Introduction

Ever since 1759, when Voltaire wrote "Candide" in ridicule of the notion that this is the best of all possible worlds, this world has been a gayer place for readers. Voltaire wrote it in three days, and five or six generations have found that its laughter does not grow old.

Since 1759, when Voltaire wrote Candide to mock the idea that this is the best of all possible worlds, readers have found the world a happier place. Voltaire wrote it in three days. Five or six generations have discovered that its humor never gets old.

"Candide" has not aged. Yet how different the book would have looked if Voltaire had written it a hundred and fifty years later than 1759. It would have been, among other things, a book of sights and sounds. A modern writer would have tried to catch and fix in words some of those Atlantic changes which broke the Atlantic monotony of that voyage from Cadiz to Buenos Ayres. When Martin and Candide were sailing the length of the Mediterranean we should have had a contrast between naked scarped Balearic cliffs and headlands of Calabria in their mists. We should have had quarter distances, far horizons, the altering silhouettes of an Ionian island. Colored birds would have filled Paraguay with their silver or acid cries.

"Candide" has not aged. Yet how different the book would have looked if Voltaire had written it a hundred and fifty years later than 1759. It would have been, among other things, a book of sights and sounds. A modern writer would have tried to catch and fix in words some of the Atlantic's changes that broke the Atlantic's monotony on that voyage from Cadiz to Buenos Ayres. When Martin and Candide were sailing the length of the Mediterranean, we would have had a contrast between bare, steep Balearic cliffs and the headlands of Calabria in their mists. We would have had middle distances, far horizons, and the shifting outlines of an Ionian island. Colored birds would have filled Paraguay with their silver or shrill cries.

Dr. Pangloss, to prove the existence of design in the universe, says that noses were made to carry spectacles, and so we have spectacles. A modern satirist would not try to paint with Voltaire's quick brush the doctrine that he wanted to expose. And he would choose a more complicated doctrine than Dr. Pangloss's optimism, would study it more closely, feel his destructive way about it with a more learned and caressing malice. His attack, stealthier, more flexible and more patient than Voltaire's, would call upon us, especially when his learning got a little out of control, to be more than patient. Now and then he would bore us. "Candide" never bored anybody except William Wordsworth.

Dr. Pangloss, to prove that there is design in the universe, says that noses were made to carry spectacles, and so we have spectacles. A modern satirist would not try to paint the doctrine he wanted to expose with Voltaire's quick brush. He would choose a more complicated doctrine than Dr. Pangloss's optimism. He would study it more closely. He would feel his destructive way around it with a more learned and caressing malice. His attack would be stealthier, more flexible, and more patient than Voltaire's. It would ask us to be more than patient, especially when his learning got a little out of control. Now and then he would bore us. "Candide" never bored anybody except William Wordsworth.

Voltaire's men and women point his case against optimism by starting high and falling low. A modern could not go about it after this fashion. He would not plunge his people into an unfamiliar misery. He would just keep them in the misery they were born to.

Voltaire's men and women show his argument against optimism by starting high and then falling low. A modern writer could not do it that way. He would not throw his characters into an unfamiliar misery. He would keep them in the misery they were born into.

But such an account of Voltaire's procedure is as misleading as the plaster cast of a dance. Look at his procedure again. Mademoiselle Cunégonde, the illustrious Westphalian, sprung from a family that could prove seventy-one quarterings, descends and descends until we find her earning her keep by washing dishes in the Propontis. The aged faithful attendant, victim of a hundred acts of rape by negro pirates, remembers that she is the daughter of a pope, and that in honor of her approaching marriage with a Prince of Massa-Carrara all Italy wrote sonnets of which not one was passable. We do not need to know French literature before Voltaire in order to feel, although the lurking parody may escape us, that he is poking fun at us and at himself. His laughter at his own methods grows more unmistakable at the last, when he caricatures them by casually assembling six fallen monarchs in an inn at Venice.

But this account of Voltaire's method is as misleading as a plaster cast of a dance. Look at his method again. Mademoiselle Cunégonde, the illustrious Westphalian, comes from a family that could prove seventy-one quarterings of noble descent. She sinks lower and lower, until we find her earning her keep by washing dishes in the Propontis. The aged, faithful servant was raped a hundred times by Black pirates. She remembers that she is the daughter of a pope. She remembers that all Italy wrote sonnets in honor of her coming marriage to a Prince of Massa-Carrara, and that not one of them was passable. We do not need to know French literature before Voltaire to feel that he is poking fun at us and at himself, although the hidden parody may escape us. His laughter at his own methods grows plainer at the end. There he caricatures them by casually gathering six fallen monarchs in an inn at Venice.

A modern assailant of optimism would arm himself with social pity. There is no social pity in "Candide." Voltaire, whose light touch on familiar institutions opens them and reveals their absurdity, likes to remind us that the slaughter and pillage and murder which Candide witnessed among the Bulgarians was perfectly regular, having been conducted according to the laws and usages of war. Had Voltaire lived to-day he would have done to poverty what he did to war. Pitying the poor, he would have shown us poverty as a ridiculous anachronism, and both the ridicule and the pity would have expressed his indignation.

A modern critic of optimism would arm himself with social pity. There is no social pity in "Candide." Voltaire has a light touch with familiar institutions. He opens them and shows their absurdity. He reminds us that the slaughter, pillage, and murder Candide saw among the Bulgarians was perfectly regular. It was carried out according to the laws and customs of war. If Voltaire had lived today, he would have done to poverty what he did to war. Feeling pity for the poor, he would have shown poverty as a ridiculous anachronism. Both his ridicule and his pity would have expressed his indignation.

Almost any modern, essaying a philosophic tale, would make it long. "Candide" is only a "Hamlet" and a half long. It would hardly have been shorter if Voltaire had spent three months on it, instead of those three days. A conciseness to be matched in English by nobody except Pope, who can say a plagiarizing enemy "steals much, spends little, and has nothing left," a conciseness which Pope toiled and sweated for, came as easy as wit to Voltaire. He can afford to be witty, parenthetically, by the way, prodigally, without saving, because he knows there is more wit where that came from.

Almost any modern writer attempting a philosophical tale would make it long. "Candide" is only as long as one and a half "Hamlets". It would not have been much shorter even if Voltaire had spent three months on it. He actually wrote it in three days. Such conciseness is matched in English by no one except Pope. Pope could say of a plagiarizing enemy, "steals much, spends little, and has nothing left." Pope had to toil and sweat for that conciseness. For Voltaire, it came as easily as wit. He can afford to be lavishly witty in parentheses and asides. He does not need to hold back. He knows there is more wit where that came from.

One of Max Beerbohm's cartoons shows us the young Twentieth Century going at top speed, and watched by two of his predecessors. Underneath is this legend: "The Grave Misgivings of the Nineteenth Century, and the Wicked Amusement of the Eighteenth, in Watching the Progress (or whatever it is) of the Twentieth." This Eighteenth Century snuff-taking and malicious, is like Voltaire, who nevertheless must know, if he happens to think of it, that not yet in the Twentieth Century, not for all its speed mania, has any one come near to equalling the speed of a prose tale by Voltaire. "Candide" is a full book. It is filled with mockery, with inventiveness, with things as concrete as things to eat and coins, it has time for the neatest intellectual clickings, it is never hurried, and it moves with the most amazing rapidity. It has the rapidity of high spirits playing a game. The dry high spirits of this destroyer of optimism make most optimists look damp and depressed. Contemplation of the stupidity which deems happiness possible almost made Voltaire happy. His attack on optimism is one of the gayest books in the world. Gaiety has been scattered everywhere up and down its pages by Voltaire's lavish hand, by his thin fingers.

One of Max Beerbohm's cartoons shows us the young Twentieth Century going at top speed, watched by two of his predecessors. Underneath is this caption: "The Grave Misgivings of the Nineteenth Century, and the Wicked Amusement of the Eighteenth, in Watching the Progress (or whatever it is) of the Twentieth." This Eighteenth Century, snuff-taking and malicious, is like Voltaire. Even so, Voltaire must know one thing, if he happens to think of it. Not yet in the Twentieth Century, for all its mania for speed, has anyone come near equalling the speed of a prose tale by Voltaire. "Candide" is a full book. It is filled with mockery and inventiveness, and with things as concrete as food and coins. It has time for the neatest intellectual clicks. It is never hurried, and it moves with the most amazing speed. It has the speed of high spirits playing a game. The dry high spirits of this destroyer of optimism make most optimists look damp and depressed. Thinking about the stupidity that believes happiness possible almost made Voltaire happy. His attack on optimism is one of the merriest books in the world. Voltaire's lavish hand, his thin fingers, scattered merriment everywhere up and down its pages.

Many propagandist satirical books have been written with "Candide" in mind, but not too many. To-day, especially, when new faiths are changing the structure of the world, faiths which are still plastic enough to be deformed by every disciple, each disciple for himself, and which have not yet received the final deformation known as universal acceptance, to-day "Candide" is an inspiration to every narrative satirist who hates one of these new faiths, or hates every interpretation of it but his own. Either hatred will serve as a motive to satire.

Many propagandist satirical books have been written with "Candide" in mind, but not too many. Today new faiths are changing the structure of the world. These faiths are still soft enough to be bent out of shape by every disciple, each disciple in his own way. They have not yet received the final deformation known as universal acceptance. So today especially, "Candide" is an inspiration to every narrative satirist who hates one of these new faiths. It also inspires every satirist who hates every interpretation of such a faith but his own. Either hatred will serve as a motive for satire.

That is why the present is one of the right moments to republish "Candide." I hope it will inspire younger men and women, the only ones who can be inspired, to have a try at Theodore, or Militarism; Jane, or Pacifism; at So-and-So, the Pragmatist or the Freudian. And I hope, too, that they will without trying hold their pens with an eighteenth century lightness, not inappropriate to a philosophic tale. In Voltaire's fingers, as Anatole France has said, the pen runs and laughs.

That is why the present is one of the right moments to republish "Candide." I hope it will inspire younger men and women, the only ones who can be inspired, to have a try at satires of their own. One might write Theodore, or Militarism. Another might write Jane, or Pacifism. Another might write So-and-So, the Pragmatist or the Freudian. I hope, too, that without trying they will hold their pens with an eighteenth-century lightness, which is not out of place in a philosophic tale. In Voltaire's fingers, as Anatole France has said, the pen runs and laughs.