Candide is candid, to be sure. He is young and idealistic, and he fairly overflows with candour, good will, and loving-kindness. Moreover, his innate optimism has been nourished by a tutor who believes that this is the best of all possible worlds. Yet a series of bitter setbacks, for Candide and for everyone else around him, challenge that mindset of philosophical idealism, in one of the most famous satirical works ever written: Voltaire’s Candide; or, Optimism (1759).
Of all France’s philosophers, Voltaire is probably the one who is best-known and most appreciated here in the United States of America. As the causes that he espoused included freedom of religion, freedom of speech, separation of church and state, and abolition of slavery, Voltaire and his philosophy harmonize well with many aspects of the American story. He was a prolific and successful author of poetry and novels, and of philosophical and historical works; and it is interesting that, of all this writer’s voluminous writings, the one that casts the broadest shadow is this modest volume that is shorter than 100 pages in many printings.
Perhaps Candide casts that broad shadow in part because Voltaire was willing to critique, in such trenchant terms, the philosophical movement of which he himself was part. Voltaire, of course, was a leading philosopher of the Enlightenment, the Age of Reason; he had seen the harm that could occur when religious beliefs became intertwined with the power of government, and he believed wholeheartedly in using logic and reason, not dogma and doctrine, as instruments to bring about the progress of human societies. He held these beliefs in the face of much pressure from France’s devoutly Catholic society; asked on his deathbed if he would renounce the devil, Voltaire reportedly told the priest, “This is no time to make new enemies.”
At the same time, this luminary of the Enlightenment, with his rigid intellectual honesty, was willing to acknowledge the potential flaws in some Enlightenment thinking. Generally speaking, Enlightenment philosophy was optimistic and forward-looking with regard to human potential, in stark contrast to the grim, unrelenting pessimism of the medieval era. Some Enlightenment thinkers, for Voltaire, took that optimism a Pont Neuf too far – as when the German philosopher Gottfried Wilhelm Liebnitz declared that this world, in spite of all its undeniable flaws, is, under the guidance of a benevolent God, the best world possible – better than any of the possible alternatives.
Voltaire’s Candide uses a novelistic format to poke satirical fun at Liebnitz’s thinking, by showing how the pupil of a Liebnitzian philosopher witnesses the suffering of the world and eventually comes to realize that this is not the best of all possible worlds. Candide, a young man who lives as a ward in the household of a Westphalian baron, studies with Pangloss, an Enlightenment-minded tutor who believes firmly that “they who assert that all is well have said a foolish thing; they should have said all is for the best” (p. 7).
Yet things start going not-for-the-best for both Pangloss and his pupil very quickly. Candide is disowned and cast out of the baron’s Westphalian household once the baron realizes that his beautiful daughter Cunégonde has fallen very much in love with Candide, and Candide with her. Pangloss meanwhile finds out that a sexual dalliance with a serving-woman of the baron's household has left him quite ill with an STD.
From there, it is one painful misadventure after another for Candide, Pangloss, and everyone else in their orbit. What follows is a long and agonizing litany of tribulations. People are robbed, beaten, murdered, burned, hanged, tortured, sexually assaulted – and in the process, characters who the reader thinks were killed somehow keep coming back, because Voltaire needs them for his storytelling and thematic purposes. It is all quite metafictional, rather like reading something from John Barth – and with more “ret-conning” than all the MCU movies ever made.
Eventually, Candide is improbably reunited with a still-living Cunégonde. The old woman who took care of Candide and brought her to Cunégonde tells her story – a long litany of horrifying experiences, throughout which, she tells Candide, she found that she still wanted to live. “A hundred times I was on the point of killing myself; but still I loved life. This ridiculous foible is perhaps one of our most fatal characteristics; for is there anything more absurd than to wish to carry continually a burden which one can always throw down? To detest existence, and yet to cling to one’s existence? In brief, to caress the serpent which devours us, till he has eaten our very heart?” (p. 29)
A transatlantic voyage to South America follows, and Candide is separated once again from Cunégonde. Determined to find Cunégonde, Candide returns to Europe, and takes along, as a travel companion, an old philosopher named Martin. Martin, who has suffered much in his life (robbery, assault, abandonment, religious persecution, false imprisonment) shares none of Candide’s ideas regarding the supposed “best of all possible worlds.” Martin’s observation of life has led him to hold a pessimistic outlook:
“I own to you that when I cast an eye on this globe, or rather on this little ball, I cannot help thinking that God has abandoned it to some malignant being….I scarcely ever knew a city that did not desire the destruction of a neighbouring city, nor a family that did not wish to exterminate some other family. Everywhere the weak execrate the powerful, before whom they cringe; and the powerful beat them like sheep whose wool and flesh they sell. A million regimented assassins, from one extremity of Europe to the other, get their bread by disciplined depredation and murder, for want of more honest employment. Even in those cities which seem to enjoy peace, and where the arts flourish, the inhabitants are devoured by more envy, care, and uneasiness than are experienced in a besieged town.” (p. 50)
One more journey, to Venice and Constantinople, follows; and eventually, and improbably, Candide finds himself reunited with Cunégonde, in a sort of household that also includes Cacambo, Martin, Pangloss, and Cunégonde’s elderly servant. Once they have arrived at what finally promises to be a place of some sort of peace, Candide finds that his old tutor simply will not abandon his Leibnitzian belief that all is for the best:
“Well, my dear Pangloss,” said Candide to him, “when you had been hanged, dissected, whipped, and were tugging at the oar [as a galley slave of the Ottoman Empire], did you always think that everything happens for the best?”
“I am still of my first opinion,” answered Pangloss, “for I am a philosopher and I cannot retract, especially as Liebnitz could never be wrong; and besides, the pre-established harmony is the finest thing in the world, and so is his plenum and materia subtilis” (p. 78).
Clearly, Pangloss has not learned from experience; and he will spend the rest of his life wandering cheerfully, and unproductively, through the labyrinth of Liebnitz’s more arcane philosophical concepts regarding matter and the nature of the universe.
By contrast, Martin, says to Candide, “Let us work…without disputing; it is the only way to render life tolerable” (p. 82). And here, we see Candide, at last, adopting a focus on the practical. When Pangloss once again insists that, since things turned out alright, it must still be the best of all possible worlds, Candide replies, in the words that conclude the book, “All that is very well…but let us cultivate our garden” (p. 83).
Here, Voltaire brings his argument to an apt conclusion. It is difficult indeed to believe that a world so full of pain and travail is Liebnitz’s “best of all possible worlds”; but, with reason as our guide, and with a focus on practical necessity, each of us can work to make our little corner of the world a better place – not perfect, but better. And thus this little book that is so full of pain ends on a note of qualified peace and hope.
Whenever I travel to Paris, I make a point of visiting Voltaire’s tomb at the Pantheon. The statue of him there shows him holding a quill pen in one hand and a manuscript in the other; he looks weathered by life, but unbowed, with the hint of a sardonic smile on his face. On his tomb appears the inscription Poëte, Historien, Philosophe – Il Agrandit L’Esprit Humain Et Lui Apprit Q’Uil Devoit Étre Libre (“Poet, Historian, Philosopher – He Enlarged the Human Spirit and Taught It That It Should Be Free”). Candide remains the most lasting expression of the philosophy of this dedicated advocate of human liberty.