Exaggeration, understatement, and euphemism obviously lend themselves to caricature and parody, of which we now take particular notice. Out-and-out caricature is apparent in the characterizations, however brief, of the baron and baroness in Chapter I. The learned Doctor Pangloss, early and late, is a notable caricature—and so the Jesuit baron, what with his protestations of undying devotion and then his complete volte-face. The governor of Buenos Aires, with his multiple proper names, his insufferable pride, provided another example. The entire deflating effect in Chapter I, with its contrast of naiveté and dogmatism, is sheer parody—especially the mock tragedy of Candide's expulsion from the castle.
Earlier, reference was made to seventeenth and eighteenth century romantic fiction, especially the pastoral romance and the heroic-gallant adventure narratives, most of them of almost interminable length. Voltaire, who could no more stomach these than could his illustrious predecessors, Molière and Boileau, objected to both style and content, as he made clear in his Siècle de Louis XIV. With reference to style, the chief aberrations were those of préciosité. In origin l'esprit precjeux was the search for elegance and distinction in manners, style, and language. Its devotees sought for new expressions, particularly metaphorical ones; they avoided low or barbarous terms, and—to their great credit—pursued clarity and precision. At its very best, préciosité stood for sensitivity in taste and sentiment. But it had a narrowing tendency, and the style of the typical romantic writer easily led to excess. The pages of their works were filled with eloquent protestations of undying love, torrents of tears, swooning heroines, sudden recognition scenes, violent deaths, journeys from one country to another. In Candide, Voltaire no doubt enjoyed himself parodying the genre: his hero traveled far and wide; Pangloss was hanged but survived; Cunégonde was reported to have been disemboweled, yet she reappeared; there were deaths of adversaries and flights to temporary safety. The extravagant discourse of the Jesuit baron perhaps best illustrates caricature and parody in the narrative. When he first met Candide in Paraguay and found out the youth's identity, he was most effusive. "The baron never tired of embracing Candide," we read. And then the reversal follows immediately. When the baron learned that the youth expected to marry his sister, his mood changed, but his discourse and actions were no less extreme: "You insolent wretch! How impudent of you even to think of marrying my sister, who has seventy-two generations of nobility behind her!" Later when Candide and the baron, whom Candide had not really killed, met again, the baron said "You can kill me again, but you'll never marry my sister while I'm still alive." Fully to appreciate the extravagance of his words, one must recall all that had happened to both the baron and his sister—the one now a woman whose beauty had completely faded as a result of her suffering, the other just rescued by Candide from the galleys.
