
are we.
Meanwhile,
Candide stumbles on through the South American jungle.
Eventually Candide comes upon the encampment of Jesuits
for whom he has been commissioned to fight.
Alleluia.
Excuse me reverend youth,
but I have been sent to relieve you from the heathen.
Oh, sir, I wasn't anticipating so warm a welcome.
Oh, master Candide, surely you recognize me.
-Paquette!
-The same.
You must be wondering why I am so attired?
There are some of the holy brethren who still prefer the weaker sex.
And why deprive them. Poor dears in this godforsaken country.
Candide!
-Beloved foster brother!
-Maximillian!
-But they slaughtered you.
-Oh, no, they didn't.
It was a miracle!
Alleluia.
Oh, if only a similar miracle
could've befallen my beloved sister.
-It has.
-It has?
-Cunegone lives.
-What bliss! Where is she now?
Back in Montevideo,
but if it takes me my whole life,
I will be with her once again.
Oh, that's my good fellow. Just the old Candide.
I will be with her again and marry her.
Marry her?
You? My sister marry a bastard?
But did not our dear master teach us
that all men are equal in the face of God?
The face of God?
I'll show you the face of God.
Alleluia.
Again.
I have killed again.
Oh, look at me,
the most virtuous man in the world
and I have killed three men,
two of them priests.
And now dear heavens,
I cannot have killed my beloved foster brother.
Do not blame yourself, master Candide,
for had he lived longer who knows what crueler faith
may have been in store for him.
-But quick, we must fly.
-Flee.
-Fly.
-Flee.
Just go!
Oh, of course, if I were hanged for murder
who is there left to rescue my beloved Cunegonde.
Oh, wait.
Dressed as a soldier of fortune
you would be caught hours before we cross the border.
-Here, help me.
-Okay.
Oh, that resourceful Paquette.
Back in Montevideo three years picaresquely pass.
Cunegonde, though continuing to share the governor's marriage bed,
is still without the holy blessings of marriage.
Quiet!
Even the pope himself is in favor of long engagements.
I thought the Jew, the pope, the archbishop,
and the Bulgarian Army treated me bad.
The pope? When?
Couple Saturday nights between the Sabbaths.
-But you.
-Quiet.
Quiet.
No, doubt you'll think I'm giving in
to petulance and malice.
But in candor I am forced to say
that I'm sick of gracious living in this stuffy little palace
and I wish that I could leave today.
I have suffered a lot and I'm certainly not
unaware that this life has its black side.
I have starved in a ditch,
I've been burned for a witch,
and I'm missing the half of my backside.
I've been beaten and whipped,
and repeatedly stripped,
I've been forced into all kinds of whoredom.
But I'm finding of late,
that the very worst fate,
is to perish of comfort and boredom.
Quiet.
It was three years ago, as you very well know,
that you said we would soon have a wedding.
Every day you forget what you promised, and yet
you continue to rumple my bedding.
I'll no longer bring shame on my family name.
No, I'd rather lie down and be buried.
No, I'll not lead the life of an unwedded wife.
Tell me, when are we going to be married?
Quiet.
I was once, what is more,
nearly sawn in four,
by a specially clumsy magician.
And you'd think I would feel
after such an ordeal
that there's charm in my present position.
But I'd far rather be in a tempest at sea,
or a bloody North African riot,
than to sit in this dump on what's left of my rump
-and put up with this terrible quiet.
-When are we going to be married?
Quiet.
In yet another dizzying shift of locale we find Candide still dutifully fleeing
and finally emerging into a strange country
surrounded entirely by unscalable mountains.
El Dorado,
why it is even more beautiful than Westphalia.
Oh, look, master,
the stones and the dust.
They are precious stones.
Dust. It's gold dust.
-Gold dust?
-Why, what is this place?
It must be the place Dr. Pangloss was always talking of.
Candide has indeed stumbled upon
the paradise of his Panglossian dreams,
El Dorado.
Not only are streets indeed paved with gold
but dreams and greed and envy and hatred are nonexistent.
Poverty and want unknown.
The inhabitants of El Dorado are gentle,
kind, and witty
even in translation.
There is love without possession, freedom without license,
justice without lawyers,
and sheep.
Lots of sheep.
Articulate sheep. And if you don't believe me just listen.
Every sky is blue and sunny.
Every face you see is glad.
There's no greed or need for money
or a synonym for baaaad.
-Here is paradise at last.
-At last.
One could be happy to live here forever.
Forever.
And yet.
Oh, where is my beloved?
Where is Mademoiselle Cunegonde.
Here each man is each man's brother.
Here the cows give golden cream.
Every day is like the other.
If we don't leave soon,
I'll scream.
Confronted with the first people ever to wish to leave paradise,
the perplexed but cooperative people of El Dorado
construct a miraculous machine to lift Candide,
Paquette, and numerous jewel laden golden sheep over the unscalable mountains.
Now it's true, jewels and golden sheep are so common
as to be valueless in El Dorado,
but to Candide they are the means of both ransoming his beloved Cunegonde
and making himself her social equal.
Once again, they fight their way through treacherous jungle,
across dismal swamps, down dizzying precipices.
How often is Candide to regret the halcyon
if somewhat tedious paradise they have left behind them.
Up a seashell mountain,
across a primrose sea,
to a jungle fountain high up in a tree.
Then past a primrose mountain,
across a seashell sea,
to a land of happy people,
just and kind and bold and free.
To Eldorado, to Eldorado.
They bathe each dawn in a golden lake,
emeralds hang up on the vine.
All is there for all to take,
food and God and books and wine.
They have no words for fear and greed,
for lies and war, revenge and rage.
They sing and dance and think and read.
They live in peace and die of age.
In Eldorado, in Eldorado.
They gave me home, they called me friend,
they taught me how to live in grace.
Seasons passed without an end
in that sweet and blessed place.
But I grew sad and could not stay,
without my love my heart grew cold,
so they sadly sent me on my way
with gracious gifts of sheep and gold.
From Eldorado, from Eldorado.
"Goodbye," they said,
"we pray you may safely cross the sea."
"Go," they said,
"and may you find your bride to be."
Then past the jungle fountain,
along a silver shore,
I've come by sea and mountain,
to be with my love once more.
From Eldorado, from Eldorado.
To be with my love
once more.
Having arrived in Suriname,
Candide is given news of his beloved, Cunegonde.
Apparently el señor gobernador
named his price for Mademoiselle Cunegonde and the Old Lady.
You mean he is willing to sell my beloved?
-Two million in gold.
-Who are you?
At this point in the act, just let him give the exposition.
-Fine with me.
-Me too.
Alas, on the way we were robbed, attacked by pirates.
Those scurvy pirates abducted poor Cunegonde and the Old Lady.
-Where are they now?
-Constantinople.
-Constantinople?
-Constantinople.
-You clear?
-Yeah.
Moving along.
How will we ever get to Constantinople?
At which point, a local Dutch merchant named Vanderdendur
notices Candide's sheep.
Luck is with you, fair youth.
It so happens that I have a splendid vessel
bound for Constantinople, the Santa Rosalia.
She sails in three hours.
In exchange for one of the sheep he gives Candide the boat
and Candide and Paquette set sail the very next day for Constantinople.
Candide's faith in optimism
is once again flying at full mast
as the merry villagers of Suriname gather at the shore to sing him off.
Bon voyage, dear fellow, dear benefactor of your fellow man.
May good luck attend you. Do come again and see us when you can.
Oh, but I'm bad. Ever so bad. Playing such a very dirty trick on such a fine lad.
I'm a low cad, I'm a low cad,
every time I do this sort of thing it makes me so sad,
ever so sad. Oh, but I'm bad. Ever so bad.
Bon voyage, bon voyage. Bon voyage, bon voyage.
Bon voyage.
Bon voyage, we'll see ya. Do have a jolly trip across the foam.
Santa Rosalia, do have a safe and pleasant journey home.
Journey home. Bon voyage, bon voyage.
I'm so rich that my life is an utter bore,
there is just not a thing that I need.
My desires are as dry as an apple core,
and my only emotion is greed.
Which is why though I've nothing to spend it for,
I have swindled this gold from Candididididididididididide,
poor Candide.
But I never would swindle the humble poor,
for you can't get a turnip to bleed.
When you swindle the rich you get so much more,
which is why I have swindled Candide.
Oh dear, I fear he's going down, he's going to drown.
Poor Candide.
Bon voyage, dear stranger, hope that the crossing will not prove too grim.
You seem to be in danger. But we expect that you know how to swim.
What a dumb goat, what a dumb goat,
handing me a fortune for a perfect wreck of a boat.
Never did float, never did float.
This is going to make a most amusing anecdote.
Never did float, wreck of a boat. What a dumb goat.
Bon voyage, bon voyage, bon voyage, bon voyage.
Bon voyage.
Bon voyage, best wishes. Seems to have been a bit of sabotage.
Things don't look propitious, still from the heart we wish you
bon voyage.
Dear fellow, bon voyage.
Of course, the ship sinks
probably for the best of all possible... Oh, forget it.
However, Candide, Paquette, and his last remaining sheep
are saved by a passing galley rowed by slaves.
In yet another miracle, the galley actually arrives in Constantinople.
There we find Cunegonde and the Old Lady
working in the private gaming room in the palace of the evil
prince Ragotski.
You're wanted in the great saloon.
Why?
Why do you think?
The prince wishes the gamblers to gamble
and who better, my lady, to inspire them.
-Right.
-Ah, there you are, my little darling.
Now remember it is your duty to create wealth
in order to help those lesser well-off in society, like myself.
So to your duty in the next room.
And remember,
stop smiling for an instant
and I shall have you skinned alive to the plucking of newts.
Right.
-As for you, Old Lady.
-Yes, I know.
Make money.
I have always been wily and clever
at deceiving and swindling and such,
and I feel just as clever as ever,
but I seem to be losing my touch.
Oh, I'm losing my touch.
Yes, I'm clever, but where does it get me?
My employer gets all of my take.
All I get is my daily spaghetti,
while he gorges on truffles and cake.
What's the use? What's the use?
There's no profit in cheating,
it's all so defeating and wrong, oh, so wrong,
that I just have to pass it along.
That old hag is no use in this gyp-joint.
Not a sou have I made on her yet,
and the one thing that pays in this clip joint
is my fraudulent game of roulette,
it's my game of roulette.
But I have to pay so much protection
to the chief of police and his men,
that each day when he makes his collection
I'm a poor man all over again.
What's the use? What's the use?
Of dishonest endeavor and being so clever?
It's wrong, oh, so wrong,
if you just have to pass it along.
It's a very fine thing to be prefect
shaking down all the gamblers in town.
My position has only one defect,
that there's someone who's shaking me down,
who is shaking me down.
For this fellow unhappily knows me,
and he's on to the game that I play,
and he threatens to shame and expose me,
if I do not incessantly pay.
What's the use? What's the use
of this sneaky conniving and slimy contriving?
It's wrong, oh, so wrong,
if you just have to pass it along.
I could live very well by extortion,
but I simply can't keep what I earn,
for I haven't a sense of proportion,
and roulette is my only concern,
it's my only concern.
I've a system that's fiendishly clever,
which I learned from a croupier friend,
and I should go on winning forever
but I do seem to lose in the end.
What's the use? What's the use?
Of this cheating and plotting, you end up with nothing.
It's wrong, oh, so wrong
if you just have to pass it along.
Pass it along.
Oh, what's the use? What's the use?
Oh, there's no use in cheating, it's all so defeating
and wrong, oh, so wrong,
if you just have to pass it along.
Again, again, good sirs, the evening is still young.
Splendid. Splendid. And now
to add a little extra zest,
you girl, come here.
What is your name, girl?
They call me Snowflake, oh mighty prince,
for the exceptional whiteness of my skin.
Snowflake, eh?
Gentlemen,
I grant to the highest winner of the next turn of the wheel
free access tonight to this little Snowflake,
who, I'm sure,
will melt deliciously in his arms.
Spin, croupier slave. Spin.
This must be Constantinople.
Cunegonde.
Candide.
-Oh.
-Oh.
-Is it true?
-Is it you?
-Cunegonde.
-Candide.
-Cunegonde.
-Can...
-Oh.
-Oh.
-Is it true?
-Is it you?
-Cunegonde.
-Candide.
-Oh my love, dear love.
-Dear, my love.
Unhand that odalisque.
-Candide!
-Cunegonde!
Wait, master. You're rich now, why fight for her?
Buy her.
Noble sire,
regard these bags stuffed with gold and jewels.
They are yours for the odalisque.
All but one, sir,
for this is all the wealth that we possess.
You drive a very hard bargain, sir.
The odalisque is yours.
Pardon me, sir. Would you consider buying me too?
My beloved foster brother.
-But I slaughtered you.
-Well, no, you didn't.
Actually, it was like this...
Oh, never mind now, just buy me, please.
Sir, only one bag of gold remains,
but if in your generosity--
That one?
A most unsatisfactory slave in every way. He's yours.
But enough of these sordid transactions.
Let us now adjourn to the Garden of a Thousand Perfumes
where every conceivable delight of the flesh awaits you
at reasonable hourly rates.
-Oh beloved Cunegonde.
-Oh dearest Candide.
It's all very well for you two
but what do we do with our penny to our names?
-You wish the future solved?
-Oh, yes.
-Solved.
-Solved?
Many years ago, close to these parts,
just before they ate my buttock.
Ate it?
The famished Mongols at the siege of Palus Maeotis.
Ate it?
As I was saying,
close to these parts,
there was talk of the wisest man in the world
who lived in a cave.
There was not a problem, they claim, which he cannot unravel.
Come.
Let us start a new live, based, I hope,
on a wiser philosophy than that which has guided us hitherto.
A new philosophy?
Why not? And yet
what is wrong with the old which has reunited us once again?
Look!
The wisest man in the world!
Oh, sir?
Are you addressing me?
Oh, sir, we have suffered so terribly in this bewildering world.
Tell us how we can at last find happiness?
Happiness. Unfortunately the wisest man in the world
has just gone out for a moment
leaving the notes of his meditations with me,
his humble disciple.
Dr. Pangloss!
Ah, well, yeah, I seem to remember something of the sort.
But pardon me, am I familiar with you?
But dearest master,
who are we but your own Candide and Cunegonde and Paquette and Maximillian,
Patti LuPone.
Here we are. Here we are.
Never seek for happiness,
it will merely elude the seeker.
Never strive for knowledge,
it is beyond man's scope.
Never think,
for in thought lies all the ills of mankind.
The wise man, like the rat,
the crocodile, the fly,
merely fulfills his natural function.
And now if you'll forgive me,
I'm new at the job and rather behind with my meditation.
But dear master, even if you don't remember us
please tell us what is the natural function of man?
Here, why don't you read it for yourself.
Here it is.
"What is the natural function of man?
What was it in the Garden of Eden?
Dig, spin,
work without regret for yesterday
or hope for tomorrow.
For man, it is only work that makes life endurable."
Come, we will seek a few modest little acres
and build a small farm.
And casting aside all vain speculations
as to the meaning of this meaningless world,
we will fulfill our function
working God's earth from dawn to dusk.
You've been a fool and so have I,
but come and be my wife,
and let us try before we die
to make some sense of life.
We're neither pure nor wise nor good.
We'll do the best we know.
We'll build our house, and chop our wood,
and make our garden grow,
and make our garden grow.
I thought the world was sugarcake,
for so our master said,
but now I'll teach my hands to bake
our loaf of daily bread.
We're neither pure nor wise nor good.
We'll do the best we know.
We'll build our house, and chop our wood,
and make our garden grow,
and make our garden grow.
Let dreamers dream what worlds they please,
those Edens can't be found.
The sweetest flowers, the fairest trees
are grown in solid ground.
We're neither pure nor wise nor good.
We'll do the best we know.
We'll build our house, and chop our wood,
and make our garden grow,
and make our garden grow.
Any questions?
Subtitle: mhvis.