Voltaire learned of the fabled land of Eldorado by reading Sir Walter Raleigh's account in The Discoverie of the Large and Rich and Beautiful Empire of Guiana, first published in 1595. If he did not read the account in English, he could have found it available in the Voyage de Francois Correal aux Indes Occidentales, Volume II (Paris, 1722). Raleigh described a fabulous country, one possessing towering mountains and immense treasures, so that the name came to be used metaphorically of any place where wealth could be acquired rapidly. In his Eldorado, also, the ruling princes were descended from the once-powerful Incas, famed for their magnificent civilization. Various travel books may well have influenced Voltaire as well. And no one who wrote of a utopia could avoid owing a debt to Sir Thomas More, the author of the first modern one. In More's work he could have found a completely happy people who, without Divine Revelation, recognized one God to whom they sang hymns of adoration but did not presume to petition when they had more than they needed to satisfy their wants—a people who considered gold and precious gems to be mere baubles for children to play with. The benign philosopher-ruler also flourished in More's utopia, wherein the well-planned cities and impressive public buildings and works bore testimony to an enlightened government. But More's account of the fabled land is remarkably circumstantial. One learns the width of streets and comparable details. Thus, like Swift in Gulliver's Travels, he secures the willing suspension of disbelief on the reader's part through verisimilitude. The landscape of Voltaire's Eldorado, like that of Milton's Hell, remains most impressive but rather indefinite most of the time—and that is another way in which a reader, for the time being, is led to accept it as believable; it is left to him to fill in the details imaginatively.
Eldorado is Voltaire's ideal world, one that he knew could never exist, but which provided him with the means to point out grievous shortcomings of the real world—how very far short of perfection it really was; and this was another way in which he attacked the doctrine of philosophic optimism. Of course, it may well be argued that, given a land rich enough that all have plenty, most people would be utopians devoid of rapacity. For if indeed avarice is the root of all evil, as Chaucer's Pardoner insisted, there existed no such root in Voltaire's utopia and therefore none of the evils found elsewhere. So it would seem that the superior civilization of the Eldoradoans does not really redound to their credit: they simply have been incredibly lucky, but there is more to it than this. Voltaire used his utopia to provide emphatic contrast with what Candide had experienced elsewhere—in Westphalia, where life once seemed ideal to the youth, thanks especially to Pangloss' arguments; elsewhere in Europe, where he experienced the horrors of war, a devastating earthquake and the terrifying work of the Inquisition in Portugal; and in South America, where he had witnessed more warfare and tyranny. In short, intolerance, rapine, utter cruelty everywhere, to say nothing of what he learned from the story of the old woman. The experiences in Eldorado also provided an illuminating contrast with what Candide will experience after leaving the country. Perhaps the most significant point that Voltaire wished to make was that the utopians were Utopians primarily not because they occupied a land of plenty but because they were dedicated to Right Reason at all levels of private and public activity.
It is true that the lowliest subject enjoyed the benefits of what seemed to be the ideal welfare state. Merchants and coachmen, others of even lowlier status, were looked after by an enlightened government. But the point is that all were wise enough to work and to be satisfied with their lot and, unlike their Incan ancestors, remain in Eldorado and not attempt the conquest of other lands. To look forward to the most important lesson Candide was to learn from his varied, often harrowing, experiences, the Eldoradoans had learned to cultivate their gardens; thus they lived in comfort and safety. Practically all critics find in Voltaire's creation of an ideal society all the virtues of the perfect state: belief in one god, tolerance, wisdom, liberty, happiness, an enlightened government. As William F. Bottiglia has pointed out (Voltaire's Candide: Analysis of a Classic, Vol. VII of Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century, ed. Theodore Besterman, 1959), "the key trait is not tolerance as the ground of liberty but deism as the ground of an unanimously cultivated social and practical morality which produces all the other traits." For Voltaire, deism was the true faith. It was based on fundamental, universal principles with which God had endowed all men and which were lastingly valid. When he had the wise old man expound this belief to Candide and Cacambo, Voltaire was indicting institutional religion, just as his description of the Eldoradoan government was a criticism of governmental systems elsewhere.
Among the points of interest in this section is personal satire. It has been reasonably argued that the pebbles, at one level, represent the sums of money that Voltaire had received from Frederick the Great during his stay in Prussia. And, most ingeniously, it has been argued that the big red sheep, which as we shall see later Candide loses, represented Frederick's literary works bound in sheepskin that Voltaire was forced to relinquish to the officials at the time of the distressing Frankfort incident.
The host, the old man, and the king represent respectively the commoner who is an intelligent conformer, the intellectual leader or philosophe, and the statesman. One may reasonably assume that each in turn represents the voice of Voltaire expressing earnest opinions.
Most ironic is the fact that the now happy Candide and Cacambo resolved to be happy no longer. Five reasons have been advanced for their determination to leave Eldorado: (1) the country provided neither end nor consummation; (2) Candide's vanity manifested by his desire to impress others with an account of his experiences; (3) Candide's restlessness—his continuing inability to be content to "cultivate his garden"; (4) his desire for power and superiority to be purchased with the wealth he would bring along; (5) his deep love for Cunégonde. The last reason, strictly in the romantic tradition, is the only really valid one. Obviously Candide's education was incomplete; he remained sufficiently callow and was not ready to assume the status of a utopian.
