David Bruce: Names Anecdotes

• While writing her children’s book, The 18th Emergency, Betsy Byars wanted a good, original name for the bully — she felt that she had used the name “Bubba” too often for the bullies in her books, although she had known a real bully named Bubba when she was a child. She thought hard and came up with the name “Marv Hammerman,” which she liked because of its hardness. Because she thought the name was original — after all, she had just thought it up — she wrote in the book, “There had been only one Hammerman, just as there had been only one Hitler.” One day, she received a telephone call, and the caller told her that he was Marv Hammerman. At first, she thought that the caller was joking, but he was really named that. What’s more, he was a teacher who had read her book to his class, and his young students were delighted to hear that there were twoterrible Marv Hammermans.

• Stan Freberg’s ancestry is Swedish, but despite not being named Johnson, he comes by his name honestly. When his grandfather, Paul Johnson, came to America, the immigration official told him, “What? Not another Johnson? Do you know how many thousands of Swedes I’ve logged in here with the name of Johnson? Forget it! What don’t you change it to something else?” Mr. Johnson thought about what name he wanted the immigration official to put down in writing, and because his mother’s name had been Elna Friberg, he spelled her last name for the official, who pronounced it Fry-berg. Mr. Johnson explained that in Swedish the iwas pronounced e, as in Free-burg. The official said, “OK, Freberg,” wrote down the name, and the newly named Paul Freberg began life in his new country.

• Eleanora Fagan was born on April 7, 1915, in Baltimore, Maryland. Later, her mother, Sadie Fagan, married her father, Clarence Holiday, and Eleanora Fagan became Eleanora Holiday. As a youngster, she admired film star Billie Dove, and so she began calling herself Billie Holiday. As a young woman, she started singing and waiting tables at clubs where the other women would pick up their tips with their thighs. Billie declined to do that, and the other women taunted, “Look at her — she thinks she’s a lady.” Billie then became known as “Lady.” After Billie become a well-known jazz singer, saxophonist Lester Young shortened her last name, using only its last syllable, and so Eleanora Fagan, aka Billie Holiday, became known as “Lady Day.”

• Children’s book author Tomie dePaola has an oddly spelled first name. At first, it was spelled the normal way, but little Tommy was a talented child who was sure to grow up to be famous, so a famous cousin of his mother — Irish tenor Morton Downey — gave him the new, unusual spelling. According to Mr. Downey, “He’s got to have an unusual spelling for his first name so people will remember it.” Everyone respected the new spelling for his name, except for his teachers at school, who made him spell it “Tommy,” because that was the “correct” spelling.

• Very early in her career, American painter Mary Cassatt wanted to get one of her paintings in the prestigious Salon exhibition in Paris. She felt that the judges selecting which paintings would be hung in the exhibition favored foreign artists, so she submitted a painting that was signed only with her first and middle names — “Mary Stevenson” — because she knew that her middle name sounded more foreign than “Cassatt.” The idea worked. Her painting was selected to be hung in the exhibition.

• Stanley Kirk Burrell is better known as rapper M.C. Hammer. “M.C.” is a slang way of saying “Rapper,” and “Hammer” is a nickname he was given when he became the Oakland Athletics batboy after Charley Finley, the owner of the Athletics, saw young Stanley singing and dancing in the Athletics parking lot. Stanley resembled home run hitter Hammerin’ Hank Aaron, and so he was called Little Hammer.

• When Luciano Pavarotti decided to make a movie, he met with the movie’s producer to discuss the name his character should have. The meeting was held in Giorgio Fini’s restaurant, and the food that day was cooked especially well — so well, in fact, that Mr. Pavarotti decided to name his character — with Mr. Fini’s permission — Giorgio Fini. The movie was titled Yes, Giorgio.

• Jazz singer Anita O’Day was named Anita Belle Colton when she was born. She took the name O’Day because in pig Latin it means “dough,” and she hoped to make a lot of dough as a professional walkathon contestant. (During the Depression, people tried to make money winning marathon walks, where they walked for days in front of an audience with only occasional 15-minute breaks.)

• Babe Ruth was terrible at remembering names, and he was sometimes terrible at remembering faces. Miles Thomas had been a Yankees pitcher for three or four years, but one day someone decided to have some fun and introduced Mr. Thomas to Babe as a new Yankee pitcher. Babe told Mr. Thomas, “Nice to see you, kid. Welcome to the Yankees.”

• Many people wonder where actor/writer Quentin Tarantino got the name for his hit movie Reservoir Dogs. It comes from the days he spent as a video store clerk when people often asked for Louis Malle’s Au Revoir les Enfants. Mr. Tarantino had difficulty pronouncing the title, so he ended up calling it Reservoir Dogs.

• When Nat Cole was a young entertainer, he needed work. To get one job, he was forced to wear a gold paper crown and call himself “King” Cole. As soon as he could, he got rid of the crown, but forever after, he was known as Nat King Cole.

• Michelle Kwan’s father, Danny, is a fan of music by the Beatles. In fact, he liked the Beatles’ song “Michelle” so much that he named his second daughter after it.

• Dorothy Parker once owned a black French poodle she named Cliché because at the time black French poodles were very popular in her neighborhood.

• One of the people participating in the CB radio fad of the 1970s was First Lady Betty Ford. She used the CB handle “First Mama.”

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Copyright by Bruce D. Bruce; All Rights Reserved

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Voltaire, CANDIDE: Chapter 25 – Candide and Martin Pay a Visit to Seignor Pococurante, a Noble Venetian

Chapter 25 – Candide and Martin Pay a Visit to Seignor Pococurante, a Noble Venetian

Candide and his friend Martin went in a gondola on the Brenta, and arrived at the palace of the noble Pococurante. The gardens were laid out in elegant taste, and adorned with fine marble statues; his palace was built after the most approved rules of architecture. The master of the house, who was a man of affairs, and very rich, received our two travelers with great politeness, but without much ceremony, which somewhat disconcerted Candide, but was not at all displeasing to Martin. 

As soon as they were seated, two very pretty girls, neatly dressed, brought in chocolate, which was extremely well prepared. Candide could not help praising their beauty and graceful carriage. 

“The creatures are all right,” said the senator; “I amuse myself with them sometimes, for I am heartily tired of the women of the town, their coquetry, their jealousy, their quarrels, their humors, their meannesses, their pride, and their folly; I am weary of making sonnets, or of paying for sonnets to be made on them; but after all, these two girls begin to grow very indifferent to me.” 

After having refreshed himself, Candide walked into a large gallery, where he was struck with the sight of a fine collection of paintings. 

“Pray,” said Candide, “by what master are the two first of these?” 

“They are by Raphael,” answered the senator. “I gave a great deal of money for them seven years ago, purely out of curiosity, as they were said to be the finest pieces in Italy; but I cannot say they please me: the coloring is dark and heavy; the figures do not swell nor come out enough; and the drapery is bad. In short, notwithstanding the encomiums lavished upon them, they are not, in my opinion, a true representation of nature. I approve of no paintings save those wherein I think I behold nature itself; and there are few, if any, of that kind to be met with. I have what is called a fine collection, but I take no manner of delight in it.” 

While dinner was being prepared Pococurante ordered a concert. Candide praised the music to the skies. 

“This noise,” said the noble Venetian, “may amuse one for a little time, but if it were to last above half an hour, it would grow tiresome to everybody, though perhaps no one would care to own it. Music has become the art of executing what is difficult; now, whatever is difficult cannot be long pleasing. 

“I believe I might take more pleasure in an opera, if they had not made such a monster of that species of dramatic entertainment as perfectly shocks me; and I am amazed how people can bear to see wretched tragedies set to music; where the scenes are contrived for no other purpose than to lug in, as it were by the ears, three or four ridiculous songs, to give a favorite actress an opportunity of exhibiting her pipe. Let who will die away in raptures at the trills of a eunuch quavering the majestic part of Caesar or Cato, and strutting in a foolish manner upon the stage, but for my part I have long ago renounced these paltry entertainments, which constitute the glory of modern Italy, and are so dearly purchased by crowned heads.” 

Candide opposed these sentiments; but he did it in a discreet manner; as for Martin, he was entirely of the old senator’s opinion. 

Dinner being served they sat down to table, and, after a hearty repast, returned to the library. Candide, observing Homer richly bound, commended the noble Venetian’s taste. 

“This,” said he, “is a book that was once the delight of the great Pangloss, the best philosopher in Germany.” 

“Homer is no favorite of mine,” answered Pococurante, coolly, “I was made to believe once that I took a pleasure in reading him; but his continual repetitions of battles have all such a resemblance with each other; his gods that are forever in haste and bustle, without ever doing anything; his Helen, who is the cause of the war, and yet hardly acts in the whole performance; his Troy, that holds out so long, without being taken: in short, all these things together make the poem very insipid to me. I have asked some learned men, whether they are not in reality as much tired as myself with reading this poet: those who spoke ingenuously, assured me that he had made them fall asleep, and yet that they could not well avoid giving him a place in their libraries; but that it was merely as they would do an antique, or those rusty medals which are kept only for curiosity, and are of no manner of use in commerce.” 

“But your excellency does not surely form the same opinion of Virgil?” said Candide. 

“Why, I grant,” replied Pococurante, “that the second, third, fourth, and sixth books of his Aeneid, are excellent; but as for his pious Aeneas, his strong Cloanthus, his friendly Achates, his boy Ascanius, his silly king Latinus, his ill-bred Amata, his insipid Lavinia, and some other characters much in the same strain, I think there cannot in nature be anything more flat and disagreeable. I must confess I prefer Tasso far beyond him; nay, even that sleepy taleteller Ariosto.” 

“May I take the liberty to ask if you do not experience great pleasure from reading Horace?” said Candide. 

“There are maxims in this writer,” replied Pococurante, “whence a man of the world may reap some benefit; and the short measure of the verse makes them more easily to be retained in the memory. But I see nothing extraordinary in his journey to Brundusium, and his account of his bad dinner; nor in his dirty, low quarrel between one Rupillius, whose words, as he expresses it, were full of poisonous filth; and another, whose language was dipped in vinegar. His indelicate verses against old women and witches have frequently given me great offense: nor can I discover the great merit of his telling his friend Maecenas, that if he will but rank him in the class of lyric poets, his lofty head shall touch the stars. Ignorant readers are apt to judge a writer by his reputation. For my part, I read only to please myself. I like nothing but what makes for my purpose.” 

Candide, who had been brought up with a notion of never making use of his own judgment, was astonished at what he heard; but Martin found there was a good deal of reason in the senator’s remarks. 

“Oh! here is a Tully,” said Candide; “this great man I fancy you are never tired of reading?” 

“Indeed I never read him at all,” replied Pococurante. “What is it to me whether he pleads for Rabirius or Cluentius? I try causes enough myself. I had once some liking for his philosophical works; but when I found he doubted everything, I thought I knew as much as himself, and had no need of a guide to learn ignorance.” 

“Ha!” cried Martin, “here are fourscore volumes of the memoirs of the Academy of Sciences; perhaps there may be something curious and valuable in this collection.” 

“Yes,” answered Pococurante, “so there might if any one of these compilers of this rubbish had only invented the art of pin-making; but all these volumes are filled with mere chimerical systems, without one single article conductive to real utility.” 

“I see a prodigious number of plays,” said Candide, “in Italian, Spanish, and French.” 

“Yes,” replied the Venetian, “there are I think three thousand, and not three dozen of them good for anything. As to those huge volumes of divinity, and those enormous collections of sermons, they are not all together worth one single page in Seneca; and I fancy you will readily believe that neither myself, nor anyone else, ever looks into them.” 

Martin, perceiving some shelves filled with English books, said to the senator, “I fancy that a republican must be highly delighted with those books, which are most of them written with a noble spirit of freedom.” 

“It is noble to write as we think,” said Pococurante; “it is the privilege of humanity. Throughout Italy we write only what we do not think; and the present inhabitants of the country of the Caesars and Antonines dare not acquire a single idea without the permission of a Dominican father. I should be enamored of the spirit of the English nation, did it not utterly frustrate the good effects it would produce by passion and the spirit of party.” 

Candide, seeing a Milton, asked the senator if he did not think that author a great man. 

“Who?” said Pococurante sharply; “that barbarian who writes a tedious commentary in ten books of rumbling verse, on the first chapter of Genesis? that slovenly imitator of the Greeks, who disfigures the creation, by making the Messiah take a pair of compasses from Heaven’s armory to plan the world; whereas Moses represented the Diety as producing the whole universe by his fiat? Can I think you have any esteem for a writer who has spoiled Tasso’s Hell and the Devil; who transforms Lucifer sometimes into a toad, and at others into a pygmy; who makes him say the same thing over again a hundred times; who metamorphoses him into a school-divine; and who, by an absurdly serious imitation of Ariosto’s comic invention of firearms, represents the devils and angels cannonading each other in Heaven? Neither I nor any other Italian can possibly take pleasure in such melancholy reveries; but the marriage of Sin and Death, and snakes issuing from the womb of the former, are enough to make any person sick that is not lost to all sense of delicacy. This obscene, whimsical, and disagreeable poem met with the neglect it deserved at its first publication; and I only treat the author now as he was treated in his own country by his contemporaries.” 

Candide was sensibly grieved at this speech, as he had a great respect for Homer, and was fond of Milton. 

“Alas!” said he softly to Martin, “I am afraid this man holds our German poets in great contempt.” 

“There would be no such great harm in that,” said Martin. 

“O what a surprising man!” said Candide, still to himself; “what a prodigious genius is this Pococurante! nothing can please him.” 

After finishing their survey of the library, they went down into the garden, when Candide commended the several beauties that offered themselves to his view. 

“I know nothing upon earth laid out in such bad taste,” said Pococurante; “everything about it is childish and trifling; but I shall have another laid out tomorrow upon a nobler plan.” 

As soon as our two travelers had taken leave of His Excellency, Candide said to Martin, “Well, I hope you will own that this man is the happiest of all mortals, for he is above everything he possesses.” 

“But do not you see,” answered Martin, “that he likewise dislikes everything he possesses? It was an observation of Plato, long since, that those are not the best stomachs that reject, without distinction, all sorts of aliments.” 

“True,” said Candide, “but still there must certainly be a pleasure in criticising everything, and in perceiving faults where others think they see beauties.” 

“That is,” replied Martin, “there is a pleasure in having no pleasure.” 

“Well, well,” said Candide, “I find that I shall be the only happy man at last, when I am blessed with the sight of my dear Cunegund.” 

“It is good to hope,” said Martin. 

In the meanwhile, days and weeks passed away, and no news of Cacambo. Candide was so overwhelmed with grief, that he did not reflect on the behavior of Pacquette and Friar Giroflee, who never stayed to return him thanks for the presents he had so generously made them.

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Source: https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Candide

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davidbrucehaiku: ENJOY LOOKING AT THE FLOWERS

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ENJOY LOOKING AT THE FLOWERS

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Look at the flowers

Instead of just creating

A f**king haiku

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davidbrucehaiku: good advice

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GOOD ADVICE

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Don’t take no sh*t from

Bullies, *ssholes, losers, and

Most of all, yourself

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David Bruce: Names Anecdotes

• When she was a child, Joanna Kathleen Rowling, aka Jo, became friends with two kids in her neighborhood: a brother and sister named Ian and Vicki Potter. Ian liked hijinks and dares. He once dared Vicki and Jo to run through some wet cement—they did. Of course, Ian and Vicki’s last name became the last name of J.K. Rowling’s most famous literary creation: Harry Potter. As an adult, Ian read the Harry Potter books out loud to his children. He remembers how he, Jo, and Vicki would play dress-up when they were kids: “And nine out of ten times, it would be Joanne who had the idea, and she’d always say, ‘Can’t we be witches and wizards?’” J.K. Rowling’s own last name has led to her having lots of nicknames: Jo Rolling Pins and Miss Rolling Stone. When she taught English as a second language in Portugal, her students sometimes sang the theme song from the TV series Rawhideto her: “Rolling, rolling, rolling … keep those wagons rolling!”

• When pitcher Greg Maddux broke into the major leagues with the Chicago Cubs, he received the nickname “Batboy” because of his youth. In 1987, he acquired a new nickname. In the 8th inning of a tie game with the San Diego Padres, Mr. Maddux was put on base as a pinch runner. Shawon Dunston hit to left with Mr. Maddux on second base with two out. Mr. Maddux rounded third and headed for home, where it looked like he would be thrown out. Benito Santiago, catcher for the Padres, bobbled the ball, and Mr. Maddux slammed into him for the run. The Chicago Cubs won the game that day, and Mr. Maddux’ teammates started calling him “Mad Dog.” (And the press started calling him the “Baby-faced Assassin.”)

• Before becoming a famous comedian, Sid Caesar was a jazz saxophonist. He played with Gene Krupa’s band, along with pianist Teddy Napoleon and Teddy’s sister, Josephine, who was the vocalist. One day, Sid, Teddy, and Josephine were driving to a gig, and a police officer stopped them. Teddy was driving, so the police officer looked at his driver’s license. He was amused by Teddy’s last name, Napoleon, and Sid laughed and said that his name was Caesar. The police officer looked at the only woman in the car and said, “And I suppose you’re Josephine.” Teddy’s sister replied, “Yes, how did you know?”

• Mary Effie Lee was serious about her writing. In fact, at age 11 she wrote a “novel” that was all of three chapters and four pages long. Actually, she is better known as Effie Lee Newsome, the name under she published collections of poetry for children such as Gladiola Garden: Poems of Outdoors and Indoors for Second Grade Readers. When she married the Reverend Henry Nesby Newsome, she took his last name and dropped her first name. Why? She explained, “Because four names in a row would be like the long row of houses on our street in Philadelphia.”

• Mikey Rocks and Chuck Inglish make up the Chicago rap duo known as the Cool Kids. Actually, “Mikey Rocks” is a pseudonym. His real name is Antoine Reed, but he chose his stage name because of his youthful hero-worship of NBA star Michael Jordan. When Mr. Reed had to choose a stage name, he regarded it as an opportunity: “As a little kid, I would try to change my name to Mike, like write it on papers and I would tell my mom to call me that but she wouldn’t do it, so I just saw this as my opportunity to have the best name that I could possibly have.”

• Teenage mega-pop star Miley Cyrus was named Destiny Hope Cyrus at birth, but her always smiley face led to her being nicknamed first Smiley and then Miley. After becoming a huge star in Disney’s Hannah Montana TV series, she had her name legally changed to Miley. Her father is country singer Billy Ray Cyrus, best known for “Achy Breaky Heart,” and Miley has always been around music. Her first memory is of an all-star concert where superstars such as Aretha Franklin made a fuss over her.

• Chicago-born artist Judy Cohen ended up choosing to use a different name: Judy Chicago. She worked in California, and because she had a heavy Chicago accent, lots of her fellow artists called her Judy Chicago. In addition, lots of artists in Los Angeles used underground names in the telephone book listings, so Judy used “Judy Chicago.” Her name does have a major advantage. When she returns to Chicago and tells people her name, they exclaim, “What a great name!”

• Robert Towne wrote the screenplays for such classic movies as Chinatown and The Last Detail. His paternal grandfather had worked as a tanner in Minneapolis, Minnesota, but left because of the cold winters and came to California. In San Pedro, he opened a women’s clothing store that was named the Towne Smart Shop, and when people started calling him Mr. Towne, he began to use “Towne” as his surname and passed the name down to his descendants.

• Like other actors, Archibald Leach took a new name. He had played the role of a character named Cary Lockwood, so he took the name “Cary.” He needed something shorter than “Lockwood” so it would easily fit on a movie marquee, so his movie studio produced its list of short, Anglo-Saxon names that it kept on hand for actors with Archie’s problem, and Mr. Leach read down the list, decided that he liked the name “Grant,” and so he became Cary Grant.

• When Elizabeth Taylor was 14 years old, she became a sensation by starring in the movie National Velvet. When renowned portraitist Yousuf Karsh arrived to photograph her, she was playing with one of her newest pets: a cat. Mr. Karsh named the cat Michael. The next day, both young Elizabeth and Mr. Karsh was on the MGM studio lot, and Elizabeth had her cat with her. She called out to Mr. Karsh, “Look who I have with me: Michael Karsh Taylor.”

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Copyright by Bruce D. Bruce; All Rights Reserved

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Voltaire’s CANDIDE: Chapter 24 – Of Pacquette and Friar Giroflee

Chapter 24 – Of Pacquette and Friar Giroflee

Upon their arrival at Venice Candide went in search of Cacambo at every inn and coffee-house, and among all the ladies of pleasure, but could hear nothing of him. He sent every day to inquire what ships were in, still no news of Cacambo. 

“It is strange,” said he to Martin, “very strange that I should have time to sail from Surinam to Bordeaux; to travel thence to Paris, to Dieppe, to Portsmouth; to sail along the coast of Portugal and Spain, and up the Mediterranean to spend some months at Venice; and that my lovely Cunegund should not have arrived. Instead of her, I only met with a Parisian impostor, and a rascally abbe of Perigord. Cunegund is actually dead, and I have nothing to do but follow her. Alas! how much better would it have been for me to have remained in the paradise of El Dorado than to have returned to this cursed Europe! You are in the right, my dear Martin; you are certainly in the right; all is misery and deceit.” 

He fell into a deep melancholy, and neither went to the opera then in vogue, nor partook of any of the diversions of the Carnival; nay, he even slighted the fair sex. 

Martin said to him, “Upon my word, I think you are very simple to imagine that a rascally valet, with five or six millions in his pocket, would go in search of your mistress to the further of the world, and bring her to Venice to meet you. If he finds her he will take her for himself; if he does not, he will take another. Let me advise you to forget your valet Cacambo, and your mistress Cunegund.” 

Martin’s speech was not the most consolatory to the dejected Candide. His melancholy increased, and Martin never ceased trying to prove to him that there is very little virtue or happiness in this world; except, perhaps, in El Dorado, where hardly anybody can gain admittance. 

While they were disputing on this important subject, and still expecting Miss Cunegund, Candide perceived a young Theatin friar in the Piazza San Marco, with a girl under his arm. The Theatin looked fresh-colored, plump, and vigorous; his eyes sparkled; his air and gait were bold and lofty. The girl was pretty, and was singing a song; and every now and then gave her Theatin an amorous ogle and wantonly pinched his ruddy cheeks. 

“You will at least allow,” said Candide to Martin, “that these two are happy. Hitherto I have met with none but unfortunate people in the whole habitable globe, except in El Dorado; but as to this couple, I would venture to lay a wager they are happy.” 

“Done!” said Martin, “they are not what you imagine.” 

“Well, we have only to ask them to dine with us,” said Candide, “and you will see whether I am mistaken or not.” 

Thereupon he accosted them, and with great politeness invited them to his inn to eat some macaroni, with Lombard partridges and caviar, and to drink a bottle of Montepulciano, Lacryma Christi, Cyprus, and Samos wine. The girl blushed; the Theatin accepted the invitation and she followed him, eyeing Candide every now and then with a mixture of surprise and confusion, while the tears stole down her cheeks. No sooner did she enter his apartment than she cried out, “How, Monsieur Candide, have you quite forgot your Pacquette? do you not know her again?” 

Candide had not regarded her with any degree of attention before, being wholly occupied with the thoughts of his dear Cunegund. 

“Ah! is it you, child? was it you that reduced Dr. Pangloss to that fine condition I saw him in?” 

“Alas! sir,” answered Pacquette, “it was I, indeed. I find you are acquainted with everything; and I have been informed of all the misfortunes that happened to the whole family of My Lady Baroness and the fair Cunegund. But I can safely swear to you that my lot was no less deplorable; I was innocence itself when you saw me last. A Franciscan, who was my confessor, easily seduced me; the consequences proved terrible. I was obliged to leave the castle some time after the Baron kicked you out by the backside from there; and if a famous surgeon had not taken compassion on me, I had been a dead woman. Gratitude obliged me to live with him some time as his mistress; his wife, who was a very devil for jealousy, beat me unmercifully every day. Oh! she was a perfect fury. The doctor himself was the most ugly of all mortals, and I the most wretched creature existing, to be continually beaten for a man whom I did not love. You are sensible, sir, how dangerous it was for an ill-natured woman to be married to a physician. Incensed at the behavior of his wife, he one day gave her so affectionate a remedy for a slight cold she had caught that she died in less than two hours in most dreadful convulsions. Her relations prosecuted the husband, who was obliged to fly, and I was sent to prison. My innocence would not have saved me, if I had not been tolerably handsome. The judge gave me my liberty on condition he should succeed the doctor. However, I was soon supplanted by a rival, turned off without a farthing, and obliged to continue the abominable trade which you men think so pleasing, but which to us unhappy creatures is the most dreadful of all sufferings. At length I came to follow the business at Venice. Ah! sir, did you but know what it is to be obliged to receive every visitor; old tradesmen, counselors, monks, watermen, and abbes; to be exposed to all their insolence and abuse; to be often necessitated to borrow a petticoat, only that it may be taken up by some disagreeable wretch; to be robbed by one gallant of what we get from another; to be subject to the extortions of civil magistrates; and to have forever before one’s eyes the prospect of old age, a hospital, or a dunghill, you would conclude that I am one of the most unhappy wretches breathing.” 

Thus did Pacquette unbosom herself to honest Candide in his closet, in the presence of Martin, who took occasion to say to him, “You see I have half won the wager already.” 

Friar Giroflee was all this time in the parlor refreshing himself with a glass or two of wine till dinner was ready. 

“But,” said Candide to Pacquette, “you looked so gay and contented, when I met you, you sang and caressed the Theatin with so much fondness, that I absolutely thought you as happy as you say you are now miserable.” 

“Ah! dear sir,” said Pacquette, “this is one of the miseries of the trade; yesterday I was stripped and beaten by an officer; yet today I must appear good humored and gay to please a friar.” 

Candide was convinced and acknowledged that Martin was in the right. They sat down to table with Pacquette and the Theatin; the entertainment was agreeable, and towards the end they began to converse together with some freedom. 

“Father,” said Candide to the friar, “you seem to me to enjoy a state of happiness that even kings might envy; joy and health are painted in your countenance. You have a pretty wench to divert you; and you seem to be perfectly well contented with your condition as a Theatin.” 

“Faith, sir,” said Friar Giroflee, “I wish with all my soul the Theatins were every one of them at the bottom of the sea. I have been tempted a thousand times to set fire to the monastery and go and turn Turk. My parents obliged me, at the age of fifteen, to put on this detestable habit only to increase the fortune of an elder brother of mine, whom God confound! jealousy, discord, and fury, reside in our monastery. It is true I have preached often paltry sermons, by which I have got a little money, part of which the prior robs me of, and the remainder helps to pay my girls; but, not withstanding, at night, when I go hence to my monastery, I am ready to dash my brains against the walls of the dormitory; and this is the case with all the rest of our fraternity.” 

Martin, turning towards Candide, with his usual indifference, said, “Well, what think you now? have I won the wager entirely?” 

Candide gave two thousand piastres to Pacquette, and a thousand to Friar Giroflee, saying, “I will answer that this will make them happy.” 

“I am not of your opinion,” said Martin, “perhaps this money will only make them wretched.” 

“Be that as it may,” said Candide, “one thing comforts me; I see that one often meets with those whom one never expected to see again; so that, perhaps, as I have found my red sheep and Pacquette, I may be lucky enough to find Miss Cunegund also.” 

“I wish,” said Martin, “she one day may make you happy; but I doubt it much.” 

“You lack faith,” said Candide. 

“It is because,” said Martin, “I have seen the world.” 

“Observe those gondoliers,” said Candide, “are they not perpetually singing?” 

“You do not see them,” answered Martin, “at home with their wives and brats. The doge has his chagrin, gondoliers theirs. Nevertheless, in the main, I look upon the gondolier’s life as preferable to that of the doge; but the difference is so trifling that it is not worth the trouble of examining into.” 

“I have heard great talk,” said Candide, “of the Senator Pococurante, who lives in that fine house at the Brenta, where, they say, he entertains foreigners in the most polite manner.” 

“They pretend this man is a perfect stranger to uneasiness. I should be glad to see so extraordinary a being,” said Martin. 

Candide thereupon sent a messenger to Seignor Pococurante, desiring permission to wait on him the next day.

***

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David Bruce: Music Anecdotes

• From her Paris teacher, Cécile Gilly, soprano Marjorie Lawrence learned that when asked if she knew a certain opera, she should always say that she knew it. That way, she would get more jobs; after all, she could always learn the opera after getting the job. Therefore, early in her career, when Ms. Lawrence was asked if she knew the Tétralogie, she replied that she did, although she has never heard of it. Later, when she met Ms. Gilly, she asked what the Tétralogiewas, explaining that she had said that she knew it. Ms. Gilly laughed, then explained, “Do you realize, young woman, you told the man you knew the whole of Wagner’s Ring? Here we call it the Tétralogie.” Ms. Lawrence was kept quite busy learning the Tétralogie.

• Opera singers Emma Calvé and Elena Sanz once sang a duet incognito in a courtyard, where a man shouted at them from a window, “How long is this howling going to continue? Who are these witches, destroying my peace with their hideous voices and false notes? Concierge! Concierge! Turn these women out!” Ms. Calvé and Mr. Sanz ran away. Wondering whether they had really sang badly, they went that night to a party at the Spanish Embassy, where they again sang the duet, this time to great applause. In a happy coincidence, the man who had shouted at them from his window earlier in the day was present, and he had the grace to be greatly embarrassed.

• One of soprano Rita Hunter’s early voice teachers was Eva Turner. Unfortunately, when the two parted company, Ms. Turner told Ms. Hunter, “My dear, you will never make a singer — you will have to scrub floors for a living.” This turned out not to be true, although Ms. Hunter did continue to scrub her own floors. In fact, when a contract to sing for the Metropolitan Opera arrived in the mail, Ms. Hunter was scrubbing a floor. And after the Queen made her a Commander of the British Empire because of her singing, Ms. Hunter told a reporter that being made a CBE had made little difference in her life because “they still let me scrub the floors.”

• English tenor Alfred Piccaver was greatly beloved in Vienna. After an October 1924 concert which Mr. Piccaver gave to the Viennese before departing for a season in Chicago, the audience refused to leave. Thinking to solve the problem, the hall manager turned out the lights and the hall electrician left the hall, carrying with him the keys needed to turn on the lights. Nevertheless, the audience still refused to leave. Eventually, Mr. Piccaver satisfied the audience by borrowing a flashlight, going on stage, and singing seven encores. Then, and only then, did the audience leave.

• As a very young child, soprano Geraldine Farrar started taking piano lessons, but she played only the black keys. Asked why she didn’t play the white keys, she replied, “Because the white keys seem like angels and the black keys like devils, and I like devils best.” In an early autobiography, she wrote, “It was the soft half-tones of the black keys which fascinated me, and to this day I prefer their sensuous harmony to that of the more brilliant ‘angels.’”

• When Marian Anderson was young, she showed great talent as a singer, but of course she needed special training to develop her talent. Her church raised money so she could be trained for a year by famous voice coach Giuseppe Boghetti. He was so impressed by her talent that he coached her a second year for free. Ms. Anderson became a world-famous singer and the first African American to sing at the Metropolitan Opera.

• Tenor Richard Lewis and some colleagues were going to sing at a concert in Wales. The concert committee had set up the program, and when Mr. Lewis looked at it, he noticed that it was exactly the same program that they had sung there the previous year. When he inquired why they wanted the singers to perform the same songs as last year, the committee replied, “Oh, we just wanted to see if you could sing them any better!”

• At the height of his powers, tenor Mario de Candia cast a spell over the young women in his audience as he sang. While in a Paris salon, he performed a song whose last line was, “Come, love, with me into the woods.” At the end of the song, a half-hypnotized young woman stood up and walked toward him, murmuring, “I am coming.”

• Opera soprano Emma Albani once sang at a free Christmas dinner given to impoverished newsboys in New York. At the dinner and concert, a small boy listened to Ms. Albani intently, ignoring the plate of food placed before him. A woman asked the small boy why he was not eating, and he replied, “I can’t eat — I’ve got enough.”

• When giving a concert, Russian bass Feodor Chaliapin used to give the audience a long numbered list of songs. He would look at the list during the concert, decide what to sing next, then announce the number of the song to his audience. (His accompanist carried around a huge pile of sheet music!)

• Oscar Levant was set to play the Brahms Concerto for the movie Humoresque, but the producer, Jerry Wald, asked him if he could cut the concerto from eight minutes to two. Mr. Levant replied, “Sure, I can do it — but you’ll be hearing from Brahms in the morning.”

• Blues singer Muddy Waters first heard his voice on a recording in the early 1940s. His impression of his voice was positive; afterward, he said, “I thought, man, this boy can sing the blues. And I was surprised because I didn’t know I sang like that.”

• When she was in high school, Al Gore’s wife Tipper used to play drums in an all-girl band called the Wildcats. It’s no wonder that the code name given to her by Secret service agents when her husband was Vice President was “Skylark.”

• When he was general manager of Covent Garden, Henry Higgins worried that the orchestra would drown out the voice of Irish tenor John McCormack. Mr. McCormack’s reply is a classic: “Then make your damned orchestra play softer.”

• Sometimes a singer-songwriter will have a long wait between albums. When a reporter for MTV asked Tom Waits why six years had passed before he recorded a new album, he replied, “I was stuck in traffic.”

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