Candide by Voltaire

Source of book: I own this. 

This is one of those books that I probably should have read years ago. We read about it in high school, but I don’t think we read any excerpts. (Probably too racy for a Fundie curriculum...those crazy French authors!) I also didn’t own a copy until recently. I picked up a lovely hardback Easton Press edition at a recent library sale, which gave me the chance to read it. 

First published in 1759, Candide caused controversy and scandal from the outset. Although it was widely known that Voltaire wrote it, he used a pseudonym for plausible deniability. His publishers weren’t so lucky, and were hounded and prosecuted and bankrupted for their pains. Ah, the good old days, when government censorship was inescapable. (Actually, Candide was indeed Banned In Boston in 1929.) As is often the case with censorship, this only increased the book’s popularity, and it became one of the most widely read and translated works of its era. 

Candide was influenced by Jonathan Swift’s earlier work, Gulliver’s Travels, as well as other picaresque novels, travelogues, and coming-of-age stories of the time. The title character (whose name is a bit of a pun, like the other characters) grows up in relative luxury, raised by a nobleman, and taught by Dr. Pangloss, who subscribes to Leibniz’ philosophy that we live in the best of all possible worlds. When Candide tries some kissing on the baron’s daughter, he is evicted, and begins a series of tragic and ludicrous adventures, becoming more and more disillusioned. 

The story itself is highly unrealistic, shockingly bloody (although few actually end up dying like we think they have), and deliciously satirical. Voltaire takes on pretty much every institution of his time, but also a lot of beliefs - and the problem of evil. Religion, of course, is thoroughly skewered, which is one reason it was banned. But also, governments, the military, philosophers, and society get solid digs throughout. Hypocrisy isn’t hard to find, of course. 

Regular readers of English Victorian literature like myself tend to find French writers a bit...racy. The thing of it is that they assume a certain degree of female promiscuity as normal, and don’t have the obsession with virginity that English and American writers seem to. This book plays sex for laughs and horror. The main female character, Cunegonde, is raped in the second chapter, is kept as a mistress by both a Jew and a priest at the same time (shocking enough at the time), becomes the mistress of a Governor in South America, then a sex slave to a pirate, and finally ends up as the nagging wife of Candide. But at least she becomes a good cook. (It is hard to explain how funny that line is without the context.) 

The book is both very much of its time, yet with timeless satire. I can’t say all of it has aged well - the bit about the women taking monkeys as lovers feels like a racist jab at indigenous peoples, for example. But much more feels contemporary. After all, Voltaire points out the tendency of powerful men to rape and abuse women, or at least use and discard them. Greed and jealousy haven’t gone away either, nor has ludicrous class chauvinism. Human nature is still human nature. 

Speaking of that, Candide is forced into the Bulgarian military, but chickens out and hides during the brutal battle. Voltaire’s description of the aftereffects of the battle are unfortunately spot on:

He clambered over heaps of dead and dying men and reach a neighboring village, which was in ashes; it was an Abare village, which the Bulgarians had burned in accordance with international law. Here, old men dazed with blows watched the dying agonies of their murdered wives who clutched their children to their bleeding breasts; there, disemboweled girls who had been made to satisfy the natural appetites of heroes gasped their last sighs; others, half-burned, begged to be put to death. Brains were scattered on the ground among dismembered arms and legs.

As he flees this horror, he comes across a village that belongs to the other side, and the same thing was done by them. At this point, he is still clinging to the “this is the best of all possible worlds” philosophy, but it is getting harder. 

Soon afterward, Candide is reunited with Pangloss, who relates the sad fates of the baron and his household. (Although it turns out they aren’t all dead…) Pangloss looks like hell, and confesses that when Candide caught him “giving a lesson in experimental physics” to the maid, he caught syphilis. 

“My dear Candide! You remember Paquette, the maid-servant of our august Baroness; in her arms I enjoyed the delights of Paradise which have produced the tortures of Hell by which you see I am devoured; she was infected and perhaps is dead. Paquette received this present from a most learned monk, who had it from the source; for he received it from an old countess, who had it from a cavalry captain, who owed it to a marchioness, who derived it from a page, who had received it from a Jesuit, who, when a novice, had it in direct line from one of the companions of Christopher Columbus.” 

Voltaire is actually correct about this: it is generally agreed that Columbus’ crew brought syphilis back from the New World with them. But notice how many unspoken truths Voltaire puts in this one statement. Pangloss taking advantage of his position to seduce a maid, who had previously slept with a monk, who also did it with a countess. The randy countess did it with both clergy and military; the soldier was irresistible to multiple rich women, one of whom also had the hots for young boys. (A page would be from ages 7-14, typically.) That boy was infected after being raped by a priest, who got it by a chain back to Columbus. That’s a lot of morally and/or socially unacceptable relationships that were widely known to exist, but were not always talked about in public. 

Despite all this, Pangloss continues to cling to his philosophy. 

“It was all indispensable, and private misfortunes make the public good, so that the more private misfortunes there are, the more everything is well.” 

If you think this sounds a bit like Social Darwinism (which would come into vogue a century later), you are right. 

Candide is, through improbably circumstances, reunited with Cunegonde, only to find that she is dependent on selling her body to the Jewish merchant and the Inquisitor on alternating days. They both show up, and, jealous of finding Cunegonde in the presence of another man, try to kill Candide, who kills them instead in self defense. Cunegonde marvels that Candide, who is both mild mannered and incompetent with a sword, manages this. 

“My dear young lady,” replied Candide, “when a man is in love, jealous, and has been flogged by the Inquisition, he is beside himself.” 

That’s a laugh out loud line, and wouldn’t be entirely out of place in The Princess Bride. 

One of the watercolor illustrations from my Easton Press edition of the book, by Sylvain Sauvage.

There is a decent amount of gratuitous boobage, but what do you expect from a French artist?

The party flees to South America, where they end up in Paraguay. Candide’s servant, Cacambo (the most rational person in this crazy book), spent time there, and explains how things are. 

“Their government is a most admirable thing. The kingdom is already more than three hundred leagues in diameter and is divided into thirty provinces. Los Padres have everything and the people have nothing; ‘tis the masterpiece of reason and justice. For my part, I know nothing so divine as Los Padres who here make war on the Kings of Spain and Portugal and in Europe act as their confessors; who here kill Spaniards and at Madrid send them to Heaven; all this delights me…” 

Eventually, Candide meets another philosopher, Martin, who is the opposite of Pangloss. Martin is cynical and pessimistic about everything, which makes him as mockable as Pangloss. Here are a couple of exchanges:

“But to what end was this world formed?” said Candide.

“To infuriate us,” replied Martin.

I am reminded of the famous line from The Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy…

There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory mentioned, which states that this has already happened.

Later in the conversation, the naive Candide asks another question:

“Do you think,” said Candide, “that men have always massacred each other, as they do today? Have they always been liars, cheats, traitors, brigands, weak, flighty, cowardly, envious, gluttonous, drunken, grasping, and vicious, bloody, backbiting, debauched, fanatical, hypocritical and silly?”

“Do you think,” said Martin, “that sparrow-hawks have always eaten the pigeons they came across?”

“Yes, of course,” said Candide.

“Well,” said Martin, “if sparrow-hawks have always possessed the same nature, why should you expect men to change theirs?”

Near the end, Candide and Martin are the guests of Pococurante, a rich epicurean who is a critic of everything. Martin is just cynical, but Pococurante finds his “excellent taste” prevents him from enjoying nearly everything. After dismissing the classics of the time as mostly rubbish, Pococurante gives away his game:

“Fools admire everything in a celebrated author. I only read to please myself, and I only like what suits me.” 

I know a few people like that. Nothing against reading for fun - hey, I do it all the time! But to go through life unchallenged, only dabbling in what you already know and like, seems a tragedy. 

After all these crazy adventures, Pangloss, Candide, Martin, Cunegonde, and a few others they have picked up on the way, settle down on a bit of land in a sort of commune, and find some bit of contentment, if not exactly happiness. Martin urges everyone to work without arguing as that is the only way life will be endurable. Pangloss, despite admitting that he didn’t actually believe his own optimism, keeps on preaching it, claiming that all the horrors of the past were necessary for their current situation. Candide, finally older and wiser, ends the book by saying:

“‘Tis well said,” replied Candide, “but we must cultivate our gardens.” 

Candide is unlike any other book I have read, I must say. While clearly in the 18th Century style, it’s short episodes and rapid-fire plot contrast with the more wordy and rambling style of Swift and others. The book is short, but covers a bewildering amount of ground. All the wit and satire happens in such a rapid-fire manner that you can’t just whip through it - you have to stop and savor it. In a way, I was reminded of Mark Twain, who also used unexpected twists, improbable events, and razor-sharp satire throughout his work. 

***

Update: I got busy and completely forgot that I needed to add music to this! 

Back in the day, when I was a rookie violinist with the BSO, we had these summer pops concerts outdoors in the heat. We got a full rehearsal and a quick run-through before the concert, and that was it. We played 1812 Overture at the end with fireworks and stuff. 

Anyway, because literally everyone besides my brother and me had played the stuff a gazillion times, we got handed our music before the first rehearsal (we had a shot at 1812 because our teacher gave us parts to work on), and had to sight read Bernstein's Candide Overture. 

Total flop sweat time. 

We managed to make it through without playing in the rests, at least. Now, it doesn't seem as terrifying as it did back then, but I still remember that feeling of panic. Welcome to the big league, kid...

Our Town by Thornton Wilder

Source of book: I own this. 

Last year, our library sale had a huge collection of Library of America hardbacks for sale at crazy-low prices ($3-5 a book). While I couldn’t get all of them, I did pick up a couple dozen to add to my collection. Two of those add up together to be the major works of Thornton Wilder. 

Because of the Covid-19 shutdown, I have been unable to see live theater for a couple months. (Kudos to local thespians for all the fun stuff they are doing online - you guys and gals are one of the best things about this town!) Instead, I have been reading more drama. 

I like this cover because it captures the sparse set, the use of the stars as a theme, 

and the way it asks the audience to fill in the scene from imagination.

I decided to read Our Town for two reasons. First, it is one of Wilder’s best known works - and it won a Pulitzer. But also, the movie version features the music of Aaron Copland, which I got to play a bit of for a movie concert back in the day. 

A small-town orchestra to go with a small town.

In addition to the play itself, I read the additional materials in this volume: three short pieces by Wilder on the play, plus part of the correspondence between Wilder and producer Sol Lesser as they worked together to revise the screenplay for the movie. 

First performed in 1938, Our Town seems fairly tame by today’s standards. But at the time, it was unusual and experimental. There is no scenery, a few chairs and tables for props, and the “Stage Manager” breaks the fourth wall and addresses the audience throughout. Questions from carefully planted members of the “audience” also ask questions in the first act. These innovations seem normal now, over 80 years later, but were hardly usual at the time. The play also seems traditional in its values, but was perhaps a bit shocking to a 1930s audience. I’ll get to why on that later. 

The play is set in the fictional town of Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, at the turn of the 20th Century. It is one of those “typical” New England towns with white clapboard houses, just changing over from horses to cars, and so on. To go with this idea and the sparse staging, Wilder directed that “It is important to maintain a continual dryness of tone, -- the New England understatement of sentiment, of surprise, of tragedy. A shyness about emotion.” 

In addition, as the state manager notes that the town is putting in a new bank with a time capsule (so popular in those days), and that this play can serve as a corrective to all the “official” stuff: a record of everyday life. 

And so the play is, in a way. But it isn’t just a snapshot of small-town New England and its ordinary folk denizens. It actually carries a modern (and timeless) message about the importance of valuing everyday life, and living in the moment. 

The play is in three acts. The first is that snapshot of two families in Grover’s Corners, those of prominent but not wealthy citizens: the doctor, and the newspaper publisher. Their children are tweens and teens, and it is clear that the doctor’s son may have a crush on the publisher’s daughter. One of the questions from the “audience” and the response are rather amusing.

LADY IN A BOX: Oh, Mr. Webb [the publisher]? Mr. Webb, is there any culture or love of beauty in Grover’s Corners?

MR WEBB: Well, ma’am, ther ain’t much--not in the sense you mean. Come to think of it, there’s some girls that play the piano at High School Commencement; but they ain’t happy about it. No, ma’am, there isn’t much culture; but maybe this is the place to tell you that we’ve got a lot of pleasures of a kind here: we like the sun comin’ up over the mountain in the morning, and we all notice a good deal about the birds. We pay a lot of attention to them. And we watch the change of the seasons; yes, everybody knows about them. But those other things--you’re right, ma’am,--there ain’t much.--Robinson Crusoe and the Bible; and Handel’s “Largo,” we all know that; and Whistler’s “Mother”--those are just about as far as we go.

This is a fun link to The Moonstone and the use of Robinson Crusoe as a sacred text. 

In the second act is the wedding between George and Emily, with a flashback in the middle to how they realized they loved each other. This act is pretty emotionally complex, with both George and Emily appearing afraid of marriage and commitment at the last moment, revealing their feelings to the audience through monologues with the scene frozen. 

Personally, this felt weird to me, because my own experience with marriage was so different. Neither of us had anything resembling cold feet or fear about marriage. (Irritation at the wedding planning process yes - we have agreed to elope if we ever renew our vows…) We weren’t naive, either. We both knew each other well, and had both good judgment and great chemistry on our side. Likewise, there was no fear of the honeymoon. And we had a blast in every possible way. Obviously marriage isn’t one long ecstasy - we have had our tough moments too - but we both have had more fun than we expected too. 

Perhaps one telling exchange here is in the incident where George and Emily realize they love each other. George has been so focused on baseball that he has gotten a reputation as stuck up. Emily calls him out, and he feels the weight of it. 

EMILY: I always expect a man to be perfect and I think he should be.

GEORGE: Oh . . . I don’t think it’s possible to be perfect, Emily.

EMILY: Well, my father is, and as far as I can see your father is. There’s no reason on earth why you shouldn’t be too.

GEORGE: Well, I feel it is the other way round. That men aren’t naturally good; but girls are. 

EMILY: Well, you might as well know right now that I’m not perfect. It’s not as easy for a girl to be perfect as a man, because we girls are more--more--nervous.--Now I’m sorry I said all that about you. I don’t know what made me say it.

This is a well-written exchange. Both are expressing flawed views - based on gender essentialism of course - that interfere with their ability to really see the other. But they are still a good match, and legitimately good kids. Wilder handles dialogue like this in such an understated way, but with a lot more nuance when you think carefully about it. A good pair of actors could take these lines in different directions, for sure. 

In the third act, we learn that thirteen years later, Emily has died in childbirth (sorry about the spoiler, but the play is 80 years old…) Several of the other characters are dead now as well, and resting in the graveyard. They are conscious, but waiting. Not waiting for judgment, but for the future. A future when they will see clearly and become most themselves. This is in contrast to the living, who live “in closed boxes” - caskets of their own, where they cannot see the big picture. Emily goes back to her twelfth birthday (against the advice of the other dead), and receives not pleasure, but horror at seeing how everyone fails to live in the moment, but are so distracted as to not really see or hear each other. 

This is the bit that I mentioned above that probably seemed controversial at the time. Wilder explains in the other materials, however, that it wasn’t his idea exactly - it’s from Purgatory. (Wilder does not appear to have been religious in the usual sense, but the play itself assumes some sort of transcendence and religious truth.) The positive vision of the future as the time when we all see clearly face to face rather than darkly through a glass is why I cannot say the play is in the least pessimistic. It is rather positive overall. 

The ending differs in the movie: Emily turns out to have dreamt of her death instead, and she is given a chance to live with the insight. The correspondence between Wilder and Lesser discusses this change - which Wilder approved of completely. In his view, the screen and the stage were different, and expectations were different, and killing a beloved character didn’t fit with the message of the play when done on screen. In the stage version, Wilder felt that it was clearly metaphorical, and the death of Emily was easily seen as a “death comes for us all” moment. 

By the way, the correspondence is fascinating. The portion reprinted was selected to represent the discussion of bigger ideas, rather than fine details, but there is a lot left of the viewpoints of the two men regarding the differences between stage and screen, particularly the different ways to convey the sense of the whole town from scenes which see only small places. Both men clearly care about the final product - and see it as fine art, not mere flashy entertainment. They both are congenial and admire each other. It was a good working partnership. 

It would be interesting to see Our Town on stage some time. Perhaps one of our local theater groups will take on the challenge someday.

One final note: Wilder is one of a very few who have won three or more Pulitzer prizes, and the only one to have won for both drama and a novel. Our Town was the second of the three. His 1927 novel The Bridge of San Luis Rey was the first, and the third was the play The Skin of Our Teeth. Both are on my eventual reading list.